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all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/32.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_31_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 32

chapter 32: captive and jailers

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Two: Captive and Jailers", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-two-captive-and-jailers", "summary": "The governor prepares to receive his guests. Athos asks D'Artagnan for an explanation when they have a moment of privacy. D'Artagnan explains that they attached because they thought the two visitors were in collusion with the prisoner. Athos reveals that he knows the deal regarding the prisoner. D'Artagnan is upset that his friends know the royal secret because it jeopardizes their safety. The governor returns. He is still suspicious, but Athos and Raoul are careful not to let their cover slip. D'Artagnan tells the governor that the Spaniards are here to take in the sights. The governor tells them they are more than welcome to do so. In privacy, Athos and Raoul tell D'Artagnan that their visit is a good-bye visit, because Raoul will soon be fighting in Africa. Athos reveals to D'Artagnan in secrecy that Raoul will die of a broken heart. Athos admits that he cannot bear to see his son die. D'Artagnan is convinced that Raoul might yet be saved, and goes to chat with the man. Raoul asks if D'Artagnan could possibly forward a letter to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. D'Artagnan tells Raoul that La Valliere was following her heart in becoming the King's mistress. Raoul's grief is not assuaged. D'Artagnan tells Raoul that if he goes to see La Valliere, and looks at her with the \"eyes of a jealous man,\" he will stop loving her because he will realize that she can never belong to him. Raoul replies that he can never see her again then, because he wants to love her forever. He shows D'Artagnan the letter he has written to La Valliere. D'Artagnan suggests shortening the letter to: \"Mademoiselle: Instead of cursing you, I love you, and I die.\" Raoul agrees with D'Artagnan's editorial suggestions, and asks D'Artagnan to make sure the letter makes its way to La Valliere after he is dead. On their way back, they spy a vessel being tossed about the Mediterranean. D'Artagnan confesses it was the carriage case used to transport the man in the iron mask. Athos suggests that D'Artagnan burn it to eradicate all evidence. As they walk back to the fort, the prisoner is returning from chapel. He is clothed in black and masked with steel. The prisoner screams that he would like to be called Accursed.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXII. Captive and Jailers. When they had entered the fort, and whilst the governor was making some preparations for the reception of his guests, "Come," said Athos, "let us have a word of explanation whilst we are alone." "It is simply this," replied the musketeer. "I have conducted hither a prisoner, who the king commands shall not be seen. You came here, he has thrown something to you through the lattice of his window; I was at dinner with the governor, I saw the object thrown, and I saw Raoul pick it up. It does not take long to understand this. I understood it, and I thought you in intelligence with my prisoner. And then--" "And then--you commanded us to be shot." "_Ma foi!_ I admit it; but, if I was the first to seize a musket, fortunately, I was the last to take aim at you." "If you had killed me, D'Artagnan, I should have had the good fortune to die for the royal house of France, and it would be an honor to die by your hand--you, its noblest and most loyal defender." "What the devil, Athos, do you mean by the royal house?" stammered D'Artagnan. "You don't mean that you, a well-informed and sensible man, can place any faith in the nonsense written by an idiot?" "I do believe in it." "With so much the more reason, my dear chevalier, from your having orders to kill all those who do believe in it," said Raoul. "That is because," replied the captain of the musketeers--"because every calumny, however absurd it may be, has the almost certain chance of becoming popular." "No, D'Artagnan," replied Athos, promptly; "but because the king is not willing that the secret of his family should transpire among the people, and cover with shame the executioners of the son of Louis XIII." "Do not talk in such a childish manner, Athos, or I shall begin to think you have lost your senses. Besides, explain to me how it is possible Louis XIII. should have a son in the Isle of Sainte-Marguerite." "A son whom you have brought hither masked, in a fishing-boat," said Athos. "Why not?" D'Artagnan was brought to a pause. "Oh!" said he; "whence do you know that a fishing-boat--?" "Brought you to Sainte-Marguerite's with the carriage containing the prisoner--with a prisoner whom you styled monseigneur. Oh! I am acquainted with all that," resumed the comte. D'Artagnan bit his mustache. "If it were true," said he, "that I had brought hither in a boat and with a carriage a masked prisoner, nothing proves that this prisoner must be a prince--a prince of the house of France." "Ask Aramis such riddles," replied Athos, coolly. "Aramis," cried the musketeer, quite at a stand. "Have you seen Aramis?" "After his discomfiture at Vaux, yes; I have seen Aramis, a fugitive, pursued, bewildered, ruined; and Aramis has told me enough to make me believe in the complaints this unfortunate young prince cut upon the bottom of the plate." D'Artagnan's head sunk on his breast in some confusion. "This is the way," said he, "in which God turns to nothing that which men call wisdom! A fine secret must that be of which twelve or fifteen persons hold the tattered fragments! Athos, cursed be the chance which has brought you face to face with me in this affair! for now--" "Well," said Athos, with his customary mild severity, "is your secret lost because I know it? Consult your memory, my friend. Have I not borne secrets heavier than this?" "You have never borne one so dangerous," replied D'Artagnan, in a tone of sadness. "I have something like a sinister idea that all who are concerned with this secret will die, and die unhappily." "The will of God be done!" said Athos, "but here is your governor." D'Artagnan and his friends immediately resumed their parts. The governor, suspicious and hard, behaved towards D'Artagnan with a politeness almost amounting to obsequiousness. With respect to the travelers, he contented himself with offering good cheer, and never taking his eye from them. Athos and Raoul observed that he often tried to embarrass them by sudden attacks, or to catch them off their guard; but neither the one nor the other gave him the least advantage. What D'Artagnan had said was probable, if the governor did not believe it to be quite true. They rose from the table to repose awhile. "What is this man's name? I don't like the looks of him," said Athos to D'Artagnan in Spanish. "De Saint-Mars," replied the captain. "He is, then, I suppose, the prince's jailer?" "Eh! how can I tell? I may be kept at Sainte-Marguerite forever." "Oh! no, not you!" "My friend, I am in the situation of a man who finds a treasure in the midst of a desert. He would like to carry it away, but he cannot; he would like to leave it, but he dares not. The king will not dare to recall me, for no one else would serve him as faithfully as I do; he regrets not having me near him, from being aware that no one would be of so much service near his person as myself. But it will happen as it may please God." "But," observed Raoul, "your not being certain proves that your situation here is provisional, and you will return to Paris?" "Ask these gentlemen," interrupted the governor, "what was their purpose in coming to Saint-Marguerite?" "They came from learning there was a convent of Benedictines at Sainte-Honnorat which is considered curious; and from being told there was excellent shooting in the island." "That is quite at their service, as well as yours," replied Saint-Mars. D'Artagnan politely thanked him. "When will they depart?" added the governor. "To-morrow," replied D'Artagnan. M. de Saint-Mars went to make his rounds, and left D'Artagnan alone with the pretended Spaniards. "Oh!" exclaimed the musketeer, "here is a life and a society that suits me very little. I command this man, and he bores me, _mordioux!_ Come, let us have a shot or two at the rabbits; the walk will be beautiful, and not fatiguing. The whole island is but a league and a half in length, with the breadth of a league; a real park. Let us try to amuse ourselves." "As you please, D'Artagnan; not for the sake of amusing ourselves, but to gain an opportunity for talking freely." D'Artagnan made a sign to a soldier, who brought the gentlemen some guns, and then returned to the fort. "And now," said the musketeer, "answer me the question put to you by that black-looking Saint-Mars: what did you come to do at the Lerin Isles?" "To bid you farewell." "Bid me farewell! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul going anywhere?" "Yes." "Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort." "With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend. You always guess correctly." "From habit." Whilst the two friends were commencing their conversation, Raoul, with his head hanging down and his heart oppressed, seated himself on a mossy rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea--looking at the heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul; he allowed the sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him. D'Artagnan remarked his absence. "He has not recovered the blow?" said he to Athos. "He is struck to death." "Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a tempered nature. Around all hearts as noble as his, there is a second envelope that forms a cuirass. The first bleeds, the second resists." "No," replied Athos, "Raoul will die of it." "_Mordioux!_" said D'Artagnan, in a melancholy tone. And he did not add a word to this exclamation. Then, a minute after, "Why do you let him go?" "Because he insists on going." "And why do you not go with him?" "Because I could not bear to see him die." D'Artagnan looked his friend earnestly in the face. "You know one thing," continued the comte, leaning upon the arm of the captain; "you know that in the course of my life I have been afraid of but few things. Well! I have an incessant gnawing, insurmountable fear that an hour will come in which I shall hold the dead body of that boy in my arms." "Oh!" murmured D'Artagnan; "oh!" "He will die, I know, I have a perfect conviction of that; but I would not see him die." "How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself in the presence of the bravest man, you say you have ever seen, of your own D'Artagnan, of that man without an equal, as you formerly called him, and you come and tell him, with your arms folded, that you are afraid of witnessing the death of your son, you who have seen all that can be seen in this world! Why have you this fear, Athos? Man upon this earth must expect everything, and ought to face everything." "Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself out upon this earth of which you speak, I have preserved but two religions: that of life, friendship, my duty as a father--that of eternity, love, and respect for God. Now, I have within me the revelation that if God should decree that my friend or my son should render up his last sigh in my presence--oh! no, I cannot even tell you, D'Artagnan!" "Speak, speak, tell me!" "I am strong against everything, except against the death of those I love. For that only there is no remedy. He who dies, gains; he who sees others die, loses. No, this is it--to know that I should no more meet on earth him whom I now behold with joy; to know that there would nowhere be a D'Artagnan any more, nowhere again be a Raoul, oh! I am old, look you, I have no longer courage; I pray God to spare me in my weakness; but if he struck me so plainly and in that fashion, I should curse him. A Christian gentleman ought not to curse his God, D'Artagnan; it is enough to once have cursed a king!" "Humph!" sighed D'Artagnan, a little confused by this violent tempest of grief. "Let me speak to him, Athos. Who knows?" "Try, if you please, but I am convinced you will not succeed." "I will not attempt to console him. I will serve him." "You will?" "Doubtless, I will. Do you think this would be the first time a woman had repented of an infidelity? I will go to him, I tell you." Athos shook his head, and continued his walk alone, D'Artagnan, cutting across the brambles, rejoined Raoul and held out his hand to him. "Well, Raoul! You have something to say to me?" "I have a kindness to ask of you," replied Bragelonne. "Ask it, then." "You will some day return to France?" "I hope so." "Ought I to write to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" "No, you must not." "But I have many things to say to her." "Go and say them to her, then." "Never!" "Pray, what virtue do you attribute to a letter, which your speech might not possess?" "Perhaps you are right." "She loves the king," said D'Artagnan, bluntly; "and she is an honest girl." Raoul started. "And you, you whom she abandons, she, perhaps, loves better than she does the king, but after another fashion." "D'Artagnan, do you believe she loves the king?" "To idolatry. Her heart is inaccessible to any other feeling. You might continue to live near her, and would be her best friend." "Ah!" exclaimed Raoul, with a passionate burst of repugnance at such a hideous hope. "Will you do so?" "It would be base." "That is a very absurd word, which would lead me to think slightly of your understanding. Please to understand, Raoul, that it is never base to do that which is imposed upon us by a superior force. If your heart says to you, 'Go there, or die,' why go, Raoul. Was she base or brave, she whom you loved, in preferring the king to you, the king whom her heart commanded her imperiously to prefer to you? No, she was the bravest of women. Do, then, as she has done. Oblige yourself. Do you know one thing of which I am sure, Raoul?" "What is that?" "Why, that by seeing her closely with the eyes of a jealous man--" "Well?" "Well! you would cease to love her." "Then I am decided, my dear D'Artagnan." "To set off to see her again?" "No; to set off that I may _never_ see her again. I wish to love her forever." "Ha! I must confess," replied the musketeer, "that is a conclusion which I was far from expecting." "This is what I wish, my friend. You will see her again, and you will give her a letter which, if you think proper, will explain to her, as to yourself, what is passing in my heart. Read it; I drew it up last night. Something told me I should see you to-day." He held the letter out, and D'Artagnan read: "MADEMOISELLE,--You are not wrong in my eyes in not loving me. You have only been guilty of one fault towards me, that of having left me to believe you loved me. This error will cost me my life. I pardon you, but I cannot pardon myself. It is said that happy lovers are deaf to the sorrows of rejected lovers. It will not be so with you, who did not love me, save with anxiety. I am sure that if I had persisted in endeavoring to change that friendship into love, you would have yielded out of a fear of bringing about my death, or lessening the esteem I had for you. It is much more delightful to me to die, knowing that _you_ are free and satisfied. How much, then, will you love me, when you will no longer fear either my presence or reproaches? You will love me, because, however charming a new love may appear to you, God has not made me in anything inferior to him you have chosen, and because my devotedness, my sacrifice, and my painful end will assure me, in your eyes, a certain superiority over him. I have allowed to escape, in the candid credulity of my heart, the treasure I possessed. Many people tell me that you loved me enough to lead me to hope you would have loved me much. That idea takes from my mind all bitterness, and leads me only to blame myself. You will accept this last farewell, and you will bless me for having taken refuge in the inviolable asylum where hatred is extinguished, and where all love endures forever. Adieu, mademoiselle. If your happiness could be purchased by the last drop of my blood, I would shed that drop. I willingly make the sacrifice of it to my misery! "RAOUL, VICOTME DE BRAGELONNE." "The letter reads very well," said the captain. "I have only one fault to find with it." "Tell me what that is!" said Raoul. "Why, it is that it tells everything, except the thing which exhales, like a mortal poison from your eyes and from your heart; except the senseless love which still consumes you." Raoul grew paler, but remained silent. "Why did you not write simply these words: "'MADEMOISELLE,--Instead of cursing you, I love you and I die.'" "That is true," exclaimed Raoul, with a sinister kind of joy. And tearing the letter he had just taken back, he wrote the following words upon a leaf of his tablets: "To procure the happiness of once more telling you I love you, I commit the baseness of writing to you; and to punish myself for that baseness, I die." And he signed it. "You will give her these tablets, captain, will you not?" "When?" asked the latter. "On the day," said Bragelonne, pointing to the last sentence, "on the day when you can place a date under these words." And he sprang away quickly to join Athos, who was returning with slow steps. As they re-entered the fort, the sea rose with that rapid, gusty vehemence which characterizes the Mediterranean; the ill-humor of the element became a tempest. Something shapeless, and tossed about violently by the waves, appeared just off the coast. "What is that?" said Athos,--"a wrecked boat?" "No, it is not a boat," said D'Artagnan. "Pardon me," said Raoul, "there is a bark gaining the port rapidly." "Yes, there is a bark in the creek, which is prudently seeking shelter here; but that which Athos points to in the sand is not a boat at all--it has run aground." "Yes, yes, I see it." "It is the carriage, which I threw into the sea after landing the prisoner." "Well!" said Athos, "if you take my advice, D'Artagnan, you will burn that carriage, in order that no vestige of it may remain, without which the fishermen of Antibes, who have believed they had to do with the devil, will endeavor to prove that your prisoner was but a man." "Your advice is good, Athos, and I will this night have it carried out, or rather, I will carry it out myself; but let us go in, for the rain falls heavily, and the lightning is terrific." As they were passing over the ramparts to a gallery of which D'Artagnan had the key, they saw M. de Saint-Mars directing his steps towards the chamber inhabited by the prisoner. Upon a sign from D'Artagnan, they concealed themselves in an angle of the staircase. "What is it?" said Athos. "You will see. Look. The prisoner is returning from chapel." And they saw, by the red flashes of lightning against the violet fog which the wind stamped upon the bank-ward sky, they saw pass gravely, at six paces behind the governor, a man clothed in black and masked by a vizor of polished steel, soldered to a helmet of the same nature, which altogether enveloped the whole of his head. The fire of the heavens cast red reflections on the polished surface, and these reflections, flying off capriciously, seemed to be angry looks launched by the unfortunate, instead of imprecations. In the middle of the gallery, the prisoner stopped for a moment, to contemplate the infinite horizon, to respire the sulphurous perfumes of the tempest, to drink in thirstily the hot rain, and to breathe a sigh resembling a smothered groan. "Come on, monsieur," said Saint-Mars, sharply, to the prisoner, for he already became uneasy at seeing him look so long beyond the walls. "Monsieur, come on!" "Say monseigneur!" cried Athos, from his corner, with a voice so solemn and terrible, that the governor trembled from head to foot. Athos insisted upon respect being paid to fallen majesty. The prisoner turned round. "Who spoke?" asked Saint-Mars. "It was I," replied D'Artagnan, showing himself promptly. "You know that is the order." "Call me neither monsieur nor monseigneur," said the prisoner in his turn, in a voice that penetrated to the very soul of Raoul; "call me ACCURSED!" He passed on, and the iron door croaked after him. "There goes a truly unfortunate man!" murmured the musketeer in a hollow whisper, pointing out to Raoul the chamber inhabited by the prince.

Chapter Thirty-Two: Captive and Jailers

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-two-captive-and-jailers

The governor prepares to receive his guests. Athos asks D'Artagnan for an explanation when they have a moment of privacy. D'Artagnan explains that they attached because they thought the two visitors were in collusion with the prisoner. Athos reveals that he knows the deal regarding the prisoner. D'Artagnan is upset that his friends know the royal secret because it jeopardizes their safety. The governor returns. He is still suspicious, but Athos and Raoul are careful not to let their cover slip. D'Artagnan tells the governor that the Spaniards are here to take in the sights. The governor tells them they are more than welcome to do so. In privacy, Athos and Raoul tell D'Artagnan that their visit is a good-bye visit, because Raoul will soon be fighting in Africa. Athos reveals to D'Artagnan in secrecy that Raoul will die of a broken heart. Athos admits that he cannot bear to see his son die. D'Artagnan is convinced that Raoul might yet be saved, and goes to chat with the man. Raoul asks if D'Artagnan could possibly forward a letter to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. D'Artagnan tells Raoul that La Valliere was following her heart in becoming the King's mistress. Raoul's grief is not assuaged. D'Artagnan tells Raoul that if he goes to see La Valliere, and looks at her with the "eyes of a jealous man," he will stop loving her because he will realize that she can never belong to him. Raoul replies that he can never see her again then, because he wants to love her forever. He shows D'Artagnan the letter he has written to La Valliere. D'Artagnan suggests shortening the letter to: "Mademoiselle: Instead of cursing you, I love you, and I die." Raoul agrees with D'Artagnan's editorial suggestions, and asks D'Artagnan to make sure the letter makes its way to La Valliere after he is dead. On their way back, they spy a vessel being tossed about the Mediterranean. D'Artagnan confesses it was the carriage case used to transport the man in the iron mask. Athos suggests that D'Artagnan burn it to eradicate all evidence. As they walk back to the fort, the prisoner is returning from chapel. He is clothed in black and masked with steel. The prisoner screams that he would like to be called Accursed.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/33.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_32_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 33

chapter 33: promises

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Three: Promises", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-three-promises", "summary": "D'Artagnan receives a letter from the King ordering him back to Paris. The three men leave the isle together, as Raoul and Athos must return to military responsibilities. D'Artagnan bids his friends good-bye, but within moments is back. He embraces the two men for a long time without saying anything, then leaves. Athos and Raoul return to Toulon and meet with M. de Beaufort, who is busy inspecting everything. The fleet is due to leave the next morning. Athos and Raoul spend the evening talking. Athos confesses that he has not been a friend to Raoul, but will be a friend from here on. Athos gives his son some military advice, and makes his son promise to think of him if he is in trouble. Athos tells his son that the two of them love each other so dearly that when they part, parts of their souls must also part. Dawn is breaking when Grimaud tracks the two men down. Athos tells Raoul that he must not leave alone, and gives him the services of Grimaud. Raoul protests, but Athos insists. The drums begin to roll and an officer comes looking for Raoul to tell him he is expected with M. de Beaufort. Athos prepares himself to part with his son. He gives him two hundred pistoles. The two men finally embrace and bid each other farewell. Raoul joins M. de Beaufort. Grimaud kisses Athos on the hand and follows Raoul. Athos watches Raoul's ship until it disappears on the horizon.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXIII. Promises. Scarcely had D'Artagnan re-entered his apartment with his two friends, when one of the soldiers of the fort came to inform him that the governor was seeking him. The bark which Raoul had perceived at sea, and which appeared so eager to gain the port, came to Sainte-Marguerite with an important dispatch for the captain of the musketeers. On opening it, D'Artagnan recognized the writing of the king: "I should think," said Louis XIV., "you will have completed the execution of my orders, Monsieur d'Artagnan; return, then, immediately to Paris, and join me at the Louvre." "There is the end of my exile!" cried the musketeer with joy; "God be praised, I am no longer a jailer!" And he showed the letter to Athos. "So, then, you must leave us?" replied the latter, in a melancholy tone. "Yes, but to meet again, dear friend, seeing that Raoul is old enough now to go alone with M. de Beaufort, and will prefer his father going back in company with M. d'Artagnan, to forcing him to travel two hundred leagues solitarily to reach home at La Fere; will you not, Raoul?" "Certainly," stammered the latter, with an expression of tender regret. "No, no, my friend," interrupted Athos, "I will never quit Raoul till the day his vessel disappears on the horizon. As long as he remains in France he shall not be separated from me." "As you please, dear friend; but we will, at least, leave Sainte-Marguerite together; take advantage of the bark that will convey me back to Antibes." "With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a distance from this fort, and from the spectacle that shocked us so just now." The three friends quitted the little isle, after paying their respects to the governor, and by the last flashes of the departing tempest they took their farewell of the white walls of the fort. D'Artagnan parted from his friend that same night, after having seen fire set to the carriage upon the shore by the orders of Saint-Mars, according to the advice the captain had given him. Before getting on horseback, and after leaving the arms of Athos: "My friends," said he, "you bear too much resemblance to two soldiers who are abandoning their post. Something warns me that Raoul will require being supported by you in his rank. Will you allow me to ask permission to go over into Africa with a hundred good muskets? The king will not refuse me, and I will take you with me." "Monsieur d'Artagnan," replied Raoul, pressing his hand with emotion, "thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish, either monsieur le comte or I. I, who am young, stand in need of labor of mind and fatigue of body; monsieur le comte wants the profoundest repose. You are his best friend. I recommend him to your care. In watching over him, you are holding both our souls in your hands." "I must go; my horse is all in a fret," said D'Artagnan, with whom the most manifest sign of a lively emotion was the change of ideas in conversation. "Come, comte, how many days longer has Raoul to stay here?" "Three days at most." "And how long will it take you to reach home?" "Oh! a considerable time," replied Athos. "I shall not like the idea of being separated too quickly from Raoul. Time will travel too fast of itself to require me to aid it by distance. I shall only make half-stages." "And why so, my friend? Nothing is more dull than traveling slowly; and hostelry life does not become a man like you." "My friend, I came hither on post-horses; but I wish to purchase two animals of a superior kind. Now, to take them home fresh, it would not be prudent to make them travel more than seven or eight leagues a day." "Where is Grimaud?" "He arrived yesterday morning with Raoul's appointments; and I have left him to sleep." "That is, never to come back again," D'Artagnan suffered to escape him. "Till we meet again, then, dear Athos--and if you are diligent, I shall embrace you the sooner." So saying, he put his foot in the stirrup, which Raoul held. "Farewell!" said the young man, embracing him. "Farewell!" said D'Artagnan, as he got into his saddle. His horse made a movement which divided the cavalier from his friends. This scene had taken place in front of the house chosen by Athos, near the gates of Antibes, whither D'Artagnan, after his supper, had ordered his horses to be brought. The road began to branch off there, white and undulating in the vapors of the night. The horse eagerly respired the salt, sharp perfume of the marshes. D'Artagnan put him to a trot; and Athos and Raoul sadly turned towards the house. All at once they heard the rapid approach of a horse's steps, and first believed it to be one of those singular repercussions which deceive the ear at every turn in a road. But it was really the return of the horseman. They uttered a cry of joyous surprise; and the captain, springing to the ground like a young man, seized within his arms the two beloved heads of Athos and Raoul. He held them long embraced thus, without speaking a word, or suffering the sigh which was bursting his breast to escape him. Then, as rapidly as he had come back, he set off again, with a sharp application of his spurs to the sides of his fiery horse. "Alas!" said the comte, in a low voice, "alas! alas!" "An evil omen!" on his side, said D'Artagnan to himself, making up for lost time. "I could not smile upon them. An evil omen!" The next day Grimaud was on foot again. The service commanded by M. de Beaufort was happily accomplished. The flotilla, sent to Toulon by the exertions of Raoul, had set out, dragging after it in little nutshells, almost invisible, the wives and friends of the fishermen and smugglers put in requisition for the service of the fleet. The time, so short, which remained for father and son to live together, appeared to go by with double rapidity, like some swift stream that flows towards eternity. Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which began to be filled with the noise of carriages, with the noise of arms, the noise of neighing horses. The trumpeters sounded their spirited marches; the drummers signalized their strength; the streets were overflowing with soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was everywhere, superintending the embarkation with the zeal and interest of a good captain. He encouraged the humblest of his companions; he scolded his lieutenants, even those of the highest rank. Artillery, provisions, baggage, he insisted upon seeing all himself. He examined the equipment of every soldier; assured himself of the health and soundness of every horse. It was plain that, light, boastful, egotistical, in his hotel, the gentleman became the soldier again--the high noble, a captain--in face of the responsibility he had accepted. And yet, it must be admitted that, whatever was the care with which he presided over the preparations for departure, it was easy to perceive careless precipitation, and the absence of all the precaution that make the French soldier the first soldier in the world, because, in that world, he is the one most abandoned to his own physical and moral resources. All things having satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the admiral, he paid his compliments to Raoul, and gave the last orders for sailing, which was ordered the next morning at daybreak. He invited the comte had his son to dine with him; but they, under a pretext of service, kept themselves apart. Gaining their hostelry, situated under the trees of the great Place, they took their repast in haste, and Athos led Raoul to the rocks which dominate the city, vast gray mountains, whence the view is infinite and embraces a liquid horizon which appears, so remote is it, on a level with the rocks themselves. The night was fine, as it always is in these happy climes. The moon, rising behind the rocks, unrolled a silver sheet on the cerulean carpet of the sea. In the roadsteads maneuvered silently the vessels which had just taken their rank to facilitate the embarkation. The sea, loaded with phosphoric light, opened beneath the hulls of the barks that transported the baggage and munitions; every dip of the prow plowed up this gulf of white flames; from every oar dropped liquid diamonds. The sailors, rejoicing in the largesses of the admiral, were heard murmuring their slow and artless songs. Sometimes the grinding of the chains was mixed with the dull noise of shot falling into the holds. Such harmonies, such a spectacle, oppress the heart like fear, and dilate it like hope. All this life speaks of death. Athos had seated himself with his son, upon the moss, among the brambles of the promontory. Around their heads passed and repassed large bats, carried along by the fearful whirl of their blind chase. The feet of Raoul were over the edge of the cliff, bathed in that void which is peopled by vertigo, and provokes to self-annihilation. When the moon had risen to its fullest height, caressing with light the neighboring peaks, when the watery mirror was illumined in its full extent, and the little red fires had made their openings in the black masses of every ship, Athos, collecting all his ideas and all his courage, said: "God has made all these things that we see, Raoul; He has made us also,--poor atoms mixed up with this monstrous universe. We shine like those fires and those stars; we sigh like those waves; we suffer like those great ships, which are worn out in plowing the waves, in obeying the wind that urges them towards an end, as the breath of God blows us towards a port. Everything likes to live, Raoul; and everything seems beautiful to living things." "Monsieur," said Raoul, "we have before us a beautiful spectacle!" "How good D'Artagnan is!" interrupted Athos, suddenly, "and what a rare good fortune it is to be supported during a whole life by such a friend as he is! That is what you have missed, Raoul." "A friend!" cried Raoul, "I have wanted a friend!" "M. de Guiche is an agreeable companion," resumed the comte, coldly, "but I believe, in the times in which you live, men are more engaged in their own interests and their own pleasures than they were in ours. You have sought a secluded life; that is a great happiness, but you have lost your strength thereby. We four, more weaned from those delicate abstractions that constitute your joy, furnished much more resistance when misfortune presented itself." "I have not interrupted you, monsieur, to tell you that I had a friend, and that that friend is M. de Guiche. _Certes_, he is good and generous, and moreover he loves me. But I have lived under the guardianship of another friendship, monsieur, as precious and as strong as that of which you speak, since it is yours." "I have not been a friend for you, Raoul," said Athos. "Eh! monsieur, and in what respect not?" "Because I have given you reason to think that life has but one face, because, sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you, without, God knows, wishing to do so, the joyous buds that spring incessantly from the fair tree of youth; so that at this moment I repent of not having made of you a more expansive, dissipated, animated man." "I know why you say that, monsieur. No, it is not you who have made me what I am; it was love, which took me at the time when children only have inclinations; it is the constancy natural to my character, which with other creatures is but habit. I believed that I should always be as I was; I thought God had cast me in a path quite clear, quite straight, bordered with fruits and flowers. I had ever watching over me your vigilance and strength. I believed myself to be vigilant and strong. Nothing prepared me; I fell once, and that once deprived me of courage for the whole of my life. It is quite true that I wrecked myself. Oh, no, monsieur! you are nothing in my past but happiness--in my future but hope! No, I have no reproach to make against life such as you made it for me; I bless you, and I love you ardently." "My dear Raoul, your words do me good. They prove to me that you will act a little for me in the time to come." "I shall only act for you, monsieur." "Raoul, what I have never hitherto done with respect to you, I will henceforward do. I will be your friend, not your father. We will live in expanding ourselves, instead of living and holding ourselves prisoners, when you come back. And that will be soon, will it not?" "Certainly, monsieur, for such an expedition cannot last long." "Soon, then, Raoul, soon, instead of living moderately on my income, I will give you the capital of my estates. It will suffice for launching you into the world till my death; and you will give me, I hope, before that time, the consolation of not seeing my race extinct." "I will do all you may command," said Raoul, much agitated. "It is not necessary, Raoul, that your duty as aide-de-camp should lead you into too hazardous enterprises. You have gone through your ordeal; you are known to be a true man under fire. Remember that war with Arabs is a war of snares, ambuscades, and assassinations." "So it is said, monsieur." "There is never much glory in falling in an ambuscade. It is a death which always implies a little rashness or want of foresight. Often, indeed, he who falls in one meets with but little pity. Those who are not pitied, Raoul, have died to little purpose. Still further, the conqueror laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow stupid infidels to triumph over our faults. Do you clearly understand what I am saying to you, Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to avoid encounters." "I am naturally prudent, monsieur, and I have very good fortune," said Raoul, with a smile which chilled the heart of his poor father; "for," the young man hastened to add, "in twenty combats through which I have been, I have only received one scratch." "There is in addition," said Athos, "the climate to be dreaded: that is an ugly end, to die of fever! King Saint-Louis prayed God to send him an arrow or the plague, rather than the fever." "Oh, monsieur! with sobriety, with reasonable exercise--" "I have already obtained from M. de Beaufort a promise that his dispatches shall be sent off every fortnight to France. You, as his aide-de-camp, will be charged with expediting them, and will be sure not to forget me." "No, monsieur," said Raoul, almost choked with emotion. "Besides, Raoul, as you are a good Christian, and I am one also, we ought to reckon upon a more special protection of God and His guardian angels. Promise me that if anything evil should happen to you, on any occasion, you will think of me at once." "First and at once! Oh! yes, monsieur." "And will call upon me?" "Instantly." "You dream of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?" "Every night, monsieur. During my early youth I saw you in my dreams, calm and mild, with one hand stretched out over my head, and that it was which made me sleep so soundly--formerly." "We love each other too dearly," said the comte, "that from this moment, in which we separate, a portion of both our souls should not travel with one and the other of us, and should not dwell wherever we may dwell. Whenever you may be sad, Raoul, I feel that my heart will be dissolved in sadness; and when you smile on thinking of me, be assured you will send me, from however remote a distance, a vital scintillation of your joy." "I will not promise you to be joyous," replied the young man; "but you may be certain that I will never pass an hour without thinking of you, not one hour, I swear, unless I shall be dead." Athos could contain himself no longer; he threw his arm round the neck of his son, and held him embraced with all the power of his heart. The moon began to be now eclipsed by twilight; a golden band surrounded the horizon, announcing the approach of the day. Athos threw his cloak over the shoulders of Raoul, and led him back to the city, where burdens and porters were already in motion, like a vast ant-hill. At the extremity of the plateau which Athos and Bragelonne were quitting, they saw a dark shadow moving uneasily backwards and forwards, as if in indecision or ashamed to be seen. It was Grimaud, who in his anxiety had tracked his master, and was there awaiting him. "Oh! my good Grimaud," cried Raoul, "what do you want? You are come to tell us it is time to be gone, have you not?" "Alone?" said Grimaud, addressing Athos and pointing to Raoul in a tone of reproach, which showed to what an extent the old man was troubled. "Oh! you are right!" cried the comte. "No, Raoul shall not go alone; no, he shall not be left alone in a strange land without some friendly hand to support him, some friendly heart to recall to him all he loved!" "I?" said Grimaud. "You, yes, you!" cried Raoul, touched to the inmost heart. "Alas!" said Athos, "you are very old, my good Grimaud." "So much the better," replied the latter, with an inexpressible depth of feeling and intelligence. "But the embarkation is begun," said Raoul, "and you are not prepared." "Yes," said Grimaud, showing the keys of his trunks, mixed with those of his young master. "But," again objected Raoul, "you cannot leave monsieur le comte thus alone; monsieur le comte, whom you have never quitted?" Grimaud turned his diamond eyes upon Athos and Raoul, as if to measure the strength of both. The comte uttered not a word. "Monsieur le comte prefers my going," said Grimaud. "I do," said Athos, by an inclination of the head. At that moment the drums suddenly rolled, and the clarions filled the air with their inspiring notes. The regiments destined for the expedition began to debouch from the city. They advanced to the number of five, each composed of forty companies. Royals marched first, distinguished by their white uniform, faced with blue. The _ordonnance_ colors, quartered cross-wise, violet and dead leaf, with a sprinkling of golden _fleurs-de-lis_, left the white-colored flag, with its _fleur-de-lised_ cross, to dominate the whole. Musketeers at the wings, with their forked sticks and their muskets on their shoulders; pikemen in the center, with their lances, fourteen feet in length, marched gayly towards the transports, which carried them in detail to the ships. The regiments of Picardy, Navarre, Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau, followed after. M. de Beaufort had known well how to select his troops. He himself was seen closing the march with his staff--it would take a full hour before he could reach the sea. Raoul with Athos turned his steps slowly towards the beach, in order to take his place when the prince embarked. Grimaud, boiling with the ardor of a young man, superintended the embarkation of Raoul's baggage in the admiral's vessel. Athos, with his arm passed through that of the son he was about to lose, absorbed in melancholy meditation, was deaf to every noise around him. An officer came quickly towards them to inform Raoul that M. de Beaufort was anxious to have him by his side. "Have the kindness to tell the prince," said Raoul, "that I request he will allow me this hour to enjoy the company of my father." "No, no," said Athos, "an aide-de-camp ought not thus to quit his general. Please to tell the prince, monsieur, that the vicomte will join him immediately." The officer set off at a gallop. "Whether we part here or part there," added the comte, "it is no less a separation." He carefully brushed the dust from his son's coat, and passed his hand over his hair as they walked along. "But, Raoul," said he, "you want money. M. de Beaufort's train will be splendid, and I am certain it will be agreeable to you to purchase horses and arms, which are very dear things in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the service of the king or M. de Beaufort, and are simply a volunteer, you must not reckon upon either pay or largesse. But I should not like you to want for anything at Gigelli. Here are two hundred pistoles; if you would please me, Raoul, spend them." Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and, at the turning of a street, they saw M. de Beaufort, mounted on a magnificent white _genet_, which responded by graceful curvets to the applause of the women of the city. The duke called Raoul, and held out his hand to the comte. He spoke to him for some time, with such a kindly expression that the heart of the poor father even felt a little comforted. It was, however, evident to both father and son that their walk amounted to nothing less than a punishment. There was a terrible moment--that at which, on quitting the sands of the shore, the soldiers and sailors exchanged the last kisses with their families and friends; a supreme moment, in which, notwithstanding the clearness of the heavens, the warmth of the sun, of the perfumes of the air, and the rich life that was circulating in their veins, everything appeared black, everything bitter, everything created doubts of Providence, nay, at the most, of God. It was customary for the admiral and his suite to embark last; the cannon waited to announce, with its formidable voice, that the leader had placed his foot on board his vessel. Athos, forgetful of both the admiral and the fleet, and of his own dignity as a strong man, opened his arms to his son, and pressed him convulsively to his heart. "Accompany us on board," said the duke, very much affected; "you will gain a good half-hour." "No," said Athos, "my farewell has been spoken, I do not wish to voice a second." "Then, vicomte, embark--embark quickly!" added the prince, wishing to spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were bursting. And paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took Raoul in his arms and placed him in the boat, the oars of which, at a signal, immediately were dipped in the waves. He himself, forgetful of ceremony, jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a vigorous foot. "Adieu!" cried Raoul. Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something burning on his hand: it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud--the last farewell of the faithful dog. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the mole upon the stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by a _chaland_ served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the mole, stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the features, one of the shades of the pale face of his son. With his arms hanging down, his eyes fixed, his mouth open, he remained confounded with Raoul--in one same look, in one same thought, in one same stupor. The sea, by degrees, carried away boats and faces to that distance at which men become nothing but points,--loves, nothing but remembrances. Athos saw his son ascend the ladder of the admiral's ship, he saw him lean upon the rail of the deck, and place himself in such a manner as to be always an object in the eye of his father. In vain the cannon thundered, in vain from the ship sounded the long and lordly tumult, responded to by immense acclamations from the shore; in vain did the noise deafen the ear of the father, the smoke obscured the cherished object of his aspirations. Raoul appeared to him to the last moment; and the imperceptible atom, passing from black to pale, from pale to white, from white to nothing, disappeared for Athos--disappeared very long after, to all the eyes of the spectators, had disappeared both gallant ships and swelling sails. Towards midday, when the sun devoured space, and scarcely the tops of the masts dominated the incandescent limit of the sea, Athos perceived a soft aerial shadow rise, and vanish as soon as seen. This was the smoke of a cannon, which M. de Beaufort ordered to be fired as a last salute to the coast of France. The point was buried in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned with slow and painful step to his deserted hostelry.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Promises

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-three-promises

D'Artagnan receives a letter from the King ordering him back to Paris. The three men leave the isle together, as Raoul and Athos must return to military responsibilities. D'Artagnan bids his friends good-bye, but within moments is back. He embraces the two men for a long time without saying anything, then leaves. Athos and Raoul return to Toulon and meet with M. de Beaufort, who is busy inspecting everything. The fleet is due to leave the next morning. Athos and Raoul spend the evening talking. Athos confesses that he has not been a friend to Raoul, but will be a friend from here on. Athos gives his son some military advice, and makes his son promise to think of him if he is in trouble. Athos tells his son that the two of them love each other so dearly that when they part, parts of their souls must also part. Dawn is breaking when Grimaud tracks the two men down. Athos tells Raoul that he must not leave alone, and gives him the services of Grimaud. Raoul protests, but Athos insists. The drums begin to roll and an officer comes looking for Raoul to tell him he is expected with M. de Beaufort. Athos prepares himself to part with his son. He gives him two hundred pistoles. The two men finally embrace and bid each other farewell. Raoul joins M. de Beaufort. Grimaud kisses Athos on the hand and follows Raoul. Athos watches Raoul's ship until it disappears on the horizon.

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finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_33_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 34

chapter 34: among women

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Four: Among Women", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-four-among-women", "summary": "D'Artagnan rides to Paris as quickly as possible. When he arrives, the King is hunting. D'Artagnan spends five hours getting up to speed on all the latest news at court. Some of the most important bits include: Madame is ill, de Guiche is out of town, Colbert is happy, and Fouquet is really ill. Apparently the King has been treating Fouquet nicely but refusing to let him out of his sight. The King is also closer to La Valliere than ever. D'Artagnan resolves to talk to the woman. La Valliere is sitting in the center of a number of ladies, who begin peppering him with questions. The court ladies ask for news about Beaufort's army and its campaign in Africa. A certain Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente asks if any of them have friends who are serving in the army. D'Artagnan lists a few and mentions Raoul's name. La Valliere turns pale. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente argues that all the men headed for Africa are ones who were unlucky in love at home. La Valliere is very pale at this point, but Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is not satisfied. She is determined to make the woman blush. She tells La Valliere that her rejection of Raoul must be a great sin on her conscience. Montalais comes to La Valliere's defense, saying it is better to refuse a man you know you can't love rather than allow him to think there's a chance.. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente presses the point, accusing La Valliere of killing Raoul if he dies in Africa. La Valliere avoids having to respond by going for a private walk with D'Artagnan. She asks D'Artagnan why he wanted to speak with her. D'Artagnan confesses that his message was already aptly conveyed by Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. La Valliere is clearly hurt. She goes into another room just as the King enters. King Louis XIV first looks immediately for his mistress, then spots D'Artagnan. The two men withdraw to talk business. D'Artagnan tells the King that the prisoner , came to his defense when he could have fled The King doesn't want to hear it. The King tells D'Artagnan that he needs him to assemble lodgings in Nantes because he has business there. The King tells D'Artagnan to leave sometime between this evening and tomorrow, then adds that he should bring a brigade of Musketeers. At the castle, the King tells D'Artagnan, he should place a guard at the door of each of his chief advisers . The King cautions D'Artagnan to get to the castle before Monsieur le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the guards. A clerk gives D'Artagnan a voucher for two hundred pistoles, to be collected from Fouquet.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXIV. Among Women. D'Artagnan had not been able to hide his feelings from his friends so much as he would have wished. The stoical soldier, the impassive man-at-arms, overcome by fear and sad presentiments, had yielded, for a few moments, to human weakness. When, therefore, he had silenced his heart and calmed the agitation of his nerves, turning towards his lackey, a silent servant, always listening, in order to obey the more promptly: "Rabaud," said he, "mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day." "At your pleasure, captain," replied Rabaud. And from that moment, D'Artagnan, accommodating his action to the pace of the horse, like a true centaur, gave up his thoughts to nothing--that is to say, to everything. He asked himself why the king had sent for him back; why the Iron Mask had thrown the silver plate at the feet of Raoul. As to the first subject, the reply was negative; he knew right well that the king's calling him was from necessity. He still further knew that Louis XIV. must experience an imperious desire for a private conversation with one whom the possession of such a secret placed on a level with the highest powers of the kingdom. But as to saying exactly what the king's wish was, D'Artagnan found himself completely at a loss. The musketeer had no doubts, either, upon the reason which had urged the unfortunate Philippe to reveal his character and birth. Philippe, buried forever beneath a mask of steel, exiled to a country where the men seemed little more than slaves of the elements; Philippe, deprived even of the society of D'Artagnan, who had loaded him with honors and delicate attentions, had nothing more to see than odious specters in this world, and, despair beginning to devour him, he poured himself forth in complaints, in the belief that his revelations would raise up some avenger for him. The manner in which the musketeer had been near killing his two best friends, the destiny which had so strangely brought Athos to participate in the great state secret, the farewell of Raoul, the obscurity of the future which threatened to end in a melancholy death; all this threw D'Artagnan incessantly back on lamentable predictions and forebodings, which the rapidity of his pace did not dissipate, as it used formerly to do. D'Artagnan passed from these considerations to the remembrance of the proscribed Porthos and Aramis. He saw them both, fugitives, tracked, ruined--laborious architects of fortunes they had lost; and as the king called for his man of execution in hours of vengeance and malice, D'Artagnan trembled at the very idea of receiving some commission that would make his very soul bleed. Sometimes, ascending hills, when the winded horse breathed hard from his red nostrils, and heaved his flanks, the captain, left to more freedom of thought, reflected on the prodigious genius of Aramis, a genius of acumen and intrigue, a match to which the Fronde and the civil war had produced but twice. Soldier, priest, diplomatist; gallant, avaricious, cunning; Aramis had never taken the good things of this life except as stepping-stones to rise to giddier ends. Generous in spirit, if not lofty in heart, he never did ill but for the sake of shining even yet more brilliantly. Towards the end of his career, at the moment of reaching the goal, like the patrician Fuscus, he had made a false step upon a plank, and had fallen into the sea. But Porthos, good, harmless Porthos! To see Porthos hungry, to see Mousqueton without gold lace, imprisoned, perhaps; to see Pierrefonds, Bracieux, razed to the very stones, dishonored even to the timber,--these were so many poignant griefs for D'Artagnan, and every time that one of these griefs struck him, he bounded like a horse at the sting of a gadfly beneath the vaults of foliage where he has sought shady shelter from the burning sun. Never was the man of spirit subjected to _ennui_, if his body was exposed to fatigue; never did the man of healthy body fail to find life light, if he had something to engage his mind. D'Artagnan, riding fast, thinking as constantly, alighted from his horse in Pairs, fresh and tender in his muscles as the athlete preparing for the gymnasium. The king did not expect him so soon, and had just departed for the chase towards Meudon. D'Artagnan, instead of riding after the king, as he would formerly have done, took off his boots, had a bath, and waited till his majesty should return dusty and tired. He occupied the interval of five hours in taking, as people say, the air of the house, and in arming himself against all ill chances. He learned that the king, during the last fortnight, had been gloomy; that the queen-mother was ill and much depressed; that Monsieur, the king's brother, was exhibiting a devotional turn; that Madame had the vapors; and that M. de Guiche was gone to one of his estates. He learned that M. Colbert was radiant; that M. Fouquet consulted a fresh physician every day, who still did not cure him, and that his principal complaint was one which physicians do not usually cure, unless they are political physicians. The king, D'Artagnan was told, behaved in the kindest manner to M. Fouquet, and did not allow him to be ever out of his sight; but the surintendant, touched to the heart, like one of those fine trees a worm has punctured, was declining daily, in spite of the royal smile, that sun of court trees. D'Artagnan learned that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had become indispensable to the king; that the king, during his sporting excursions, if he did not take her with him, wrote to her frequently, no longer verses, but, which was much worse, prose, and that whole pages at a time. Thus, as the political Pleiad of the day said, the _first king in the world_ was seen descending from his horse _with an ardor beyond compare_, and on the crown of his hat scrawling bombastic phrases, which M. de Saint-Aignan, aide-de-camp in perpetuity, carried to La Valliere at the risk of foundering his horses. During this time, deer and pheasants were left to the free enjoyment of their nature, hunted so lazily that, it was said, the art of venery ran great risk of degenerating at the court of France. D'Artagnan then thought of the wishes of poor Raoul, of that desponding letter destined for a woman who passed her life in hoping, and as D'Artagnan loved to philosophize a little occasionally, he resolved to profit by the absence of the king to have a minute's talk with Mademoiselle de la Valliere. This was a very easy affair; while the king was hunting, Louise was walking with some other ladies in one of the galleries of the Palais Royal, exactly where the captain of the musketeers had some guards to inspect. D'Artagnan did not doubt that, if he could but open the conversation on Raoul, Louise might give him grounds for writing a consolatory letter to the poor exile; and hope, or at least consolation for Raoul, in the state of heart in which he had left him, was the sun, was life to two men, who were very dear to our captain. He directed his course, therefore, to the spot where he knew he should find Mademoiselle de la Valliere. D'Artagnan found La Valliere the center of the circle. In her apparent solitude, the king's favorite received, like a queen, more, perhaps, than the queen, a homage of which Madame had been so proud, when all the king's looks were directed to her and commanded the looks of the courtiers. D'Artagnan, although no squire of dames, received, nevertheless, civilities and attentions from the ladies; he was polite, as a brave man always is, and his terrible reputation had conciliated as much friendship among the men as admiration among the women. On seeing him enter, therefore, they immediately accosted him; and, as is not unfrequently the case with fair ladies, opened the attack by questions. "Where _had_ he been? What _had_ become of him so long? Why had they not seen him as usual make his fine horse curvet in such beautiful style, to the delight and astonishment of the curious from the king's balcony?" He replied that he had just come from the land of oranges. This set all the ladies laughing. Those were times in which everybody traveled, but in which, notwithstanding, a journey of a hundred leagues was a problem often solved by death. "From the land of oranges?" cried Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. "From Spain?" "Eh! eh!" said the musketeer. "From Malta?" echoed Montalais. "_Ma foi!_ You are coming very near, ladies." "Is it an island?" asked La Valliere. "Mademoiselle," said D'Artagnan; "I will not give you the trouble of seeking any further; I come from the country where M. de Beaufort is, at this moment, embarking for Algiers." "Have you seen the army?" asked several warlike fair ones. "As plainly as I see you," replied D'Artagnan. "And the fleet?" "Yes, I saw everything." "Have we any of us any friends there?" said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, coldly, but in a manner to attract attention to a question that was not without its calculated aim. "Why," replied D'Artagnan, "yes; there were M. de la Guillotiere, M. de Manchy, M. de Bragelonne--" La Valliere became pale. "M. de Bragelonne!" cried the perfidious Athenais. "Eh, what!--is he gone to the wars?--he!" Montalais trod on her toe, but all in vain. "Do you know what my opinion is?" continued she, addressing D'Artagnan. "No, mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it." "My opinion is, then, that all the men who go to this war are desperate, desponding men, whom love has treated ill; and who go to try if they cannot find jet-complexioned women more kind than fair ones have been." Some of the ladies laughed; La Valliere was evidently confused; Montalais coughed loud enough to waken the dead. "Mademoiselle," interrupted D'Artagnan, "you are in error when you speak of black women at Gigelli; the women there have not jet faces; it is true they are not white--they are yellow." "Yellow!" exclaimed the bevy of fair beauties. "Eh! do not disparage it. I have never seen a finer color to match with black eyes and a coral mouth." "So much the better for M. de Bragelonne," said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, with persistent malice. "He will make amends for his loss. Poor fellow!" A profound silence followed these words; and D'Artagnan had time to observe and reflect that women--mild doves--treat each other more cruelly than tigers. But making La Valliere pale did not satisfy Athenais; she determined to make her blush likewise. Resuming the conversation without pause, "Do you know, Louise," said she, "that there is a great sin on your conscience?" "What sin, mademoiselle?" stammered the unfortunate girl, looking round her for support, without finding it. "Eh!--why," continued Athenais, "the poor young man was affianced to you; he loved you; you cast him off." "Well, that is a right which every honest woman has," said Montalais, in an affected tone. "When we know we cannot constitute the happiness of a man, it is much better to cast him off." "Cast him off! or refuse him!--that's all very well," said Athenais, "but that is not the sin Mademoiselle de la Valliere has to reproach herself with. The actual sin is sending poor Bragelonne to the wars; and to wars in which death is so very likely to be met with." Louise pressed her hand over her icy brow. "And if he dies," continued her pitiless tormentor, "you will have killed him. That is the sin." Louise, half-dead, caught at the arm of the captain of the musketeers, whose face betrayed unusual emotion. "You wished to speak with me, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said she, in a voice broken by anger and pain. "What had you to say to me?" D'Artagnan made several steps along the gallery, holding Louise on his arm; then, when they were far enough removed from the others--"What I had to say to you, mademoiselle," replied he, "Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente has just expressed; roughly and unkindly, it is true but still in its entirety." She uttered a faint cry; pierced to the heart by this new wound, she went her way, like one of those poor birds which, struck unto death, seek the shade of the thicket in which to die. She disappeared at one door, at the moment the king was entering by another. The first glance of the king was directed towards the empty seat of his mistress. Not perceiving La Valliere, a frown came over his brow; but as soon as he saw D'Artagnan, who bowed to him--"Ah! monsieur!" cried he, "you _have_ been diligent! I am much pleased with you." This was the superlative expression of royal satisfaction. Many men would have been ready to lay down their lives for such a speech from the king. The maids of honor and the courtiers, who had formed a respectful circle round the king on his entrance, drew back, on observing he wished to speak privately with his captain of the musketeers. The king led the way out of the gallery, after having again, with his eyes, sought everywhere for La Valliere, whose absence he could not account for. The moment they were out of the reach of curious ears, "Well! Monsieur d'Artagnan," said he, "the prisoner?" "Is in his prison, sire." "What did he say on the road?" "Nothing, sire." "What did he do?" "There was a moment at which the fisherman--who took me in his boat to Sainte-Marguerite--revolted, and did his best to kill me. The--the prisoner defended me instead of attempting to fly." The king became pale. "Enough!" said he; and D'Artagnan bowed. Louis walked about his cabinet with hasty steps. "Were you at Antibes," said he, "when Monsieur de Beaufort came there?" "No, sire; I was setting off when monsieur le duc arrived." "Ah!" which was followed by a fresh silence. "Whom did you see there?" "A great many persons," said D'Artagnan, coolly. The king perceived he was unwilling to speak. "I have sent for you, monsieur le capitaine, to desire you to go and prepare my lodgings at Nantes." "At Nantes!" cried D'Artagnan. "In Bretagne." "Yes, sire, it is in Bretagne. Will you majesty make so long a journey as to Nantes?" "The States are assembled there," replied the king. "I have two demands to make of them: I wish to be there." "When shall I set out?" said the captain. "This evening--to-morrow--to-morrow evening; for you must stand in need of rest." "I have rested, sire." "That is well. Then between this and to-morrow evening, when you please." D'Artagnan bowed as if to take his leave; but, perceiving the king very much embarrassed, "Will you majesty," said he, stepping two paces forward, "take the court with you?" "Certainly I shall." "Then you majesty will, doubtless, want the musketeers?" And the eye of the king sank beneath the penetrating glance of the captain. "Take a brigade of them," replied Louis. "Is that all? Has your majesty no other orders to give me?" "No--ah--yes." "I am all attention, sire." "At the castle of Nantes, which I hear is very ill arranged, you will adopt the practice of placing musketeers at the door of each of the principal dignitaries I shall take with me." "Of the principal?" "Yes." "For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?" "Yes." "And that of M. Letellier?" "Yes." "Of M. de Brienne?" "Yes." "And of monsieur le surintendant?" "Without doubt." "Very well, sire. By to-morrow I shall have set out." "Oh, yes; but one more word, Monsieur d'Artagnan. At Nantes you will meet with M. le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the guards. Be sure that your musketeers are placed before his guards arrive. Precedence always belongs to the first comer." "Yes, sire." "And if M. de Gesvres should question you?" "Question me, sire! Is it likely that M. de Gesvres should question me?" And the musketeer, turning cavalierly on his heel, disappeared. "To Nantes!" said he to himself, as he descended from the stairs. "Why did he not dare to say, from thence to Belle-Isle?" As he reached the great gates, one of M. Brienne's clerks came running after him, exclaiming, "Monsieur d'Artagnan! I beg your pardon--" "What is the matter, Monsieur Ariste?" "The king has desired me to give you this order." "Upon your cash-box?" asked the musketeer. "No, monsieur; on that of M. Fouquet." D'Artagnan was surprised, but he took the order, which was in the king's own writing, and was for two hundred pistoles. "What!" thought he, after having politely thanked M. Brienne's clerk, "M. Fouquet is to pay for the journey, then! _Mordioux!_ that is a bit of pure Louis XI. Why was not this order on the chest of M. Colbert? He would have paid it with such joy." And D'Artagnan, faithful to his principle of never letting an order at sight get cold, went straight to the house of M. Fouquet, to receive his two hundred pistoles.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Among Women

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-four-among-women

D'Artagnan rides to Paris as quickly as possible. When he arrives, the King is hunting. D'Artagnan spends five hours getting up to speed on all the latest news at court. Some of the most important bits include: Madame is ill, de Guiche is out of town, Colbert is happy, and Fouquet is really ill. Apparently the King has been treating Fouquet nicely but refusing to let him out of his sight. The King is also closer to La Valliere than ever. D'Artagnan resolves to talk to the woman. La Valliere is sitting in the center of a number of ladies, who begin peppering him with questions. The court ladies ask for news about Beaufort's army and its campaign in Africa. A certain Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente asks if any of them have friends who are serving in the army. D'Artagnan lists a few and mentions Raoul's name. La Valliere turns pale. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente argues that all the men headed for Africa are ones who were unlucky in love at home. La Valliere is very pale at this point, but Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is not satisfied. She is determined to make the woman blush. She tells La Valliere that her rejection of Raoul must be a great sin on her conscience. Montalais comes to La Valliere's defense, saying it is better to refuse a man you know you can't love rather than allow him to think there's a chance.. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente presses the point, accusing La Valliere of killing Raoul if he dies in Africa. La Valliere avoids having to respond by going for a private walk with D'Artagnan. She asks D'Artagnan why he wanted to speak with her. D'Artagnan confesses that his message was already aptly conveyed by Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. La Valliere is clearly hurt. She goes into another room just as the King enters. King Louis XIV first looks immediately for his mistress, then spots D'Artagnan. The two men withdraw to talk business. D'Artagnan tells the King that the prisoner , came to his defense when he could have fled The King doesn't want to hear it. The King tells D'Artagnan that he needs him to assemble lodgings in Nantes because he has business there. The King tells D'Artagnan to leave sometime between this evening and tomorrow, then adds that he should bring a brigade of Musketeers. At the castle, the King tells D'Artagnan, he should place a guard at the door of each of his chief advisers . The King cautions D'Artagnan to get to the castle before Monsieur le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the guards. A clerk gives D'Artagnan a voucher for two hundred pistoles, to be collected from Fouquet.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/35.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_34_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 35

chapter 35: the last supper

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Five: The Last Supper", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-five-the-last-supper", "summary": "Fouquet is giving a farewell supper. D'Artagnan has some difficulty being received, but eventually he gains entrance to the dining room, where all the Epicureans are assembled with Fouquet. They have remained loyal to their patron. Everyone is scared to see D'Artagnan, convinced he has come to arrest Fouquet. D'Artagnan puts them at ease, saying he is there only to collect money. It's clear that Fouquet is really ill and his friends blame the King. D'Artagnan receives his money and leaves. After his departure, Fouquet confesses he thought D'Artagnan was there to arrest him. His friends protest and Fouquet compares their current meal to Jesus' last supper. Fouquet is quite sad. He points out that he no longer has very much - only powerless friends and powerful enemies. Pelisson tells Fouquet to think clearly. How much money does he have left? Fouquet has only seven hundred thousand pounds. Pelisson suggests that he flee to someplace like Switzerland. Fouquet decides to stay. He is consoled by the thought of Belle-Isle. He must first go to Nantes with the King, however, and his friends suggest that he depart immediately and with all haste. He can justify his trip to Nantes with the King's impending trip to the city. Everyone is happy with this plan when a courier knocks on the door with a note saying that the King has taken the seven hundred thousand pounds to prepare for his departure to Nantes. Fouquet is ruined. His friends toss various valuable jewelry in a hat so he can have some type of funds.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXV. The Last Supper. The superintendent had no doubt received advice of the approaching departure, for he was giving a farewell dinner to his friends. From the bottom to the top of the house, the hurry of the servants bearing dishes, and the diligence of the _registres_, denoted an approaching change in offices and kitchen. D'Artagnan, with his order in his hand, presented himself at the offices, when he was told it was too late to pay cash, the chest was closed. He only replied: "On the king's service." The clerk, a little put out by the serious air of the captain, replied, that "that was a very respectable reason, but that the customs of the house were respectable likewise; and that, in consequence, he begged the bearer to call again next day." D'Artagnan asked if he could not see M. Fouquet. The clerk replied that M. le surintendant did not interfere with such details, and rudely closed the outer door in the captain's face. But the latter had foreseen this stroke, and placed his boot between the door and the door-case, so that the lock did not catch, and the clerk was still nose to nose with his interlocutor. This made him change his tone, and say, with terrified politeness, "If monsieur wishes to speak to M. le surintendant, he must go to the ante-chambers; these are the offices, where monseigneur never comes." "Oh! very well! Where are they?" replied D'Artagnan. "On the other side of the court," said the clerk, delighted to be free. D'Artagnan crossed the court, and fell in with a crowd of servants. "Monseigneur sees nobody at this hour," he was answered by a fellow carrying a vermeil dish, in which were three pheasants and twelve quails. "Tell him," said the captain, laying hold of the servant by the end of his dish, "that I am M. d'Artagnan, captain of his majesty's musketeers." The fellow uttered a cry of surprise, and disappeared; D'Artagnan following him slowly. He arrived just in time to meet M. Pelisson in the ante-chamber: the latter, a little pale, came hastily out of the dining-room to learn what was the matter. D'Artagnan smiled. "There is nothing unpleasant, Monsieur Pelisson; only a little order to receive the money for." "Ah!" said Fouquet's friend, breathing more freely; and he took the captain by the hand, and, dragging him behind him, led him into the dining-room, where a number of friends surrounded the surintendant, placed in the center, and buried in the cushions of a _fauteuil_. There were assembled all the Epicureans who so lately at Vaux had done the honors of the mansion of wit and money in aid of M. Fouquet. Joyous friends, for the most part faithful, they had not fled their protector at the approach of the storm, and, in spite of the threatening heavens, in spite of the trembling earth, they remained there, smiling, cheerful, as devoted in misfortune as they had been in prosperity. On the left of the surintendant sat Madame de Belliere; on his right was Madame Fouquet; as if braving the laws of the world, and putting all vulgar reasons of propriety to silence, the two protecting angels of this man united to offer, at the moment of the crisis, the support of their twined arms. Madame de Belliere was pale, trembling, and full of respectful attentions for madame la surintendante, who, with one hand on her husband's, was looking anxiously towards the door by which Pelisson had gone out to bring D'Artagnan. The captain entered at first full of courtesy, and afterwards of admiration, when, with his infallible glance, he had divined as well as taken in the expression of every face. Fouquet raised himself up in his chair. "Pardon me, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said he, "if I did not myself receive you when coming in the king's name." And he pronounced the last words with a sort of melancholy firmness, which filled the hearts of all his friends with terror. "Monseigneur," replied D'Artagnan, "I only come to you in the king's name to demand payment of an order for two hundred pistoles." The clouds passed from every brow but that of Fouquet, which still remained overcast. "Ah! then," said he, "perhaps you also are setting out for Nantes?" "I do not know whither I am setting out, monseigneur." "But," said Madame Fouquet, recovered from her fright, "you are not going so soon, monsieur le capitaine, as not to do us the honor to take a seat with us?" "Madame, I should esteem that a great honor done me, but I am so pressed for time, that, you see, I have been obliged to permit myself to interrupt your repast to procure payment of my note." "The reply to which shall be gold," said Fouquet, making a sign to his intendant, who went out with the order D'Artagnan handed him. "Oh!" said the latter, "I was not uneasy about the payment; the house is good." A painful smile passed over the pale features of Fouquet. "Are you in pain?" asked Madame de Belliere. "Do you feel your attack coming on?" asked Madame Fouquet. "Neither, thank you both," said Fouquet. "Your attack?" said D'Artagnan, in his turn; "are you unwell, monseigneur?" "I have a tertian fever, which seized me after the _fete_ at Vaux." "Caught cold in the grottos, at night, perhaps?" "No, no; nothing but agitation, that was all." "The too much heart you displayed in your reception of the king," said La Fontaine, quietly, without suspicion that he was uttering a sacrilege. "We cannot devote too much heart to the reception of our king," said Fouquet, mildly, to his poet. "Monsieur meant to say the too great ardor," interrupted D'Artagnan, with perfect frankness and much amenity. "The fact is, monseigneur, that hospitality was never practiced as at Vaux." Madame Fouquet permitted her countenance to show clearly that if Fouquet had conducted himself well towards the king, the king had hardly done the like to the minister. But D'Artagnan knew the terrible secret. He alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had not, the one the courage to complain, the other the right to accuse. The captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were brought, was about to take his leave, when Fouquet, rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered one to be given to D'Artagnan. "Monsieur," said he, "to the health of the king, _whatever may happen_." "And to your health, monseigneur, _whatever may happen_," said D'Artagnan. He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the stairs. "I, for a moment, thought it was I and not my money he wanted," said Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh. "You!" cried his friends; "and what for, in the name of Heaven!" "Oh! do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus," said the superintendent; "I do not wish to make a comparison between the most humble sinner on the earth, and the God we adore, but remember, he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was nothing but a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment." A painful cry of denial arose from all parts of the table. "Shut the doors," said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared. "My friends," continued Fouquet, lowering his voice, "what was I formerly? What am I now? Consult among yourselves and reply. A man like me sinks when he does not continue to rise. What shall we say, then, when he really sinks? I have no more money, no more credit; I have no longer anything but powerful enemies, and powerless friends." "Quick!" cried Pelisson. "Since you explain yourself with such frankness, it is our duty to be frank, likewise. Yes, you are ruined--yes, you are hastening to your ruin--stop. And, in the first place, what money have we left?" "Seven hundred thousand livres," said the intendant. "Bread," murmured Madame Fouquet. "Relays," said Pelisson, "relays, and fly!" "Whither?" "To Switzerland--to Savoy--but fly!" "If monseigneur flies," said Madame Belliere, "it will be said that he was guilty--was afraid." "More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty millions with me." "We will draw up memoirs to justify you," said La Fontaine. "Fly!" "I will remain," said Fouquet. "And, besides, does not everything serve me?" "You have Belle-Isle," cried the Abbe Fouquet. "And I am naturally going there, when going to Nantes," replied the superintendent. "Patience, then, patience!" "Before arriving at Nantes, what a distance!" said Madame Fouquet. "Yes, I know that well," replied Fouquet. "But what is to be done there? The king summons me to the States. I know well it is for the purpose of ruining me; but to refuse to go would be to evince uneasiness." "Well, I have discovered the means of reconciling everything," cried Pelisson. "You are going to set out for Nantes." Fouquet looked at him with an air of surprise. "But with friends; but in your own carriage as far as Orleans; in your own barge as far as Nantes; always ready to defend yourself, if you are attacked; to escape, if you are threatened. In fact, you will carry your money against all chances; and, whilst flying, you will only have obeyed the king; then, reaching the sea, when you like, you will embark for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will shoot out wherever it may please you, like the eagle that leaps into space when it has been driven from its eyrie." A general assent followed Pelisson's words. "Yes, do so," said Madame Fouquet to her husband. "Do so," said Madame de Belliere. "Do it! do it!" cried all his friends. "I will do so," replied Fouquet. "This very evening?" "In an hour?" "Instantly." "With seven hundred thousand livres you can lay the foundation of another fortune," said the Abbe Fouquet. "What is there to prevent our arming corsairs at Belle-Isle?" "And, if necessary, we will go and discover a new world," added La Fontaine, intoxicated with fresh projects and enthusiasm. A knock at the door interrupted this concert of joy and hope. "A courier from the king," said the master of the ceremonies. A profound silence immediately ensued, as if the message brought by this courier was nothing but a reply to all the projects given birth to a moment before. Every one waited to see what the master would do. His brow was streaming with perspiration, and he was really suffering from his fever at that instant. He passed into his cabinet, to receive the king's message. There prevailed, as we have said, such a silence in the chambers, and throughout the attendance, that from the dining-room could be heard the voice of Fouquet, saying, "That is well, monsieur." This voice was, however, broken by fatigue, and trembled with emotion. An instant after, Fouquet called Gourville, who crossed the gallery amidst the universal expectation. At length, he himself re-appeared among his guests; but it was no longer the same pale, spiritless countenance they had beheld when he left them; from pale he had become livid; and from spiritless, annihilated. A breathing, living specter, he advanced with his arms stretched out, his mouth parched, like a shade that comes to salute the friends of former days. On seeing him thus, every one cried out, and every one rushed towards Fouquet. The latter, looking at Pelisson, leaned upon his wife, and pressed the icy hand of the Marquise de Belliere. "Well," said he, in a voice which had nothing human in it. "What has happened, my God!" said some one to him. Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clenched, but glistening with perspiration, and displayed a paper, upon which Pelisson cast a terrified glance. He read the following lines, written by the king's hand: "'DEAR AND WELL-BELOVED MONSIEUR FOUQUET,--Give us, upon that which you have left of ours, the sum of seven hundred thousand livres, of which we stand in need to prepare for our departure. "'And, as we know your health is not good, we pray God to restore you, and to have you in His holy keeping. "'LOUIS. "'The present letter is to serve as a receipt.'" A murmur of terror circulated through the apartment. "Well," cried Pelisson, in his turn, "you have received that letter?" "Received it, yes!" "What will you do, then?" "Nothing, since I have received it." "But--" "If I have received it, Pelisson, I have paid it," said the surintendant, with a simplicity that went to the heart of all present. "You have paid it!" cried Madame Fouquet. "Then we are ruined!" "Come, no useless words," interrupted Pelisson. "Next to money, life. Monseigneur, to horse! to horse!" "What, leave us!" at once cried both the women, wild with grief. "Eh! monseigneur, in saving yourself, you save us all. To horse!" "But he cannot hold himself on. Look at him." "Oh! if he takes time to reflect--" said the intrepid Pelisson. "He is right," murmured Fouquet. "Monseigneur! Monseigneur!" cried Gourville, rushing up the stairs, four steps at once. "Monseigneur!" "Well! what?" "I escorted, as you desired, the king's courier with the money." "Yes." "Well! when I arrived at the Palais Royal, I saw--" "Take breath, my poor friend, take breath; you are suffocating." "What did you see?" cried the impatient friends. "I saw the musketeers mounting on horseback," said Gourville. "There, then!" cried every voice at once; "there, then! is there an instant to be lost?" Madame Fouquet rushed downstairs, calling for her horses; Madame de Belliere flew after her, catching her in her arms, and saying: "Madame, in the name of his safety, do not betray anything, do not manifest alarm." Pelisson ran to have the horses put to the carriages. And, in the meantime, Gourville gathered in his hat all that the weeping friends were able to throw into it of gold and silver--the last offering, the pious alms made to misery by poverty. The surintendant, dragged along by some, carried by others, was shut up in his carriage. Gourville took the reins, and mounted the box. Pelisson supported Madame Fouquet, who had fainted. Madame de Belliere had more strength, and was well paid for it; she received Fouquet's last kiss. Pelisson easily explained this precipitate departure by saying that an order from the king had summoned the minister to Nantes.

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Last Supper

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-five-the-last-supper

Fouquet is giving a farewell supper. D'Artagnan has some difficulty being received, but eventually he gains entrance to the dining room, where all the Epicureans are assembled with Fouquet. They have remained loyal to their patron. Everyone is scared to see D'Artagnan, convinced he has come to arrest Fouquet. D'Artagnan puts them at ease, saying he is there only to collect money. It's clear that Fouquet is really ill and his friends blame the King. D'Artagnan receives his money and leaves. After his departure, Fouquet confesses he thought D'Artagnan was there to arrest him. His friends protest and Fouquet compares their current meal to Jesus' last supper. Fouquet is quite sad. He points out that he no longer has very much - only powerless friends and powerful enemies. Pelisson tells Fouquet to think clearly. How much money does he have left? Fouquet has only seven hundred thousand pounds. Pelisson suggests that he flee to someplace like Switzerland. Fouquet decides to stay. He is consoled by the thought of Belle-Isle. He must first go to Nantes with the King, however, and his friends suggest that he depart immediately and with all haste. He can justify his trip to Nantes with the King's impending trip to the city. Everyone is happy with this plan when a courier knocks on the door with a note saying that the King has taken the seven hundred thousand pounds to prepare for his departure to Nantes. Fouquet is ruined. His friends toss various valuable jewelry in a hat so he can have some type of funds.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/36.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_35_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 36

chapter 36: in the carriage of m. colbert

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Six: In the Carriage of M. Colbert", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-six-in-the-carriage-of-m-colbert", "summary": "D'Artagnan is riding at the head of all the assembled Musketeers when he spies Colbert getting into a carriage occupied by two women. D'Artagnan is curious as to the women's identity and so runs his horse right next to the carriage to frighten them. They are revealed as Madame Vanel and Madame de Chevreuse. We learn that Madame Vanel is Colbert's mistress. Clearly Madame de Chevreuse is now on Colbert's side in the game of political alliances. Madame Vanel is dropped off at her husband's house, and Madame de Chevreuse then has time to chat with Colbert. She begins by flattering him and assuring him of her support. We learn that the papers incriminating Fouquet come from Madame de Chevreuse. She asks Colbert what his ambitions are. We next learn that the Queen mother will no longer come to Fouquet's defense if he is in danger, because he learned of her terrible secret. The Queen mother is also out for blood with regard to Aramis. Colbert can make no promises on that front. Madame de Chevreuse is angry that Colbert seems to underestimate Aramis's capabilities. She reveals that he the General of the Jesuits. The two allies decide it is time to return to Paris. The narrator reminds us that Madame de Chevreuse was once a devoted ally of the Musketeers'.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXVI. In M. Colbert's Carriage. As Gourville had seen, the king's musketeers were mounting and following their captain. The latter, who did not like to be confined in his proceedings, left his brigade under the orders of a lieutenant, and set off on post horses, recommending his men to use all diligence. However rapidly they might travel, they could not arrive before him. He had time, in passing along the Rue des Petits-Champs, to see something which afforded him plenty of food for thought and conjecture. He saw M. Colbert coming out from his house to get into his carriage, which was stationed before the door. In this carriage D'Artagnan perceived the hoods of two women, and being rather curious, he wished to know the names of the ladies hid beneath these hoods. To get a glimpse at them, for they kept themselves closely covered up, he urged his horse so near the carriage, that he drove him against the step with such force as to shake everything containing and contained. The terrified women uttered, the one a faint cry, by which D'Artagnan recognized a young woman, the other an imprecation, in which he recognized the vigor and _aplomb_ that half a century bestows. The hoods were thrown back: one of the women was Madame Vanel, the other the Duchesse de Chevreuse. D'Artagnan's eyes were quicker than those of the ladies; he had seen and known them, whilst they did not recognize him; and as they laughed at their fright, pressing each other's hands,-- "Humph!" said D'Artagnan, "the old duchesse is no more inaccessible to friendship than formerly. _She_ paying her court to the mistress of M. Colbert! Poor M. Fouquet! that presages you nothing good!" He rode on. M. Colbert got into his carriage and the distinguished trio commenced a sufficiently slow pilgrimage toward the wood of Vincennes. Madame de Chevreuse set down Madame Vanel at her husband's house, and, left alone with M. Colbert, chatted upon affairs whilst continuing her ride. She had an inexhaustible fund of conversation, that dear duchesse, and as she always talked for the ill of others, though ever with a view to her own good, her conversation amused her interlocutor, and did not fail to leave a favorable impression. She taught Colbert, who, poor man! was ignorant of the fact, how great a minister he was, and how Fouquet would soon become a cipher. She promised to rally around him, when he should become surintendant, all the old nobility of the kingdom, and questioned him as to the preponderance it would be proper to allow La Valliere. She praised him, she blamed him, she bewildered him. She showed him the secret of so many secrets that, for a moment, Colbert thought he was doing business with the devil. She proved to him that she held in her hand the Colbert of to-day, as she had held the Fouquet of yesterday; and as he asked her very simply the reason of her hatred for the surintendant: "Why do you yourself hate him?" said she. "Madame, in politics," replied he, "the differences of system oft bring about dissentions between men. M. Fouquet always appeared to me to practice a system opposed to the true interests of the king." She interrupted him.--"I will say no more to you about M. Fouquet. The journey the king is about to take to Nantes will give a good account of him. M. Fouquet, for me, is a man gone by--and for you also." Colbert made no reply. "On his return from Nantes," continued the duchesse, "the king, who is only anxious for a pretext, will find that the States have not behaved well--that they have made too few sacrifices. The States will say that the imposts are too heavy, and that the surintendant has ruined them. The king will lay all the blame on M. Fouquet, and then--" "And then?" said Colbert. "Oh! he will be disgraced. Is not that your opinion?" Colbert darted a glance at the duchesse, which plainly said: "If M. Fouquet be only disgraced, you will not be the cause of it." "Your place, M. Colbert," the duchesse hastened to say, "must be a high place. Do you perceive any one between the king and yourself, after the fall of M. Fouquet?" "I do not understand," said he. "You _will_ understand. To what does your ambition aspire?" "I have none." "It was useless, then, to overthrow the superintendent, Monsieur Colbert. It was idle." "I had the honor to tell you, madame--" "Oh! yes, I know, all about the interest of the king--but, if you please, we will speak of your own." "Mine! that is to say, the affairs of his majesty." "In short, are you, or are you not endeavoring to ruin M. Fouquet? Answer without evasion." "Madame, I ruin nobody." "I am endeavoring to comprehend, then, why you purchased from me the letters of M. Mazarin concerning M. Fouquet. Neither can I conceive why you have laid those letters before the king." Colbert, half stupefied, looked at the duchesse with an air of constraint. "Madame," said he, "I can less easily conceive how you, who received the money, can reproach me on that head--" "That is," said the old duchesse, "because we must will that which we wish for, unless we are not able to obtain what we wish." "_Will!_" said Colbert, quite confounded by such coarse logic. "You are not able, _hein!_ Speak." "I am not able, I allow, to destroy certain influences near the king." "That fight in favor of M. Fouquet? What are they? Stop, let me help you." "Do, madame." "La Valliere?" "Oh! very little influence; no knowledge of business, and small means. M. Fouquet has paid his court to her." "To defend him would be to accuse herself, would it not?" "I think it would." "There is still another influence, what do you say to that?" "Is it considerable?" "The queen-mother, perhaps?" "Her majesty, the queen-mother, has a weakness for M. Fouquet very prejudicial to her son." "Never believe that," said the old duchesse, smiling. "Oh!" said Colbert, with incredulity, "I have often experienced it." "Formerly?" "Very recently, madame, at Vaux. It was she who prevented the king from having M. Fouquet arrested." "People do not forever entertain the same opinions, my dear monsieur. That which the queen may have wished recently, she would not wish, perhaps, to-day." "And why not?" said Colbert, astonished. "Oh! the reason is of very little consequence." "On the contrary, I think it is of great consequence; for, if I were certain of not displeasing her majesty, the queen-mother, my scruples would be all removed." "Well! have you never heard talk of a certain secret?" "A secret?" "Call it what you like. In short, the queen-mother has conceived a bitter hatred for all those who have participated, in one fashion or another, in the discovery of this secret, and M. Fouquet I believe is one of these." "Then," said Colbert, "we may be sure of the assent of the queen-mother?" "I have just left her majesty, and she assures me so." "So be it, then, madame." "But there is something further; do you happen to know a man who was the intimate friend of M. Fouquet, M. d'Herblay, a bishop, I believe?" "Bishop of Vannes." "Well! this M. d'Herblay, who also knew the secret, the queen-mother is pursuing with the utmost rancor." "Indeed!" "So hotly pursued, that if he were dead, she would not be satisfied with anything less than his head, to satisfy her he would never speak again." "And is that the desire of the queen-mother?" "An order is given for it." "This Monsieur d'Herblay shall be sought for, madame." "Oh! it is well known where he is." Colbert looked at the duchesse. "Say where, madame." "He is at Belle-Ile-en-Mer." "At the residence of M. Fouquet?" "At the residence of M. Fouquet." "He shall be taken." It was now the duchesse's turn to smile. "Do not fancy the capture so easy," said she; "do not promise it so lightly." "Why not, madame?" "Because M. d'Herblay is not one of those people who can be taken when and where you please." "He is a rebel, then?" "Oh! Monsieur Colbert, we have passed all our lives in making rebels, and yet you see plainly, that so far from being taken, we take others." Colbert fixed upon the old duchesse one of those fierce looks of which no words can convey the expression, accompanied by a firmness not altogether wanting in grandeur. "The times are gone," said he, "in which subjects gained duchies by making war against the king of France. If M. d'Herblay conspires, he will perish on the scaffold. That will give, or will not give, pleasure to his enemies,--a matter, by the way, of little importance to _us_." And this _us_, a strange word in the mouth of Colbert, made the duchesse thoughtful for a moment. She caught herself reckoning inwardly with this man--Colbert had regained his superiority in the conversation, and he meant to keep it. "You ask me, madame," he said, "to have this M. d'Herblay arrested?" "I?--I ask you nothing of the kind!" "I thought you did, madame. But as I have been mistaken, we will leave him alone; the king has said nothing about him." The duchesse bit her nails. "Besides," continued Colbert, "what a poor capture would this bishop be! A bishop game for a king! Oh! no, no; I will not even take the slightest notice of him." The hatred of the duchesse now discovered itself. "Game for a woman!" said she. "Is not the queen a woman? If she wishes M. d'Herblay arrested, she has her reasons. Besides, is not M. d'Herblay the friend of him who is doomed to fall?" "Oh! never mind that," said Colbert. "This man shall be spared, if he is not the enemy of the king. Is that displeasing to you?" "I say nothing." "Yes--you wish to see him in prison, in the Bastile, for instance." "I believe a secret better concealed behind the walls of the Bastile than behind those of Belle-Isle." "I will speak to the king about it; he will clear up the point." "And whilst waiting for that enlightenment, Monsieur l'Eveque de Vannes will have escaped. I would do so." "Escaped! he! and whither should he escape? Europe is ours, in will, if not in fact." "He will always find an asylum, monsieur. It is evident you know nothing of the man you have to do with. You do not know D'Herblay; you do not know Aramis. He was one of those four musketeers who, under the late king, made Cardinal de Richelieu tremble, and who, during the regency, gave so much trouble to Monseigneur Mazarin." "But, madame, what can he do, unless he has a kingdom to back him?" "He has one, monsieur." "A kingdom, he! what, Monsieur d'Herblay?" "I repeat to you, monsieur, that if he wants a kingdom, he either has it or will have it." "Well, as you are so earnest that this rebel should not escape, madame, I promise you he shall not escape." "Belle-Isle is fortified, M. Colbert, and fortified by him." "If Belle-Isle were also defended by him, Belle-Isle is not impregnable; and if Monsieur l'Eveque de Vannes is shut up in Belle-Isle, well, madame, the place shall be besieged, and he will be taken." "You may be very certain, monsieur, that the zeal you display in the interest of the queen-mother will please her majesty mightily, and you will be magnificently rewarded; but what shall I tell her of your projects respecting this man?" "That when once taken, he shall be shut up in a fortress from which her secret shall never escape." "Very well, Monsieur Colbert, and we may say, that, dating from this instant, we have formed a solid alliance, that is, you and I, and that I am absolutely at your service." "It is I, madame, who place myself at yours. This Chevalier d'Herblay is a kind of Spanish spy, is he not?" "Much more." "A secret ambassador?" "Higher still." "Stop--King Phillip III. of Spain is a bigot. He is, perhaps, the confessor of Phillip III." "You must go higher even than that." "_Mordieu!_" cried Colbert, who forgot himself so far as to swear in the presence of this great lady, of this old friend of the queen-mother. "He must then be the general of the Jesuits." "I believe you have guessed it at last," replied the duchesse. "Ah! then, madame, this man will ruin us all if we do not ruin him; and we must make haste, too." "Such was my opinion, monsieur, but I did not dare to give it you." "And it was lucky for us he has attacked the throne, and not us." "But, mark this well, M. Colbert. M. d'Herblay is never discouraged; if he has missed one blow, he will be sure to make another; he will begin again. If he has allowed an opportunity to escape of making a king for himself, sooner or later, he will make another, of whom, to a certainty, you will not be prime minister." Colbert knitted his brow with a menacing expression. "I feel assured that a prison will settle this affair for us, madame, in a manner satisfactory for both." The duchesse smiled again. "Oh! if you knew," said she, "how many times Aramis has got out of prison!" "Oh!" replied Colbert, "we will take care that he shall not get out _this_ time." "But you were not attending to what I said to you just now. Do you remember that Aramis was one of the four invincibles whom Richelieu so dreaded? And at that period the four musketeers were not in possession of that which they have now--money and experience." Colbert bit his lips. "We will renounce the idea of the prison," said he, in a lower tone: "we will find a little retreat from which the invincible cannot possibly escape." "That was well spoken, our ally!" replied the duchesse. "But it is getting late; had we not better return?" "The more willingly, madame, from my having my preparations to make for setting out with the king." "To Paris!" cried the duchesse to the coachman. And the carriage returned towards the Faubourg Saint Antoine, after the conclusion of the treaty that gave to death the last friend of Fouquet, the last defender of Belle-Isle, the former friend of Marie Michon, the new foe of the old duchesse.

Chapter Thirty-Six: In the Carriage of M. Colbert

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-six-in-the-carriage-of-m-colbert

D'Artagnan is riding at the head of all the assembled Musketeers when he spies Colbert getting into a carriage occupied by two women. D'Artagnan is curious as to the women's identity and so runs his horse right next to the carriage to frighten them. They are revealed as Madame Vanel and Madame de Chevreuse. We learn that Madame Vanel is Colbert's mistress. Clearly Madame de Chevreuse is now on Colbert's side in the game of political alliances. Madame Vanel is dropped off at her husband's house, and Madame de Chevreuse then has time to chat with Colbert. She begins by flattering him and assuring him of her support. We learn that the papers incriminating Fouquet come from Madame de Chevreuse. She asks Colbert what his ambitions are. We next learn that the Queen mother will no longer come to Fouquet's defense if he is in danger, because he learned of her terrible secret. The Queen mother is also out for blood with regard to Aramis. Colbert can make no promises on that front. Madame de Chevreuse is angry that Colbert seems to underestimate Aramis's capabilities. She reveals that he the General of the Jesuits. The two allies decide it is time to return to Paris. The narrator reminds us that Madame de Chevreuse was once a devoted ally of the Musketeers'.

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finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_36_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 37

chapter 37: the two lighters

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Two Lighters", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-seven-the-two-lighters", "summary": "Fouquet travels rapidly to Orleans, convinced that he is not being pursued. At Orleans, he hires a boat with eight rowers to take him down the Loire River. Fouquet hopes to be the first dignitary at Nantes. The rowers let out an exclamation, for behind them, and rapidly gaining ground, is a boat with twelve rowers. Fouquet and his friend Gourville are astonished; no one, not even the King, travels on a lighter with more than eight rowers. The rowers tell Fouquet that the boat is certainly from Orleans. Gourville and Fouquet are worried. Fouquet commands the rowers to stop so he can get a better look at the boat pursuing them. Fouquet spies Colbert. They wonder why he does not announce himself or draw up next to Fouquet's boat. The boat is also clearly filled with armed men. Fouquet orders his men to begin rowing again. The other boat follows, maintaining a regular distance all day between the two. Towards the evening, Fouquet tries an experiment. He orders the rowers to row closer to shore and pretend that Fouquet will disembark. By chance, a stableman was walking on the banks with three horses. The other boat stops and a handful of men with muskets disembark. Fouquet is pleased that he forced Colbert to show his hand. The two boats continue down the river. Colbert is careful to have his boat remain behind Fouquet's. When they reach Nantes, Fouquet jumps down and gives Colbert a public and ostentatious salute. Fouquet asks, irritated, why Colbert refused to join him or pass him. Colbert says it is out of respect. Fouquet hops into a carriage and makes his way to Nantes. He hears rumors that the King is coming with all speed and is expected in ten or twelve hours. As soon as D'Artagnan arrives, he asks to speak with Fouquet.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXVII. The Two Lighters. D'Artagnan had set off; Fouquet likewise was gone, and with a rapidity which doubled the tender interest of his friends. The first moments of this journey, or better say, this flight, were troubled by a ceaseless dread of every horse and carriage to be seen behind the fugitive. It was not natural, in fact, if Louis XIV. was determined to seize this prey, that he should allow it to escape; the young lion was already accustomed to the chase, and he had bloodhounds sufficiently clever to be trusted. But insensibly all fears were dispersed; the surintendant, by hard traveling, placed such a distance between himself and his persecutors, that no one of them could reasonably be expected to overtake him. As to his position, his friends had made it excellent for him. Was he not traveling to join the king at Nantes, and what did the rapidity prove but his zeal to obey? He arrived, fatigued, but reassured, at Orleans, where he found, thanks to the care of a courier who had preceded him, a handsome lighter of eight oars. These lighters, in the shape of gondolas, somewhat wide and heavy, containing a small chamber, covered by the deck, and a chamber in the poop, formed by a tent, then acted as passage-boats from Orleans to Nantes, by the Loire, and this passage, a long one in our days, appeared then more easy and convenient than the high-road, with its post-hacks and its ill-hung carriages. Fouquet went on board this lighter, which set out immediately. The rowers, knowing they had the honor of conveying the surintendant of the finances, pulled with all their strength, and that magic word, the _finances_, promised them a liberal gratification, of which they wished to prove themselves worthy. The lighter seemed to leap the mimic waves of the Loire. Magnificent weather, a sunrise that empurpled all the landscape, displayed the river in all its limpid serenity. The current and the rowers carried Fouquet along as wings carry a bird, and he arrived before Beaugency without the slightest accident having signalized the voyage. Fouquet hoped to be the first to arrive at Nantes; there he would see the notables and gain support among the principal members of the States; he would make himself a necessity, a thing very easy for a man of his merit, and would delay the catastrophe, if he did not succeed in avoiding it entirely. "Besides," said Gourville to him, "at Nantes, you will make out, or we will make out, the intentions of your enemies; we will have horses always ready to convey you to Poitou, a bark in which to gain the sea, and when once upon the open sea, Belle-Isle is your inviolable port. You see, besides, that no one is watching you, no one is following." He had scarcely finished when they discovered at a distance, behind an elbow formed by the river, the masts of a huge lighter coming down. The rowers of Fouquet's boat uttered a cry of surprise on seeing this galley. "What is the matter?" asked Fouquet. "The matter is, monseigneur," replied the patron of the bark, "that it is a truly remarkable thing--that lighter comes along like a hurricane." Gourville started, and mounted to the deck, in order to obtain a better view. Fouquet did not go up with him, but said to Gourville, with restrained mistrust: "See what it is, dear friend." The lighter had just passed the elbow. It came on so fast, that behind it might be plainly seen the white wake illumined with the fires of the day. "How they go," repeated the skipper, "how they go! They must be well paid! I did not think," he added, "that oars of wood could behave better than ours, but yonder oarsmen prove the contrary." "Well they may," said one of the rowers, "they are twelve, and we but eight." "Twelve rowers!" replied Gourville, "twelve! impossible." The number of eight rowers for a lighter had never been exceeded, even for the king. This honor had been paid to monsieur le surintendant, more for the sake of haste than of respect. "What does it mean?" said Gourville, endeavoring to distinguish beneath the tent, which was already apparent, travelers which the most piercing eye could not yet have succeeded in discovering. "They must be in a hurry, for it is not the king," said the patron. Fouquet shuddered. "By what sign do you know that it is not the king?" said Gourville. "In the first place, because there is no white flag with fleurs-de-lis, which the royal lighter always carries." "And then," said Fouquet, "because it is impossible it should be the king, Gourville, as the king was still in Paris yesterday." Gourville replied to the surintendant by a look which said: "You were there yourself yesterday." "And by what sign do you make out they are in such haste?" added he, for the sake of gaining time. "By this, monsieur," said the patron; "these people must have set out a long while after us, and they have already nearly overtaken us." "Bah!" said Gourville, "who told you that they do not come from Beaugency or from Moit even?" "We have seen no lighter of that shape, except at Orleans. It comes from Orleans, monsieur, and makes great haste." Fouquet and Gourville exchanged a glance. The captain remarked their uneasiness, and, to mislead him, Gourville immediately said: "Some friend, who has laid a wager he would catch us; let us win the wager, and not allow him to come up with us." The patron opened his mouth to say that it was quite impossible, but Fouquet said with much _hauteur_,--"If it is any one who wishes to overtake us, let him come." "We can try, monseigneur," said the man, timidly. "Come, you fellows, put out your strength; row, row!" "No," said Fouquet, "on the contrary; stop short." "Monseigneur! what folly!" interrupted Gourville, stooping towards his ear. "Pull up!" repeated Fouquet. The eight oars stopped, and resisting the water, created a retrograde motion. It stopped. The twelve rowers in the other did not, at first, perceive this maneuver, for they continued to urge on their boat so vigorously that it arrived quickly within musket-shot. Fouquet was short-sighted, Gourville was annoyed by the sun, now full in his eyes; the skipper alone, with that habit and clearness which are acquired by a constant struggle with the elements, perceived distinctly the travelers in the neighboring lighter. "I can see them!" cried he; "there are two." "I can see nothing," said Gourville. "You will not be long before you distinguish them; in twenty strokes of their oars they will be within ten paces of us." But what the patron announced was not realized; the lighter imitated the movement commanded by Fouquet, and instead of coming to join its pretended friends, it stopped short in the middle of the river. "I cannot comprehend this," said the captain. "Nor I," cried Gourville. "You who can see so plainly the people in that lighter," resumed Fouquet, "try to describe them to us, before we are too far off." "I thought I saw two," replied the boatman. "I can only see one now, under the tent." "What sort of man is he?" "He is a dark man, broad-shouldered, bull-necked." A little cloud at that moment passed across the azure, darkening the sun. Gourville, who was still looking, with one hand over his eyes, became able to see what he sought, and all at once, jumping from the deck into the chamber where Fouquet awaited him: "Colbert!" said he, in a voice broken by emotion. "Colbert!" repeated Fouquet. "Too strange! but no, it is impossible!" "I tell you I recognized him, and he, at the same time, so plainly recognized me, that he is just gone into the chamber on the poop. Perhaps the king has sent him on our track." "In that case he would join us, instead of lying by. What is he doing there?" "He is watching us, without a doubt." "I do not like uncertainty," said Fouquet; "let us go straight up to him." "Oh! monseigneur, do not do that, the lighter is full of armed men." "He wishes to arrest me, then, Gourville? Why does he not come on?" "Monseigneur, it is not consistent with your dignity to go to meet even your ruin." "But to allow them to watch me like a malefactor!" "Nothing yet proves that they are watching you, monseigneur; be patient!" "What is to be done, then?" "Do not stop; you were only going so fast to appear to obey the king's order with zeal. Redouble the speed. He who lives will see!" "That is better. Come!" cried Fouquet; "since they remain stock-still yonder, let us go on." The captain gave the signal, and Fouquet's rowers resumed their task with all the success that could be looked for from men who had rested. Scarcely had the lighter made a hundred fathoms, than the other, that with the twelve rowers, resumed its rapid course. This position lasted all day, without any increase or diminution of distance between the two vessels. Towards evening Fouquet wished to try the intentions of his persecutor. He ordered his rowers to pull towards the shore, as if to effect a landing. Colbert's lighter imitated this maneuver, and steered towards the shore in a slanting direction. By the merest chance, at the spot where Fouquet pretended to wish to land, a stableman, from the chateau of Langeais, was following the flowery banks leading three horses in halters. Without doubt the people of the twelve-oared lighter fancied that Fouquet was directing his course to these horses ready for flight, for four or five men, armed with muskets, jumped from the lighter on to the shore, and marched along the banks, as if to gain ground on the horseman. Fouquet, satisfied of having forced the enemy to a demonstration, considered his intention evident, and put his boat in motion again. Colbert's people returned likewise to theirs, and the course of the two vessels was resumed with fresh perseverance. Upon seeing this, Fouquet felt himself threatened closely, and in a prophetic voice--"Well, Gourville," said he, whisperingly, "what did I say at our last repast, at my house? Am I going, or not, to my ruin?" "Oh! monseigneur!" "These two boats, which follow each other with so much emulation, as if we were disputing, M. Colbert and I, a prize for swiftness on the Loire, do they not aptly represent our fortunes; and do you not believe, Gourville, that one of the two will be wrecked at Nantes?" "At least," objected Gourville, "there is still uncertainty; you are about to appear at the States; you are about to show what sort of man you are; your eloquence and genius for business are the buckler and sword that will serve to defend you, if not to conquer with. The Bretons do not know you; and when they become acquainted with you your cause is won! Oh! let M. Colbert look to it well, for his lighter is as much exposed as yours to being upset. Both go quickly, his faster than yours, it is true; we shall see which will be wrecked first." Fouquet, taking Gourville's hand--"My friend," said he, "everything considered, remember the proverb, 'First come, first served!' Well! M. Colbert takes care not to pass me. He is a prudent man is M. Colbert." He was right; the two lighters held their course as far as Nantes, watching each other. When the surintendant landed, Gourville hoped he should be able to seek refuge at once, and have the relays prepared. But, at the landing, the second lighter joined the first, and Colbert, approaching Fouquet, saluted him on the quay with marks of the profoundest respect--marks so significant, so public, that their result was the bringing of the whole population upon La Fosse. Fouquet was completely self-possessed; he felt that in his last moments of greatness he had obligations towards himself. He wished to fall from such a height that his fall should crush some of his enemies. Colbert was there--so much the worse for Colbert. The surintendant, therefore, coming up to him, replied, with that arrogant semi-closure of the eyes peculiar to him--"What! is that you, M. Colbert?" "To offer you my respects, monseigneur," said the latter. "Were you in that lighter?"--pointing to the one with twelve rowers. "Yes, monseigneur." "Of twelve rowers?" said Fouquet; "what luxury, M. Colbert. For a moment I thought it was the queen-mother." "Monseigneur!"--and Colbert blushed. "This is a voyage that will cost those who have to pay for it dear, Monsieur l'Intendant!" said Fouquet. "But you have, happily, arrived!--You see, however," added he, a moment after, "that I, who had but eight rowers, arrived before you." And he turned his back towards him, leaving him uncertain whether the maneuvers of the second lighter had escaped the notice of the first. At least he did not give him the satisfaction of showing that he had been frightened. Colbert, so annoyingly attacked, did not give way. "I have not been quick, monseigneur," he replied, "because I followed your example whenever you stopped." "And why did you do that, Monsieur Colbert?" cried Fouquet, irritated by the base audacity; "as you had a superior crew to mine, why did you not either join me or pass me?" "Out of respect," said the intendant, bowing to the ground. Fouquet got into a carriage which the city had sent to him, we know not why or how, and he repaired to _la Maison de Nantes_, escorted by a vast crowd of people, who for several days had been agog with expectation of a convocation of the States. Scarcely was he installed when Gourville went out to order horses on the route to Poitiers and Vannes, and a boat at Paimboef. He performed these various operations with so much mystery, activity, and generosity, that never was Fouquet, then laboring under an attack of fever, more nearly saved, except for the counteraction of that immense disturber of human projects,--chance. A report was spread during the night, that the king was coming in great haste on post horses, and would arrive in ten or twelve hours at the latest. The people, while waiting for the king, were greatly rejoiced to see the musketeers, newly arrived, with Monsieur d'Artagnan, their captain, and quartered in the castle, of which they occupied all the posts, in quality of guard of honor. M. d'Artagnan, who was very polite, presented himself, about ten o'clock, at the lodgings of the surintendant to pay his respectful compliments; and although the minister suffered from fever, although he was in such pain as to be bathed in sweat, he would receive M. d'Artagnan, who was delighted with that honor, as will be seen by the conversation they had together.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Two Lighters

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-seven-the-two-lighters

Fouquet travels rapidly to Orleans, convinced that he is not being pursued. At Orleans, he hires a boat with eight rowers to take him down the Loire River. Fouquet hopes to be the first dignitary at Nantes. The rowers let out an exclamation, for behind them, and rapidly gaining ground, is a boat with twelve rowers. Fouquet and his friend Gourville are astonished; no one, not even the King, travels on a lighter with more than eight rowers. The rowers tell Fouquet that the boat is certainly from Orleans. Gourville and Fouquet are worried. Fouquet commands the rowers to stop so he can get a better look at the boat pursuing them. Fouquet spies Colbert. They wonder why he does not announce himself or draw up next to Fouquet's boat. The boat is also clearly filled with armed men. Fouquet orders his men to begin rowing again. The other boat follows, maintaining a regular distance all day between the two. Towards the evening, Fouquet tries an experiment. He orders the rowers to row closer to shore and pretend that Fouquet will disembark. By chance, a stableman was walking on the banks with three horses. The other boat stops and a handful of men with muskets disembark. Fouquet is pleased that he forced Colbert to show his hand. The two boats continue down the river. Colbert is careful to have his boat remain behind Fouquet's. When they reach Nantes, Fouquet jumps down and gives Colbert a public and ostentatious salute. Fouquet asks, irritated, why Colbert refused to join him or pass him. Colbert says it is out of respect. Fouquet hops into a carriage and makes his way to Nantes. He hears rumors that the King is coming with all speed and is expected in ten or twelve hours. As soon as D'Artagnan arrives, he asks to speak with Fouquet.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_37_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 38

chapter 38: friendly advice

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Eight: Friendly Advice", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-eight-friendly-advice", "summary": "Fouquet is not well. When D'Artagnan shows up at his door, he asks if it is now time for the arrest. D'Artagnan reassures Fouquet and tells him that when the time comes, he will announce his intentions loudly. Fouquet compliments D'Artagnan on his intelligence and heart. He then tells the captain about the race between the two boats. D'Artagnan agrees that does not bode well. D'Artagnan fills Fouquet in on the King's latest orders. They include forbidding any person, horse, or vehicle to leave Nantes without royal permission. Using very careful language, D'Artagnan tells Fouquet that this order goes into effect only once the King has arrived, and that Fouquet should bolt immediately and make for Belle-Isle. As soon as D'Artagnan leaves, Fouquet flies into action and attempts to flee. It is too late, however. Trumpets announce the arrival of the King. D'Artagnan comes by again, saying that the King is inquiring after Fouquet's health. D'Artagnan points out that now that the King has arrived no one can leave.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXVIII. Friendly Advice. Fouquet had gone to bed, like a man who clings to life, and wishes to economize, as much as possible, that slender tissue of existence, of which the shocks and frictions of this world so quickly wear out the tenuity. D'Artagnan appeared at the door of this chamber, and was saluted by the superintendent with a very affable "Good day." "_Bon jour!_ monseigneur," replied the musketeer; "how did you get through the journey?" "Tolerably well, thank you." "And the fever?" "But poorly. I drink, as you perceive. I am scarcely arrived, and I have already levied a contribution of _tisane_ upon Nantes." "You should sleep first, monseigneur." "Eh! _corbleu!_ my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, I should be very glad to sleep." "Who hinders you?" "Why, _you_ in the first place." "I? Oh, monseigneur!" "No doubt you do. Is it at Nantes as at Paris? Do you not come in the king's name?" "For Heaven's sake, monseigneur," replied the captain, "leave the king alone! The day on which I shall come on the part of the king, for the purpose you mean, take my word for it, I will not leave you long in doubt. You will see me place my hand on my sword, according to the _ordonnance_, and you will hear my say at once, in ceremonial voice, 'Monseigneur, in the name of the king, I arrest you!'" "You promise me that frankness?" said the superintendent. "Upon my honor! But we have not come to that, believe me." "What makes you think that, M. d'Artagnan? For my part, I think quite the contrary." "I have heard speak of nothing of the kind," replied D'Artagnan. "Eh! eh!" said Fouquet. "Indeed, no. You are an agreeable man, in spite of your fever. The king should not, cannot help loving you, at the bottom of his heart." Fouquet's expression implied doubt. "But M. Colbert?" said he; "does M. Colbert love me as much as you say?" "I am not speaking of M. Colbert," replied D'Artagnan. "He is an exceptional man. He does not love you; so much is very possible; but, _mordioux!_ the squirrel can guard himself against the adder with very little trouble." "Do you know that you are speaking to me quite as a friend?" replied Fouquet; "and that, upon my life! I have never met with a man of your intelligence, and heart?" "You are pleased to say so," replied D'Artagnan. "Why did you wait till to-day to pay me such a compliment?" "Blind that we are!" murmured Fouquet. "Your voice is getting hoarse," said D'Artagnan; "drink, monseigneur, drink!" And he offered him a cup of _tisane_, with the most friendly cordiality; Fouquet took it, and thanked him by a gentle smile. "Such things only happen to me," said the musketeer. "I have passed ten years under your very beard, while you were rolling about tons of gold. You were clearing an annual pension of four millions; you never observed me; and you find out there is such a person in the world, just at the moment you--" "Just at the moment I am about to fall," interrupted Fouquet. "That is true, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan." "I did not say so." "But you thought so; and that is the same thing. Well! if I fall, take my word as truth, I shall not pass a single day without saying to myself, as I strike my brow, 'Fool! fool!--stupid mortal! You had a Monsieur d'Artagnan under your eye and hand, and you did not employ him, you did not enrich him!'" "You overwhelm me," said the captain. "I esteem you greatly." "There exists another man, then, who does not think as M. Colbert thinks," said the surintendant. "How this M. Colbert looms up in your imagination! He is worse than fever!" "Oh! I have good cause," said Fouquet. "Judge for yourself." And he related the details of the course of the lighters, and the hypocritical persecution of Colbert. "Is not this a clear sign of my ruin?" D'Artagnan became very serious. "That is true," he said. "Yes; it has an unsavory odor, as M. de Treville used to say." And he fixed on M. Fouquet his intelligent and significant look. "Am I not clearly designated in that, captain? Is not the king bringing me to Nantes to get me away from Paris, where I have so many creatures, and to possess himself of Belle-Isle?" "Where M. d'Herblay is," added D'Artagnan. Fouquet raised his head. "As for me, monseigneur," continued D'Artagnan, "I can assure you the king has said nothing to me against you." "Indeed!" "The king commanded me to set out for Nantes, it is true; and to say nothing about it to M. de Gesvres." "My friend." "To M. de Gesvres, yes, monseigneur," continued the musketeer, whose eye s did not cease to speak a language different from the language of his lips. "The king, moreover, commanded me to take a brigade of musketeers, which is apparently superfluous, as the country is quite quiet." "A brigade!" said Fouquet, raising himself upon his elbow. "Ninety-six horsemen, yes, monseigneur. The same number as were employed in arresting MM. de Chalais, de Cinq-Mars, and Montmorency." Fouquet pricked up his ears at these words, pronounced without apparent value. "And what else?" said he. "Oh! nothing but insignificant orders; such as guarding the castle, guarding every lodging, allowing none of M. de Gesvres's guards to occupy a single post." "And as to myself," cried Fouquet, "what orders had you?" "As to you, monseigneur?--not the smallest word." "Monsieur d'Artagnan, my safety, my honor, perhaps my life are at stake. You would not deceive me?" "I?--to what end? Are you threatened? Only there really is an order with respect to carriages and boats--" "An order?" "Yes; but it cannot concern you--a simple measure of police." "What is it, captain?--what is it?" "To forbid all horses or boats to leave Nantes, without a pass, signed by the king." "Great God! but--" D'Artagnan began to laugh. "All that is not to be put into execution before the arrival of the king at Nantes. So that you see plainly, monseigneur, the order in nowise concerns you." Fouquet became thoughtful, and D'Artagnan feigned not to observe his preoccupation. "It is evident, by my thus confiding to you the orders which have been given to me, that I am friendly towards you, and that I am trying to prove to you that none of them are directed against you." "Without doubt!--without doubt!" said Fouquet, still absent. "Let us recapitulate," said the captain, his glance beaming with earnestness. "A special guard about the castle, in which your lodging is to be, is it not?" "Do you know the castle?" "Ah! monseigneur, a regular prison! The absence of M. de Gesvres, who has the honor of being one of your friends. The closing of the gates of the city, and of the river without a pass; but, only when the king shall have arrived. Please to observe, Monsieur Fouquet, that if, instead of speaking to man like you, who are one of the first in the kingdom, I were speaking to a troubled, uneasy conscience--I should compromise myself forever. What a fine opportunity for any one who wished to be free! No police, no guards, no orders; the water free, the roads free, Monsieur d'Artagnan obliged to lend his horses, if required. All this ought to reassure you, Monsieur Fouquet, for the king would not have left me thus independent, if he had any sinister designs. In truth, Monsieur Fouquet, ask me whatever you like, I am at your service; and, in return, if you will consent to do it, do me a service, that of giving my compliments to Aramis and Porthos, in case you embark for Belle-Isle, as you have a right to do without changing your dress, immediately, in your _robe de chambre_--just as you are." Saying these words, and with a profound bow, the musketeer, whose looks had lost none of their intelligent kindness, left the apartment. He had not reached the steps of the vestibule, when Fouquet, quite beside himself, hung to the bell-rope, and shouted, "My horses!--my lighter!" But nobody answered. The surintendant dressed himself with everything that came to hand. "Gourville!--Gourville!" cried he, while slipping his watch into his pocket. And the bell sounded again, whilst Fouquet repeated, "Gourville!--Gourville!" Gourville at length appeared, breathless and pale. "Let us be gone! Let us be gone!" cried Fouquet, as soon as he saw him. "It is too late!" said the surintendant's poor friend. "Too late!--why?" "Listen!" And they heard the sounds of trumpets and drums in front of the castle. "What does that mean, Gourville?" "It means the king is come, monseigneur." "The king!" "The king, who has ridden double stages, who has killed horses, and who is eight hours in advance of all our calculations." "We are lost!" murmured Fouquet. "Brave D'Artagnan, all is over, thou has spoken to me too late!" The king, in fact, was entering the city, which soon resounded with the cannon from the ramparts, and from a vessel which replied from the lower parts of the river. Fouquet's brow darkened; he called his _valets de chambre_ and dressed in ceremonial costume. From his window, behind the curtains, he could see the eagerness of the people, and the movement of a large troop, which had followed the prince. The king was conducted to the castle with great pomp, and Fouquet saw him dismount under the portcullis, and say something in the ear of D'Artagnan, who held his stirrup. D'Artagnan, when the king had passed under the arch, directed his steps towards the house Fouquet was in; but so slowly, and stopping so frequently to speak to his musketeers, drawn up like a hedge, that it might be said he was counting the seconds, or the steps, before accomplishing his object. Fouquet opened the window to speak to him in the court. "Ah!" cried D'Artagnan, on perceiving him, "are you still there, monseigneur?" And that word _still_ completed the proof to Fouquet of how much information and how many useful counsels were contained in the first visit the musketeer had paid him. The surintendant sighed deeply. "Good heavens! yes, monsieur," replied he. "The arrival of the king has interrupted me in the projects I had formed." "Oh, then you know that the king has arrived?" "Yes, monsieur, I have seen him; and this time you come from him--" "To inquire after you, monseigneur; and, if your health is not too bad, to beg you to have the kindness to repair to the castle." "Directly, Monsieur d'Artagnan, directly!" "Ah, _mordioux!_" said the captain, "now the king is come, there is no more walking for anybody--no more free will; the password governs all now, you as much as me, me as much as you." Fouquet heaved a last sigh, climbed with difficulty into his carriage, so great was his weakness, and went to the castle, escorted by D'Artagnan, whose politeness was not less terrifying this time than it had just before been consoling and cheerful.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Friendly Advice

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-eight-friendly-advice

Fouquet is not well. When D'Artagnan shows up at his door, he asks if it is now time for the arrest. D'Artagnan reassures Fouquet and tells him that when the time comes, he will announce his intentions loudly. Fouquet compliments D'Artagnan on his intelligence and heart. He then tells the captain about the race between the two boats. D'Artagnan agrees that does not bode well. D'Artagnan fills Fouquet in on the King's latest orders. They include forbidding any person, horse, or vehicle to leave Nantes without royal permission. Using very careful language, D'Artagnan tells Fouquet that this order goes into effect only once the King has arrived, and that Fouquet should bolt immediately and make for Belle-Isle. As soon as D'Artagnan leaves, Fouquet flies into action and attempts to flee. It is too late, however. Trumpets announce the arrival of the King. D'Artagnan comes by again, saying that the King is inquiring after Fouquet's health. D'Artagnan points out that now that the King has arrived no one can leave.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_38_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 39

chapter 39: how king louis xiv played his little part

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Nine: How King Louis XIV Played His Little Part", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-thirty-nine-how-king-louis-xiv-played-his-little-part", "summary": "As Fouquet accompanies D'Artagnan to see the King, a man shoves a piece of paper in his hand. While D'Artagnan is talking with the King, Fouquet reads the letter. In Gourville's handwriting, the letter informs Fouquet that a white horse is ready to bear him to safety. The Fouquet destroys the note. Fouquet goes in to see the King. The King asks after his health. Fouquet makes one last attempt to clear his name and defend himself. A little while into their conversation, it is clear Fouquet needs to go to bed. The King summons D'Artagnan to escort the man. Fouquet refuses, saying that a simple footman would do. Once Fouquet leaves, the King orders that D'Artagnan follow him. He asks D'Artagnan to arrest Fouquet, then orders a bunch of draconian measures like a special carriage to prevent notes being thrown out the window. D'Artagnan admits to the King that he tried to save Fouquet, but says that now he will execute his orders. D'Artagnan leaves the King. As he leaves, he sees a very cheerful Gourville heading to Fouquet's lodgings.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XXXIX. How the King, Louis XIV., Played His Little Part. As Fouquet was alighting from his carriage, to enter the castle of Nantes, a man of mean appearance went up to him with marks of the greatest respect, and gave him a letter. D'Artagnan endeavored to prevent this man from speaking to Fouquet, and pushed him away, but the message had been given to the surintendant. Fouquet opened the letter and read it, and instantly a vague terror, which D'Artagnan did not fail to penetrate, was painted on the countenance of the first minister. Fouquet put the paper into the portfolio which he had under his arm, and passed on towards the king's apartments. D'Artagnan, through the small windows made at every landing of the donjon stairs, saw, as he went up behind Fouquet, the man who had delivered the note, looking round him on the place and making signs to several persons, who disappeared in the adjacent streets, after having themselves repeated the signals. Fouquet was made to wait for a moment on the terrace of which we have spoken,--a terrace which abutted on the little corridor, at the end of which the cabinet of the king was located. Here D'Artagnan passed on before the surintendant, whom, till that time, he had respectfully accompanied, and entered the royal cabinet. "Well?" asked Louis XIV., who, on perceiving him, threw on to the table covered with papers a large green cloth. "The order is executed, sire." "And Fouquet?" "Monsieur le surintendant follows me," said D'Artagnan. "In ten minutes let him be introduced," said the king, dismissing D'Artagnan again with a gesture. The latter retired; but had scarcely reached the corridor at the extremity of which Fouquet was waiting for him, when he was recalled by the king's bell. "Did he not appear astonished?" asked the king. "Who, sire?" "_Fouquet_," replied the king, without saying monsieur, a peculiarity which confirmed the captain of the musketeers in his suspicions. "No, sire," replied he. "That's well!" And a second time Louis dismissed D'Artagnan. Fouquet had not quitted the terrace where he had been left by his guide. He reperused his note, conceived thus: "Something is being contrived against you. Perhaps they will not dare to carry it out at the castle; it will be on your return home. The house is already surrounded by musketeers. Do not enter. A white horse is in waiting for you behind the esplanade!" Fouquet recognized the writing and zeal of Gourville. Not being willing that, if any evil happened to himself, this paper should compromise a faithful friend, the surintendant was busy tearing it into a thousand morsels, spread about by the wind from the balustrade of the terrace. D'Artagnan found him watching the snowflake fluttering of the last scraps in space. "Monsieur," said he, "the king awaits you." Fouquet walked with a deliberate step along the little corridor, where MM. de Brienne and Rose were at work, whilst the Duc de Saint-Aignan, seated on a chair, likewise in the corridor, appeared to be waiting for orders, with feverish impatience, his sword between his legs. It appeared strange to Fouquet that MM. Brienne, Rose, and de Saint-Aignan, in general so attentive and obsequious, should scarcely take the least notice, as he, the surintendant, passed. But how could he expect to find it otherwise among courtiers, he whom the king no longer called anything but _Fouquet?_ He raised his head, determined to look every one and everything bravely in the face, and entered the king's apartment, where a little bell, which we already know, had already announced him to his majesty. The king, without rising, nodded to him, and with interest: "Well! how are you, Monsieur Fouquet?" said he. "I am in a high fever," replied the surintendant; "but I am at the king's service." "That is well; the States assemble to-morrow; have you a speech ready?" Fouquet looked at the king with astonishment. "I have not, sire," replied he; "but I will improvise one. I am too well acquainted with affairs to feel any embarrassment. I have only one question to ask; will your majesty permit me?" "Certainly. Ask it." "Why did not your majesty do his first minister the honor of giving him notice of this in Paris?" "You were ill; I was not willing to fatigue you." "Never did a labor--never did an explanation fatigue me, sire; and since the moment is come for me to demand an explanation of my king--" "Oh, Monsieur Fouquet! an explanation? An explanation, pray, of what?" "Of your majesty's intentions with respect to myself." The king blushed. "I have been calumniated," continued Fouquet, warmly, "and I feel called upon to adjure the justice of the king to make inquiries." "You say all this to me very uselessly, Monsieur Fouquet; I know what I know." "Your majesty can only know the things that have been told to you; and I, on my part, have said nothing to you, whilst others have spoken many, many times--" "What do you wish to say?" said the king, impatient to put an end to this embarrassing conversation. "I will go straight to the facts, sire; and I accuse a certain man of having injured me in your majesty's opinion." "Nobody has injured you, Monsieur Fouquet." "That reply proves to me, sire, that I am right." "Monsieur Fouquet, I do not like people to be accused." "Not when one is accused?" "We have already spoken too much about this affair." "Your majesty will not allow me to justify myself?" "I repeat that I do not accuse you." Fouquet, with a half-bow, made a step backward. "It is certain," thought he, "that he has made up his mind. He alone who cannot go back can show such obstinacy. Not to see the danger now would be to be blind indeed; not to shun it would be stupid." He resumed aloud, "Did your majesty send for me on business?" "No, Monsieur Fouquet, but for some advice I wish to give you." "I respectfully await it, sire." "Rest yourself, Monsieur Fouquet, do not throw away your strength; the session of the States will be short, and when my secretaries shall have closed it, I do not wish business to be talked of in France for a fortnight." "Has the king nothing to say to me on the subject of this assembly of the States?" "No, Monsieur Fouquet." "Not to me, the surintendant of the finances?" "Rest yourself, I beg you; that is all I have to say to you." Fouquet bit his lips and hung his head. He was evidently busy with some uneasy thought. This uneasiness struck the king. "Are you angry at having to rest yourself, M. Fouquet?" said he. "Yes, sire, I am not accustomed to take rest." "But you are ill; you must take care of yourself." "Your majesty spoke just now of a speech to be pronounced to-morrow." His majesty made no reply; this unexpected stroke embarrassed him. Fouquet felt the weight of this hesitation. He thought he could read danger in the eyes of the young prince, which fear would but precipitate. "If I appear frightened, I am lost," thought he. The king, on his part, was only uneasy at the alarm of Fouquet. "Has he a suspicion of anything?" murmured he. "If his first word is severe," again thought Fouquet; "if he becomes angry, or feigns to be angry for the sake of a pretext, how shall I extricate myself? Let us smooth the declivity a little. Gourville was right." "Sire," said he, suddenly, "since the goodness of the king watches over my health to the point of dispensing with my labor, may I not be allowed to be absent from the council of to-morrow? I could pass the day in bed, and will entreat the king to grant me his physician, that we may endeavor to find a remedy against this fearful fever." "So be it, Monsieur Fouquet, it shall be as you desire; you shall have a holiday to-morrow, you shall have the physician, and shall be restored to health." "Thanks!" said Fouquet, bowing. Then, opening his game: "Shall I not have the happiness of conducting your majesty to my residence of Belle-Isle?" And he looked Louis full in the face, to judge of the effect of such a proposal. The king blushed again. "Do you know," replied he, endeavoring to smile, "that you have just said, 'My residence of Belle-Isle'?" "Yes, sire." "Well! do you not remember," continued the king in the same cheerful tone, "that you gave me Belle-Isle?" "That is true again, sire. Only, as you have not taken it, you will doubtless come with me and take possession of it." "I mean to do so." "That was, besides, your majesty's intention as well as mine; and I cannot express to your majesty how happy and proud I have been to see all the king's regiments from Paris to help take possession." The king stammered out that he did not bring the musketeers for that alone. "Oh, I am convinced of that," said Fouquet, warmly; "your majesty knows very well that you have nothing to do but to come alone with a cane in your hand, to bring to the ground all the fortifications of Belle-Isle." "_Peste!_" cried the king; "I do not wish those fine fortifications, which cost so much to build, to fall at all. No, let them stand against the Dutch and English. You would not guess what I want to see at Belle-Isle, Monsieur Fouquet; it is the pretty peasants and women of the lands on the sea-shore, who dance so well, and are so seducing with their scarlet petticoats! I have heard great boast of your pretty tenants, monsieur le surintendant; well, let me have a sight of them." "Whenever your majesty pleases." "Have you any means of transport? It shall be to-morrow, if you like." The surintendant felt this stroke, which was not adroit, and replied, "No, sire; I was ignorant of your majesty's wish; above all, I was ignorant of your haste to see Belle-Isle, and I am prepared with nothing." "You have a boat of your own, nevertheless?" "I have five; but they are all in port, or at Paimboeuf; and to join them, or bring them hither, would require at least twenty-four hours. Have I any occasion to send a courier? Must I do so?" "Wait a little, put an end to the fever,--wait till to-morrow." "That is true. Who knows but that by to-morrow we may not have a hundred other ideas?" replied Fouquet, now perfectly convinced and very pale. The king started, and stretched his hand out towards his little bell, but Fouquet prevented his ringing. "Sire," said he, "I have an ague--I am trembling with cold. If I remain a moment longer, I shall most likely faint. I request your majesty's permission to go and fling myself beneath the bedclothes." "Indeed, you are in a shiver; it is painful to behold! Come, Monsieur Fouquet, begone! I will send to inquire after you." "Your majesty overwhelms me with kindness. In an hour I shall be better." "I will call some one to reconduct you," said the king. "As you please, sire; I would gladly take the arm of any one." "Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried the king, ringing his little bell. "Oh, sire," interrupted Fouquet, laughing in such a manner as made the prince feel cold, "would you give me the captain of your musketeers to take me to my lodgings? An equivocal honor that, sire! A simple footman, I beg." "And why, M. Fouquet? M. d'Artagnan conducts me often, and extremely well!" "Yes, but when he conducts you, sire, it is to obey you; whilst me--" "Go on!" "If I am obliged to return home supported by the leader of the musketeers, it would be everywhere said you had had me arrested." "Arrested!" replied the king, who became paler than Fouquet himself,--"arrested! oh!" "And why should they not say so?" continued Fouquet, still laughing; "and I would lay a wager there would be people found wicked enough to laugh at it." This sally disconcerted the monarch. Fouquet was skillful enough, or fortunate enough, to make Louis XIV. recoil before the appearance of the deed he meditated. M. d'Artagnan, when he appeared, received an order to desire a musketeer to accompany the surintendant. "Quite unnecessary," said the latter; "sword for sword; I prefer Gourville, who is waiting for me below. But that will not prevent me enjoying the society of M. d'Artagnan. I am glad he will see Belle-Isle, he is so good a judge of fortifications." D'Artagnan bowed, without at all comprehending what was going on. Fouquet bowed again and left the apartment, affecting all the slowness of a man who walks with difficulty. When once out of the castle, "I am saved!" said he. "Oh! yes, disloyal king, you shall see Belle-Isle, but it shall be when I am no longer there." He disappeared, leaving D'Artagnan with the king. "Captain," said the king, "you will follow M. Fouquet at the distance of a hundred paces." "Yes, sire." "He is going to his lodgings again. You will go with him." "Yes, sire." "You will arrest him in my name, and will shut him up in a carriage." "In a carriage. Well, sire?" "In such a fashion that he may not, on the road, either converse with any one or throw notes to people he may meet." "That will be rather difficult, sire." "Not at all." "Pardon me, sire, I cannot stifle M. Fouquet, and if he asks for liberty to breathe, I cannot prevent him by closing both the windows and the blinds. He will throw out at the doors all the cries and notes possible." "The case is provided for, Monsieur d'Artagnan; a carriage with a trellis will obviate both the difficulties you point out." "A carriage with an iron trellis!" cried D'Artagnan; "but a carriage with an iron trellis is not made in half an hour, and your majesty commands me to go immediately to M. Fouquet's lodgings." "The carriage in question is already made." "Ah! that is quite a different thing," said the captain; "if the carriage is ready made, very well, then, we have only to set it in motion." "It is ready--and the horses harnessed." "Ah!" "And the coachman, with the outriders, is waiting in the lower court of the castle." D'Artagnan bowed. "There only remains for me to ask your majesty whither I shall conduct M. Fouquet." "To the castle of Angers, at first." "Very well, sire." "Afterwards we will see." "Yes, sire." "Monsieur d'Artagnan, one last word: you have remarked that, for making this capture of M. Fouquet, I have not employed my guards, on which account M. de Gesvres will be furious." "Your majesty does not employ your guards," said the captain, a little humiliated, "because you mistrust M. de Gesvres, that is all." "That is to say, monsieur, that I have more confidence in you." "I know that very well, sire! and it is of no use to make so much of it." "It is only for the sake of arriving at this, monsieur, that if, from this moment, it should happen that by any chance whatever M. Fouquet should escape--such chances have been, monsieur--" "Oh! very often, sire; but for others, not for me." "And why not with you?" "Because I, sire, have, for an instant, wished to save M. Fouquet." The king started. "Because," continued the captain, "I had then a right to do so, having guessed your majesty's plan, without you having spoken to me of it, and that I took an interest in M. Fouquet. Now, was I not at liberty to show my interest in this man?" "In truth, monsieur, you do not reassure me with regard to your services." "If I had saved him then, I should have been perfectly innocent; I will say more, I should have done well, for M. Fouquet is not a bad man. But he was not willing; his destiny prevailed; he let the hour of liberty slip by. So much the worse! Now I have orders, I will obey those orders, and M. Fouquet you may consider as a man arrested. He is at the castle of Angers, this very M. Fouquet." "Oh! you have not got him yet, captain." "That concerns me; every one to his trade, sire; only, once more, reflect! Do you seriously give me orders to arrest M. Fouquet, sire?" "Yes, a thousand times, yes!" "In writing, sire, then." "Here is the order." D'Artagnan read it, bowed to the king, and left the room. From the height of the terrace he perceived Gourville, who went by with a joyous air towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: How King Louis XIV Played His Little Part

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As Fouquet accompanies D'Artagnan to see the King, a man shoves a piece of paper in his hand. While D'Artagnan is talking with the King, Fouquet reads the letter. In Gourville's handwriting, the letter informs Fouquet that a white horse is ready to bear him to safety. The Fouquet destroys the note. Fouquet goes in to see the King. The King asks after his health. Fouquet makes one last attempt to clear his name and defend himself. A little while into their conversation, it is clear Fouquet needs to go to bed. The King summons D'Artagnan to escort the man. Fouquet refuses, saying that a simple footman would do. Once Fouquet leaves, the King orders that D'Artagnan follow him. He asks D'Artagnan to arrest Fouquet, then orders a bunch of draconian measures like a special carriage to prevent notes being thrown out the window. D'Artagnan admits to the King that he tried to save Fouquet, but says that now he will execute his orders. D'Artagnan leaves the King. As he leaves, he sees a very cheerful Gourville heading to Fouquet's lodgings.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/40.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_39_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 40

chapter 40: the white horse and the black horse

{"name": "Chapter Forty: The White Horse and the Black Horse", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-the-white-horse-and-the-black-horse", "summary": "D'Artagnan suspects something is going on, and investigates. As he walks down a staircase, D'Artagnan spots a white horse in the distance traveling at a very fast speed. D'Artagnan thinks nothing of this fact until he comes across fragments of the note Fouquet was reading. D'Artagnan recognizes Gourville's handwriting and manages to piece together \"a white horse.\" D'Artagnan can now see that the horse is heading for the Loire River, and that it is definitely not an innocent gallop through the countryside. D'Artagnan saddles up his best horse and takes off after Fouquet, taking an alternate road that allows him to gain ten minutes. Still, Fouquet has a commanding lead. Just when he starts having doubts about catching Fouquet, he catches sight of the white horse. Fouquet eventually realizes he is being pursued. D'Artagnan is impressed by the white horse, which is not even gasping at this point. D'Artagnan's black horse is having difficulties breathing, although both horses are traveling at a furious pace. D'Artagnan pulls out his pistol and orders Fouquet to stop. Fouquet requests to be shot, saying he will then suffer less this way. D'Artagnan throws away his pistol and is determined to catch Fouquet alive. He edges closer. D'Artagnan's horse falters. In despair, D'Artagnan pulls out a second pistol and shoots at the white horse. At the same moment, his horse falls down dead. D'Artagnan begs Fouquet to kill him, saying that he wants to die bravely. Fouquet does not reply, so D'Artagnan starts pursuing him on foot. He strips off his extraneous clothing and throws away his weapons. Remarkably, D'Artagnan gains ground on the white horse, which is really starting to struggle at this point. Finally D'Artagnan grabs Fouquet by the leg and arrests him, then asks Fouquet to kill him. Fouquet throws away his two pistols, then gives the exhausted D'Artagnan his arm for support . D'Artagnan faints. When he comes to, Fouquet is waiting for him. D'Artagnan praises Fouquet for his nobility. The two men then need to figure out how to get back to Nantes. They attempt to both ride the white horse, but it soon staggers and falls down dead next to D'Artagnan's black horse. The two men have to walk back. Fouquet is ushered into a specially made carriage designed to prevent communication. He tells D'Artagnan to relay the message \"St. Mande\" to either Madame Belliere or Pelisson.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XL: The White Horse and the Black. "That is rather surprising," said D'Artagnan; "Gourville running about the streets so gayly, when he is almost certain that M. Fouquet is in danger; when it is almost equally certain that it was Gourville who warned M. Fouquet just now by the note which was torn into a thousand pieces upon the terrace, and given to the winds by monsieur le surintendant. Gourville is rubbing his hands; that is because he has done something clever. Whence comes M. Gourville? Gourville is coming from the Rue aux Herbes. Whither does the Rue aux Herbes lead?" And D'Artagnan followed, along the tops of the houses of Nantes, dominated by the castle, the line traced by the streets, as he would have done upon a topographical plan; only, instead of the dead, flat paper, the living chart rose in relief with the cries, the movements, and the shadows of men and things. Beyond the inclosure of the city, the great verdant plains stretched out, bordering the Loire, and appeared to run towards the pink horizon, which was cut by the azure of the waters and the dark green of the marshes. Immediately outside the gates of Nantes two white roads were seen diverging like separate fingers of a gigantic hand. D'Artagnan, who had taken in all the panorama at a glance by crossing the terrace, was led by the line of the Rue aux Herbes to the mouth of one of those roads which took its rise under the gates of Nantes. One step more, and he was about to descend the stairs, take his trellised carriage, and go towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet. But chance decreed, at the moment of plunging into the staircase, that he was attracted by a moving point then gaining ground upon that road. "What is that?" said the musketeer to himself; "a horse galloping,--a runaway horse, no doubt. What a rate he is going at!" The moving point became detached from the road, and entered into the fields. "A white horse," continued the captain, who had just observed the color thrown luminously against the dark ground, "and he is mounted; it must be some boy whose horse is thirsty and has run away with him." These reflections, rapid as lightning, simultaneous with visual perception, D'Artagnan had already forgotten when he descended the first steps of the staircase. Some morsels of paper were spread over the stairs, and shone out white against the dirty stones. "Eh! eh!" said the captain to himself, "here are some of the fragments of the note torn by M. Fouquet. Poor man! he has given his secret to the wind; the wind will have no more to do with it, and brings it back to the king. Decidedly, Fouquet, you play with misfortune! the game is not a fair one,--fortune is against you. The star of Louis XIV. obscures yours; the adder is stronger and more cunning than the squirrel." D'Artagnan picked up one of these morsels of paper as he descended. "Gourville's pretty little hand!" cried he, whilst examining one of the fragments of the note; "I was not mistaken." And he read the word "horse." "Stop!" said he; and he examined another, upon which there was not a letter traced. Upon a third he read the word "white;" "white horse," repeated he, like a child that is spelling. "Ah, _mordioux!_" cried the suspicious spirit, "a white horse!" And, like that grain of powder which, burning, dilates into ten thousand times its volume, D'Artagnan, enlightened by ideas and suspicions, rapidly reascended the stairs towards the terrace. The white horse was still galloping in the direction of the Loire, at the extremity of which, melting into the vapors of the water, a little sail appeared, wave-balanced like a water-butterfly. "Oh!" cried the musketeer, "only a man who wants to fly would go at that pace across plowed lands; there is but one Fouquet, a financier, to ride thus in open day upon a white horse; there is no one but the lord of Belle-Isle who would make his escape towards the sea, while there are such thick forests on land, and there is but one D'Artagnan in the world to catch M. Fouquet, who has half an hour's start, and who will have gained his boat within an hour." This being said, the musketeer gave orders that the carriage with the iron trellis should be taken immediately to a thicket situated just outside the city. He selected his best horse, jumped upon his back, galloped along the Rue aux Herbes, taking, not the road Fouquet had taken, but the bank itself of the Loire, certain that he should gain ten minutes upon the total distance, and, at the intersection of the two lines, come up with the fugitive, who could have no suspicion of being pursued in that direction. In the rapidity of the pursuit, and with the impatience of the avenger, animating himself as in war, D'Artagnan, so mild, so kind towards Fouquet, was surprised to find himself become ferocious--almost sanguinary. For a long time he galloped without catching sight of the white horse. His rage assumed fury, he doubted himself,--he suspected that Fouquet had buried himself in some subterranean road, or that he had changed the white horse for one of those famous black ones, as swift as the wind, which D'Artagnan, at Saint-Mande, had so frequently admired and envied for their vigor and their fleetness. At such moments, when the wind cut his eyes so as to make the tears spring from them, when the saddle had become burning hot, when the galled and spurred horse reared with pain, and threw behind him a shower of dust and stones, D'Artagnan, raising himself in his stirrups, and seeing nothing on the waters, nothing beneath the trees, looked up into the air like a madman. He was losing his senses. In the paroxysms of eagerness he dreamt of aerial ways,--the discovery of the following century; he called to his mind Daedalus and the vast wings that had saved him from the prisons of Crete. A hoarse sigh broke from his lips, as he repeated, devoured by the fear of ridicule, "I! I! duped by a Gourville! I! They will say that I am growing old,--they will say I have received a million to allow Fouquet to escape!" And he again dug his spurs into the sides of his horse: he had ridden astonishingly fast. Suddenly, at the extremity of some open pasture-ground, behind the hedges, he saw a white form which showed itself, disappeared, and at last remained distinctly visible against the rising ground. D'Artagnan's heart leaped with joy. He wiped the streaming sweat from his brow, relaxed the tension of his knees,--by which the horse breathed more freely,--and, gathering up his reins, moderated the speed of the vigorous animal, his active accomplice on this man-hunt. He had then time to study the direction of the road, and his position with regard to Fouquet. The superintendent had completely winded his horse by crossing the soft ground. He felt the necessity of gaining a firmer footing, and turned towards the road by the shortest secant line. D'Artagnan, on his part, had nothing to do but to ride straight on, concealed by the sloping shore; so that he would cut his quarry off the road when he came up with him. Then the real race would begin,--then the struggle would be in earnest. D'Artagnan gave his horse good breathing-time. He observed that the superintendent had relaxed into a trot, which was to say, he, too, was favoring his horse. But both of them were too much pressed for time to allow them to continue long at that pace. The white horse sprang off like an arrow the moment his feet touched firm ground. D'Artagnan dropped his head, and his black horse broke into a gallop. Both followed the same route; the quadruple echoes of this new race-course were confounded. Fouquet had not yet perceived D'Artagnan. But on issuing from the slope, a single echo struck the air; it was that of the steps of D'Artagnan's horse, which rolled along like thunder. Fouquet turned round, and saw behind him, within a hundred paces, his enemy bent over the neck of his horse. There could be no doubt--the shining baldrick, the red cassock--it was a musketeer. Fouquet slackened his hand likewise, and the white horse placed twenty feet more between his adversary and himself. "Oh, but," thought D'Artagnan, becoming very anxious, "that is not a common horse M. Fouquet is upon--let us see!" And he attentively examined with his infallible eye the shape and capabilities of the courser. Round full quarters--a thin long tail--large hocks--thin legs, as dry as bars of steel--hoofs hard as marble. He spurred his own, but the distance between the two remained the same. D'Artagnan listened attentively; not a breath of the horse reached him, and yet he seemed to cut the air. The black horse, on the contrary, began to puff like any blacksmith's bellows. "I must overtake him, if I kill my horse," thought the musketeer; and he began to saw the mouth of the poor animal, whilst he buried the rowels of his merciless spurs into his sides. The maddened horse gained twenty toises, and came up within pistol-shot of Fouquet. "Courage!" said the musketeer to himself, "courage! the white horse will perhaps grow weaker, and if the horse does not fall, the master must pull up at last." But horse and rider remained upright together, gaining ground by difficult degrees. D'Artagnan uttered a wild cry, which made Fouquet turn round, and added speed to the white horse. "A famous horse! a mad rider!" growled the captain. "Hola! _mordioux!_ Monsieur Fouquet! stop! in the king's name!" Fouquet made no reply. "Do you hear me?" shouted D'Artagnan, whose horse had just stumbled. "_Pardieu!_" replied Fouquet, laconically; and rode on faster. D'Artagnan was nearly mad; the blood rushed boiling to his temples and his eyes. "In the king's name!" cried he again, "stop, or I will bring you down with a pistol-shot!" "Do!" replied Fouquet, without relaxing his speed. D'Artagnan seized a pistol and cocked it, hoping that the double click of the spring would stop his enemy. "You have pistols likewise," said he, "turn and defend yourself." Fouquet did turn round at the noise, and looking D'Artagnan full in the face, opened, with his right hand, the part of his dress which concealed his body, but he did not even touch his holsters. There were not more than twenty paces between the two. "_Mordioux!_" said D'Artagnan, "I will not assassinate you; if you will not fire upon me, surrender! what is a prison?" "I would rather die!" replied Fouquet; "I shall suffer less." D'Artagnan, drunk with despair, hurled his pistol to the ground. "I will take you alive!" said he; and by a prodigy of skill which this incomparable horseman alone was capable, he threw his horse forward to within ten paces of the white horse; already his hand was stretched out to seize his prey. "Kill me! kill me!" cried Fouquet, "'twould be more humane!" "No! alive--alive!" murmured the captain. At this moment his horse made a false step for the second time, and Fouquet's again took the lead. It was an unheard-of spectacle, this race between two horses which now only kept alive by the will of their riders. It might be said that D'Artagnan rode, carrying his horse along between his knees. To the furious gallop had succeeded the fast trot, and that had sunk to what might be scarcely called a trot at all. But the chase appeared equally warm in the two fatigued _athletoe_. D'Artagnan, quite in despair, seized his second pistol, and cocked it. "At your horse! not at you!" cried he to Fouquet. And he fired. The animal was hit in the quarters--he made a furious bound, and plunged forward. At that moment D'Artagnan's horse fell dead. "I am dishonored!" thought the musketeer; "I am a miserable wretch! for pity's sake, M. Fouquet, throw me one of your pistols, that I may blow out my brains!" But Fouquet rode away. "For mercy's sake! for mercy's sake!" cried D'Artagnan; "that which you will not do at this moment, I myself will do within an hour, but here, upon this road, I should die bravely; I should die esteemed; do me that service, M. Fouquet!" M. Fouquet made no reply, but continued to trot on. D'Artagnan began to run after his enemy. Successively he threw away his hat, his coat, which embarrassed him, and then the sheath of his sword, which got between his legs as he was running. The sword in his hand itself became too heavy, and he threw it after the sheath. The white horse began to rattle in its throat; D'Artagnan gained upon him. From a trot the exhausted animal sunk to a staggering walk--the foam from his mouth was mixed with blood. D'Artagnan made a desperate effort, sprang towards Fouquet, and seized him by the leg, saying in a broken, breathless voice, "I arrest you in the king's name! blow my brains out, if you like; we have both done our duty." Fouquet hurled far from him, into the river, the two pistols D'Artagnan might have seized, and dismounting from his horse--"I am your prisoner, monsieur," said he; "will you take my arm, for I see you are ready to faint?" "Thanks!" murmured D'Artagnan, who, in fact, felt the earth sliding from under his feet, and the light of day turning to blackness around him; then he rolled upon the sand, without breath or strength. Fouquet hastened to the brink of the river, dipped some water in his hat, with which he bathed the temples of the musketeer, and introduced a few drop between his lips. D'Artagnan raised himself with difficulty, and looked about him with a wandering eye. He beheld Fouquet on his knees, with his wet hat in his hand, smiling upon him with ineffable sweetness. "You are not off, then?" cried he. "Oh, monsieur! the true king of royalty, in heart, in soul, is not Louis of the Louvre, or Philippe of Sainte-Marguerite; it is you, proscribed, condemned!" "I, who this day am ruined by a single error, M. d'Artagnan." "What, in the name of Heaven, is that?" "I should have had you for a friend! But how shall we return to Nantes? We are a great way from it." "That is true," said D'Artagnan, gloomily. "The white horse will recover, perhaps; he is a good horse! Mount, Monsieur d'Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a little." "Poor beast! and wounded, too?" said the musketeer. "He will go, I tell you; I know him; but we can do better still, let us both get up, and ride slowly." "We can try," said the captain. But they had scarcely charged the animal with this double load, when he began to stagger, and then with a great effort walked a few minutes, then staggered again, and sank down dead by the side of the black horse, which he had just managed to come up to. "We will go on foot--destiny wills it so--the walk will be pleasant," said Fouquet, passing his arm through that of D'Artagnan. "_Mordioux!_" cried the latter, with a fixed eye, a contracted brow, and a swelling heart--"What a disgraceful day!" They walked slowly the four leagues which separated them from the little wood behind which the carriage and escort were in waiting. When Fouquet perceived that sinister machine, he said to D'Artagnan, who cast down his eyes, ashamed of Louis XIV., "There is an idea that did not emanate from a brave man, Captain d'Artagnan; it is not yours. What are these gratings for?" said he. "To prevent your throwing letters out." "Ingenious!" "But you can speak, if you cannot write," said D'Artagnan. "Can I speak to you?" "Why, certainly, if you wish to do so." Fouquet reflected for a moment, then looking the captain full in the face, "One single word," said he; "will you remember it?" "I will not forget it." "Will you speak it to whom I wish?" "I will." "Saint-Mande," articulated Fouquet, in a low voice. "Well! and for whom?" "For Madame de Belliere or Pelisson." "It shall be done." The carriage rolled through Nantes, and took the route to Angers.

Chapter Forty: The White Horse and the Black Horse

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D'Artagnan suspects something is going on, and investigates. As he walks down a staircase, D'Artagnan spots a white horse in the distance traveling at a very fast speed. D'Artagnan thinks nothing of this fact until he comes across fragments of the note Fouquet was reading. D'Artagnan recognizes Gourville's handwriting and manages to piece together "a white horse." D'Artagnan can now see that the horse is heading for the Loire River, and that it is definitely not an innocent gallop through the countryside. D'Artagnan saddles up his best horse and takes off after Fouquet, taking an alternate road that allows him to gain ten minutes. Still, Fouquet has a commanding lead. Just when he starts having doubts about catching Fouquet, he catches sight of the white horse. Fouquet eventually realizes he is being pursued. D'Artagnan is impressed by the white horse, which is not even gasping at this point. D'Artagnan's black horse is having difficulties breathing, although both horses are traveling at a furious pace. D'Artagnan pulls out his pistol and orders Fouquet to stop. Fouquet requests to be shot, saying he will then suffer less this way. D'Artagnan throws away his pistol and is determined to catch Fouquet alive. He edges closer. D'Artagnan's horse falters. In despair, D'Artagnan pulls out a second pistol and shoots at the white horse. At the same moment, his horse falls down dead. D'Artagnan begs Fouquet to kill him, saying that he wants to die bravely. Fouquet does not reply, so D'Artagnan starts pursuing him on foot. He strips off his extraneous clothing and throws away his weapons. Remarkably, D'Artagnan gains ground on the white horse, which is really starting to struggle at this point. Finally D'Artagnan grabs Fouquet by the leg and arrests him, then asks Fouquet to kill him. Fouquet throws away his two pistols, then gives the exhausted D'Artagnan his arm for support . D'Artagnan faints. When he comes to, Fouquet is waiting for him. D'Artagnan praises Fouquet for his nobility. The two men then need to figure out how to get back to Nantes. They attempt to both ride the white horse, but it soon staggers and falls down dead next to D'Artagnan's black horse. The two men have to walk back. Fouquet is ushered into a specially made carriage designed to prevent communication. He tells D'Artagnan to relay the message "St. Mande" to either Madame Belliere or Pelisson.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/41.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_40_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 41

chapter 41: in which the squirrel falls in which the adder flies

{"name": "Chapter Forty-One: In Which the Squirrel Falls - in Which the Adder Flies", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-one-in-which-the-squirrel-falls-in-which-the-adder-flies", "summary": "It is two o'clock in the afternoon and the King is anxious about D'Artagnan's whereabouts. The King questions Colbert, who has no idea where the captain is. Eventually D'Artagnan himself walks into the room. He is in a bad mood. Somebody has ordered the Musketeers to search Fouquet's home. D'Artagnan is adamant that only the King has the authority to issue commands to the Musketeers. Colbert replies that he acted for the good of the King. D'Artagnan continues to berate Colbert. The King hesitates, unsure of what to do . D'Artagnan pretends he is about to leave. But the King wants details of the arrest. D'Artagnan relates the full story, sparing no detail and admitting his unwillingness to arrest the former minister. D'Artagnan further admits that Fouquet would never attempt escape while D'Artagnan was his guard, but that D'Artagnan would deliberately do a poor job guarding Fouquet. Understandably, the King is not pleased. The King calls Colbert back into the room and has him shake hands with D'Artagnan, who is surprised to see Colbert's face change into that of a noble and intelligent man. D'Artagnan and Colbert leave the room together. D'Artagnan chides his companion for his actions towards Fouquet. Colbert explains himself by saying that Fouquet has been holding him back from greatness. D'Artagnan asks Colbert to intercede with the King on Fouquet's account, but Colbert points out that the King has his own grudges against the man. The King calls for D'Artagnan to select twenty of his men as a guard for Fouquet, who is destined for the Bastille. As for D'Artagnan, the King orders him to take possession of Belle-Isle, using as many troops as necessary. Colbert tells D'Artagnan that such a deed is worth a marshal's baton, but then points out that it will come at the cost of his two friends' lives. D'Artagnan is determined not to hurt his friends. He assembles his men and hits the road.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLI. In Which the Squirrel Falls,--the Adder Flies. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The king, full of impatience, went to his cabinet on the terrace, and kept opening the door of the corridor, to see what his secretaries were doing. M. Colbert, seated in the same place M. de Saint-Aignan had so long occupied in the morning, was chatting in a low voice with M. de Brienne. The king opened the door suddenly, and addressed them. "What is it you are saying?" "We were speaking of the first sitting of the States," said M. de Brienne, rising. "Very well," replied the king, and returned to his room. Five minutes after, the summons of the bell recalled Rose, whose hour it was. "Have you finished your copies?" asked the king. "Not yet, sire." "See if M. d'Artagnan has returned." "Not yet, sire." "It is very strange," murmured the king. "Call M. Colbert." Colbert entered; he had been expecting this all the morning. "Monsieur Colbert," said the king, very sharply; "you must ascertain what has become of M. d'Artagnan." Colbert in his calm voice replied, "Where does your majesty desire him to be sought for?" "Eh! monsieur! do you not know on what I have sent him?" replied Louis, acrimoniously. "Your majesty did not inform me." "Monsieur, there are things that must be guessed; and you, above all, are apt to guess them." "I might have been able to imagine, sire; but I do not presume to be positive." Colbert had not finished these words when a rougher voice than that of the king interrupted the interesting conversation thus begun between the monarch and his clerk. "D'Artagnan!" cried the king, with evident joy. D'Artagnan, pale and in evidently bad humor, cried to the king, as he entered, "Sire, is it your majesty who has given orders to my musketeers?" "What orders?" said the king. "About M. Fouquet's house?" "None!" replied Louis. "Ha!" said D'Artagnan, biting his mustache; "I was not mistaken, then; it was monsieur here;" and he pointed to Colbert. "What orders? Let me know," said the king. "Orders to turn the house topsy-turvy, to beat M. Fouquet's servants, to force the drawers, to give over a peaceful house to pillage! _Mordioux!_ these are savage orders!" "Monsieur!" said Colbert, turning pale. "Monsieur," interrupted D'Artagnan, "the king alone, understand,--the king alone has a right to command my musketeers; but, as to you, I forbid you to do it, and I tell you so before his majesty; gentlemen who carry swords do not sling pens behind their ears." "D'Artagnan! D'Artagnan!" murmured the king. "It is humiliating," continued the musketeer; "my soldiers are disgraced. I do not command _reitres_, thank you, nor clerks of the intendant, _mordioux!_" "Well! but what is all this about?" said the king with authority. "About this, sire; monsieur--monsieur, who could not guess your majesty's orders, and consequently could not know I was gone to arrest M. Fouquet; monsieur, who has caused the iron cage to be constructed for his patron of yesterday--has sent M. de Roncherolles to the lodgings of M. Fouquet, and, under the pretense of securing the surintendant's papers, they have taken away the furniture. My musketeers have been posted round the house all the morning; such were my orders. Why did any one presume to order them to enter? Why, by forcing them to assist in this pillage, have they been made accomplices in it? _Mordioux!_ we serve the king, we do; but we do not serve M. Colbert!" [5] "Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the king, sternly, "take care; it is not in my presence that such explanations, and made in such a tone, should take place." "I have acted for the good of the king," said Colbert, in a faltering voice. "It is hard to be so treated by one of your majesty's officers, and that without redress, on account of the respect I owe the king." "The respect you owe the king," cried D'Artagnan, his eyes flashing fire, "consists, in the first place, in making his authority respected, and his person beloved. Every agent of a power without control represents that power, and when people curse the hand which strikes them, it is the royal hand that God reproaches, do you hear? Must a soldier, hardened by forty years of wounds and blood, give you this lesson, monsieur? Must mercy be on my side, and ferocity on yours? You have caused the innocent to be arrested, bound, and imprisoned!" "Accomplices, perhaps, of M. Fouquet," said Colbert. "Who told you M. Fouquet had accomplices, or even that he was guilty? The king alone knows that; his justice is not blind! When he says, 'Arrest and imprison' such and such a man, he is obeyed. Do not talk to me, then, any more of the respect you owe the king, and be careful of your words, that they may not chance to convey the slightest menace; for the king will not allow those to be threatened who do him service by others who do him disservice; and if in case I should have, which God forbid! a master so ungrateful, I would make myself respected." Thus saying, D'Artagnan took his station haughtily in the king's cabinet, his eyes flashing, his hand on his sword, his lips trembling, affecting much more anger than he really felt. Colbert, humiliated and devoured with rage, bowed to the king as if to ask his permission to leave the room. The king, thwarted alike in pride and in curiosity, knew not which part to take. D'Artagnan saw him hesitate. To remain longer would have been a mistake: it was necessary to score a triumph over Colbert, and the only method was to touch the king so near the quick, that his majesty would have no other means of extrication but choosing between the two antagonists. D'Artagnan bowed as Colbert had done; but the king, who, in preference to everything else, was anxious to have all the exact details of the arrest of the surintendant of the finances from him who had made him tremble for a moment,--the king, perceiving that the ill-humor of D'Artagnan would put off for half an hour at least the details he was burning to be acquainted with,--Louis, we say, forgot Colbert, who had nothing new to tell him, and recalled his captain of the musketeers. "In the first place," said he, "let me see the result of your commission, monsieur; you may rest yourself hereafter." D'Artagnan, who was just passing through the doorway, stopped at the voice of the king, retraced his steps, and Colbert was forced to leave the closet. His countenance assumed almost a purple hue, his black and threatening eyes shone with a dark fire beneath their thick brows; he stepped out, bowed before the king, half drew himself up in passing D'Artagnan, and went away with death in his heart. D'Artagnan, on being left alone with the king, softened immediately, and composing his countenance: "Sire," said he, "you are a young king. It is by the dawn that people judge whether the day will be fine or dull. How, sire, will the people, whom the hand of God has placed under your law, argue of your reign, if between them and you, you allow angry and violent ministers to interpose their mischief? But let us speak of myself, sire, let us leave a discussion that may appear idle, and perhaps inconvenient to you. Let us speak of myself. I have arrested M. Fouquet." "You took plenty of time about it," said the king, sharply. D'Artagnan looked at the king. "I perceive that I have expressed myself badly. I announced to your majesty that I had arrested Monsieur Fouquet." "You did; and what then?" "Well! I ought to have told your majesty that M. Fouquet had arrested me; that would have been more just. I re-establish the truth, then; I have been arrested by M. Fouquet." It was now the turn of Louis XIV. to be surprised. His majesty was astonished in his turn. D'Artagnan, with his quick glance, appreciated what was passing in the heart of his master. He did not allow him time to put any questions. He related, with that poetry, that picturesqueness, which perhaps he alone possessed at that period, the escape of Fouquet, the pursuit, the furious race, and, lastly, the inimitable generosity of the surintendant, who might have fled ten times over, who might have killed the adversary in the pursuit, but who had preferred imprisonment, perhaps worse, to the humiliation of one who wished to rob him of his liberty. In proportion as the tale advanced, the king became agitated, devouring the narrator's words, and drumming with his finger-nails upon the table. "It results from all this, sire, in my eyes, at least, that the man who conducts himself thus is a gallant man, and cannot be an enemy to the king. That is my opinion, and I repeat it to your majesty. I know what the king will say to me, and I bow to it,--reasons of state. So be it! To my ears that sounds highly respectable. But I am a soldier, and I have received my orders, my orders are executed--very unwillingly on my part, it is true, but they are executed. I say no more." "Where is M. Fouquet at this moment?" asked Louis, after a short silence. "M. Fouquet, sire," replied D'Artagnan, "is in the iron cage that M. Colbert had prepared for him, and is galloping as fast as four strong horses can drag him, towards Angers." "Why did you leave him on the road?" "Because your majesty did not tell me to go to Angers. The proof, the best proof of what I advance, is that the king desired me to be sought for but this minute. And then I had another reason." "What is that?" "Whilst I was with him, poor M. Fouquet would never attempt to escape." "Well!" cried the king, astonished. "Your majesty ought to understand, and does understand, certainly, that my warmest wish is to know that M. Fouquet is at liberty. I have given him one of my brigadiers, the most stupid I could find among my musketeers, in order that the prisoner might have a chance of escaping." "Are you mad, Monsieur d'Artagnan?" cried the king, crossing his arms on his breast. "Do people utter such enormities, even when they have the misfortune to think them?" "Ah! sire, you cannot expect that I should be an enemy to M. Fouquet, after what he has just done for you and me. No, no; if you desire that he should remain under your lock and bolt, never give him in charge to me; however closely wired might be the cage, the bird would, in the end, take wing." "I am surprised," said the king, in his sternest tone, "you did not follow the fortunes of the man M. Fouquet wished to place upon my throne. You had in him all you want--affection, gratitude. In my service, monsieur, you will only find a master." "If M. Fouquet had not gone to seek you in the Bastile, sire," replied D'Artagnan, with a deeply impressive manner, "one single man would have gone there, and I should have been that man--you know that right well, sire." The king was brought to a pause. Before that speech of his captain of the musketeers, so frankly spoken and so true, the king had nothing to offer. On hearing D'Artagnan, Louis remembered the D'Artagnan of former times; him who, at the Palais Royal, held himself concealed behind the curtains of his bed, when the people of Paris, led by Cardinal de Retz, came to assure themselves of the presence of the king; the D'Artagnan whom he saluted with his hand at the door of his carriage, when repairing to Notre Dame on his return to Paris; the soldier who had quitted his service at Blois; the lieutenant he had recalled to be beside his person when the death of Mazarin restored his power; the man he had always found loyal, courageous, devoted. Louis advanced towards the door and called Colbert. Colbert had not left the corridor where the secretaries were at work. He reappeared. "Colbert, did you make a perquisition on the house of M. Fouquet?" "Yes, sire." "What has it produced?" "M. de Roncherolles, who was sent with your majesty's musketeers, has remitted me some papers," replied Colbert. "I will look at them. Give me your hand." "My hand, sire!" "Yes, that I may place it in that of M. d'Artagnan. In fact, M. d'Artagnan," added he, with a smile, turning towards the soldier, who, at sight of the clerk, had resumed his haughty attitude, "you do not know this man; make his acquaintance." And he pointed to Colbert. "He has been made but a moderately valuable servant in subaltern positions, but he will be a great man if I raise him to the foremost rank." "Sire!" stammered Colbert, confused with pleasure and fear. "I always understood why," murmured D'Artagnan in the king's ear; "he was jealous." "Precisely, and his jealousy confined his wings." "He will henceforward be a winged-serpent," grumbled the musketeer, with a remnant of hatred against his recent adversary. But Colbert, approaching him, offered to his eyes a physiognomy so different from that which he had been accustomed to see him wear; he appeared so good, so mild, so easy; his eyes took the expression of an intelligence so noble, that D'Artagnan, a connoisseur in physiognomies, was moved, and almost changed in his convictions. Colbert pressed his hand. "That which the king has just told you, monsieur, proves how well his majesty is acquainted with men. The inveterate opposition I have displayed, up to this day, against abuses and not against men, proves that I had it in view to prepare for my king a glorious reign, for my country a great blessing. I have many ideas, M. d'Artagnan. You will see them expand in the sun of public peace; and if I have not the good fortune to conquer the friendship of honest men, I am at least certain, monsieur, that I shall obtain their esteem. For their admiration, monsieur, I would give my life." This change, this sudden elevation, this mute approbation of the king, gave the musketeer matter for profound reflection. He bowed civilly to Colbert, who did not take his eyes off him. The king, when he saw they were reconciled, dismissed them. They left the room together. As soon as they were out of the cabinet, the new minister, stopping the captain, said: "Is it possible, M. d'Artagnan, that with such an eye as yours, you did not, at the first glance, at the first impression, discover what sort of man I am?" "Monsieur Colbert," replied the musketeer, "a ray of the sun in our eyes prevents us from seeing the most vivid flame. The man in power radiates, you know; and since you are there, why should you continue to persecute him who had just fallen into disgrace, and fallen from such a height?" "I, monsieur!" said Colbert; "oh, monsieur! I would never persecute him. I wished to administer the finances and to administer them alone, because I am ambitious, and, above all, because I have the most entire confidence in my own merit; because I know that all the gold of this country will ebb and flow beneath my eyes, and I love to look at the king's gold; because, if I live thirty years, in thirty years not a _denir_ of it will remain in my hands; because, with that gold, I will build granaries, castles, cities, and harbors; because I will create a marine, I will equip navies that shall waft the name of France to the most distant people; because I will create libraries and academies; because I will make France the first country in the world, and the wealthiest. These are the motives for my animosity against M. Fouquet, who prevented my acting. And then, when I shall be great and strong, when France is great and strong, in my turn, then, will I cry, 'Mercy'!" "Mercy, did you say? then ask his liberty of the king. The king is only crushing him on _your_ account." Colbert again raised his head. "Monsieur," said he, "you know that is not so, and that the king has his own personal animosity against M. Fouquet; it is not for me to teach you that." "But the king will grow tired; he will forget." "The king never forgets, M. d'Artagnan. Hark! the king calls. He is going to issue an order. I have not influenced him, have I? Listen." The king, in fact, was calling his secretaries. "Monsieur d'Artagnan," said he. "I am here, sire." "Give twenty of your musketeers to M. de Saint-Aignan, to form a guard for M. Fouquet." D'Artagnan and Colbert exchanged looks. "And from Angers," continued the king, "they will conduct the prisoner to the Bastile, in Paris." "You were right," said the captain to the minister. "Saint-Aignan," continued the king, "you will have any one shot who shall attempt to speak privately with M. Fouquet, during the journey." "But myself, sire," said the duke. "You, monsieur, you will only speak to him in the presence of the musketeers." The duke bowed and departed to execute his commission. D'Artagnan was about to retire likewise; but the king stopped him. "Monsieur," said he, "you will go immediately, and take possession of the isle and fief of Belle-Ile-en-Mer." "Yes, sire. Alone?" "You will take a sufficient number of troops to prevent delay, in case the place should be contumacious." A murmur of courtly incredulity rose from the group of courtiers. "That shall be done," said D'Artagnan. "I saw the place in my infancy," resumed the king, "and I do not wish to see it again. You have heard me? Go, monsieur, and do not return without the keys." Colbert went up to D'Artagnan. "A commission which, if you carry it out well," said he, "will be worth a marechal's baton to you." "Why do you employ the words, 'if you carry it out well'?" "Because it is difficult." "Ah! in what respect?" "You have friends in Belle-Isle, Monsieur d'Artagnan; and it is not an easy thing for men like you to march over the bodies of their friends to obtain success." D'Artagnan hung his head in deepest thought, whilst Colbert returned to the king. A quarter of an hour after, the captain received the written order from the king, to blow up the fortress of Belle-Isle, in case of resistance, with power of life and death over all the inhabitants or refugees, and an injunction not to allow one to escape. "Colbert was right," thought D'Artagnan; "for me the baton of a marechal of France will cost the lives of my two friends. Only they seem to forget that my friends are not more stupid than the birds, and that they will not wait for the hand of the fowler to extend over their wings. I will show them that hand so plainly, that they will have quite time enough to see it. Poor Porthos! Poor Aramis! No; my fortune should shall not cost your wings a feather." Having thus determined, D'Artagnan assembled the royal army, embarked it at Paimboeuf, and set sail, without the loss of an unnecessary minute.

Chapter Forty-One: In Which the Squirrel Falls - in Which the Adder Flies

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-one-in-which-the-squirrel-falls-in-which-the-adder-flies

It is two o'clock in the afternoon and the King is anxious about D'Artagnan's whereabouts. The King questions Colbert, who has no idea where the captain is. Eventually D'Artagnan himself walks into the room. He is in a bad mood. Somebody has ordered the Musketeers to search Fouquet's home. D'Artagnan is adamant that only the King has the authority to issue commands to the Musketeers. Colbert replies that he acted for the good of the King. D'Artagnan continues to berate Colbert. The King hesitates, unsure of what to do . D'Artagnan pretends he is about to leave. But the King wants details of the arrest. D'Artagnan relates the full story, sparing no detail and admitting his unwillingness to arrest the former minister. D'Artagnan further admits that Fouquet would never attempt escape while D'Artagnan was his guard, but that D'Artagnan would deliberately do a poor job guarding Fouquet. Understandably, the King is not pleased. The King calls Colbert back into the room and has him shake hands with D'Artagnan, who is surprised to see Colbert's face change into that of a noble and intelligent man. D'Artagnan and Colbert leave the room together. D'Artagnan chides his companion for his actions towards Fouquet. Colbert explains himself by saying that Fouquet has been holding him back from greatness. D'Artagnan asks Colbert to intercede with the King on Fouquet's account, but Colbert points out that the King has his own grudges against the man. The King calls for D'Artagnan to select twenty of his men as a guard for Fouquet, who is destined for the Bastille. As for D'Artagnan, the King orders him to take possession of Belle-Isle, using as many troops as necessary. Colbert tells D'Artagnan that such a deed is worth a marshal's baton, but then points out that it will come at the cost of his two friends' lives. D'Artagnan is determined not to hurt his friends. He assembles his men and hits the road.

shmoop

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The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 42

chapter 42: belle isle en mer

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Two: Belle-Isle-en-Mer", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-two-belle-isle-en-mer", "summary": "We return to Belle-Isle where Aramis and Porthos are walking around the island, and discussing the curious disappearance of all the fishing boats. Much to Aramis's chagrin, Porthos reveals that he sent the only two remaining fishing boats out to look for the others. Porthos confesses that he is unhappy at Belle-Isle and would much rather be in France. Aramis tells Porthos that they could have left had he not sent out the two remaining fishing boats. Porthos then asks about the orders Aramis has been issuing, which are to hold Belle-Isle against the usurper of the throne. Porthos tells Aramis to sit down on a rock and explain the full story to him. Aramis has told Porthos that they are to hold Belle-Isle against a false king who wants to sell the island to the British. Porthos asks why no other reinforcements have arrived Suddenly a whole fleet of boats appears on the horizon, coming from the direction of the Loire. They are clearly flying a royal flag. These are boats from the King. Aramis asks Porthos to sound the alarm preparing the island for battle. Porthos is confused, but does it anyway. Aramis effectively tells Porthos that the fleet belongs to the false king of France. Porthos believes himself to be enlightened. At night a man lands on the island, asking to see Aramis. He is the captain of one of the two fishing vessels that Porthos had earlier sent out in search of its lost companions. The captain tells Porthos and Aramis that all the fishing vessels have been captured by the royal fleet, which has set up a blockade around the island. The fleet is under the command of D'Artagnan, who is sending them a letter through this captain. The letter reads like this: the King ordered me to take Belle-Isle and capture all of its inhabitants. Aramis turns pale. This is clearly not good news. D'Artagnan requests that Porthos and Aramis come over for a visit. Porthos is all set to go, but Aramis warns that it may be a trap. He asks the fishing captain to tell D'Artagnan to come to the island instead. Porthos is confused. Aramis finally relents and promises to explain.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLII. Belle-Ile-en-Mer. At the extremity of the mole, against which the furious sea beats at the evening tide, two men, holding each other by the arm, were conversing in an animated and expansive tone, without the possibility of any other human being hearing their words, borne away, as they were, one by one, by the gusts of wind, with the white foam swept from the crests of the waves. The sun had just gone down in the vast sheet of the crimsoned ocean, like a gigantic crucible. From time to time, one of these men, turning towards the east, cast an anxious, inquiring look over the sea. The other, interrogating the features of his companion, seemed to seek for information in his looks. Then, both silent, busied with dismal thoughts, they resumed their walk. Every one has already perceived that these two men were our proscribed heroes, Porthos and Aramis, who had taken refuge in Belle-Isle, since the ruin of their hopes, since the discomfiture of the colossal schemes of M. d'Herblay. "If is of no use your saying anything to the contrary, my dear Aramis," repeated Porthos, inhaling vigorously the salt breeze with which he charged his massive chest, "It is of no use, Aramis. The disappearance of all the fishing-boats that went out two days ago is not an ordinary circumstance. There has been no storm at sea; the weather has been constantly calm, not even the lightest gale; and even if we had had a tempest, all our boats would not have foundered. I repeat, it is strange. This complete disappearance astonishes me, I tell you." "True," murmured Aramis. "You are right, friend Porthos; it is true, there is something strange in it." "And further," added Porthos, whose ideas the assent of the bishop of Vannes seemed to enlarge; "and, further, do you not observe that if the boats have perished, not a single plank has washed ashore?" "I have remarked it as well as yourself." "And do you not think it strange that the two only boats we had left in the whole island, and which I sent in search of the others--" Aramis here interrupted his companion by a cry, and by so sudden a movement, that Porthos stopped as if he were stupefied. "What do you say, Porthos? What!--You have sent the two boats--" "In search of the others! Yes, to be sure I have," replied Porthos, calmly. "Unhappy man! What have you done? Then we are indeed lost," cried the bishop. "Lost!--what did you say?" exclaimed the terrified Porthos. "How lost, Aramis? How are we lost?" Aramis bit his lips. "Nothing! nothing! Your pardon, I meant to say--" "What?" "That if we were inclined--if we took a fancy to make an excursion by sea, we could not." "Very good! and why should that vex you? A precious pleasure, _ma foi!_ For my part, I don't regret it at all. What I regret is certainly not the more or less amusement we can find at Belle-Isle: what I regret, Aramis, is Pierrefonds; Bracieux; le Vallon; beautiful France! Here, we are not in France, my dear friend; we are--I know not where. Oh! I tell you, in full sincerity of soul, and your affection will excuse my frankness, but I declare to you I am not happy at Belle-Isle. No; in good truth, I am not happy!" Aramis breathed a long, but stifled sigh. "Dear friend," replied he: "that is why it is so sad a thing you have sent the two boats we had left in search of the boats which disappeared two days ago. If you had not sent them away, we would have departed." "'Departed!' And the orders, Aramis?" "What orders?" "_Parbleu!_ Why, the orders you have been constantly, in and out of season, repeating to me--that we were to hold Belle-Isle against the usurper. You know very well!" "That is true!" murmured Aramis again. "You see, then, plainly, my friend, that we could not depart; and that the sending away of the boats in search of the others cannot prove prejudicial to us in the very least." Aramis was silent; and his vague glances, luminous as that of an albatross, hovered for a long time over the sea, interrogating space, seeking to pierce the very horizon. "With all that, Aramis," continued Porthos, who adhered to his idea, and that the more closely from the bishop having apparently endorsed it,--"with all that, you give me no explanation about what can have happened to these unfortunate boats. I am assailed by cries and complaints whichever way I go. The children cry to see the desolation of the women, as if I could restore the absent husbands and fathers. What do you suppose, my friend, and how ought I to answer them?" "Think all you like, my good Porthos, and say nothing." This reply did not satisfy Porthos at all. He turned away grumbling something in ill-humor. Aramis stopped the valiant musketeer. "Do you remember," said he, in a melancholy tone, kneading the two hands of the giant between his own with affectionate cordiality, "do you remember, my friend, that in the glorious days of youth--do you remember, Porthos, when we were all strong and valiant--we, and the other two--if we had then had an inclination to return to France, do you think this sheet of salt water would have stopped us?" "Oh!" said Porthos; "but six leagues." "If you had seen me get astride of a plank, would you have remained on land, Porthos?" "No, _pardieu!_ No, Aramis. But, nowadays, what sort of a plank should we want, my friend! I, in particular." And the Seigneur de Bracieux cast a profound glance over his colossal rotundity with a loud laugh. "And do you mean seriously to say you are not tired of Belle-Isle a little, and that you would not prefer the comforts of your dwelling--of your episcopal palace, at Vannes? Come, confess." "No," replied Aramis, without daring to look at Porthos. "Let us stay where we are, then," said his friend, with a sigh, which, in spite of the efforts he made to restrain it, escaped his echoing breast. "Let us remain!--let us remain! And yet," added he, "and yet, if we seriously wished, but that decidedly--if we had a fixed idea, one firmly taken, to return to France, and there were not boats--" "Have you remarked another thing, my friend--that is, since the disappearance of our barks, during the last two days' absence of fishermen, not a single small boat has landed on the shores of the isle?" "Yes, certainly! you are right. I, too, have remarked it, and the observation was the more naturally made, for, before the last two fatal days, barks and shallops were as plentiful as shrimps." "I must inquire," said Aramis, suddenly, and with great agitation. "And then, if we had a raft constructed--" "But there are some canoes, my friend; shall I board one?" "A canoe!--a canoe! Can you think of such a thing, Porthos? A canoe to be upset in. No, no," said the bishop of Vannes; "it is not our trade to ride upon the waves. We will wait, we will wait." And Aramis continued walking about with increased agitation. Porthos, who grew tired of following all the feverish movements of his friend--Porthos, who in his faith and calmness understood nothing of the sort of exasperation which was betrayed by his companion's continual convulsive starts--Porthos stopped him. "Let us sit down upon this rock," said he. "Place yourself there, close to me, Aramis, and I conjure you, for the last time, to explain to me in a manner I can comprehend--explain to me what we are doing here." "Porthos," said Aramis, much embarrassed. "I know that the false king wished to dethrone the true king. That is a fact, that I understand. Well--" "Yes?" said Aramis. "I know that the false king formed the project of selling Belle-Isle to the English. I understand that, too." "Yes?" "I know that we engineers and captains came and threw ourselves into Belle-Isle to take direction of the works, and the command of ten companies levied and paid by M. Fouquet, or rather the ten companies of his son-in-law. All that is plain." Aramis rose in a state of great impatience. He might be said to be a lion importuned by a gnat. Porthos held him by the arm. "But what I cannot understand, what, in spite of all the efforts of my mind, and all my reflections, I cannot comprehend, and never shall comprehend, is, that instead of sending us troops, instead of sending us reinforcements of men, munitions, provisions, they leave us without boats, they leave Belle-Isle without arrivals, without help; it is that instead of establishing with us a correspondence, whether by signals, or written or verbal communications, all relations with the shore are intercepted. Tell me, Aramis, answer me, or rather, before answering me, will you allow me to tell you what I have thought? Will you hear what my idea is, the plan I have conceived?" The bishop raised his head. "Well! Aramis," continued Porthos, "I have dreamed, I have imagined that an event has taken place in France. I dreamt of M. Fouquet all the night, of lifeless fish, of broken eggs, of chambers badly furnished, meanly kept. Villainous dreams, my dear D'Herblay; very unlucky, such dreams!" "Porthos, what is that yonder?" interrupted Aramis, rising suddenly, and pointing out to his friend a black spot upon the empurpled line of the water. "A bark!" said Porthos; "yes, it is a bark! Ah! we shall have some news at last." "There are two!" cried the bishop, on discovering another mast; "two! three! four!" "Five!" said Porthos, in his turn. "Six! seven! Ah! _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ it is a fleet!" "Our boats returning, probably," said Aramis, very uneasily, in spite of the assurance he affected. "They are very large for fishing-boats," observed Porthos, "and do you not remark, my friend, that they come from the Loire?" "They come from the Loire--yes--" "And look! everybody here sees them as well as ourselves; look, women and children are beginning to crowd the jetty." An old fisherman passed. "Are those our barks, yonder?" asked Aramis. The old man looked steadily into the eye of the horizon. "No, monseigneur," replied he, "they are lighter boars, boats in the king's service." "Boats in the royal service?" replied Aramis, starting. "How do you know that?" said he. "By the flag." "But," said Porthos, "the boat is scarcely visible; how the devil, my friend, can you distinguish the flag?" "I see there is one," replied the old man; "our boats, trade lighters, do not carry any. That sort of craft is generally used for transport of troops." "Ah!" groaned Aramis. "_Vivat!_" cried Porthos, "they are sending us reinforcements, don't you think they are, Aramis?" "Probably." "Unless it is the English coming." "By the Loire? That would have an evil look, Porthos; for they must have come through Paris!" "You are right; they are reinforcements, decidedly, or provisions." Aramis leaned his head upon his hands, and made no reply. Then, all at once,--"Porthos," said he, "have the alarm sounded." "The alarm! do you imagine such a thing?" "Yes, and let the cannoniers mount their batteries, the artillerymen be at their pieces, and be particularly watchful of the coast batteries." Porthos opened his eyes to their widest extent. He looked attentively at his friend, to convince himself he was in his proper senses. "_I_ will do it, my dear Porthos," continued Aramis, in his blandest tone; "I will go and have these orders executed myself, if you do not go, my friend." "Well! I will--instantly!" said Porthos, who went to execute the orders, casting all the while looks behind him, to see if the bishop of Vannes were not deceived; and if, on recovering more rational ideas, he would not recall him. The alarm was sounded, trumpets brayed, drums rolled; the great bronze bell swung in horror from its lofty belfry. The dikes and moles were quickly filled with the curious and soldiers; matches sparkled in the hands of the artillerymen, placed behind the large cannon bedded in their stone carriages. When every man was at his post, when all the preparations for defense were made: "Permit me, Aramis, to try to comprehend," whispered Porthos, timidly, in Aramis's ear. "My dear friend, you will comprehend but too soon," murmured M. d'Herblay, in reply to this question of his lieutenant. "The fleet which is coming yonder, with sails unfurled, straight towards the port of Belle-Isle, is a royal fleet, is it not?" "But as there are two kings in France, Porthos, to which of these two kings does this fleet belong?" "Oh! you open my eyes," replied the giant, stunned by the insinuation. And Porthos, whose eyes this reply of his friend's had at last opened, or rather thickened the bandage which covered his sight, went with his best speed to the batteries to overlook his people, and exhort every one to do his duty. In the meantime, Aramis, with his eye fixed on the horizon, saw the ships continually drawing nearer. The people and the soldiers, perched on the summits of the rocks, could distinguish the masts, then the lower sails, and at last the hulls of the lighters, bearing at the masthead the royal flag of France. It was night when one of these vessels, which had created such a sensation among the inhabitants of Belle-Isle, dropped anchor within cannon shot of the place. It was soon seen, notwithstanding the darkness, that some sort of agitation reigned on board the vessel, from the side of which a skiff was lowered, of which the three rowers, bending to their oars, took the direction of the port, and in a few instants struck land at the foot of the fort. The commander jumped ashore. He had a letter in his hand, which he waved in the air, and seemed to wish to communicate with somebody. This man was soon recognized by several soldiers as one of the pilots of the island. He was the captain of one of the two barks retained by Aramis, but which Porthos, in his anxiety with regard to the fate of the fishermen who had disappeared, had sent in search of the missing boats. He asked to be conducted to M. d'Herblay. Two soldiers, at a signal from a sergeant, marched him between them, and escorted him. Aramis was upon the quay. The envoy presented himself before the bishop of Vannes. The darkness was almost absolute, notwithstanding the flambeaux borne at a small distance by the soldiers who were following Aramis in his rounds. "Well, Jonathan, from whom do you come?" "Monseigneur, from those who captured me." "Who captured you?" "You know, monseigneur, we set out in search of our comrades?" "Yes; and afterwards?" "Well! monseigneur, within a short league we were captured by a _chasse maree_ belonging to the king." "Ah!" said Aramis. "Of which king?" cried Porthos. Jonathan started. "Speak!" continued the bishop. "We were captured, monseigneur, and joined to those who had been taken yesterday morning." "What was the cause of the mania for capturing you all?" said Porthos. "Monsieur, to prevent us from telling you," replied Jonathan. Porthos was again at a loss to comprehend. "And they have released you to-day?" asked he. "That I might tell you they have captured us, monsieur." "Trouble upon trouble," thought honest Porthos. During this time Aramis was reflecting. "Humph!" said he, "then I suppose it is a royal fleet blockading the coasts?" "Yes, monseigneur." "Who commands it?" "The captain of the king's musketeers." "D'Artagnan?" "D'Artagnan!" exclaimed Porthos. "I believe that is the name." "And did he give you this letter?" "Yes, monseigneur." "Bring the torches nearer." "It is his writing," said Porthos. Aramis eagerly read the following lines: "Order of the king to take Belle-Isle; or to put the garrison to the sword, if they resist; order to make prisoners of all the men of the garrison; signed, D'ARTAGNAN, who, the day before yesterday, arrested M. Fouquet, for the purpose of his being sent to the Bastile." Aramis turned pale, and crushed the paper in his hands. "What is it?" asked Porthos. "Nothing, my friend, nothing." "Tell me, Jonathan?" "Monseigneur?" "Did you speak to M. d'Artagnan?" "Yes, monseigneur." "What did he say to you?" "That for ampler information, he would speak with monseigneur." "Where?" "On board his own vessel." "On board his vessel!" and Porthos repeated, "On board his vessel!" "M. le mousquetaire," continued Jonathan, "told me to take you both on board my canoe, and bring you to him." "Let us go at once," exclaimed Porthos. "Dear D'Artagnan!" But Aramis stopped him. "Are you mad?" cried he. "Who knows that it is not a snare?" "Of the other king's?" said Porthos, mysteriously. "A snare, in fact! That's what it is, my friend." "Very possibly; what is to be done, then? If D'Artagnan sends for us--" "Who assures you that D'Artagnan sends for us?" "Well, but--but his writing--" "Writing is easily counterfeited. This looks counterfeited--unsteady--" "You are always right; but, in the meantime, we know nothing." Aramis was silent. "It is true," said the good Porthos, "we do not want to know anything." "What shall I do?" asked Jonathan. "You will return on board this captain's vessel." "Yes, monseigneur." "And will tell him that we beg he will himself come into the island." "Ah! I comprehend!" said Porthos. "Yes, monseigneur," replied Jonathan; "but if the captain should refuse to come to Belle-Isle?" "If he refuses, as we have cannon, we will make use of them." "What! against D'Artagnan?" "If it is D'Artagnan, Porthos, he will come. Go, Jonathan, go!" "_Ma foi!_ I no longer comprehend anything," murmured Porthos. "I will make you comprehend it all, my dear friend; the time for it has come; sit down upon this gun-carriage, open your ears, and listen well to me." "Oh! _pardieu!_ I will listen, no fear of that." "May I depart, monseigneur?" cried Jonathan. "Yes, begone, and bring back an answer. Allow the canoe to pass, you men there!" And the canoe pushed off to regain the fleet. Aramis took Porthos by the hand, and commenced his explanations.

Chapter Forty-Two: Belle-Isle-en-Mer

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-two-belle-isle-en-mer

We return to Belle-Isle where Aramis and Porthos are walking around the island, and discussing the curious disappearance of all the fishing boats. Much to Aramis's chagrin, Porthos reveals that he sent the only two remaining fishing boats out to look for the others. Porthos confesses that he is unhappy at Belle-Isle and would much rather be in France. Aramis tells Porthos that they could have left had he not sent out the two remaining fishing boats. Porthos then asks about the orders Aramis has been issuing, which are to hold Belle-Isle against the usurper of the throne. Porthos tells Aramis to sit down on a rock and explain the full story to him. Aramis has told Porthos that they are to hold Belle-Isle against a false king who wants to sell the island to the British. Porthos asks why no other reinforcements have arrived Suddenly a whole fleet of boats appears on the horizon, coming from the direction of the Loire. They are clearly flying a royal flag. These are boats from the King. Aramis asks Porthos to sound the alarm preparing the island for battle. Porthos is confused, but does it anyway. Aramis effectively tells Porthos that the fleet belongs to the false king of France. Porthos believes himself to be enlightened. At night a man lands on the island, asking to see Aramis. He is the captain of one of the two fishing vessels that Porthos had earlier sent out in search of its lost companions. The captain tells Porthos and Aramis that all the fishing vessels have been captured by the royal fleet, which has set up a blockade around the island. The fleet is under the command of D'Artagnan, who is sending them a letter through this captain. The letter reads like this: the King ordered me to take Belle-Isle and capture all of its inhabitants. Aramis turns pale. This is clearly not good news. D'Artagnan requests that Porthos and Aramis come over for a visit. Porthos is all set to go, but Aramis warns that it may be a trap. He asks the fishing captain to tell D'Artagnan to come to the island instead. Porthos is confused. Aramis finally relents and promises to explain.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/43.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_42_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 43

chapter 43: the explanations of aramis

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Three: The Explanations of Aramis", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-three-the-explanations-of-aramis", "summary": "Aramis admits he deceived Porthos. Porthos asks if it was for his own good. When Aramis answers in the affirmative, Porthos is grateful. Aramis explains that, rather than supporting the real king, he has been working for the false king, and that Aramis and Porthos are to be considered rebels against the crown. Porthos is not pleased. Aramis accepts full responsibility for the plot and admits he was selfish. Porthos refuses to blame his friend. Aramis is humbled by his friend's generosity of spirit. Aramis tells Porthos that they may have to defend themselves against D'Artagnan. Porthos is aghast at the idea. Meanwhile, D'Artagnan himself comes running up the steps, accompanied by a naval officer who has been ordered to follow D'Artagnan and be privy to all his communications. Seeking a private meeting with his friends, D'Artagnan commands the officer to step down. The officer refuses. D'Artagnan draws his sword. The officer backs away. The three men embrace and start making plans for getting out of this pickle. Clearly, they will not find safe haven in D'Artagnan's ship. Aramis resolves to stay at Belle-Isle and fight. Porthos says nothing. Aramis suggests that D'Artagnan take Porthos away and explain to the King that he had nothing to do with the crime. Porthos asks for some time to think. D'Artagnan comes up with a good idea and whispers it to Aramis, who proclaims it to be infallible. D'Artagnan heads back to his ship, accompanied by the officer. Once on board, he assembles the eight officers serving under his command. D'Artagnan proposes to have the two men in charge of the garrison at Belle-Isle to come on board and have a meeting with the staff. This side-steps the prohibition on secret communications. An officer stands up, however, and hands D'Artagnan an order signed by the King prohibiting any kind of council or deliberation before opening fire on Belle-Isle. D'Artagnan has no choice but to smile and say OK.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLIII. Explanations by Aramis. "What I have to say to you, friend Porthos, will probably surprise you, but it may prove instructive." "I like to be surprised," said Porthos, in a kindly tone; "do not spare me, therefore, I beg. I am hardened against emotions; don't fear, speak out." "It is difficult, Porthos--difficult; for, in truth, I warn you a second time, I have very strange things, very extraordinary things, to tell you." "Oh! you speak so well, my friend, that I could listen to you for days together. Speak, then, I beg--and--stop, I have an idea: I will, to make your task more easy, I will, to assist you in telling me such things, question you." "I shall be pleased at your doing so." "What are we going to fight for, Aramis?" "If you ask me many such questions as that--if you would render my task the easier by interrupting my revelations thus, Porthos, you will not help me at all. So far, on the contrary, that is the very Gordian knot. But, my friend, with a man like you, good, generous, and devoted, the confession must be bravely made. I have deceived you, my worthy friend." "You have deceived me!" "Good Heavens! yes." "Was it for my good, Aramis?" "I thought so, Porthos; I thought so sincerely, my friend." "Then," said the honest seigneur of Bracieux, "you have rendered me a service, and I thank you for it; for if you had not deceived me, I might have deceived myself. In what, then, have you deceived me, tell me?" "In that I was serving the usurper against whom Louis XIV., at this moment, is directing his efforts." "The usurper!" said Porthos, scratching his head. "That is--well, I do not quite clearly comprehend!" "He is one of the two kings who are contending for the crown of France." "Very well! Then you were serving him who is not Louis XIV.?" "You have hit the matter in one word." "It follows that--" "It follows that we are rebels, my poor friend." "The devil! the devil!" cried Porthos, much disappointed. "Oh! but, dear Porthos, be calm, we shall still find means of getting out of the affair, trust me." "It is not that which makes me uneasy," replied Porthos; "that which alone touches me is that ugly word _rebels_." "Ah! but--" "And so, according to this, the duchy that was promised me--" "It was the usurper that was to give it to you." "And that is not the same thing, Aramis," said Porthos, majestically. "My friend, if it had only depended upon me, you should have become a prince." Porthos began to bite his nails in a melancholy way. "That is where you have been wrong," continued he, "in deceiving me; for that promised duchy I reckoned upon. Oh! I reckoned upon it seriously, knowing you to be a man of your word, Aramis." "Poor Porthos! pardon me, I implore you!" "So, then," continued Porthos, without replying to the bishop's prayer, "so then, it seems, I have quite fallen out with Louis XIV.?" "Oh! I will settle all that, my good friend, I will settle all that. I will take it on myself alone!" "Aramis!" "No, no, Porthos, I conjure you, let me act. No false generosity! No inopportune devotedness! You knew nothing of my projects. You have done nothing of yourself. With me it is different. I alone am the author of this plot. I stood in need of my inseparable companion; I called upon you, and you came to me in remembrance of our ancient device, 'All for one, one for all.' My crime is that I was an egotist." "Now, that is a word I like," said Porthos; "and seeing that you have acted entirely for yourself, it is impossible for me to blame you. It is natural." And upon this sublime reflection, Porthos pressed his friend's hand cordially. In presence of this ingenuous greatness of soul, Aramis felt his own littleness. It was the second time he had been compelled to bend before real superiority of heart, which is more imposing than brilliancy of mind. He replied by a mute and energetic pressure to the endearment of his friend. "Now," said Porthos, "that we have come to an explanation, now that I am perfectly aware of our situation with respect to Louis XIV., I think, my friend, it is time to make me comprehend the political intrigue of which we are the victims--for I plainly see there is a political intrigue at the bottom of all this." "D'Artagnan, my good Porthos, D'Artagnan is coming, and will detail it to you in all its circumstances; but, excuse me, I am deeply grieved, I am bowed down with mental anguish, and I have need of all my presence of mind, all my powers of reflection, to extricate you from the false position in which I have so imprudently involved you; but nothing can be more clear, nothing more plain, than your position, henceforth. The king Louis XIV. has no longer now but one enemy: that enemy is myself, myself alone. I have made you a prisoner, you have followed me, to-day I liberate you, you fly back to your prince. You can perceive, Porthos, there is not one difficulty in all this." "Do you think so?" said Porthos. "I am quite sure of it." "Then why," said the admirable good sense of Porthos, "then why, if we are in such an easy position, why, my friend, do we prepare cannon, muskets, and engines of all sorts? It seems to me it would be much more simple to say to Captain d'Artagnan: 'My dear friend, we have been mistaken; that error is to be repaired; open the door to us, let us pass through, and we will say good-bye.'" "Ah! that!" said Aramis, shaking his head. "Why do you say 'that'? Do you not approve of my plan, my friend?" "I see a difficulty in it." "What is it?" "The hypothesis that D'Artagnan may come with orders which will oblige us to defend ourselves." "What! defend ourselves against D'Artagnan? Folly! Against the good D'Artagnan!" Aramis once more replied by shaking his head. "Porthos," at length said he, "if I have had the matches lighted and the guns pointed, if I have had the signal of alarm sounded, if I have called every man to his post upon the ramparts, those good ramparts of Belle-Isle which you have so well fortified, it was not for nothing. Wait to judge; or rather, no, do not wait--" "What can I do?" "If I knew, my friend, I would have told you." "But there is one thing much more simple than defending ourselves:--a boat, and away for France--where--" "My dear friend," said Aramis, smiling with a strong shade of sadness, "do not let us reason like children; let us be men in council and in execution.--But, hark! I hear a hail for landing at the port. Attention, Porthos, serious attention!" "It is D'Artagnan, no doubt," said Porthos, in a voice of thunder, approaching the parapet. "Yes, it is I," replied the captain of the musketeers, running lightly up the steps of the mole, and gaining rapidly the little esplanade on which his two friends waited for him. As soon as he came towards them, Porthos and Aramis observed an officer who followed D'Artagnan, treading apparently in his very steps. The captain stopped upon the stairs of the mole, when half-way up. His companions imitated him. "Make your men draw back," cried D'Artagnan to Porthos and Aramis; "let them retire out of hearing." This order, given by Porthos, was executed immediately. Then D'Artagnan, turning towards him who followed him: "Monsieur," said he, "we are no longer on board the king's fleet, where, in virtue of your order, you spoke so arrogantly to me, just now." "Monsieur," replied the officer, "I did not speak arrogantly to you; I simply, but rigorously, obeyed instructions. I was commanded to follow you. I follow you. I am directed not to allow you to communicate with any one without taking cognizance of what you do; I am in duty bound, accordingly, to overhear your conversations." D'Artagnan trembled with rage, and Porthos and Aramis, who heard this dialogue, trembled likewise, but with uneasiness and fear. D'Artagnan, biting his mustache with that vivacity which denoted in him exasperation, closely to be followed by an explosion, approached the officer. "Monsieur," said he, in a low voice, so much the more impressive, that, affecting calm, it threatened tempest--"monsieur, when I sent a canoe hither, you wished to know what I wrote to the defenders of Belle-Isle. You produced an order to that effect; and, in my turn, I instantly showed you the note I had written. When the skipper of the boat sent by me returned, when I received the reply of these two gentlemen" (and he pointed to Aramis and Porthos), "you heard every word of what the messenger said. All that was plainly in your orders, all that was well executed, very punctually, was it not?" "Yes, monsieur," stammered the officer; "yes, without doubt, but--" "Monsieur," continued D'Artagnan, growing warm--"monsieur, when I manifested the intention of quitting my vessel to cross to Belle-Isle, you demanded to accompany me; I did not hesitate; I brought you with me. You are now at Belle-Isle, are you not?" "Yes, monsieur; but--" "But--the question no longer is of M. Colbert, who has given you that order, or of whomsoever in the world you are following the instructions; the question now is of a man who is a clog upon M. d'Artagnan, and who is alone with M. d'Artagnan upon steps whose feet are bathed by thirty feet of salt water; a bad position for that man, a bad position, monsieur! I warn you." "But, monsieur, if I am a restraint upon you," said the officer, timidly, and almost faintly, "it is my duty which--" "Monsieur, you have had the misfortune, either you or those that sent you, to insult me. It is done. I cannot seek redress from those who employ you,--they are unknown to me, or are at too great a distance. But you are under my hand, and I swear that if you make one step behind me when I raise my feet to go up to those gentlemen, I swear to you by my name, I will cleave your head in two with my sword, and pitch you into the water. Oh! it will happen! it will happen! I have only been six times angry in my life, monsieur, and all five preceding times _I killed my man_." The officer did not stir; he became pale under this terrible threat, but replied with simplicity, "Monsieur, you are wrong in acting against my orders." Porthos and Aramis, mute and trembling at the top of the parapet, cried to the musketeer, "Good D'Artagnan, take care!" D'Artagnan made them a sign to keep silence, raised his foot with ominous calmness to mount the stair, and turned round, sword in hand, to see if the officer followed him. The officer made a sign of the cross and stepped up. Porthos and Aramis, who knew their D'Artagnan, uttered a cry, and rushed down to prevent the blow they thought they already heard. But D'Artagnan passed his sword into his left hand,-- "Monsieur," said he to the officer, in an agitated voice, "you are a brave man. You will all the better comprehend what I am going to say to you now." "Speak, Monsieur d'Artagnan, speak," replied the officer. "These gentlemen we have just seen, and against whom you have orders, are my friends." "I know they are, monsieur." "You can understand whether or not I ought to act towards them as your instructions prescribe." "I understand your reserve." "Very well; permit me, then, to converse with them without a witness." "Monsieur d'Artagnan, if I yield to your request, if I do that which you beg me, I break my word; but if I do not do it, I disoblige you. I prefer the one dilemma to the other. Converse with your friends, and do not despise me, monsieur, for doing this for _your_ sake, whom I esteem and honor; do not despise me for committing for you, and you alone, an unworthy act." D'Artagnan, much agitated, threw his arm round the neck of the young man, and then went up to his friends. The officer, enveloped in his cloak, sat down on the damp, weed-covered steps. "Well!" said D'Artagnan to his friends, "such is my position, judge for yourselves." All three embraced as in the glorious days of their youth. "What is the meaning of all these preparations?" said Porthos. "You ought to have a suspicion of what they signify," said D'Artagnan. "Not any, I assure you, my dear captain; for, in fact, I have done nothing, no more has Aramis," the worthy baron hastened to say. D'Artagnan darted a reproachful look at the prelate, which penetrated that hardened heart. "Dear Porthos!" cried the bishop of Vannes. "You see what is being done against you," said D'Artagnan; "interception of all boats coming to or going from Belle-Isle. Your means of transport seized. If you had endeavored to fly, you would have fallen into the hands of the cruisers that plow the sea in all directions, on the watch for you. The king wants you to be taken, and he will take you." D'Artagnan tore at his gray mustache. Aramis grew somber, Porthos angry. "My idea was this," continued D'Artagnan: "to make you both come on board, to keep you near me, and restore you your liberty. But now, who can say, when I return to my ship, I may not find a superior; that I may not find secret orders which will take from me my command, and give it to another, who will dispose of me and you without hope of help?" "We must remain at Belle-Isle," said Aramis, resolutely; "and I assure you, for my part, I will not surrender easily." Porthos said nothing. D'Artagnan remarked the silence of his friend. "I have another trial to make of this officer, of this brave fellow who accompanies me, and whose courageous resistance makes me very happy; for it denotes an honest man, who, though an enemy, is a thousand times better than a complaisant coward. Let us try to learn from him what his instructions are, and what his orders permit or forbid." "Let us try," said Aramis. D'Artagnan went to the parapet, leaned over towards the steps of the mole, and called the officer, who immediately came up. "Monsieur," said D'Artagnan, after having exchanged the cordial courtesies natural between gentlemen who know and appreciate each other, "monsieur, if I wished to take away these gentlemen from here, what would you do?" "I should not oppose it, monsieur; but having direct explicit orders to put them under guard, I should detain them." "Ah!" said D'Artagnan. "That's all over," said Aramis, gloomily. Porthos did not stir. "But still take Porthos," said the bishop of Vannes. "He can prove to the king, and I will help him do so, and you too, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that he had nothing to do with this affair." "Hum!" said D'Artagnan. "Will you come? Will you follow me, Porthos? The king is merciful." "I want time for reflection," said Porthos. "You will remain here, then?" "Until fresh orders," said Aramis, with vivacity. "Until we have an idea," resumed D'Artagnan; "and I now believe that will not be long, for I have one already." "Let us say adieu, then," said Aramis; "but in truth, my good Porthos, you ought to go." "No," said the latter, laconically. "As you please," replied Aramis, a little wounded in his susceptibilities at the morose tone of his companion. "Only I am reassured by the promise of an idea from D'Artagnan, an idea I fancy I have divined." "Let us see," said the musketeer, placing his ear near Aramis's mouth. The latter spoke several words rapidly, to which D'Artagnan replied, "That is it, precisely." "Infallible!" cried Aramis. "During the first emotion this resolution will cause, take care of yourself, Aramis." "Oh! don't be afraid." "Now, monsieur," said D'Artagnan to the officer, "thanks, a thousand thanks! You have made yourself three friends for life." "Yes," added Aramis. Porthos alone said nothing, but merely bowed. D'Artagnan, having tenderly embraced his two old friends, left Belle-Isle with the inseparable companion with whom M. Colbert had saddled him. Thus, with the exception of the explanation with which the worthy Porthos had been willing to be satisfied, nothing had changed in appearance in the fate of one or the other, "Only," said Aramis, "there is D'Artagnan's idea." D'Artagnan did not return on board without profoundly analyzing the idea he had discovered. Now, we know that whatever D'Artagnan did examine, according to custom, daylight was certain to illuminate. As to the officer, now grown mute again, he had full time for meditation. Therefore, on putting his foot on board his vessel, moored within cannon-shot of the island, the captain of the musketeers had already got together all his means, offensive and defensive. He immediately assembled his council, which consisted of the officers serving under his orders. These were eight in number; a chief of the maritime forces; a major directing the artillery; an engineer, the officer we are acquainted with, and four lieutenants. Having assembled them, D'Artagnan arose, took of his hat, and addressed them thus: "Gentlemen, I have been to reconnoiter Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and I have found in it a good and solid garrison; moreover, preparations are made for a defense that may prove troublesome. I therefore intend to send for two of the principal officers of the place, that we may converse with them. Having separated them from their troops and cannon, we shall be better able to deal with them; particularly by reasoning with them. Is not this your opinion, gentlemen?" The major of artillery rose. "Monsieur," said he, with respect, but firmness, "I have heard you say that the place is preparing to make a troublesome defense. The place is then, as you know, determined on rebellion?" D'Artagnan was visibly put out by this reply; but he was not the man to allow himself to be subdued by a trifle, and resumed: "Monsieur," said he, "your reply is just. But you are ignorant that Belle-Isle is a fief of M. Fouquet's, and that former monarchs gave the right to the seigneurs of Belle-Isle to arm their people." The major made a movement. "Oh! do not interrupt me," continued D'Artagnan. "You are going to tell me that that right to arm themselves against the English was not a right to arm themselves against their king. But it is not M. Fouquet, I suppose, who holds Belle-Isle at this moment, since I arrested M. Fouquet the day before yesterday. Now the inhabitants and defenders of Belle-Isle know nothing of this arrest. You would announce it to them in vain. It is a thing so unheard-of and extraordinary, so unexpected, that they would not believe you. A Breton serves his master, and not his masters; he serves his master till he has seen him dead. Now the Bretons, as far as I know, have not seen the body of M. Fouquet. It is not, then, surprising they hold out against that which is neither M. Fouquet nor his signature." The major bowed in token of assent. "That is why," continued D'Artagnan, "I propose to cause two of the principal officers of the garrison to come on board my vessel. They will see you, gentlemen; they will see the forces we have at our disposal; they will consequently know to what they have to trust, and the fate that attends them, in case of rebellion. We will affirm to them, upon our honor, that M. Fouquet is a prisoner, and that all resistance can only be prejudicial to them. We will tell them that at the first cannon fired, there will be no further hope of mercy from the king. Then, or so at least I trust, they will resist no longer. They will yield up without fighting, and we shall have a place given up to us in a friendly way which it might cost prodigious efforts to subdue." The officer who had followed D'Artagnan to Belle-Isle was preparing to speak, but D'Artagnan interrupted him. "Yes, I know what you are going to tell me, monsieur; I know that there is an order of the king's to prevent all secret communications with the defenders of Belle-Isle, and that is exactly why I do not offer to communicate except in presence of my staff." And D'Artagnan made an inclination of the head to his officers, who knew him well enough to attach a certain value to the condescension. The officers looked at each other as if to read each other's opinions in their eyes, with the intention of evidently acting, should they agree, according to the desire of D'Artagnan. And already the latter saw with joy that the result of their consent would be sending a bark to Porthos and Aramis, when the king's officer drew from a pocket a folded paper, which he placed in the hands of D'Artagnan. This paper bore upon its superscription the number 1. "What, more!" murmured the surprised captain. "Read, monsieur," said the officer, with a courtesy that was not free from sadness. D'Artagnan, full of mistrust, unfolded the paper, and read these words: "Prohibition to M. d'Artagnan to assemble any council whatever, or to deliberate in any way before Belle-Isle be surrendered and the prisoners shot. Signed--LOUIS." D'Artagnan repressed the quiver of impatience that ran through his whole body, and with a gracious smile: "That is well, monsieur," said he; "the king's orders shall be complied with."

Chapter Forty-Three: The Explanations of Aramis

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Aramis admits he deceived Porthos. Porthos asks if it was for his own good. When Aramis answers in the affirmative, Porthos is grateful. Aramis explains that, rather than supporting the real king, he has been working for the false king, and that Aramis and Porthos are to be considered rebels against the crown. Porthos is not pleased. Aramis accepts full responsibility for the plot and admits he was selfish. Porthos refuses to blame his friend. Aramis is humbled by his friend's generosity of spirit. Aramis tells Porthos that they may have to defend themselves against D'Artagnan. Porthos is aghast at the idea. Meanwhile, D'Artagnan himself comes running up the steps, accompanied by a naval officer who has been ordered to follow D'Artagnan and be privy to all his communications. Seeking a private meeting with his friends, D'Artagnan commands the officer to step down. The officer refuses. D'Artagnan draws his sword. The officer backs away. The three men embrace and start making plans for getting out of this pickle. Clearly, they will not find safe haven in D'Artagnan's ship. Aramis resolves to stay at Belle-Isle and fight. Porthos says nothing. Aramis suggests that D'Artagnan take Porthos away and explain to the King that he had nothing to do with the crime. Porthos asks for some time to think. D'Artagnan comes up with a good idea and whispers it to Aramis, who proclaims it to be infallible. D'Artagnan heads back to his ship, accompanied by the officer. Once on board, he assembles the eight officers serving under his command. D'Artagnan proposes to have the two men in charge of the garrison at Belle-Isle to come on board and have a meeting with the staff. This side-steps the prohibition on secret communications. An officer stands up, however, and hands D'Artagnan an order signed by the King prohibiting any kind of council or deliberation before opening fire on Belle-Isle. D'Artagnan has no choice but to smile and say OK.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/44.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_43_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 44

chapter 44: result of the ideas of the king and the ideas of d'artagnan

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Four: Result of the Ideas of the King and the Ideas of D'Artagnan", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-four-result-of-the-ideas-of-the-king-and-the-ideas-of-dartagnan", "summary": "D'Artagnan is furious that the King has anticipated him. He decides to go with the fallback plan. D'Artagnan announces his intention to resign, and says that the fleet must return to Nantes with him. With the blockade raised, his friends will have time to escape. When he asks if anyone objects to this plan, an officer stands up and hands D'Artagnan yet another order signed by the King. Should D'Artagnan attempt to resign, says the order, he is to be relieved of command and taken as a prisoner back to France. D'Artagnan is shocked at the King's foresight and wile. He has anticipated D'Artagnan's every move. D'Artagnan's last thought is to simply take the order and hide it in his pocket, but he soon realizes that all the men on the ship have been given a copy of the order. There is no more hope; D'Artagnan allows himself to be taken prisoner by one of his men. D'Artagnan hears canon shots when he reaches the coast of France.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLIV. Result of the Ideas of the King, and the Ideas of D'Artagnan. The blow was direct. It was severe, mortal. D'Artagnan, furious at having been anticipated by an idea of the king's, did not despair, however, even yet; and reflecting upon the idea he had brought back from Belle-Isle, he elicited therefrom novel means of safety for his friends. "Gentlemen," said he, suddenly, "since the king has charged some other than myself with his secret orders, it must be because I no longer possess his confidence, and I should really be unworthy of it if I had the courage to hold a command subject to so many injurious suspicions. Therefore I will go immediately and carry my resignation to the king. I tender it before you all, enjoining you all to fall back with me upon the coast of France, in such a way as not to compromise the safety of the forces his majesty has confided to me. For this purpose, return all to your posts; within an hour, we shall have the ebb of the tide. To your posts, gentlemen! I suppose," added he, on seeing that all prepared to obey him, except the surveillant officer, "you have no orders to object, this time?" And D'Artagnan almost triumphed while speaking these words. This plan would prove the safety of his friends. The blockade once raised, they might embark immediately, and set sail for England or Spain, without fear of being molested. Whilst they were making their escape, D'Artagnan would return to the king; would justify his return by the indignation which the mistrust of Colbert had raised in him; he would be sent back with full powers, and he would take Belle-Isle; that is to say, the cage, after the birds had flown. But to this plan the officer opposed a further order of the king's. It was thus conceived: "From the moment M. d'Artagnan shall have manifested the desire of giving in his resignation, he shall no longer be reckoned leader of the expedition, and every officer placed under his orders shall be held to no longer obey him. Moreover, the said Monsieur d'Artagnan, having lost that quality of leader of the army sent against Belle-Isle, shall set out immediately for France, accompanied by the officer who will have remitted the message to him, and who will consider him a prisoner for whom he is answerable." Brave and careless as he was, D'Artagnan turned pale. Everything had been calculated with a depth of precognition which, for the first time in thirty years, recalled to him the solid foresight and inflexible logic of the great cardinal. He leaned his head on his hand, thoughtful, scarcely breathing. "If I were to put this order in my pocket," thought he, "who would know it, what would prevent my doing it? Before the king had had time to be informed, I should have saved those poor fellows yonder. Let us exercise some small audacity! My head is not one of those the executioner strikes off for disobedience. We will disobey!" But at the moment he was about to adopt this plan, he saw the officers around him reading similar orders, which the passive agent of the thoughts of that infernal Colbert had distributed to them. This contingency of his disobedience had been foreseen--as all the rest had been. "Monsieur," said the officer, coming up to him, "I await your good pleasure to depart." "I am ready, monsieur," replied D'Artagnan, grinding his teeth. The officer immediately ordered a canoe to receive M. d'Artagnan and himself. At sight of this he became almost distraught with rage. "How," stammered he, "will you carry on the directions of the different corps?" "When you are gone, monsieur," replied the commander of the fleet, "it is to me the command of the whole is committed." "Then, monsieur," rejoined Colbert's man, addressing the new leader, "it is for you that this last order remitted to me is intended. Let us see your powers." "Here they are," said the officer, exhibiting the royal signature. "Here are your instructions," replied the officer, placing the folded paper in his hands; and turning round towards D'Artagnan, "Come, monsieur," said he, in an agitated voice (such despair did he behold in that man of iron), "do me the favor to depart at once." "Immediately!" articulated D'Artagnan, feebly, subdued, crushed by implacable impossibility. And he painfully subsided into the little boat, which started, favored by wind and tide, for the coast of France. The king's guards embarked with him. The musketeer still preserved the hope of reaching Nantes quickly, and of pleading the cause of his friends eloquently enough to incline the king to mercy. The bark flew like a swallow. D'Artagnan distinctly saw the land of France profiled in black against the white clouds of night. "Ah! monsieur," said he, in a low voice, to the officer to whom, for an hour, he had ceased speaking, "what would I give to know the instructions for the new commander! They are all pacific, are they not? and--" He did not finish; the thunder of a distant cannon rolled athwart the waves, another, and two or three still louder. D'Artagnan shuddered. "They have commenced the siege of Belle-Isle," replied the officer. The canoe had just touched the soil of France.

Chapter Forty-Four: Result of the Ideas of the King and the Ideas of D'Artagnan

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D'Artagnan is furious that the King has anticipated him. He decides to go with the fallback plan. D'Artagnan announces his intention to resign, and says that the fleet must return to Nantes with him. With the blockade raised, his friends will have time to escape. When he asks if anyone objects to this plan, an officer stands up and hands D'Artagnan yet another order signed by the King. Should D'Artagnan attempt to resign, says the order, he is to be relieved of command and taken as a prisoner back to France. D'Artagnan is shocked at the King's foresight and wile. He has anticipated D'Artagnan's every move. D'Artagnan's last thought is to simply take the order and hide it in his pocket, but he soon realizes that all the men on the ship have been given a copy of the order. There is no more hope; D'Artagnan allows himself to be taken prisoner by one of his men. D'Artagnan hears canon shots when he reaches the coast of France.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/45.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_44_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 45

chapter 45: the ancestors of porthos

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Five: The Ancestors of Porthos", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-five-the-ancestors-of-porthos", "summary": "Aramis relates D'Artagnan's plan to Porthos. Aramis tells Porthos that if there is only time for one of them to escape, Porthos should go. Porthos refuses. He tells Aramis that they will either escape together or remain together. Aramis asks for the cause of Porthos's gloom. Porthos says he is drawing up his will. He tells Aramis that he feels tired, and that is a bad sign in his family. Porthos tells Aramis that his grandfather was twice as strong as him, but that one day, when he was about the age Porthos is now, he felt a weakness in his legs as he set out to hunt. He was killed that day by a wild boar. Porthos next tells Aramis about his father, who was just as strong as Porthos. One evening, his legs were weak as he rose from the dinner table. He then insisted upon going down into the garden, but while on the staircase he fell and hit his head. He died. Aramis tells Porthos that these do not mean anything, Porthos is still strong. Porthos tells Aramis that he too has felt a weakness in his legs and he knows his time is coming. He says he has lived a good and rich life. Aramis tells Porthos that they still have years to live. Besides, D'Artagnan is securing their escape right now. Aramis has given instructions to have a boat waiting for them in the grotto of Locmaria. Porthos's legs are fine for the time being. Suddenly there is a great call to arms. The fleet is coming. The fighting begins. Porthos and Aramis lead an impressive charge. Aramis calls for Porthos to seize a prisoner. Porthos does so. Aramis laughs at Porthos, saying that his legs must be better, but Porthos points out that he seized the man with his arms.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLV. The Ancestors of Porthos. When D'Artagnan left Aramis and Porthos, the latter returned to the principal fort, in order to converse with greater liberty. Porthos, still thoughtful, was a restraint on Aramis, whose mind had never felt itself more free. "Dear Porthos," said he, suddenly, "I will explain D'Artagnan's idea to you." "What idea, Aramis?" "An idea to which we shall owe our liberty within twelve hours." "Ah! indeed!" said Porthos, much astonished. "Let us hear it." "Did you remark, in the scene our friend had with the officer, that certain orders constrained him with regard to us?" "Yes, I did notice that." "Well! D'Artagnan is going to give in his resignation to the king, and during the confusion that will result from his absence, we will get away, or rather you will get away, Porthos, if there is possibility of flight for only one." Here Porthos shook his head and replied: "We will escape together, Aramis, or we will stay together." "Thine is a right, a generous heart," said Aramis, "only your melancholy uneasiness affects me." "I am not uneasy," said Porthos. "Then you are angry with me." "I am not angry with you." "Then why, my friend, do you put on such a dismal countenance?" "I will tell you; I am making my will." And while saying these words, the good Porthos looked sadly in the face of Aramis. "Your will!" cried the bishop. "What, then! do you think yourself lost?" "I feel fatigued. It is the first time, and there is a custom in our family." "What is it, my friend?" "My grandfather was a man twice as strong as I am." "Indeed!" said Aramis; "then your grandfather must have been Samson himself." "No; his name was Antoine. Well! he was about my age, when, setting out one day for the chase, he felt his legs weak, the man who had never known what weakness was before." "What was the meaning of that fatigue, my friend?" "Nothing good, as you will see; for having set out, complaining still of weakness of the legs, he met a wild boar, which made head against him; he missed him with his arquebuse, and was ripped up by the beast and died immediately." "There is no reason in that why you should alarm yourself, dear Porthos." "Oh! you will see. My father was as strong again as I am. He was a rough soldier, under Henry III. and Henry IV.; his name was not Antoine, but Gaspard, the same as M. de Coligny. Always on horseback, he had never known what lassitude was. One evening, as he rose from table, his legs failed him." "He had supped heartily, perhaps," said Aramis, "and that was why he staggered." "Bah! A friend of M. de Bassompierre, nonsense! No, no, he was astonished at this lassitude, and said to my mother, who laughed at him, 'Would not one believe I was going to meet with a wild boar, as the late M. du Vallon, my father did?'" "Well?" said Aramis. "Well, having this weakness, my father insisted upon going down into the garden, instead of going to bed; his foot slipped on the first stair, the staircase was steep; my father fell against a stone in which an iron hinge was fixed. The hinge gashed his temple; and he was stretched out dead upon the spot." Aramis raised his eyes to his friend: "These are two extraordinary circumstances," said he; "let us not infer that there may succeed a third. It is not becoming in a man of your strength to be superstitious, my brave Porthos. Besides, when were your legs known to fail? Never have you stood so firm, so haughtily; why, you could carry a house on your shoulders." "At this moment," said Porthos, "I feel myself pretty active; but at times I vacillate; I sink; and lately this phenomenon, as you say, has occurred four times. I will not say this frightens me, but it annoys me. Life is an agreeable thing. I have money; I have fine estates; I have horses that I love; I have also friends that I love: D'Artagnan, Athos, Raoul, and you." The admirable Porthos did not even take the trouble to dissimulate in the very presence of Aramis the rank he gave him in his friendship. Aramis pressed his hand: "We will still live many years," said he, "to preserve to the world such specimens of its rarest men. Trust yourself to me, my friend; we have no reply from D'Artagnan, that is a good sign. He must have given orders to get the vessels together and clear the seas. On my part I have just issued directions that a bark should be rolled on rollers to the mouth of the great cavern of Locmaria, which you know, where we have so often lain in wait for the foxes." "Yes, and which terminates at the little creek by a trench where we discovered the day that splendid fox escaped that way." "Precisely. In case of misfortunes, a bark is to be concealed for us in that cavern; indeed, it must be there by this time. We will wait for a favorable moment, and during the night we will go to sea!" "That is a grand idea. What shall we gain by it?" "We shall gain this--nobody knows that grotto, or rather its issue, except ourselves and two or three hunters of the island; we shall gain this--that if the island is occupied, the scouts, seeing no bark upon the shore, will never imagine we can escape, and will cease to watch." "I understand." "Well! that weakness in the legs?" "Oh! better, much, just now." "You see, then, plainly, that everything conspires to give us quietude and hope. D'Artagnan will sweep the sea and leave us free. No royal fleet or descent to be dreaded. _Vive Dieu!_ Porthos, we have still half a century of magnificent adventure before us, and if I once touch Spanish ground, I swear to you," added the bishop with terrible energy, "that your brevet of duke is not such a chance as it is said to be." "We live by hope," said Porthos, enlivened by the warmth of his companion. All at once a cry resounded in their ears: "To arms! to arms!" This cry, repeated by a hundred throats, piercing the chamber where the two friends were conversing, carried surprise to one, and uneasiness to the other. Aramis opened the window; he saw a crowd of people running with flambeaux. Women were seeking places of safety, the armed population were hastening to their posts. "The fleet! the fleet!" cried a soldier, who recognized Aramis. "The fleet?" repeated the latter. "Within half cannon-shot," continued the soldier. "To arms!" cried Aramis. "To arms!" repeated Porthos, formidably. And both rushed forth towards the mole to place themselves within the shelter of the batteries. Boats, laden with soldiers, were seen approaching; and in three directions, for the purpose of landing at three points at once. "What must be done?" said an officer of the guard. "Stop them; and if they persist, fire!" said Aramis. Five minutes later, the cannonade commenced. These were the shots that D'Artagnan had heard as he landed in France. But the boats were too near the mole to allow the cannon to aim correctly. They landed, and the combat commenced hand to hand. "What's the matter, Porthos?" said Aramis to his friend. "Nothing! nothing!--only my legs; it is really incomprehensible!--they will be better when we charge." In fact, Porthos and Aramis did charge with such vigor, and so thoroughly animated their men, that the royalists re-embarked precipitately, without gaining anything but the wounds they carried away. "Eh! but Porthos," cried Aramis, "we must have a prisoner, quick! quick!" Porthos bent over the stair of the mole, and seized by the nape of the neck one of the officers of the royal army who was waiting to embark till all his people should be in the boat. The arm of the giant lifted up his prey, which served him as a buckler, and he recovered himself without a shot being fired at him. "Here is a prisoner for you," said Porthos coolly to Aramis. "Well!" cried the latter, laughing, "did you not calumniate your legs?" "It was not with my legs I captured him," said Porthos, "it was with my arms!"

Chapter Forty-Five: The Ancestors of Porthos

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Aramis relates D'Artagnan's plan to Porthos. Aramis tells Porthos that if there is only time for one of them to escape, Porthos should go. Porthos refuses. He tells Aramis that they will either escape together or remain together. Aramis asks for the cause of Porthos's gloom. Porthos says he is drawing up his will. He tells Aramis that he feels tired, and that is a bad sign in his family. Porthos tells Aramis that his grandfather was twice as strong as him, but that one day, when he was about the age Porthos is now, he felt a weakness in his legs as he set out to hunt. He was killed that day by a wild boar. Porthos next tells Aramis about his father, who was just as strong as Porthos. One evening, his legs were weak as he rose from the dinner table. He then insisted upon going down into the garden, but while on the staircase he fell and hit his head. He died. Aramis tells Porthos that these do not mean anything, Porthos is still strong. Porthos tells Aramis that he too has felt a weakness in his legs and he knows his time is coming. He says he has lived a good and rich life. Aramis tells Porthos that they still have years to live. Besides, D'Artagnan is securing their escape right now. Aramis has given instructions to have a boat waiting for them in the grotto of Locmaria. Porthos's legs are fine for the time being. Suddenly there is a great call to arms. The fleet is coming. The fighting begins. Porthos and Aramis lead an impressive charge. Aramis calls for Porthos to seize a prisoner. Porthos does so. Aramis laughs at Porthos, saying that his legs must be better, but Porthos points out that he seized the man with his arms.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/46.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_45_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 46

chapter 46: the son of biscarrat

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Six: The Son of Biscarrat", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-six-the-son-of-biscarrat", "summary": "Aramis and Porthos hope to question their prisoner and learn of their enemy's plans. Porthos suggests inviting the man to supper and giving him lots of alcohol. The prisoner is nervous at first as he tells them that the plan is for killing during the fighting, and, if taken alive, for a hanging afterwards. By the sixth bottle of wine, the prisoner begs permission to ask a question. He asks if Porthos and Aramis were once Musketeers in the King's service. He tells them his name is Biscarrat. The name rings a bell with Porthos and Aramis. It turns out that their prisoner is the son of a man named Biscarrat, one of the four swordsmen who attacked the musketeers on the day they formed their friendship with D'Artagnan. Aramis remembers Biscarrat to be the only one of their enemies who they did not wound. Porthos and Aramis are pleased to meet Biscarrat. They shake hands warmly. Aramis immediately thinks of ways he can put this friendship to use. The noise of gunfire rings through the night. Aramis cries in horror, realizing that the previous battle was nothing more than an attempt to give men on the other side of the island time to land. Porthos begins cleaning and preparing his weapons. A terrified crowd rushes into the fort seeking guidance. Their allegiance is to Fouquet rather than to the King, and Aramis finally tells them all that Fouquet has been taken arrested. Although the crowd is determined to resist the royalists, Aramis counsels them all to surrender and obey the King. He commands them to do so in the name of their former master. The crowd isn't happy, but they listen to Aramis. Biscarrat tells Aramis that he may have saved the inhabitants of the isle, but that the lives of him and Porthos are still at stake. Aramis releases Biscarrat and gives him a horse so he can return to his comrades. Aramis and Porthos head for the grotto of Locmaria. It is their final chance to escape.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLVI. The Son of Biscarrat. The Bretons of the Isle were very proud of this victory; Aramis did not encourage them in the feeling. "What will happen," said he to Porthos, when everybody was gone home, "will be that the anger of the king will be roused by the account of the resistance; and that these brave people will be decimated or shot when they are taken, which cannot fail to take place." "From which it results, then," said Porthos, "that what we have done is of not the slightest use." "For the moment it may be," replied the bishop, "for we have a prisoner from whom we shall learn what our enemies are preparing to do." "Yes, let us interrogate the prisoner," said Porthos, "and the means of making him speak are very simple. We are going to supper; we will invite him to join us; as he drinks he will talk." This was done. The officer was at first rather uneasy, but became reassured on seeing what sort of men he had to deal with. He gave, without having any fear of compromising himself, all the details imaginable of the resignation and departure of D'Artagnan. He explained how, after that departure, the new leader of the expedition had ordered a surprise upon Belle-Isle. There his explanations stopped. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance that evinced their despair. No more dependence to be placed now on D'Artagnan's fertile imagination--no further resource in the event of defeat. Aramis, continuing his interrogations, asked the prisoner what the leaders of the expedition contemplated doing with the leaders of Belle-Isle. "The orders are," replied he, "to kill _during_ combat, or hang _afterwards_." Porthos and Aramis looked at each other again, and the color mounted to their faces. "I am too light for the gallows," replied Aramis; "people like me are not hung." "And I am too heavy," said Porthos; "people like me break the cord." "I am sure," said the prisoner, gallantly, "that we could have guaranteed you the exact kind of death you preferred." "A thousand thanks!" said Aramis, seriously. Porthos bowed. "One more cup of wine to your health," said he, drinking himself. From one subject to another the chat with the officer was prolonged. He was an intelligent gentleman, and suffered himself to be led on by the charm of Aramis's wit and Porthos's cordial _bonhomie_. "Pardon me," said he, "if I address a question to you; but men who are in their sixth bottle have a clear right to forget themselves a little." "Address it!" cried Porthos; "address it!" "Speak," said Aramis. "Were you not, gentlemen, both in the musketeers of the late king?" "Yes, monsieur, and amongst the best of them, if you please," said Porthos. "That is true; I should say even the best of all soldiers, messieurs, if I did not fear to offend the memory of my father." "Of your father?" cried Aramis. "Do you know what my name is?" "_Ma foi!_ no, monsieur; but you can tell us, and--" "I am called Georges de Biscarrat." "Oh!" cried Porthos, in his turn. "Biscarrat! Do you remember that name, Aramis?" "Biscarrat!" reflected the bishop. "It seems to me--" "Try to recollect, monsieur," said the officer. "_Pardieu!_ that won't take me long," said Porthos. "Biscarrat--called Cardinal--one of the four who interrupted us on the day on which we formed our friendship with D'Artagnan, sword in hand." "Precisely, gentlemen." "The only one," cried Aramis, eagerly, "we could not scratch." "Consequently, a capital blade?" said the prisoner. "That's true! most true!" exclaimed both friends together. "_Ma foi!_ Monsieur Biscarrat, we are delighted to make the acquaintance of such a brave man's son." Biscarrat pressed the hands held out by the two musketeers. Aramis looked at Porthos as much as to say, "Here is a man who will help us," and without delay,--"Confess, monsieur," said he, "that it is good to have once been a good man." "My father always said so, monsieur." "Confess, likewise, that it is a sad circumstance in which you find yourself, of falling in with men destined to be shot or hung, and to learn that these men are old acquaintances, in fact, hereditary friends." "Oh! you are not reserved for such a frightful fate as that, messieurs and friends!" said the young man, warmly. "Bah! you said so yourself." "I said so just now, when I did not know you; but now that I know you, I say--you will evade this dismal fate, if you wish!" "How--if we wish?" echoed Aramis, whose eyes beamed with intelligence as he looked alternately at the prisoner and Porthos. "Provided," continued Porthos, looking, in his turn, with noble intrepidity, at M. Biscarrat and the bishop--"provided nothing disgraceful be required of us." "Nothing at all will be required of you, gentlemen," replied the officer--"what should they ask of you? If they find you they will kill you, that is a predetermined thing; try, then, gentlemen, to prevent their finding you." "I don't think I am mistaken," said Porthos, with dignity; "but it appears evident to me that if they want to find us, they must come and seek us here." "In that you are perfectly right, my worthy friend," replied Aramis, constantly consulting with his looks the countenance of Biscarrat, who had grown silent and constrained. "You wish, Monsieur de Biscarrat, to say something to us, to make us some overture, and you dare not--is that true?" "Ah! gentlemen and friends! it is because by speaking I betray the watchword. But, hark! I hear a voice that frees mine by dominating it." "Cannon!" said Porthos. "Cannon and musketry, too!" cried the bishop. On hearing at a distance, among the rocks, these sinister reports of a combat which they thought had ceased: "What can that be?" asked Porthos. "Eh! _Pardieu!_" cried Aramis; "that is just what I expected." "What is that?" "That the attack made by you was nothing but a feint; is not that true, monsieur? And whilst your companions allowed themselves to be repulsed, you were certain of effecting a landing on the other side of the island." "Oh! several, monsieur." "We are lost, then," said the bishop of Vannes, quietly. "Lost! that is possible," replied the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, "but we are not taken or hung." And so saying, he rose from the table, went to the wall, and coolly took down his sword and pistols, which he examined with the care of an old soldier who is preparing for battle, and who feels that life, in a great measure, depends upon the excellence and right conditions of his arms. At the report of the cannon, at the news of the surprise which might deliver up the island to the royal troops, the terrified crowd rushed precipitately to the fort to demand assistance and advice from their leaders. Aramis, pale and downcast, between two flambeaux, showed himself at the window which looked into the principal court, full of soldiers waiting for orders and bewildered inhabitants imploring succor. "My friends," said D'Herblay, in a grave and sonorous voice, "M. Fouquet, your protector, your friend, you father, has been arrested by an order of the king, and thrown into the Bastile." A sustained yell of vengeful fury came floating up to the window at which the bishop stood, and enveloped him in a magnetic field. "Avenge Monsieur Fouquet!" cried the most excited of his hearers, "death to the royalists!" "No, my friends," replied Aramis, solemnly; "no, my friends; no resistance. The king is master in his kingdom. The king is the mandatory of God. The king and God have struck M. Fouquet. Humble yourselves before the hand of God. Love God and the king, who have struck M. Fouquet. But do not avenge your seigneur, do not think of avenging him. You would sacrifice yourselves in vain--you, your wives and children, your property, your liberty. Lay down your arms, my friends--lay down your arms! since the king commands you so to do--and retire peaceably to your dwellings. It is I who ask you to do so; it is I who beg you to do so; it is I who now, in the hour of need, command you to do so, in the name of M. Fouquet." The crowd collected under the window uttered a prolonged roar of anger and terror. "The soldiers of Louis XIV. have reached the island," continued Aramis. "From this time it would no longer be a fight betwixt them and you--it would be a massacre. Begone, then, begone, and forget; this time I command you, in the name of the Lord of Hosts!" The mutineers retired slowly, submissive, silent. "Ah! what have you just been saying, my friend?" said Porthos. "Monsieur," said Biscarrat to the bishop, "you may save all these inhabitants, but thus you will neither save yourself nor your friend." "Monsieur de Biscarrat," said the bishop of Vannes, with a singular accent of nobility and courtesy, "Monsieur de Biscarrat, be kind enough to resume your liberty." "I am very willing to do so, monsieur; but--" "That would render us a service, for when announcing to the king's lieutenant the submission of the islanders, you will perhaps obtain some grace for us on informing him of the manner in which that submission has been effected." "Grace!" replied Porthos with flashing eyes, "what is the meaning of that word?" Aramis touched the elbow of his friend roughly, as he had been accustomed to do in the days of their youth, when he wanted to warn Porthos that he had committed, or was about to commit, a blunder. Porthos understood him, and was silent immediately. "I will go, messieurs," replied Biscarrat, a little surprised likewise at the word "grace" pronounced by the haughty musketeer, of and to whom, but a few minutes before, he had related with so much enthusiasm the heroic exploits with which his father had delighted him. "Go, then, Monsieur Biscarrat," said Aramis, bowing to him, "and at parting receive the expression of our entire gratitude." "But you, messieurs, you whom I think it an honor to call my friends, since you have been willing to accept that title, what will become of you in the meantime?" replied the officer, very much agitated at taking leave of the two ancient adversaries of his father. "We will wait here." "But, _mon Dieu!_--the order is precise and formal." "I am bishop of Vannes, Monsieur de Biscarrat; and they no more shoot a bishop than they hang a gentleman." "Ah! yes, monsieur--yes, monseigneur," replied Biscarrat; "it is true, you are right, there is still that chance for you. Then, I will depart, I will repair to the commander of the expedition, the king's lieutenant. Adieu! then, messieurs, or rather, to meet again, I hope." The worthy officer, jumping upon a horse given him by Aramis, departed in the direction of the sound of cannon, which, by surging the crowd into the fort, had interrupted the conversation of the two friends with their prisoner. Aramis watched the departure, and when left alone with Porthos: "Well, do you comprehend?" said he. "_Ma foi!_ no." "Did not Biscarrat inconvenience you here?" "No; he is a brave fellow." "Yes; but the grotto of Locmaria--is it necessary all the world should know it?" "Ah! that is true, that is true; I comprehend. We are going to escape by the cavern." "If you please," cried Aramis, gayly. "Forward, friend Porthos; our boat awaits us. King Louis has not caught us--_yet_."

Chapter Forty-Six: The Son of Biscarrat

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Aramis and Porthos hope to question their prisoner and learn of their enemy's plans. Porthos suggests inviting the man to supper and giving him lots of alcohol. The prisoner is nervous at first as he tells them that the plan is for killing during the fighting, and, if taken alive, for a hanging afterwards. By the sixth bottle of wine, the prisoner begs permission to ask a question. He asks if Porthos and Aramis were once Musketeers in the King's service. He tells them his name is Biscarrat. The name rings a bell with Porthos and Aramis. It turns out that their prisoner is the son of a man named Biscarrat, one of the four swordsmen who attacked the musketeers on the day they formed their friendship with D'Artagnan. Aramis remembers Biscarrat to be the only one of their enemies who they did not wound. Porthos and Aramis are pleased to meet Biscarrat. They shake hands warmly. Aramis immediately thinks of ways he can put this friendship to use. The noise of gunfire rings through the night. Aramis cries in horror, realizing that the previous battle was nothing more than an attempt to give men on the other side of the island time to land. Porthos begins cleaning and preparing his weapons. A terrified crowd rushes into the fort seeking guidance. Their allegiance is to Fouquet rather than to the King, and Aramis finally tells them all that Fouquet has been taken arrested. Although the crowd is determined to resist the royalists, Aramis counsels them all to surrender and obey the King. He commands them to do so in the name of their former master. The crowd isn't happy, but they listen to Aramis. Biscarrat tells Aramis that he may have saved the inhabitants of the isle, but that the lives of him and Porthos are still at stake. Aramis releases Biscarrat and gives him a horse so he can return to his comrades. Aramis and Porthos head for the grotto of Locmaria. It is their final chance to escape.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/47.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_46_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 47

chapter 47: the grotto of locmaria

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Seven: the Grotto of Locmaria", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-seven-the-grotto-of-locmaria", "summary": "Aramis and Porthos proceed carefully to Locmaria. They expect to find three servants there to help them. Porthos's legs go weak again at the entrance to the grotto. Aramis enters the grotto and gives a pre-arranged signal. Porthos descends as Aramis examines the canoe, which is well-stocked with firepower. The servants begin placing rollers under the boat in preparation of the move, but before they are finished a pack of dogs enters the grotto. A fox seeks refuge in the grotto, but it is followed by a pack of hounds, and behind the hounds, men. The King's guards, led by Biscarrat, are on a hunt. Aramis orders the dogs killed so their masters are not tempted to follow and discover the boat. The six dogs are killed, but there are still the sixteen masters left. Aramis and Porthos conceal themselves in preparation for shooting the men. The servants will load the muskets for them. Porthos asks how they are to treat Biscarrat. Aramis replies that they ought to shoot him first, since he can recognize the two rebels.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLVII. The Grotto of Locmaria. The cavern of Locmaria was sufficiently distant from the mole to render it necessary for our friends to husband their strength in order to reach it. Besides, night was advancing; midnight had struck at the fort. Porthos and Aramis were loaded with money and arms. They walked, then, across the heath, which stretched between the mole and the cavern, listening to every noise, in order better to avoid an ambush. From time to time, on the road which they had carefully left on their left, passed fugitives coming from the interior, at the news of the landing of the royal troops. Aramis and Porthos, concealed behind some projecting mass of rock, collected the words that escaped from the poor people, who fled, trembling, carrying with them their most valuable effects, and tried, whilst listening to their complaints, to gather something from them for their own interest. At length, after a rapid race, frequently interrupted by prudent stoppages, they reached the deep grottoes, in which the prophetic bishop of Vannes had taken care to have secreted a bark capable of keeping the sea at this fine season. "My good friend," said Porthos, panting vigorously, "we have arrived, it seems. But I thought you spoke of three men, three servants, who were to accompany us. I don't see them--where are they?" "Why should you see them, Porthos?" replied Aramis. "They are certainly waiting for us in the cavern, and, no doubt, are resting, having accomplished their rough and difficult task." Aramis stopped Porthos, who was preparing to enter the cavern. "Will you allow me, my friend," said he to the giant, "to pass in first? I know the signal I have given to these men; who, not hearing it, would be very likely to fire upon you or slash away with their knives in the dark." "Go on, then, Aramis; go on--go first; you impersonate wisdom and foresight; go. Ah! there is that fatigue again, of which I spoke to you. It has just seized me afresh." Aramis left Porthos sitting at the entrance of the grotto, and bowing his head, he penetrated into the interior of the cavern, imitating the cry of the owl. A little plaintive cooing, a scarcely distinct echo, replied from the depths of the cave. Aramis pursued his way cautiously, and soon was stopped by the same kind of cry as he had first uttered, within ten paces of him. "Are you there, Yves?" said the bishop. "Yes, monseigneur; Goenne is here likewise. His son accompanies us." "That is well. Are all things ready?" "Yes, monseigneur." "Go to the entrance of the grottoes, my good Yves, and you will there find the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, who is resting after the fatigue of our journey. And if he should happen not to be able to walk, lift him up, and bring him hither to me." The three men obeyed. But the recommendation given to his servants was superfluous. Porthos, refreshed, had already commenced the descent, and his heavy step resounded amongst the cavities, formed and supported by columns of porphyry and granite. As soon as the Seigneur de Bracieux had rejoined the bishop, the Bretons lighted a lantern with which they were furnished, and Porthos assured his friend that he felt as strong again as ever. "Let us inspect the boat," said Aramis, "and satisfy ourselves at once what it will hold." "Do not go too near with the light," said the patron Yves; "for as you desired me, monseigneur, I have placed under the bench of the poop, in the coffer you know of, the barrel of powder, and the musket-charges that you sent me from the fort." "Very well," said Aramis; and, taking the lantern himself, he examined minutely all parts of the canoe, with the precautions of a man who is neither timid nor ignorant in the face of danger. The canoe was long, light, drawing little water, thin of keel; in short, one of those that have always been so aptly built at Belle-Isle; a little high in its sides, solid upon the water, very manageable, furnished with planks which, in uncertain weather, formed a sort of deck over which the waves might glide, so as to protect the rowers. In two well-closed coffers, placed beneath the benches of the prow and the poop, Aramis found bread, biscuit, dried fruits, a quarter of bacon, a good provision of water in leathern bottles; the whole forming rations sufficient for people who did not mean to quit the coast, and would be able to revictual, if necessity commanded. The arms, eight muskets, and as many horse-pistols, were in good condition, and all loaded. There were additional oars, in case of accident, and that little sail called _trinquet_, which assists the speed of the canoe at the same time the boatmen row, and is so useful when the breeze is slack. When Aramis had seen to all these things, and appeared satisfied with the result of his inspection, "Let us consult Porthos," said he, "to know if we must endeavor to get the boat out by the unknown extremity of the grotto, following the descent and the shade of the cavern, or whether it be better, in the open air, to make it slide upon its rollers through the bushes, leveling the road of the little beach, which is but twenty feet high, and gives, at high tide, three or four fathoms of good water upon a sound bottom." "It must be as you please, monseigneur," replied the skipper Yves, respectfully; "but I don't believe that by the slope of the cavern, and in the dark in which we shall be obliged to maneuver our boat, the road will be so convenient as the open air. I know the beach well, and can certify that it is as smooth as a grass-plot in a garden; the interior of the grotto, on the contrary, is rough; without reckoning, monseigneur, that at its extremity we shall come to the trench which leads into the sea, and perhaps the canoe will not pass down it." "I have made my calculation," said the bishop, "and I am certain it will pass." "So be it; I wish it may, monseigneur," continued Yves; "but your highness knows very well that to make it reach the extremity of the trench, there is an enormous stone to be lifted--that under which the fox always passes, and which closes the trench like a door." "It can be raised," said Porthos; "that is nothing." "Oh! I know that monseigneur has the strength of ten men," replied Yves; "but that is giving him a great deal of trouble." "I think the skipper may be right," said Aramis; "let us try the open-air passage." "The more so, monseigneur," continued the fisherman, "that we should not be able to embark before day, it will require so much labor, and that as soon as daylight appears, a good _vedette_ placed outside the grotto would be necessary, indispensable even, to watch the maneuvers of the lighters or cruisers that are on the look-out for us." "Yes, yes, Yves, your reasons are good; we will go by the beach." And the three robust Bretons went to the boat, and were beginning to place their rollers underneath it to put it in motion, when the distant barking of dogs was heard, proceeding from the interior of the island. Aramis darted out of the grotto, followed by Porthos. Dawn just tinted with purple and white the waves and plain; through the dim light, melancholy fir-trees waved their tender branches over the pebbles, and long flights of crows were skimming with their black wings the shimmering fields of buckwheat. In a quarter of an hour it would be clear daylight; the wakened birds announced it to all nature. The barkings which had been heard, which had stopped the three fishermen engaged in moving the boat, and had brought Aramis and Porthos out of the cavern, now seemed to come from a deep gorge within about a league of the grotto. "It is a pack of hounds," said Porthos; "the dogs are on a scent." "Who can be hunting at such a moment as this?" said Aramis. "And this way, particularly," continued Porthos, "where they might expect the army of the royalists." "The noise comes nearer. Yes, you are right, Porthos, the dogs are on a scent. But, Yves!" cried Aramis, "come here! come here!" Yves ran towards him, letting fall the cylinder which he was about to place under the boat when the bishop's call interrupted him. "What is the meaning of this hunt, skipper?" said Porthos. "Eh! monseigneur, I cannot understand it," replied the Breton. "It is not at such a moment that the Seigneur de Locmaria would hunt. No, and yet the dogs--" "Unless they have escaped from the kennel." "No," said Goenne, "they are not the Seigneur de Locmaria's hounds." "In common prudence," said Aramis, "let us go back into the grotto; the voices evidently draw nearer, we shall soon know what we have to trust to." They re-entered, but had scarcely proceeded a hundred steps in the darkness, when a noise like the hoarse sigh of a creature in distress resounded through the cavern, and breathless, rapid, terrified, a fox passed like a flash of lightning before the fugitives, leaped over the boat and disappeared, leaving behind its sour scent, which was perceptible for several seconds under the low vaults of the cave. "The fox!" cried the Bretons, with the glad surprise of born hunters. "Accursed mischance!" cried the bishop, "our retreat is discovered." "How so?" said Porthos; "are you afraid of a fox?" "Eh! my friend, what do you mean by that? why do you specify the fox? It is not the fox alone. _Pardieu!_ But don't you know, Porthos, that after the foxes come hounds, and after hounds men?" Porthos hung his head. As though to confirm the words of Aramis, they heard the yelping pack approach with frightful swiftness upon the trail. Six foxhounds burst at once upon the little heath, with mingling yelps of triumph. "There are the dogs, plain enough!" said Aramis, posted on the look-out behind a chink in the rocks; "now, who are the huntsmen?" "If it is the Seigneur de Locmaria's," replied the sailor, "he will leave the dogs to hunt the grotto, for he knows them, and will not enter in himself, being quite sure that the fox will come out the other side; it is there he will wait for him." "It is not the Seigneur de Locmaria who is hunting," replied Aramis, turning pale in spite of his efforts to maintain a placid countenance. "Who is it, then?" said Porthos. "Look!" Porthos applied his eye to the slit, and saw at the summit of a hillock a dozen horsemen urging on their horses in the track of the dogs, shouting, "_Taiaut! taiaut!_" "The guards!" said he. "Yes, my friend, the king's guards." "The king's guards! do you say, monseigneur?" cried the Bretons, growing pale in turn. "With Biscarrat at their head, mounted upon my gray horse," continued Aramis. The hounds at the same moment rushed into the grotto like an avalanche, and the depths of the cavern were filled with their deafening cries. "Ah! the devil!" said Aramis, resuming all his coolness at the sight of this certain, inevitable danger. "I am perfectly satisfied we are lost, but we have, at least, one chance left. If the guards who follow their hounds happen to discover there is an issue to the grotto, there is no help for us, for on entering they must see both ourselves and our boat. The dogs must not go out of the cavern. Their masters must not enter." "That is clear," said Porthos. "You understand," added Aramis, with the rapid precision of command; "there are six dogs that will be forced to stop at the great stone under which the fox has glided--but at the too narrow opening of which they must be themselves stopped and killed." The Bretons sprang forward, knife in hand. In a few minutes there was a lamentable concert of angry barks and mortal howls--and then, silence. "That's well!" said Aramis, coolly, "now for the masters!" "What is to be done with them?" said Porthos. "Wait their arrival, conceal ourselves, and kill them." "_Kill them!_" replied Porthos. "There are sixteen," said Aramis, "at least, at present." "And well armed," added Porthos, with a smile of consolation. "It will last about ten minutes," said Aramis. "To work!" And with a resolute air he took up a musket, and placed a hunting-knife between his teeth. "Yves, Goenne, and his son," continued Aramis, "will pass the muskets to us. You, Porthos, will fire when they are close. We shall have brought down, at the lowest computation, eight, before the others are aware of anything--that is certain; then all, there are five of us, will dispatch the other eight, knife in hand." "And poor Biscarrat?" said Porthos. Aramis reflected a moment--"Biscarrat first," replied he, coolly. "He knows us."

Chapter Forty-Seven: the Grotto of Locmaria

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Aramis and Porthos proceed carefully to Locmaria. They expect to find three servants there to help them. Porthos's legs go weak again at the entrance to the grotto. Aramis enters the grotto and gives a pre-arranged signal. Porthos descends as Aramis examines the canoe, which is well-stocked with firepower. The servants begin placing rollers under the boat in preparation of the move, but before they are finished a pack of dogs enters the grotto. A fox seeks refuge in the grotto, but it is followed by a pack of hounds, and behind the hounds, men. The King's guards, led by Biscarrat, are on a hunt. Aramis orders the dogs killed so their masters are not tempted to follow and discover the boat. The six dogs are killed, but there are still the sixteen masters left. Aramis and Porthos conceal themselves in preparation for shooting the men. The servants will load the muskets for them. Porthos asks how they are to treat Biscarrat. Aramis replies that they ought to shoot him first, since he can recognize the two rebels.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/48.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_47_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 48

chapter 48: the grotto

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Eight: The Grotto", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-eight-the-grotto", "summary": "Biscarrat and his companions halt in front of the grotto. They are certain that the dogs have gone in, but are suspicious that they do not hear them. Each of the men calls for the dogs, but get no answer. Biscarrat tells the men that he will go investigate the grotto. He goes alone, saying there is no point in more than one person risking his life. After he enters, he feels the muzzle of a musket on his chest. At the same moment one of the servants brings his knife towards Biscarrat's throat, to be halted by Porthos, who refuses to have Biscarrat killed. Aramis comes up to Biscarrat from behind and presses a handkerchief over his mouth, warning him not to say anything. Biscarrat is taken aback. He thought Porthos and Aramis were in the fort. Biscarrat swears not to tell his companions what happened, but also swears to try and stop them from similarly entering the grotto. Biscarrat returns to his friends and is very reticent about what he has seen in the grotto. His friends, believing Biscarrat to be holding out on them, want to enter the grotto. He begs them not to enter, but they pay no attention. Biscarrat waits while his friends enter, and presently there are sounds of gunfire. The men stagger back cursing Biscarrat for not warning them of the ambush. Four men have been killed. The men yell at Biscarrat to tell them who is in the grotto. One man, wounded to the death, demands Biscarrat reveal the identities of the men in the grotto. He attempts to kill Biscarrat and Biscarrat welcomes the murder, but the man dies before he can strike a fatal blow. Distraught, Biscarrat throws away his sword and runs into the grotto crying that he is a dishonorable man and deserves to die. He lives. The remaining men who follow are not so lucky. Only six men, including Biscarrat, remain after the gunfire. Reinforcements arrive led by a captain. The survivors tell them the story and ask for help. Biscarrat tells them that the men in the cavern are prepared to fight to the death unless the captain can offer them good terms. The captain asks how many men there are. When he learns that only two men are defending the grotto, he laughs. Biscarrat asks if the captain remembers when four Musketeers held the bastion of St. Gervais against an entire army. The captain does remember, and Biscarrat tells him that two of those men are in the grotto. All the soldiers are shocked to hear they are about to fight Porthos and Aramis, who are legends in the military. Right now the death toll is ten, while the two defenders remain unscathed. The captain readies his troops for battle. Biscarrat makes one last plea for the men to be let go. The captain points out that he will look ridiculous if he orders the retreat of eighty men in the face of two. He prepares to enter the grotto. Biscarrat begs permission to be part of the first group to enter the grotto. Biscarrat refuses to take his sword. He enters only to be killed.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLVIII. The Grotto. In spite of the sort of divination which was the remarkable side of the character of Aramis, the event, subject to the risks of things over which uncertainty presides, did not fall out exactly as the bishop of Vannes had foreseen. Biscarrat, better mounted than his companions, arrived first at the opening of the grotto, and comprehended that fox and hounds were one and all engulfed in it. Only, struck by that superstitious terror which every dark and subterraneous way naturally impresses upon the mind of man, he stopped at the outside of the grotto, and waited till his companions should have assembled round him. "Well!" asked the young men, coming up, out of breath, and unable to understand the meaning of this inaction. "Well! I cannot hear the dogs; they and the fox must all be lost in this infernal cavern." "They were too close up," said one of the guards, "to have lost scent all at once. Besides, we should hear them from one side or another. They must, as Biscarrat says, be in this grotto." "But then," said one of the young men, "why don't they give tongue?" "It is strange!" muttered another. "Well, but," said a fourth, "let us go into this grotto. Does it happen to be forbidden we should enter it?" "No," replied Biscarrat. "Only, as it looks as dark as a wolf's mouth, we might break our necks in it." "Witness the dogs," said a guard, "who seem to have broken theirs." "What the devil can have become of them?" asked the young men in chorus. And every master called his dog by his name, whistled to him in his favorite mode, without a single one replying to either call or whistle. "It is perhaps an enchanted grotto," said Biscarrat; "let us see." And, jumping from his horse, he made a step into the grotto. "Stop! stop! I will accompany you," said one of the guards, on seeing Biscarrat disappear in the shades of the cavern's mouth. "No," replied Biscarrat, "there must be something extraordinary in the place--don't let us risk ourselves all at once. If in ten minutes you do not hear of me, you can come in, but not all at once." "Be it so," said the young man, who, besides, did not imagine that Biscarrat ran much risk in the enterprise, "we will wait for you." And without dismounting from their horses, they formed a circle round the grotto. Biscarrat entered then alone, and advanced through the darkness till he came in contact with the muzzle of Porthos's musket. The resistance which his chest met with astonished him; he naturally raised his hand and laid hold of the icy barrel. At the same instant, Yves lifted a knife against the young man, which was about to fall upon him with all force of a Breton's arm, when the iron wrist of Porthos stopped it half-way. Then, like low muttering thunder, his voice growled in the darkness, "I will not have him killed!" Biscarrat found himself between a protection and a threat, the one almost as terrible as the other. However brave the young man might be, he could not prevent a cry escaping him, which Aramis immediately suppressed by placing a handkerchief over his mouth. "Monsieur de Biscarrat," said he, in a low voice, "we mean you no harm, and you must know that if you have recognized us; but, at the first word, the first groan, the first whisper, we shall be forced to kill you as we have killed your dogs." "Yes, I recognize you, gentlemen," said the officer, in a low voice. "But why are you here--what are you doing, here? Unfortunate men! I thought you were in the fort." "And you, monsieur, you were to obtain conditions for us, I think?" "I did all I was able, messieurs, but--" "But what?" "But there are positive orders." "To kill us?" Biscarrat made no reply. It would have cost him too much to speak of the cord to gentlemen. Aramis understood the silence of the prisoner. "Monsieur Biscarrat," said he, "you would be already dead if we had not regard for your youth and our ancient association with your father; but you may yet escape from the place by swearing that you will not tell your companions what you have seen." "I will not only swear that I will not speak of it," said Biscarrat, "but I still further swear that I will do everything in the world to prevent my companions from setting foot in the grotto." "Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" cried several voices from the outside, coming like a whirlwind into the cave. "Reply," said Aramis. "Here I am!" cried Biscarrat. "Now, begone; we depend on your loyalty." And he left his hold of the young man, who hastily returned towards the light. "Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" cried the voices, still nearer. And the shadows of several human forms projected into the interior of the grotto. Biscarrat rushed to meet his friends in order to stop them, and met them just as they were adventuring into the cave. Aramis and Porthos listened with the intense attention of men whose life depends upon a breath of air. "Oh! oh!" exclaimed one of the guards, as he came to the light, "how pale you are!" "Pale!" cried another; "you ought to say corpse-color." "I!" said the young man, endeavoring to collect his faculties. "In the name of Heaven! what has happened?" exclaimed all the voices. "You have not a drop of blood in your veins, my poor friend," said one of them, laughing. "Messieurs, it is serious," said another, "he is going to faint; does any one of you happen to have any salts?" And they all laughed. This hail of jests fell round Biscarrat's ears like musket-balls in a _melee_. He recovered himself amidst a deluge of interrogations. "What do you suppose I have seen?" asked he. "I was too hot when I entered the grotto, and I have been struck with a chill. That is all." "But the dogs, the dogs; have you seen them again--did you see anything of them--do you know anything about them?" "I suppose they have got out some other way." "Messieurs," said one of the young men, "there is in that which is going on, in the paleness and silence of our friend, a mystery which Biscarrat will not, or cannot reveal. Only, and this is certain, Biscarrat has seen something in the grotto. Well, for my part, I am very curious to see what it is, even if it is the devil! To the grotto! messieurs, to the grotto!" "To the grotto!" repeated all the voices. And the echo of the cavern carried like a menace to Porthos and Aramis, "To the grotto! to the grotto!" Biscarrat threw himself before his companions. "Messieurs! messieurs!" cried he, "in the name of Heaven! do not go in!" "Why, what is there so terrific in the cavern?" asked several at once. "Come, speak, Biscarrat." "Decidedly, it is the devil he has seen," repeated he who had before advanced that hypothesis. "Well," said another, "if he has seen him, he need not be selfish; he may as well let us have a look at him in turn." "Messieurs! messieurs! I beseech you," urged Biscarrat. "Nonsense! Let us pass!" "Messieurs, I implore you not to enter!" "Why, you went in yourself." Then one of the officers, who--of a riper age than the others--had till this time remained behind, and had said nothing, advanced. "Messieurs," said he, with a calmness which contrasted with the animation of the young men, "there is in there some person, or something, that is not the devil; but which, whatever it may be, has had sufficient power to silence our dogs. We must discover who this some one is, or what this something is." Biscarrat made a last effort to stop his friends, but it was useless. In vain he threw himself before the rashest; in vain he clung to the rocks to bar the passage; the crowd of young men rushed into the cave, in the steps of the officer who had spoken last, but who had sprung in first, sword in hand, to face the unknown danger. Biscarrat, repulsed by his friends, unable to accompany them, without passing in the eyes of Porthos and Aramis for a traitor and a perjurer, with painfully attentive ear and unconsciously supplicating hands leaned against the rough side of a rock which he thought must be exposed to the fire of the musketeers. As to the guards, they penetrated further and further, with exclamations that grew fainter as they advanced. All at once, a discharge of musketry, growling like thunder, exploded in the entrails of the vault. Two or three balls were flattened against the rock on which Biscarrat was leaning. At the same instant, cries, shrieks, imprecations burst forth, and the little troop of gentlemen reappeared--some pale, some bleeding--all enveloped in a cloud of smoke, which the outer air seemed to suck from the depths of the cavern. "Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" cried the fugitives, "you knew there was an ambuscade in that cavern, and you did not warn us! Biscarrat, you are the cause that four of us are murdered men! Woe be to you, Biscarrat!" "You are the cause of my being wounded unto death," said one of the young men, letting a gush of scarlet life-blood vomit in his palm, and spattering it into Biscarrat's livid face. "My blood be on your head!" And he rolled in agony at the feet of the young man. "But, at least, tell us who is there?" cried several furious voices. Biscarrat remained silent. "Tell us, or die!" cried the wounded man, raising himself upon one knee, and lifting towards his companion an arm bearing a useless sword. Biscarrat rushed towards him, opening his breast for the blow, but the wounded man fell back not to rise again, uttering a groan which was his last. Biscarrat, with hair on end, haggard eyes, and bewildered head, advanced towards the interior of the cavern, saying, "You are right. Death to me, who have allowed my comrades to be assassinated. I am a worthless wretch!" And throwing away his sword, for he wished to die without defending himself, he rushed head foremost into the cavern. The others followed him. The eleven who remained out of sixteen imitated his example; but they did not go further than the first. A second discharge laid five upon the icy sand; and as it was impossible to see whence this murderous thunder issued, the others fell back with a terror that can be better imagined than described. But, far from flying, as the others had done, Biscarrat remained safe and sound, seated on a fragment of rock, and waited. There were only six gentlemen left. "Seriously," said one of the survivors, "is it the devil?" "_Ma foi!_ it is much worse," said another. "Ask Biscarrat, he knows." "Where is Biscarrat?" The young men looked round them, and saw that Biscarrat did not answer. "He is dead!" said two or three voices. "Oh! no!" replied another, "I saw him through the smoke, sitting quietly on a rock. He is in the cavern; he is waiting for us." "He must know who are there." "And how should he know them?" "He was taken prisoner by the rebels." "That is true. Well! let us call him, and learn from him whom we have to deal with." And all voices shouted, "Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" But Biscarrat did not answer. "Good!" said the officer who had shown so much coolness in the affair. "We have no longer any need of him; here are reinforcements coming." In fact, a company of guards, left in the rear by their officers, whom the ardor of the chase had carried away--from seventy-five to eighty men--arrived in good order, led by their captain and the first lieutenant. The five officers hastened to meet their soldiers; and, in language the eloquence of which may be easily imagined, they related the adventure, and asked for aid. The captain interrupted them. "Where are your companions?" demanded he. "Dead!" "But there were sixteen of you!" "Ten are dead. Biscarrat is in the cavern, and we are five." "Biscarrat is a prisoner?" "Probably." "No, for here he is--look." In fact, Biscarrat appeared at the opening of the grotto. "He is making a sign to come on," said the officer. "Come on!" "Come on!" cried all the troop. And they advanced to meet Biscarrat. "Monsieur," said the captain, addressing Biscarrat, "I am assured that you know who the men are in that grotto, and who make such a desperate defense. In the king's name I command you to declare what you know." "Captain," said Biscarrat, "you have no need to command me. My word has been restored to me this very instant; and I came in the name of these men." "To tell me who they are?" "To tell you they are determined to defend themselves to the death, unless you grant them satisfactory terms." "How many are there of them, then?" "There are two," said Biscarrat. "There are two--and want to impose conditions upon us?" "There are two, and they have already killed ten of our men." "What sort of people are they--giants?" "Worse than that. Do you remember the history of the Bastion Saint-Gervais, captain?" "Yes; where four musketeers held out against an army." "Well, these are two of those same musketeers." "And their names?" "At that period they were called Porthos and Aramis. Now they are styled M. d'Herblay and M. du Vallon." "And what interest have they in all this?" "It is they who were holding Bell-Isle for M. Fouquet." A murmur ran through the ranks of the soldiers on hearing the two words "Porthos and Aramis." "The musketeers! the musketeers!" repeated they. And among all these brave men, the idea that they were going to have a struggle against two of the oldest glories of the French army, made a shiver, half enthusiasm, two-thirds terror, run through them. In fact, those four names--D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis--were venerated among all who wore a sword; as, in antiquity, the names of Hercules, Theseus, Castor, and Pollux were venerated. "Two men--and they have killed ten in two discharges! It is impossible, Monsieur Biscarrat!" "Eh! captain," replied the latter, "I do not tell you that they have not with them two or three men, as the musketeers of the Bastion Saint-Gervais had two or three lackeys; but, believe me, captain, I have seen these men, I have been taken prisoner by them--I know they themselves alone are all-sufficient to destroy an army." "That we shall see," said the captain, "and that in a moment, too. Gentlemen, attention!" At this reply, no one stirred, and all prepared to obey. Biscarrat alone risked a last attempt. "Monsieur," said he, in a low voice, "be persuaded by me; let us pass on our way. Those two men, those two lions you are going to attack, will defend themselves to the death. They have already killed ten of our men; they will kill double the number, and end by killing themselves rather than surrender. What shall we gain by fighting them?" "We shall gain the consciousness, monsieur, of not having allowed eighty of the king's guards to retire before two rebels. If I listened to your advice, monsieur, I should be a dishonored man; and by dishonoring myself I should dishonor the army. Forward, my men!" And he marched first as far as the opening of the grotto. There he halted. The object of this halt was to give Biscarrat and his companions time to describe to him the interior of the grotto. Then, when he believed he had a sufficient acquaintance with the place, he divided his company into three bodies, which were to enter successively, keeping up a sustained fire in all directions. No doubt, in this attack they would lose five more, perhaps ten; but, certainly, they must end by taking the rebels, since there was no issue; and, at any rate, two men could not kill eighty. "Captain," said Biscarrat, "I beg to be allowed to march at the head of the first platoon." "So be it," replied the captain; "you have all the honor. I make you a present of it." "Thanks!" replied the young man, with all the firmness of his race. "Take your sword, then." "I shall go as I am, captain," said Biscarrat, "for I do not go to kill, I go to be killed." And placing himself at the head of the first platoon, with head uncovered and arms crossed,--"March, gentlemen," said he.

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Grotto

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Biscarrat and his companions halt in front of the grotto. They are certain that the dogs have gone in, but are suspicious that they do not hear them. Each of the men calls for the dogs, but get no answer. Biscarrat tells the men that he will go investigate the grotto. He goes alone, saying there is no point in more than one person risking his life. After he enters, he feels the muzzle of a musket on his chest. At the same moment one of the servants brings his knife towards Biscarrat's throat, to be halted by Porthos, who refuses to have Biscarrat killed. Aramis comes up to Biscarrat from behind and presses a handkerchief over his mouth, warning him not to say anything. Biscarrat is taken aback. He thought Porthos and Aramis were in the fort. Biscarrat swears not to tell his companions what happened, but also swears to try and stop them from similarly entering the grotto. Biscarrat returns to his friends and is very reticent about what he has seen in the grotto. His friends, believing Biscarrat to be holding out on them, want to enter the grotto. He begs them not to enter, but they pay no attention. Biscarrat waits while his friends enter, and presently there are sounds of gunfire. The men stagger back cursing Biscarrat for not warning them of the ambush. Four men have been killed. The men yell at Biscarrat to tell them who is in the grotto. One man, wounded to the death, demands Biscarrat reveal the identities of the men in the grotto. He attempts to kill Biscarrat and Biscarrat welcomes the murder, but the man dies before he can strike a fatal blow. Distraught, Biscarrat throws away his sword and runs into the grotto crying that he is a dishonorable man and deserves to die. He lives. The remaining men who follow are not so lucky. Only six men, including Biscarrat, remain after the gunfire. Reinforcements arrive led by a captain. The survivors tell them the story and ask for help. Biscarrat tells them that the men in the cavern are prepared to fight to the death unless the captain can offer them good terms. The captain asks how many men there are. When he learns that only two men are defending the grotto, he laughs. Biscarrat asks if the captain remembers when four Musketeers held the bastion of St. Gervais against an entire army. The captain does remember, and Biscarrat tells him that two of those men are in the grotto. All the soldiers are shocked to hear they are about to fight Porthos and Aramis, who are legends in the military. Right now the death toll is ten, while the two defenders remain unscathed. The captain readies his troops for battle. Biscarrat makes one last plea for the men to be let go. The captain points out that he will look ridiculous if he orders the retreat of eighty men in the face of two. He prepares to enter the grotto. Biscarrat begs permission to be part of the first group to enter the grotto. Biscarrat refuses to take his sword. He enters only to be killed.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/49.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_48_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 49

chapter 49: a homeric song

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Nine: A Homeric Song", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-nine-a-homeric-song", "summary": "As for the defenders, they have begun to move out their boat. They cannot escape while the attack occurs Porthos suggests that he hide behind a pillar with a iron bar that he can use to bash in their heads. Aramis says it's a great idea, but points out that they need a weapon that will take out dozens at once. Twenty-five men led by Biscarrat enter the cave. Aramis tells Porthos to wait for his signal. Biscarrat calls his friends onwards, and Aramis tells Porthos to strike. In the next instant, Biscarrat falls down dead. The bar completely annihilates the first platoon with no problems. Meanwhile, the second wave continues to advance. The second wave is led by the captain, who has a torch. The men are shocked to find dead bodies. The captain eventually spots Porthos behind a pillar. Porthos strangles the captain to death and extinguishes the light, sending the rest of the men into terror. They begin shooting blindly. They are met only with silence and the sounds of the third group entering the cavern.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XLIX. An Homeric Song. It is time to pass to the other camp, and to describe at once the combatants and the field of battle. Aramis and Porthos had gone to the grotto of Locmaria with the expectation of finding there their canoe ready armed, as well as the three Bretons, their assistants; and they at first hoped to make the bark pass through the little issue of the cavern, concealing in that fashion both their labors and their flight. The arrival of the fox and dogs obliged them to remain concealed. The grotto extended the space of about a hundred _toises_, to that little slope dominating a creek. Formerly a temple of the Celtic divinities, when Belle-Isle was still called Kalonese, this grotto had beheld more than one human sacrifice accomplished in its mystic depths. The first entrance to the cavern was by a moderate descent, above which distorted rocks formed a weird arcade; the interior, very uneven and dangerous from the inequalities of the vault, was subdivided into several compartments, which communicated with each other by means of rough and jagged steps, fixed right and left, in uncouth natural pillars. At the third compartment the vault was so low, the passage so narrow, that the bark would scarcely have passed without touching the side; nevertheless, in moments of despair, wood softens and stone grows flexible beneath the human will. Such was the thought of Aramis, when, after having fought the fight, he decided upon flight--a flight most dangerous, since all the assailants were not dead; and that, admitting the possibility of putting the bark to sea, they would have to fly in open day, before the conquered, so interested on recognizing their small number, in pursuing their conquerors. When the two discharges had killed ten men, Aramis, familiar with the windings of the cavern, went to reconnoiter them one by one, and counted them, for the smoke prevented seeing outside; and he immediately commanded that the canoe should be rolled as far as the great stone, the closure of the liberating issue. Porthos collected all his strength, took the canoe in his arms, and raised it up, whilst the Bretons made it run rapidly along the rollers. They had descended into the third compartment; they had arrived at the stone which walled the outlet. Porthos seized this gigantic stone at its base, applied his robust shoulder, and gave a heave which made the wall crack. A cloud of dust fell from the vault, with the ashes of ten thousand generations of sea birds, whose nests stuck like cement to the rock. At the third shock the stone gave way, and oscillated for a minute. Porthos, placing his back against the neighboring rock, made an arch with his foot, which drove the block out of the calcareous masses which served for hinges and cramps. The stone fell, and daylight was visible, brilliant, radiant, flooding the cavern through the opening, and the blue sea appeared to the delighted Bretons. They began to lift the bark over the barricade. Twenty more _toises_, and it would glide into the ocean. It was during this time that the company arrived, was drawn up by the captain, and disposed for either an escalade or an assault. Aramis watched over everything, to favor the labors of his friends. He saw the reinforcements, counted the men, and convinced himself at a single glance of the insurmountable peril to which fresh combat would expose them. To escape by sea, at the moment the cavern was about to be invaded, was impossible. In fact, the daylight which had just been admitted to the last compartments had exposed to the soldiers the bark being rolled towards the sea, the two rebels within musket-shot; and one of their discharges would riddle the boat if it did not kill the navigators. Besides, allowing everything,--if the bark escaped with the men on board of it, how could the alarm be suppressed--how could notice to the royal lighters be prevented? What could hinder the poor canoe, followed by sea and watched from the shore, from succumbing before the end of the day? Aramis, digging his hands into his gray hair with rage, invoked the assistance of God and the assistance of the demons. Calling to Porthos, who was doing more work than all the rollers--whether of flesh or wood--"My friend," said he, "our adversaries have just received a reinforcement." "Ah, ah!" said Porthos, quietly, "what is to be done, then?" "To recommence the combat," said Aramis, "is hazardous." "Yes," said Porthos, "for it is difficult to suppose that out of two, one should not be killed; and certainly, if one of us was killed, the other would get himself killed also." Porthos spoke these words with that heroic nature which, with him, grew grander with necessity. Aramis felt it like a spur to his heart. "We shall neither of us be killed if you do what I tell you, friend Porthos." "Tell me what?" "These people are coming down into the grotto." "Yes." "We could kill about fifteen of them, but no more." "How many are there in all?" asked Porthos. "They have received a reinforcement of seventy-five men." "Seventy-five and five, eighty. Ah!" sighed Porthos. "If they fire all at once they will riddle us with balls." "Certainly they will." "Without reckoning," added Aramis, "that the detonation might occasion a collapse of the cavern." "Ay," said Porthos, "a piece of falling rock just now grazed my shoulder." "You see, then?" "Oh! it is nothing." "We must determine upon something quickly. Our Bretons are going to continue to roll the canoe towards the sea." "Very well." "We two will keep the powder, the balls, and the muskets here." "But only two, my dear Aramis--we shall never fire three shots together," said Porthos, innocently, "the defense by musketry is a bad one." "Find a better, then." "I have found one," said the giant, eagerly; "I will place myself in ambuscade behind the pillar with this iron bar, and invisible, unattackable, if they come in floods, I can let my bar fall upon their skulls, thirty times in a minute. _Hein!_ what do you think of the project? You smile!" "Excellent, dear friend, perfect! I approve it greatly; only you will frighten them, and half of them will remain outside to take us by famine. What we want, my good friend, is the entire destruction of the troop. A single survivor encompasses our ruin." "You are right, my friend, but how can we attract them, pray?" "By not stirring, my good Porthos." "Well! we won't stir, then; but when they are all together--" "Then leave it to me, I have an idea." "If it is so, and your idea proves a good one--and your idea is most likely to be good--I am satisfied." "To your ambuscade, Porthos, and count how many enter." "But you, what will you do?" "Don't trouble yourself about me; I have a task to perform." "I think I hear shouts." "It is they! To your post. Keep within reach of my voice and hand." Porthos took refuge in the second compartment, which was in darkness, absolutely black. Aramis glided into the third; the giant held in his hand an iron bar of about fifty pounds weight. Porthos handled this lever, which had been used in rolling the bark, with marvelous facility. During this time, the Bretons had pushed the bark to the beach. In the further and lighter compartment, Aramis, stooping and concealed, was busy with some mysterious maneuver. A command was given in a loud voice. It was the last order of the captain commandant. Twenty-five men jumped from the upper rocks into the first compartment of the grotto, and having taken their ground, began to fire. The echoes shrieked and barked, the hissing balls seemed actually to rarefy the air, and then opaque smoke filled the vault. "To the left! to the left!" cried Biscarrat, who, in his first assault, had seen the passage to the second chamber, and who, animated by the smell of powder, wished to guide his soldiers in that direction. The troop, accordingly, precipitated themselves to the left--the passage gradually growing narrower. Biscarrat, with his hands stretched forward, devoted to death, marched in advance of the muskets. "Come on! come on!" exclaimed he, "I see daylight!" "Strike, Porthos!" cried the sepulchral voice of Aramis. Porthos breathed a heavy sigh--but he obeyed. The iron bar fell full and direct upon the head of Biscarrat, who was dead before he had ended his cry. Then the formidable lever rose ten times in ten seconds, and made ten corpses. The soldiers could see nothing; they heard sighs and groans; they stumbled over dead bodies, but as they had no conception of the cause of all this, they came forward jostling each other. The implacable bar, still falling, annihilated the first platoon, without a single sound to warn the second, which was quietly advancing; only, commanded by the captain, the men had stripped a fir, growing on the shore, and, with its resinous branches twisted together, the captain had made a flambeau. On arriving at the compartment where Porthos, like the exterminating angel, had destroyed all he touched, the first rank drew back in terror. No firing had replied to that of the guards, and yet their way was stopped by a heap of dead bodies--they literally walked in blood. Porthos was still behind his pillar. The captain, illumining with trembling pine-torch this frightful carnage, of which he in vain sought the cause, drew back towards the pillar behind which Porthos was concealed. Then a gigantic hand issued from the shade, and fastened on the throat of the captain, who uttered a stifle rattle; his stretched-out arms beating the air, the torch fell and was extinguished in blood. A second after, the corpse of the captain dropped close to the extinguished torch, and added another body to the heap of dead which blocked up the passage. All this was effected as mysteriously as though by magic. At hearing the rattling in the throat of the captain, the soldiers who accompanied him had turned round, caught a glimpse of his extended arms, his eyes starting from their sockets, and then the torch fell and they were left in darkness. From an unreflective, instinctive, mechanical feeling, the lieutenant cried: "Fire!" Immediately a volley of musketry flamed, thundered, roared in the cavern, bringing down enormous fragments from the vaults. The cavern was lighted for an instant by this discharge, and then immediately returned to pitchy darkness rendered thicker by the smoke. To this succeeded a profound silence, broken only by the steps of the third brigade, now entering the cavern.

Chapter Forty-Nine: A Homeric Song

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-forty-nine-a-homeric-song

As for the defenders, they have begun to move out their boat. They cannot escape while the attack occurs Porthos suggests that he hide behind a pillar with a iron bar that he can use to bash in their heads. Aramis says it's a great idea, but points out that they need a weapon that will take out dozens at once. Twenty-five men led by Biscarrat enter the cave. Aramis tells Porthos to wait for his signal. Biscarrat calls his friends onwards, and Aramis tells Porthos to strike. In the next instant, Biscarrat falls down dead. The bar completely annihilates the first platoon with no problems. Meanwhile, the second wave continues to advance. The second wave is led by the captain, who has a torch. The men are shocked to find dead bodies. The captain eventually spots Porthos behind a pillar. Porthos strangles the captain to death and extinguishes the light, sending the rest of the men into terror. They begin shooting blindly. They are met only with silence and the sounds of the third group entering the cavern.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/50.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_49_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 50

chapter 50: the death of a titan

{"name": "Chapter Fifty: The Death of a Titan", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-the-death-of-a-titan", "summary": "Aramis leads Porthos into another compartment of the cavern and shows him a seventy to eighty pound barrel of powder attached to a fuse. Porthos is to wait until all the men are together, and then hurl the barrel in their direction. Aramis prepares the boat for departure. They light the barrel. Aramis leaves. As the fuse sparkles, the giant figure of Porthos is briefly illuminated. The soldiers are terrified. An officer tries to get some men to fire at Porthos, but they miss. The barrel falls into the soldiers' midst. The officer falls on the barrel, trying to stop the fuse. The barrel explodes. The soldiers die. Porthos turns and runs for the exit. He can see Aramis manning the boat. Six steps away from freedom, Porthos feels his legs falter. Porthos cannot move, and Aramis cries for him to hurry. Porthos cannot move. Then the explosion hits. Porthos regains his strength, but as he is running, granite rocks begin to fall from overhead. Porthos attempts to carry the giant granite masses, but even his strength is no match for the weight of the rocks. He is slowly crushed. Frantic, Aramis and two of the servants try to come to his aid. Porthos continues being crushed into the ground even as the men work to free him. His last words are: \"Too heavy.\"", "analysis": ""}

Chapter L: The Death of a Titan. At the moment when Porthos, more accustomed to the darkness than these men, coming from open daylight, was looking round him to see if through this artificial midnight Aramis were not making him some signal, he felt his arm gently touched, and a voice low as a breath murmured in his ear, "Come." "Oh!" said Porthos. "Hush!" said Aramis, if possible, yet more softly. And amidst the noise of the third brigade, which continued to advance, the imprecations of the guards still left alive, the muffled groans of the dying, Aramis and Porthos glided unseen along the granite walls of the cavern. Aramis led Porthos into the last but one compartment, and showed him, in a hollow of the rocky wall, a barrel of powder weighing from seventy to eighty pounds, to which he had just attached a fuse. "My friend," said he to Porthos, "you will take this barrel, the match of which I am going to set fire to, and throw it amidst our enemies; can you do so?" "_Parbleu!_" replied Porthos; and he lifted the barrel with one hand. "Light it!" "Stop," said Aramis, "till they are all massed together, and then, my Jupiter, hurl your thunderbolt among them." "Light it," repeated Porthos. "On my part," continued Aramis, "I will join our Bretons, and help them to get the canoe to the sea. I will wait for you on the shore; launch it strongly, and hasten to us." "Light it," said Porthos, a third time. "But do you understand me?" "_Parbleu!_" said Porthos again, with laughter that he did not even attempt to restrain, "when a thing is explained to me I understand it; begone, and give me the light." Aramis gave the burning match to Porthos, who held out his arm to him, his hands being engaged. Aramis pressed the arm of Porthos with both his hands, and fell back to the outlet of the cavern where the three rowers awaited him. Porthos, left alone, applied the spark bravely to the match. The spark--a feeble spark, first principle of conflagration--shone in the darkness like a glow-worm, then was deadened against the match which it set fire to, Porthos enlivening the flame with his breath. The smoke was a little dispersed, and by the light of the sparkling match objects might, for two seconds, be distinguished. It was a brief but splendid spectacle, that of this giant, pale, bloody, his countenance lighted by the fire of the match burning in surrounding darkness! The soldiers saw him, they saw the barrel he held in his hand--they at once understood what was going to happen. Then, these men, already choked with horror at the sight of what had been accomplished, filled with terror at thought of what was about to be accomplished, gave out a simultaneous shriek of agony. Some endeavored to fly, but they encountered the third brigade, which barred their passage; others mechanically took aim and attempted to fire their discharged muskets; others fell instinctively upon their knees. Two or three officers cried out to Porthos to promise him his liberty if he would spare their lives. The lieutenant of the third brigade commanded his men to fire; but the guards had before them their terrified companions, who served as a living rampart for Porthos. We have said that the light produced by the spark and the match did not last more than two seconds; but during these two seconds this is what it illumined: in the first place, the giant, enlarged in the darkness; then, at ten paces off, a heap of bleeding bodies, crushed, mutilated, in the midst of which some still heaved in the last agony, lifting the mass as a last respiration inflating the sides of some old monster dying in the night. Every breath of Porthos, thus vivifying the match, sent towards this heap of bodies a phosphorescent aura, mingled with streaks of purple. In addition to this principal group scattered about the grotto, as the chances of death or surprise had stretched them, isolated bodies seemed to be making ghastly exhibitions of their gaping wounds. Above ground, bedded in pools of blood, rose, heavy and sparkling, the short, thick pillars of the cavern, of which the strongly marked shades threw out the luminous particles. And all this was seen by the tremulous light of a match attached to a barrel of powder, that is to say, a torch which, whilst throwing a light on the dead past, showed death to come. As I have said, this spectacle did not last above two seconds. During this short space of time an officer of the third brigade got together eight men armed with muskets, and, through an opening, ordered them to fire upon Porthos. But they who received the order to fire trembled so that three guards fell by the discharge, and the five remaining balls hissed on to splinter the vault, plow the ground, or indent the pillars of the cavern. A burst of laughter replied to this volley; then the arm of the giant swung round; then was seen whirling through the air, like a falling star, the train of fire. The barrel, hurled a distance of thirty feet, cleared the barricade of dead bodies, and fell amidst a group of shrieking soldiers, who threw themselves on their faces. The officer had followed the brilliant train in the air; he endeavored to precipitate himself upon the barrel and tear out the match before it reached the powder it contained. Useless! The air had made the flame attached to the conductor more active; the match, which at rest might have burnt five minutes, was consumed in thirty seconds, and the infernal work exploded. Furious vortices of sulphur and nitre, devouring shoals of fire which caught every object, the terrible thunder of the explosion, this is what the second which followed disclosed in that cavern of horrors. The rocks split like planks of deal beneath the axe. A jet of fire, smoke, and _debris_ sprang from the middle of the grotto, enlarging as it mounted. The large walls of silex tottered and fell upon the sand, and the sand itself, an instrument of pain when launched from its hard bed, riddled the faces with its myriad cutting atoms. Shrieks, imprecations, human life, dead bodies--all were engulfed in one terrific crash. The three first compartments became one sepulchral sink into which fell grimly back, in the order of their weight, every vegetable, mineral, or human fragment. Then the lighter sand and ash came down in turn, stretching like a winding sheet and smoking over the dismal scene. And now, in this burning tomb, this subterranean volcano, seek the king's guards with their blue coats laced with silver. Seek the officers, brilliant in gold, seek for the arms upon which they depended for their defense. One single man has made of all of those things a chaos more confused, more shapeless, more terrible than the chaos which existed before the creation of the world. There remained nothing of the three compartments--nothing by which God could have recognized His handiwork. As for Porthos, after having hurled the barrel of powder amidst his enemies, he had fled, as Aramis had directed him to do, and had gained the last compartment, into which air, light, and sunshine penetrated through the opening. Scarcely had he turned the angle which separated the third compartment from the fourth when he perceived at a hundred paces from him the bark dancing on the waves. There were his friends, there liberty, there life and victory. Six more of his formidable strides, and he would be out of the vault; out of the vault! a dozen of his vigorous leaps and he would reach the canoe. Suddenly he felt his knees give way; his knees seemed powerless, his legs to yield beneath him. "Oh! oh!" murmured he, "there is my weakness seizing me again! I can walk no further! What is this?" Aramis perceived him through the opening, and unable to conceive what could induce him to stop thus--"Come on, Porthos! come on," he cried; "come quickly!" "Oh!" replied the giant, making an effort that contorted every muscle of his body--"oh! but I cannot." While saying these words, he fell upon his knees, but with his mighty hands he clung to the rocks, and raised himself up again. "Quick! quick!" repeated Aramis, bending forward towards the shore, as if to draw Porthos towards him with his arms. "Here I am," stammered Porthos, collecting all his strength to make one step more. "In the name of Heaven! Porthos, make haste! the barrel will blow up!" "Make haste, monseigneur!" shouted the Bretons to Porthos, who was floundering as in a dream. But there was no time; the explosion thundered, earth gaped, the smoke which hurled through the clefts obscured the sky; the sea flowed back as though driven by the blast of flame which darted from the grotto as if from the jaws of some gigantic fiery chimera; the reflux took the bark out twenty _toises_; the solid rocks cracked to their base, and separated like blocks beneath the operation of the wedge; a portion of the vault was carried up towards heaven, as if it had been built of cardboard; the green and blue and topaz conflagration and black lava of liquefactions clashed and combated an instant beneath a majestic dome of smoke; then oscillated, declined, and fell successively the mighty monoliths of rock which the violence of the explosion had not been able to uproot from the bed of ages; they bowed to each other like grave and stiff old men, then prostrating themselves, lay down forever in their dusty tomb. This frightful shock seemed to restore Porthos the strength that he had lost; he arose, a giant among granite giants. But at the moment he was flying between the double hedge of granite phantoms, these latter, which were no longer supported by the corresponding links, began to roll and totter round our Titan, who looked as if precipitated from heaven amidst rocks which he had just been launching. Porthos felt the very earth beneath his feet becoming jelly-tremulous. He stretched both hands to repulse the falling rocks. A gigantic block was held back by each of his extended arms. He bent his head, and a third granite mass sank between his shoulders. For an instant the power of Porthos seemed about to fail him, but this new Hercules united all his force, and the two walls of the prison in which he was buried fell back slowly and gave him place. For an instant he appeared, in this frame of granite, like the angel of chaos, but in pushing back the lateral rocks, he lost his point of support, for the monolith which weighed upon his shoulders, and the boulder, pressing upon him with all its weight, brought the giant down upon his knees. The lateral rocks, for an instant pushed back, drew together again, and added their weight to the ponderous mass which would have been sufficient to crush ten men. The hero fell without a groan--he fell while answering Aramis with words of encouragement and hope, for, thanks to the powerful arch of his hands, for an instant he believed that, like Enceladus, he would succeed in shaking off the triple load. But by degrees Aramis beheld the block sink; the hands, strung for an instant, the arms stiffened for a last effort, gave way, the extended shoulders sank, wounded and torn, and the rocks continued to gradually collapse. "Porthos! Porthos!" cried Aramis, tearing his hair. "Porthos! where are you? Speak!" "Here, here," murmured Porthos, with a voice growing evidently weaker, "patience! patience!" Scarcely had he pronounced these words, when the impulse of the fall augmented the weight; the enormous rock sank down, pressed by those others which sank in from the sides, and, as it were, swallowed up Porthos in a sepulcher of badly jointed stones. On hearing the dying voice of his friend, Aramis had sprung to land. Two of the Bretons followed him, with each a lever in his hand--one being sufficient to take care of the bark. The dying rattle of the valiant gladiator guided them amidst the ruins. Aramis, animated, active and young as at twenty, sprang towards the triple mass, and with his hands, delicate as those of a woman, raised by a miracle of strength the corner-stone of this great granite grave. Then he caught a glimpse, through the darkness of that charnel-house, of the still brilliant eye of his friend, to whom the momentary lifting of the mass restored a momentary respiration. The two men came rushing up, grasped their iron levers, united their triple strength, not merely to raise it, but sustain it. All was useless. They gave way with cries of grief, and the rough voice of Porthos, seeing them exhaust themselves in a useless struggle, murmured in an almost cheerful tone those supreme words which came to his lips with the last respiration, "Too heavy!" After which his eyes darkened and closed, his face grew ashy pale, the hands whitened, and the colossus sank quite down, breathing his last sigh. With him sank the rock, which, even in his dying agony he had still held up. The three men dropped the levers, which rolled upon the tumulary stone. Then, breathless, pale, his brow covered with sweat, Aramis listened, his breast oppressed, his heart ready to break. Nothing more. The giant slept the eternal sleep, in the sepulcher which God had built about him to his measure.

Chapter Fifty: The Death of a Titan

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-the-death-of-a-titan

Aramis leads Porthos into another compartment of the cavern and shows him a seventy to eighty pound barrel of powder attached to a fuse. Porthos is to wait until all the men are together, and then hurl the barrel in their direction. Aramis prepares the boat for departure. They light the barrel. Aramis leaves. As the fuse sparkles, the giant figure of Porthos is briefly illuminated. The soldiers are terrified. An officer tries to get some men to fire at Porthos, but they miss. The barrel falls into the soldiers' midst. The officer falls on the barrel, trying to stop the fuse. The barrel explodes. The soldiers die. Porthos turns and runs for the exit. He can see Aramis manning the boat. Six steps away from freedom, Porthos feels his legs falter. Porthos cannot move, and Aramis cries for him to hurry. Porthos cannot move. Then the explosion hits. Porthos regains his strength, but as he is running, granite rocks begin to fall from overhead. Porthos attempts to carry the giant granite masses, but even his strength is no match for the weight of the rocks. He is slowly crushed. Frantic, Aramis and two of the servants try to come to his aid. Porthos continues being crushed into the ground even as the men work to free him. His last words are: "Too heavy."

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/51.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_50_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 51

chapter 51: the epitaph of porthos

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-One: The Epitaph of Porthos", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-one-the-epitaph-of-porthos", "summary": "Aramis stands and goes to the boat, supported by the three servants. He is full of grief. The narrator delivers a touching obituary. The men row towards Spain as Aramis sinks into a silent, immovable grief. The men soon realize they are being chased, but do not disturb their master until an hour has past. Aramis does not reply. The ship continues pursuit. There are twenty-five men on the ship, and they soon fire a cannon at the little boat. The sailors are afraid. Aramis tells the men to wait for the ship. The little boat surrenders. The terms of the surrender are that the servants' lives will be spared, but not Aramis's. Aramis tells his men to accept the conditions. Once on board, Aramis makes a sign to the captain and shows him the setting of one of his rings. The captain begins obeying Aramis. Aramis spends the night leaning on the rails, and one of his men later notices that the wood upon which Aramis's head rested was soaked with moisture. The narrator speculates that that moisture was the first tears Aramis ever shed. The narrator says that is equal to any epitaph Porthos could have received.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LI. Porthos's Epitaph. Aramis, silent and sad as ice, trembling like a timid child, arose shivering from the stone. A Christian does not walk on tombs. But, though capable of standing, he was not capable of walking. It might be said that something of dead Porthos had just died within him. His Bretons surrounded him; Aramis yielded to their kind exertions, and the three sailors, lifting him up, carried him to the canoe. Then, having laid him down upon the bench near the rudder, they took to their oars, preferring this to hoisting sail, which might betray them. On all that leveled surface of the ancient grotto of Locmaria, one single hillock attracted their eyes. Aramis never removed his from it; and, at a distance out in the sea, in proportion as the shore receded, that menacing proud mass of rock seemed to draw itself up, as formerly Porthos used to draw himself up, raising a smiling, yet invincible head towards heaven, like that of his dear old honest valiant friend, the strongest of the four, yet the first dead. Strange destiny of these men of brass! The most simple of heart allied to the most crafty; strength of body guided by subtlety of mind; and in the decisive moment, when vigor alone could save mind and body, a stone, a rock, a vile material weight, triumphed over manly strength, and falling upon the body, drove out the mind. Worthy Porthos! born to help other men, always ready to sacrifice himself for the safety of the weak, as if God had only given him strength for that purpose; when dying he only thought he was carrying out the conditions of his compact with Aramis, a compact, however, which Aramis alone had drawn up, and which Porthos had only known to suffer by its terrible solidarity. Noble Porthos! of what good now are thy chateaux overflowing with sumptuous furniture, forests overflowing with game, lakes overflowing with fish, cellars overflowing with wealth! Of what service to thee now thy lackeys in brilliant liveries, and in the midst of them Mousqueton, proud of the power delegated by thee! Oh, noble Porthos! careful heaper-up of treasure, was it worth while to labor to sweeten and gild life, to come upon a desert shore, surrounded by the cries of seagulls, and lay thyself, with broken bones, beneath a torpid stone? Was it worth while, in short, noble Porthos, to heap so much gold, and not have even the distich of a poor poet engraven upon thy monument? Valiant Porthos! he still, without doubt, sleeps, lost, forgotten, beneath the rock the shepherds of the heath take for the gigantic abode of a _dolmen_. And so many twining branches, so many mosses, bent by the bitter wind of ocean, so many lichens solder thy sepulcher to earth, that no passers-by will imagine such a block of granite could ever have been supported by the shoulders of one man. Aramis, still pale, still icy-cold, his heart upon his lips, looked, even till, with the last ray of daylight, the shore faded on the horizon. Not a word escaped him, not a sigh rose from his deep breast. The superstitious Bretons looked upon him, trembling. Such silence was not that of a man, it was the silence of a statue. In the meantime, with the first gray lines that lighted up the heavens, the canoe hoisted its little sail, which, swelling with the kisses of the breeze, and carrying them rapidly from the coast, made bravest way towards Spain, across the dreaded Gulf of Gascony, so rife with storms. But scarcely half an hour after the sail had been hoisted, the rowers became inactive, reclining on their benches, and, making an eye-shade with their hands, pointed out to each other a white spot which appeared on the horizon as motionless as a gull rocked by the viewless respiration of the waves. But that which might have appeared motionless to ordinary eyes was moving at a quick rate to the experienced eye of the sailor; that which appeared stationary upon the ocean was cutting a rapid way through it. For some time, seeing the profound torpor in which their master was plunged, they did not dare to rouse him, and satisfied themselves with exchanging their conjectures in whispers. Aramis, in fact, so vigilant, so active--Aramis, whose eye, like that of the lynx, watched without ceasing, and saw better by night than by day--Aramis seemed to sleep in this despair of soul. An hour passed thus, during which daylight gradually disappeared, but during which also the sail in view gained so swiftly on the bark, that Goenne, one of the three sailors, ventured to say aloud: "Monseigneur, we are being chased!" Aramis made no reply; the ship still gained upon them. Then, of their own accord, two of the sailors, by the direction of the patron Yves, lowered the sail, in order that that single point upon the surface of the waters should cease to be a guide to the eye of the enemy pursuing them. On the part of the ship in sight, on the contrary, two more small sails were run up at the extremities of the masts. Unfortunately, it was the time of the finest and longest days of the year, and the moon, in all her brilliancy, succeeded inauspicious daylight. The _balancelle_, which was pursuing the little bark before the wind, had then still half an hour of twilight, and a whole night almost as light as day. "Monseigneur! monseigneur! we are lost!" said the captain. "Look! they see us plainly, though we have lowered sail." "That is not to be wondered at," murmured one of the sailors, "since they say that, by the aid of the devil, the Paris-folk have fabricated instruments with which they see as well at a distance as near, by night as well as by day." Aramis took a telescope from the bottom of the boat, focussed it silently, and passing it to the sailor, "Here," said he, "look!" The sailor hesitated. "Don't be alarmed," said the bishop, "there is no sin in it; and if there is any sin, I will take it on myself." The sailor lifted the glass to his eye, and uttered a cry. He believed that the vessel, which appeared to be distant about cannon-shot, had at a single bound cleared the whole distance. But, on withdrawing the instrument from his eye, he saw that, except the way which the _balancelle_ had been able to make during that brief instant, it was still at the same distance. "So," murmured the sailor, "they can see us as we see them." "They see us," said Aramis, and sank again into impassibility. "What!--they see us!" said Yves. "Impossible!" "Well, captain, look yourself," said the sailor. And he passed him the glass. "Monseigneur assures me that the devil has nothing to do with this?" asked Yves. Aramis shrugged his shoulders. The skipper lifted the glass to his eye. "Oh! monseigneur," said he, "it is a miracle--there they are; it seems as if I were going to touch them. Twenty-five men at least! Ah! I see the captain forward. He holds a glass like this, and is looking at us. Ah! he turns round, and gives an order; they are rolling a piece of cannon forward--they are loading it--pointing it. _Misericorde!_ they are firing at us!" And by a mechanical movement, the skipper put aside the telescope, and the pursuing ship, relegated to the horizon, appeared again in its true aspect. The vessel was still at the distance of nearly a league, but the maneuver sighted thus was not less real. A light cloud of smoke appeared beneath the sails, more blue than they, and spreading like a flower opening; then, at about a mile from the little canoe, they saw the ball take the crown off two or three waves, dig a white furrow in the sea, and disappear at the end of it, as inoffensive as the stone with which, in play, a boy makes ducks and drakes. It was at once a menace and a warning. "What is to be done?" asked the patron. "They will sink us!" said Goenne, "give us absolution, monseigneur!" And the sailors fell on their knees before him. "You forget that they can see you," said he. "That is true!" said the sailors, ashamed of their weakness. "Give us your orders, monseigneur, we are prepared to die for you." "Let us wait," said Aramis. "How--let us wait?" "Yes; do you not see, as you just now said, that if we endeavor to fly, they will sink us?" "But, perhaps," the patron ventured to say, "perhaps under cover of night, we could escape them." "Oh!" said Aramis, "they have, no doubt, Greek fire with which to lighten their own course and ours likewise." At the same moment, as if the vessel was responsive to the appeal of Aramis, a second cloud of smoke mounted slowly to the heavens, and from the bosom of that cloud sparkled an arrow of flame, which described a parabola like a rainbow, and fell into the sea, where it continued to burn, illuminating a space of a quarter of a league in diameter. The Bretons looked at each other in terror. "You see plainly," said Aramis, "it will be better to wait for them." The oars dropped from the hands of the sailors, and the bark, ceasing to make way, rocked motionless upon the summits of the waves. Night came on, but still the ship drew nearer. It might be imagined it redoubled its speed with darkness. From time to time, as a vulture rears its head out of its nest, the formidable Greek fire darted from its sides, and cast its flame upon the ocean like an incandescent snowfall. At last it came within musket-shot. All the men were on deck, arms in hand; the cannoniers were at their guns, the matches burning. It might be thought they were about to board a frigate and to fight a crew superior in number to their own, not to attempt the capture of a canoe manned by four people. "Surrender!" cried the commander of the _balancelle_, with the aid of his speaking-trumpet. The sailors looked at Aramis. Aramis made a sign with his head. Yves waved a white cloth at the end of a gaff. This was like striking their flag. The pursuer came on like a race-horse. It launched a fresh Greek fire, which fell within twenty paces of the little canoe, and threw a light upon them as white as sunshine. "At the first sign of resistance," cried the commander of the _balancelle_, "fire!" The soldiers brought their muskets to the present. "Did we not say we surrendered?" said Yves. "Alive, alive, captain!" cried one excited soldier, "they must be taken alive." "Well, yes--living," said the captain. Then turning towards the Bretons, "Your lives are safe, my friends!" cried he, "all but the Chevalier d'Herblay." Aramis stared imperceptibly. For an instant his eye was fixed upon the depths of the ocean, illumined by the last flashes of the Greek fire, which ran along the sides of the waves, played on the crests like plumes, and rendered still darker and more terrible the gulfs they covered. "Do you hear, monseigneur?" said the sailors. "Yes." "What are your orders?" "Accept!" "But you, monseigneur?" Aramis leaned still more forward, and dipped the ends of his long white fingers in the green limpid waters of the sea, to which he turned with smiles as to a friend. "Accept!" repeated he. "We accept," repeated the sailors; "but what security have we?" "The word of a gentleman," said the officer. "By my rank and by my name I swear that all except M. le Chevalier d'Herblay shall have their lives spared. I am lieutenant of the king's frigate the 'Pomona,' and my name is Louis Constant de Pressigny." With a rapid gesture, Aramis--already bent over the side of the bark towards the sea--drew himself up, and with a flashing eye, and a smile upon his lips, "Throw out the ladder, messieurs," said he, as if the command had belonged to him. He was obeyed. When Aramis, seizing the rope ladder, walked straight up to the commander, with a firm step, looked at him earnestly, made a sign to him with his hand, a mysterious and unknown sign at sight of which the officer turned pale, trembled, and bowed his head, the sailors were profoundly astonished. Without a word Aramis then raised his hand to the eyes of the commander and showed him the collet of a ring he wore on the ring-finger of his left hand. And while making this sign Aramis, draped in cold and haughty majesty, had the air of an emperor giving his hand to be kissed. The commandant, who for a moment had raised his head, bowed a second time with marks of the most profound respect. Then stretching his hand out, in his turn, towards the poop, that is to say, towards his own cabin, he drew back to allow Aramis to go first. The three Bretons, who had come on board after their bishop, looked at each other, stupefied. The crew were awed to silence. Five minutes after, the commander called the second lieutenant, who returned immediately, ordering the head to be put towards Corunna. Whilst this order was being executed, Aramis reappeared upon the deck, and took a seat near the _bastingage_. Night had fallen; the moon had not yet risen, yet Aramis looked incessantly towards Belle-Isle. Yves then approached the captain, who had returned to take his post in the stern, and said, in a low and humble voice, "What course are we to follow, captain?" "We take what course monseigneur pleases," replied the officer. Aramis passed the night leaning upon the _bastingage_. Yves, on approaching him next morning, remarked that "the night must have been a very damp one, for the wood on which the bishop's head had rested was soaked with dew." Who knows?--that dew was, it may be, the first tears that had ever fallen from the eyes of Aramis! What epitaph would have been worth that, good Porthos?

Chapter Fifty-One: The Epitaph of Porthos

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-one-the-epitaph-of-porthos

Aramis stands and goes to the boat, supported by the three servants. He is full of grief. The narrator delivers a touching obituary. The men row towards Spain as Aramis sinks into a silent, immovable grief. The men soon realize they are being chased, but do not disturb their master until an hour has past. Aramis does not reply. The ship continues pursuit. There are twenty-five men on the ship, and they soon fire a cannon at the little boat. The sailors are afraid. Aramis tells the men to wait for the ship. The little boat surrenders. The terms of the surrender are that the servants' lives will be spared, but not Aramis's. Aramis tells his men to accept the conditions. Once on board, Aramis makes a sign to the captain and shows him the setting of one of his rings. The captain begins obeying Aramis. Aramis spends the night leaning on the rails, and one of his men later notices that the wood upon which Aramis's head rested was soaked with moisture. The narrator speculates that that moisture was the first tears Aramis ever shed. The narrator says that is equal to any epitaph Porthos could have received.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/52.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_51_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 52

chapter 52: the round of m. de gesvres

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Two: The Round of M. de Gesvres", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-two-the-round-of-m-de-gesvres", "summary": "D'Artagnan is deeply upset when he returns to Nantes and seeks a meeting with the King straightaway. M. de Gesvres tells him that the King does not want to be disturbed. Used to having free access to the King and his quarters, D'Artagnan is angry . Worried about his friends, he decides to seek out Colbert. He learns that Colbert is with the King. Really angry now, he returns to the hallway outside the King's room. M. de Lyonne comes out, and D'Artagnan tells him to tell the King that he is resigning. Lyonne relays the message. The King seems fine with it. D'Artagnan is relieved to be a plain citizen again, and wants to head straight back to Belle-Isle. At eight o'clock D'Artagnan is in the hostelry saddling his horse when Gesvres shows up with twelve horsemen. D'Artagnan asks if he is being arrested. Gesvres tells him that the King wants to speak with him. D'Artagnan is annoyed and doesn't care what the King wants or feels, but he walks with Gesvres anyway. As D'Artagnan waits for the King to conclude his business with Colbert, the guards standing behind him make it look as though he has been arrested. Word begins to circulate and all the Musketeers begin to make a ruckus. D'Artagnan is disappointed in the quality of today's Musketeers.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LII. M. de Gesvres's Round. D'Artagnan was little used to resistance like that he had just experienced. He returned, profoundly irritated, to Nantes. Irritation, with this vigorous man, usually vented itself in impetuous attack, which few people, hitherto, were they king, were they giants, had been able to resist. Trembling with rage, he went straight to the castle, and asked an audience with the king. It might be about seven o'clock in the morning, and, since his arrival at Nantes, the king had been an early riser. But on arriving at the corridor with which we are acquainted, D'Artagnan found M. de Gesvres, who stopped him politely, telling him not to speak too loud and disturb the king. "Is the king asleep?" said D'Artagnan. "Well, I will let him sleep. But about what o'clock do you suppose he will rise?" "Oh! in about two hours; his majesty has been up all night." D'Artagnan took his hat again, bowed to M. de Gesvres, and returned to his own apartments. He came back at half-past nine, and was told that the king was at breakfast. "That will just suit me," said D'Artagnan. "I will talk to the king while he is eating." M. de Brienne reminded D'Artagnan that the king would not see any one at meal-time. "But," said D'Artagnan, looking askant at Brienne, "you do not know, perhaps, monsieur, that I have the privilege of _entree_ anywhere--and at any hour." Brienne took the captain's hand kindly, and said, "Not at Nantes, dear Monsieur d'Artagnan. The king, in this journey, has changed everything." D'Artagnan, a little softened, asked about what o'clock the king would have finished his breakfast. "We don't know." "Eh?--don't know! What does that mean? You don't know how much time the king devotes to eating? It is generally an hour; and, if we admit that the air of the Loire gives an additional appetite, we will extend it to an hour and a half; that is enough, I think. I will wait where I am." "Oh! dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, the order of the day is not to allow any person to remain in this corridor; I am on guard for that particular purpose." D'Artagnan felt his anger mounting to his brain a second time. He went out quickly, for fear of complicating the affair by a display of premature ill-humor. As soon as he was out he began to reflect. "The king," said he, "will not receive me, that is evident. The young man is angry; he is afraid, beforehand, of the words that I may speak to him. Yes; but in the meantime Belle-Isle is besieged, and my two friends by now probably taken or killed. Poor Porthos! As to Master Aramis, he is always full of resources, and I am easy on his account. But, no, no; Porthos is not yet an invalid, nor is Aramis in his dotage. The one with his arm, the other with his imagination, will find work for his majesty's soldiers. Who knows if these brave men may not get up for the edification of his most Christian majesty a little bastion of Saint-Gervais! I don't despair of it. They have cannon and a garrison. And yet," continued D'Artagnan, "I don't know whether it would not be better to stop the combat. For myself alone I will not put up with either surly looks or insults from the king; but for my friends I must put up with everything. Shall I go to M. Colbert? Now, there is a man I must acquire the habit of terrifying. I will go to M. Colbert." And D'Artagnan set forward bravely to find M. Colbert, but was informed that he was working with the king, at the castle of Nantes. "Good!" cried he, "the times have come again in which I measured my steps from De Treville to the cardinal, from the cardinal to the queen, from the queen to Louis XIII. Truly is it said that men, in growing old, become children again!--To the castle, then!" He returned thither. M. de Lyonne was coming out. He gave D'Artagnan both hands, but told him that the king had been busy all the preceding evening and all night, and that orders had been given that no one should be admitted. "Not even the captain who takes the order?" cried D'Artagnan. "I think that is rather too strong." "Not even he," said M. de Lyonne. "Since that is the case," replied D'Artagnan, wounded to the heart; "since the captain of the musketeers, who has always entered the king's chamber, is no longer allowed to enter it, his cabinet, or his _salle-a-manger_, either the king is dead, or his captain is in disgrace. Do me the favor, then, M. de Lyonne, who are in favor, to return and tell the king, plainly, I send him my resignation." "D'Artagnan, beware of what you are doing!" "For friendship's sake, go!" and he pushed him gently towards the cabinet. "Well, I will go," said Lyonne. D'Artagnan waited, walking about the corridor in no enviable mood. Lyonne returned. "Well, what did the king say?" exclaimed D'Artagnan. "He simply answered, ''Tis well,'" replied Lyonne. "That it was well!" said the captain, with an explosion. "That is to say, that he accepts it? Good! Now, then, I am free! I am only a plain citizen, M. de Lyonne. I have the pleasure of bidding you good-bye! Farewell, castle, corridor, ante-chamber! a _bourgeois_, about to breathe at liberty, takes his farewell of you." And without waiting longer, the captain sprang from the terrace down the staircase, where he had picked up the fragments of Gourville's letter. Five minutes after, he was at the hostelry, where, according to the custom of all great officers who have lodgings at the castle, he had taken what was called his city-chamber. But when he arrived there, instead of throwing off his sword and cloak, he took his pistols, put his money into a large leather purse, sent for his horses from the castle-stables, and gave orders that would ensure their reaching Vannes during the night. Everything went on according to his wishes. At eight o'clock in the evening, he was putting his foot in the stirrup, when M. de Gesvres appeared, at the head of twelve guards, in front of the hostelry. D'Artagnan saw all from the corner of his eye; he could not fail seeing thirteen men and thirteen horses. But he feigned not to observe anything, and was about to put his horse in motion. Gesvres rode up to him. "Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said he, aloud. "Ah, Monsieur de Gesvres! good evening!" "One would say you were getting on horseback." "More than that,--I am mounted,--as you see." "It is fortunate I have met with you." "Were you looking for me, then?" "_Mon Dieu!_ yes." "On the part of the king, I will wager?" "Yes." "As I, three days ago, went in search of M. Fouquet?" "Oh!" "Nonsense! It is of no use being over-delicate with me; that is all labor lost. Tell me at once you are come to arrest me." "To arrest you?--Good heavens! no." "Why do you come to accost me with twelve horsemen at your heels, then?" "I am making my round." "That isn't bad! And so you pick me up in your round, eh?" "I don't pick you up; I meet with you, and I beg you to come with me." "Where?" "To the king." "Good!" said D'Artagnan, with a bantering air; "the king is disengaged." "For Heaven's sake, captain," said M. de Gesvres, in a low voice to the musketeer, "do not compromise yourself! these men hear you." D'Artagnan laughed aloud, and replied: "March! People who are arrested are placed between the six first guards and the six last." "But as I am not arresting you," said M. de Gesvres, "you will march behind, with me, if you please." "Well," said D'Artagnan, "that is very polite, duke, and you are right in being so; for if ever I had had to make my rounds near your _chambre-de-ville_, I should have been courteous to you, I assure you, on the word of a gentleman! Now, one favor more; what does the king want with me?" "Oh, the king is furious!" "Very well! the king, who has thought it worth while to be angry, may take the trouble to grow calm again; that is all. I shan't die of that, I will swear." "No, but--" "But--I shall be sent to keep company with unfortunate M. Fouquet. _Mordioux!_ That is a gallant man, a worthy man! We shall live very sociably together, I will be sworn." "Here we are at our place of destination," said the duke. "Captain, for Heaven's sake be calm with the king!" "Ah! ah! you are playing the brave man with me, duke!" said D'Artagnan, throwing one of his defiant glances over Gesvres. "I have been told that you are ambitious of uniting your guards with my musketeers. This strikes me as a splendid opportunity." "I will take exceeding good care not to avail myself of it, captain." "And why not, pray?" "Oh, for many reasons--in the first place, for this: if I were to succeed you in the musketeers after having arrested you--" "Ah! then you admit you have arrested me?" "No, I _don't_." "Say met me, then. So, you were saying _if_ you were to succeed me after having arrested me?" "Your musketeers, at the first exercise with ball cartridges, would fire _my_ way, by mistake." "Oh, as to that I won't say; for the fellows _do_ love me a little." Gesvres made D'Artagnan pass in first, and took him straight to the cabinet where Louis was waiting for his captain of the musketeers, and placed himself behind his colleague in the ante-chamber. The king could be heard distinctly, speaking aloud to Colbert in the same cabinet where Colbert might have heard, a few days before, the king speaking aloud with M. d'Artagnan. The guards remained as a mounted picket before the principal gate; and the report was quickly spread throughout the city that monsieur le capitaine of the musketeers had been arrested by order of the king. Then these men were seen to be in motion, and as in the good old times of Louis XIII. and M. de Treville, groups were formed, and staircases were filled; vague murmurs, issuing from the court below, came rolling to the upper stories, like the distant moaning of the waves. M. de Gesvres became uneasy. He looked at his guards, who, after being interrogated by the musketeers who had just got among their ranks, began to shun them with a manifestation of innocence. D'Artagnan was certainly less disturbed by all this than M. de Gesvres, the captain of the guards. As soon as he entered, he seated himself on the ledge of a window whence with his eagle glance he saw all that was going on without the least emotion. No step of the progressive fermentation which had shown itself at the report of his arrest escaped him. He foresaw the very moment the explosion would take place; and we know that his previsions were in general correct. "It would be very whimsical," thought he, "if, this evening, my praetorians should make me king of France. How I should laugh!" But, at the height, all was stopped. Guards, musketeers, officers, soldiers, murmurs, uneasiness, dispersed, vanished, died away; there was an end of menace and sedition. One word had calmed the waves. The king had desired Brienne to say, "Hush, messieurs! you disturb the king." D'Artagnan sighed. "All is over!" said he; "the musketeers of the present day are not those of his majesty Louis XIII. All is over!" "Monsieur d'Artagnan, you are wanted in the ante-chamber of the king," proclaimed an usher.

Chapter Fifty-Two: The Round of M. de Gesvres

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-two-the-round-of-m-de-gesvres

D'Artagnan is deeply upset when he returns to Nantes and seeks a meeting with the King straightaway. M. de Gesvres tells him that the King does not want to be disturbed. Used to having free access to the King and his quarters, D'Artagnan is angry . Worried about his friends, he decides to seek out Colbert. He learns that Colbert is with the King. Really angry now, he returns to the hallway outside the King's room. M. de Lyonne comes out, and D'Artagnan tells him to tell the King that he is resigning. Lyonne relays the message. The King seems fine with it. D'Artagnan is relieved to be a plain citizen again, and wants to head straight back to Belle-Isle. At eight o'clock D'Artagnan is in the hostelry saddling his horse when Gesvres shows up with twelve horsemen. D'Artagnan asks if he is being arrested. Gesvres tells him that the King wants to speak with him. D'Artagnan is annoyed and doesn't care what the King wants or feels, but he walks with Gesvres anyway. As D'Artagnan waits for the King to conclude his business with Colbert, the guards standing behind him make it look as though he has been arrested. Word begins to circulate and all the Musketeers begin to make a ruckus. D'Artagnan is disappointed in the quality of today's Musketeers.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/53.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_52_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 53

chapter 53: king louis xiv

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Three: King Louis XIV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-three-king-louis-xiv", "summary": "When D'Artagnan walks into the King's chamber, the King has his back to the door and is busy going through some papers. Finally, the King calls out, asking for D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan announces himself. He is clearly in an obstinate mood. The King asks D'Artagnan what his orders were with respect to Belle-Isle. D'Artagnan acts offended, and argue that officers of the expedition were given lots of differing orders, while D'Artagnan himself was kept in the dark. The King says the orders were given those who were judged faithful. D'Artagnan is deeply wounded by this. He is one of the King's most loyal servants. The King then argues that his actions are accountable only to God, and that he is not the type of king who is easily led by his subordinates as past kings were led. The King points out that D'Artagnan was incapable of fighting the King's enemies. D'Artagnan argues that the two men in question were his best friends. The King says it was a test of loyalties. D'Artagnan's friends were rebels whom the King wanted captured. D'Artagnan failed the test. The King tables these considerations to explain a larger issue that historians like to call \"absolute monarchy.\" Roughly translated, it means, \"what the King says is law, period.\" Let's quote Louis: \"I am founding a state in which there shall be but one master.\" The King tells D'Artagnan to find another guy to serve if he wants to manipulate his master. Then the King tells D'Artagnan he will forgive this one breach, adding that by now Porthos and Aramis must have been captured or killed. D'Artagnan tells the King he is underestimating Porthos and Aramis. The King asks D'Artagnan if there is another king of France. D'Artagnan reminds the King that he came to his defense on the day Philippe was in the room. The King is properly chastised. A messenger comes in and the King learns that he has lost a hundred and ten men in taking Belle-Isle, and that the rebels are nowhere to be found. D'Artagnan is proud of his friends. The King casually mentions he has a naval blockade around the island; the rebels will undoubtedly be captured and eventually hanged. D'Artagnan promises that his friends will not be taken alive. The King replies along the lines of \"suit yourself.\" He also points out that he is the absolute master of France; D'Artagnan will experience either the royal anger or the royal friendship. D'Artagnan is shocked by the young king's strength of will. The King offers to refuse D'Artagnan's resignation. D'Artagnan claims that being captain of the Musketeers will no longer carry the same kind of glory and responsibility that it once did. He tells the King, \"it taming me you have lessened me.\" Finally, he tells the King that he will cooperate. The King thanks D'Artagnan, then tells him he will be sent into foreign fields in order to attain the marshal's baton. D'Artagnan begs the King to pardon his two friends. The King does so, granting permission to find his friends, give them the pardon, and then straightaway return. D'Artagnan kisses the King's hand and leaves the palace.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LIII. King Louis XIV. The king was seated in his cabinet, with his back turned towards the door of entrance. In front of him was a mirror, in which, while turning over his papers, he could see at a glance those who came in. He did not take any notice of the entrance of D'Artagnan, but spread above his letters and plans the large silk cloth he used to conceal his secrets from the importunate. D'Artagnan understood this by-play, and kept in the background; so that at the end of a minute the king, who heard nothing, and saw nothing save from the corner of his eye, was obliged to cry, "Is not M. d'Artagnan there?" "I am here, sire," replied the musketeer, advancing. "Well, monsieur," said the king, fixing his pellucid eyes on D'Artagnan, "what have you to say to me?" "I, sire!" replied the latter, who watched the first blow of his adversary to make a good retort; "I have nothing to say to your majesty, unless it be that you have caused me to be arrested, and here I am." The king was going to reply that he had not had D'Artagnan arrested, but any such sentence appeared too much like an excuse, and he was silent. D'Artagnan likewise preserved an obstinate silence. "Monsieur," at length resumed the king, "what did I charge you to go and do at Belle-Isle? Tell me, if you please." The king while uttering these words looked intently at his captain. Here D'Artagnan was fortunate; the king seemed to place the game in his hands. "I believe," replied he, "that your majesty does me the honor to ask what I went to Belle-Isle to accomplish?" "Yes, monsieur." "Well! sire, I know nothing about it; it is not of me that question should be asked, but of that infinite number of officers of all kinds, to whom have been given innumerable orders of all kinds, whilst to me, head of the expedition, nothing precise was said or stated in any form whatever." The king was hurt: he showed it by his reply. "Monsieur," said he, "orders have only been given to such as were judged faithful." "And, therefore, I have been astonished, sire," retorted the musketeer, "that a captain like myself, who ranks with a marechal of France, should have found himself under the orders of five or six lieutenants or majors, good to make spies of, possibly, but not at all fit to conduct a warlike expedition. It was upon this subject I came to demand an explanation of your majesty, when I found the door closed against me, which, the final insult offered to a brave man, has led me to quit your majesty's service." "Monsieur," replied the king, "you still believe that you are living in an age when kings were, as you complain of having been, under the orders and at the discretion of their inferiors. You seem to forget that a king owes an account of his actions to none but God." "I forget nothing, sire," said the musketeer, wounded by this lesson. "Besides, I do not see in what an honest man, when he asks of his king how he has ill-served him, offends him." "You have ill-served me, monsieur, by siding with my enemies against me." "Who are your enemies, sire?" "The men I sent you to fight." "Two men the enemies of the whole of your majesty's army! That is incredible." "You have no power to judge of my will." "But I have to judge of my own friendships, sire." "He who serves his friends does not serve his master." "I so well understand this, sire, that I have respectfully offered your majesty my resignation." "And I have accepted it, monsieur," said the king. "Before being separated from you I was willing to prove to you that I know how to keep my word." "Your majesty has kept more than your word, for your majesty has had me arrested," said D'Artagnan, with his cold, bantering air; "you did not promise me that, sire." The king would not condescend to perceive the pleasantry, and continued, seriously, "You see, monsieur, to what grave steps your disobedience forces me." "My disobedience!" cried D'Artagnan, red with anger. "It is the mildest term that I can find," pursued the king. "My idea was to take and punish rebels; was I bound to inquire whether these rebels were your friends or not?" "But I was," replied D'Artagnan. "It was a cruelty on your majesty's part to send me to capture my friends and lead them to your gibbets." "It was a trial I had to make, monsieur, of pretended servants, who eat my bread and _should_ defend my person. The trial has succeeded ill, Monsieur d'Artagnan." "For one bad servant your majesty loses," said the musketeer, with bitterness, "there are ten who, on that same day, go through a like ordeal. Listen to me, sire; I am not accustomed to that service. Mine is a rebel sword when I am required to do ill. It was ill to send me in pursuit of two men whose lives M. Fouquet, your majesty's preserver, implored you to save. Still further, these men were my friends. They did not attack your majesty, they succumbed to your blind anger. Besides, why were they not allowed to escape? What crime had they committed? I admit you may contest with me the right of judging their conduct. But why suspect me before the action? Why surround me with spies? Why disgrace me before the army? Why me, in whom till now you showed the most entire confidence--who for thirty years have been attached to your person, and have given you a thousand proofs of my devotion--for it must be said, now that I am accused--why reduce me to see three thousand of the king's soldiers march in battle against two men?" "One would say you have forgotten what these men have done to me!" said the king, in a hollow voice, "and that it was no merit of theirs I was not lost." "Sire, one would imagine you forget that I was there." "Enough, Monsieur d'Artagnan, enough of these dominating interests which arise to keep the sun itself from my interests. I am founding a state in which there shall be but one master, as I promised you; the moment is at hand for me to keep my promise. You wish to be, according to your tastes or private friendships, free to destroy my plans and save my enemies? I will thwart you or will drop you--seek a more compliant master. I know full well that another king would not conduct himself as I do, and would allow himself to be dominated by you, at the risk of sending you some day to keep company with M. Fouquet and the rest; but I have an excellent memory, and for me, services are sacred titles to gratitude, to impunity. You shall only have this lesson, Monsieur d'Artagnan, as the punishment of your want of discipline, and I will not imitate my predecessors in anger, not having imitated them in favor. And, then, other reasons make me act mildly towards you; in the first place, because you are a man of sense, a man of excellent sense, a man of heart, and that you will be a capital servant to him who shall have mastered you; secondly, because you will cease to have any motives for insubordination. Your friends are now destroyed or ruined by me. These supports on which your capricious mind instinctively relied I have caused to disappear. At this moment, my soldiers have taken or killed the rebels of Belle-Isle." D'Artagnan became pale. "Taken or killed!" cried he. "Oh! sire, if you thought what you tell, if you were sure you were telling me the truth, I should forget all that is just, all that is magnanimous in your words, to call you a barbarous king, and an unnatural man. But I pardon you these words," said he, smiling with pride; "I pardon them to a young prince who does not know, who cannot comprehend what such men as M. d'Herblay, M. du Vallon, and myself are. Taken or killed! Ah! Ah! sire! tell me, if the news is true, how much has it cost you in men and money. We will then reckon if the game has been worth the stakes." As he spoke thus, the king went up to him in great anger, and said, "Monsieur d'Artagnan, your replies are those of a rebel! Tell me, if you please, who is king of France? Do you know any other?" "Sire," replied the captain of the musketeers, coldly, "I very well remember that one morning at Vaux you addressed that question to many people who did not answer to it, whilst I, on my part, did answer to it. If I recognized my king on that day, when the thing was not easy, I think it would be useless to ask the question of me now, when your majesty and I are alone." At these words Louis cast down his eyes. It appeared to him that the shade of the unfortunate Philippe passed between D'Artagnan and himself, to evoke the remembrance of that terrible adventure. Almost at the same moment an officer entered and placed a dispatch in the hands of the king, who, in his turn, changed color, while reading it. "Monsieur," said he, "what I learn here you would know later; it is better I should tell you, and that you should learn it from the mouth of your king. A battle has taken place at Belle-Isle." "Is it possible?" said D'Artagnan, with a calm air, though his heart was beating fast enough to choke him. "Well, sire?" "Well, monsieur--and I have lost a hundred and ten men." A beam of joy and pride shone in the eyes of D'Artagnan. "And the rebels?" said he. "The rebels have fled," said the king. D'Artagnan could not restrain a cry of triumph. "Only," added the king, "I have a fleet which closely blockades Belle-Isle, and I am certain not a bark can escape." "So that," said the musketeer, brought back to his dismal idea, "if these two gentlemen are taken--" "They will be hanged," said the king, quietly. "And do they know it?" replied D'Artagnan, repressing his trembling. "They know it, because you must have told them yourself; and all the country knows it." "Then, sire, they will never be taken alive, I will answer for that." "Ah!" said the king, negligently, and taking up his letter again. "Very well, they will be dead, then, Monsieur d'Artagnan, and that will come to the same thing, since I should only take them to have them hanged." D'Artagnan wiped the sweat which flowed from his brow. "I have told you," pursued Louis XIV., "that I would one day be an affectionate, generous, and constant master. You are now the only man of former times worthy of my anger or my friendship. I will not spare you either sentiment, according to your conduct. Could you serve a king, Monsieur d'Artagnan, who should have a hundred kings, his equals, in the kingdom? Could I, tell me, do with such weak instruments the great things I meditate? Did you ever see an artist effect great works with an unworthy tool? Far from us, monsieur, the old leaven of feudal abuse! The Fronde, which threatened to ruin monarchy, has emancipated it. I am master at home, Captain d'Artagnan, and I shall have servants who, lacking, perhaps, your genius, will carry devotion and obedience to the verge of heroism. Of what consequence, I ask you, of what consequence is it that God has given no sense to arms and legs? It is to the head he has given genius, and the head, you know, the rest obey. I am the head." D'Artagnan started. Louis XIV. continued as if he had seen nothing, although this emotion had not by any means escaped him. "Now, let us conclude between us two the bargain I promised to make with you one day when you found me in a very strange predicament at Blois. Do me justice, monsieur, when you admit I do not make any one pay for the tears of shame that I then shed. Look around you; lofty heads have bowed. Bow yours, or choose such exile as will suit you. Perhaps, when reflecting upon it, you will find your king has a generous heart, who reckons sufficiently upon your loyalty to allow you to leave him dissatisfied, when you possess a great state secret. You are a brave man; I know you to be so. Why have you judged me prematurely? Judge me from this day forward, D'Artagnan, and be as severe as you please." D'Artagnan remained bewildered, mute, undecided for the first time in his life. At last he had found an adversary worthy of him. This was no longer trick, it was calculation; no longer violence, but strength; no longer passion, but will; no longer boasting, but council. This young man who had brought down a Fouquet, and could do without a D'Artagnan, deranged the somewhat headstrong calculations of the musketeer. "Come, let us see what stops you?" said the king, kindly. "You have given in your resignation; shall I refuse to accept it? I admit that it may be hard for such an old captain to recover lost good-humor." "Oh!" replied D'Artagnan, in a melancholy tone, "that is not my most serious care. I hesitate to take back my resignation because I am old in comparison with you, and have habits difficult to abandon. Henceforward, you must have courtiers who know how to amuse you--madmen who will get themselves killed to carry out what you call your great works. Great they will be, I feel--but, if by chance I should not think them so? I have seen war, sire, I have seen peace; I have served Richelieu and Mazarin; I have been scorched with your father, at the fire of Rochelle; riddled with sword-thrusts like a sieve, having grown a new skin ten times, as serpents do. After affronts and injustices, I have a command which was formerly something, because it gave the bearer the right of speaking as he liked to his king. But your captain of the musketeers will henceforward be an officer guarding the outer doors. Truly, sire, if that is to be my employment from this time, seize the opportunity of our being on good terms, to take it from me. Do not imagine that I bear malice; no, you have tamed me, as you say; but it must be confessed that in taming me you have lowered me; by bowing me you have convicted me of weakness. If you knew how well it suits me to carry my head high, and what a pitiful mien I shall have while scenting the dust of your carpets! Oh! sire, I regret sincerely, and you will regret as I do, the old days when the king of France saw in every vestibule those insolent gentlemen, lean, always swearing--cross-grained mastiffs, who could bite mortally in the hour of danger or of battle. These men were the best of courtiers to the hand which fed them--they would lick it; but for the hand that struck them, oh! the bite that followed! A little gold on the lace of their cloaks, a slender stomach in their _hauts-de-chausses_, a little sparkling of gray in their dry hair, and you will behold the handsome dukes and peers, the haughty _marechaux_ of France. But why should I tell you all this? The king is master; he wills that I should make verses, he wills that I should polish the mosaics of his ante-chambers with satin shoes. _Mordioux!_ that is difficult, but I have got over greater difficulties. I will do it. Why should I do it? Because I love money?--I have enough. Because I am ambitious?--my career is almost at an end. Because I love the court? No. I will remain here because I have been accustomed for thirty years to go and take the orderly word of the king, and to have said to me 'Good evening, D'Artagnan,' with a smile I did not beg for. That smile I will beg for! Are you content, sire?" And D'Artagnan bowed his silver head, upon which the smiling king placed his white hand with pride. "Thanks, my old servant, my faithful friend," said he. "As, reckoning from this day, I have no longer any enemies in France, it remains with me to send you to a foreign field to gather your marshal's baton. Depend upon me for finding you an opportunity. In the meanwhile, eat of my very best bread, and sleep in absolute tranquillity." "That is all kind and well!" said D'Artagnan, much agitated. "But those poor men at Belle-Isle? One of them, in particular--so good! so brave! so true!" "Do you ask their pardon of me?" "Upon my knees, sire!" "Well! then, go and take it to them, if it be still in time. But do you answer for them?" "With my life, sire." "Go, then. To-morrow I set out for Paris. Return by that time, for I do not wish you to leave me in the future." "Be assured of that, sire," said D'Artagnan, kissing the royal hand. And with a heart swelling with joy, he rushed out of the castle on his way to Belle-Isle.

Chapter Fifty-Three: King Louis XIV

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-three-king-louis-xiv

When D'Artagnan walks into the King's chamber, the King has his back to the door and is busy going through some papers. Finally, the King calls out, asking for D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan announces himself. He is clearly in an obstinate mood. The King asks D'Artagnan what his orders were with respect to Belle-Isle. D'Artagnan acts offended, and argue that officers of the expedition were given lots of differing orders, while D'Artagnan himself was kept in the dark. The King says the orders were given those who were judged faithful. D'Artagnan is deeply wounded by this. He is one of the King's most loyal servants. The King then argues that his actions are accountable only to God, and that he is not the type of king who is easily led by his subordinates as past kings were led. The King points out that D'Artagnan was incapable of fighting the King's enemies. D'Artagnan argues that the two men in question were his best friends. The King says it was a test of loyalties. D'Artagnan's friends were rebels whom the King wanted captured. D'Artagnan failed the test. The King tables these considerations to explain a larger issue that historians like to call "absolute monarchy." Roughly translated, it means, "what the King says is law, period." Let's quote Louis: "I am founding a state in which there shall be but one master." The King tells D'Artagnan to find another guy to serve if he wants to manipulate his master. Then the King tells D'Artagnan he will forgive this one breach, adding that by now Porthos and Aramis must have been captured or killed. D'Artagnan tells the King he is underestimating Porthos and Aramis. The King asks D'Artagnan if there is another king of France. D'Artagnan reminds the King that he came to his defense on the day Philippe was in the room. The King is properly chastised. A messenger comes in and the King learns that he has lost a hundred and ten men in taking Belle-Isle, and that the rebels are nowhere to be found. D'Artagnan is proud of his friends. The King casually mentions he has a naval blockade around the island; the rebels will undoubtedly be captured and eventually hanged. D'Artagnan promises that his friends will not be taken alive. The King replies along the lines of "suit yourself." He also points out that he is the absolute master of France; D'Artagnan will experience either the royal anger or the royal friendship. D'Artagnan is shocked by the young king's strength of will. The King offers to refuse D'Artagnan's resignation. D'Artagnan claims that being captain of the Musketeers will no longer carry the same kind of glory and responsibility that it once did. He tells the King, "it taming me you have lessened me." Finally, he tells the King that he will cooperate. The King thanks D'Artagnan, then tells him he will be sent into foreign fields in order to attain the marshal's baton. D'Artagnan begs the King to pardon his two friends. The King does so, granting permission to find his friends, give them the pardon, and then straightaway return. D'Artagnan kisses the King's hand and leaves the palace.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/54.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_53_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 54

chapter 54: the friends of m. fouquet

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Four: The Friends of M. Fouquet", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-four-the-friends-of-m-fouquet", "summary": "D'Artagnan arrives back in Paris after going to Belle-Isle and discovering no trace of his friends. He knows only that they killed a lot of men. Once the King is settled in Paris, D'Artagnan shows up with a sad face. He has learned of Porthos's death. The King admits he knew. D'Artagnan asks why he was not informed. The King says he wanted D'Artagnan to find out for himself. When asked how he received this information, the King admits to reading D'Artagnan's mail. Aramis had sent him a letter recapping the situation. D'Artagnan admits Louis is the only man who could possibly dominate over his friends. The King mentions that he could easily have Aramis killed in his hiding place in Spain, but since he's generous, he desists. D'Artagnan protests that the King's advisers will change his mind. The King admits that it is Colbert who actually advised sparing Aramis's life. D'Artagnan asks the King to receive three petitioners who have been waiting for a long time in the antechamber. They are the friends of Fouquet: Gourville, Pelisson, and La Fontaine. The three men are weeping. The King remains expressionless as the three men file in with faces contorted by grief. The men can't get it together to speak, and the King gets impatient. He tells them there is no hope of pardoning Fouquet. Pelisson finally speaks. They are actually there on behalf of Madame Fouquet, who has been abandoned and destitute since her husband has fallen out of favor. The friends ask permission to loan her two thousand pistoles. The King grants them permission and they leave. The King then gives D'Artagnan permission to see to the affairs of Porthos.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LIV. M. Fouquet's Friends. The king had returned to Paris, and with him D'Artagnan, who, in twenty-four hours, having made with greatest care all possible inquiries at Belle-Isle, succeeded in learning nothing of the secret so well kept by the heavy rock of Locmaria, which had fallen on the heroic Porthos. The captain of the musketeers only knew what those two valiant men--these two friends, whose defense he had so nobly taken up, whose lives he had so earnestly endeavored to save--aided by three faithful Bretons, had accomplished against a whole army. He had seen, spread on the neighboring heath, the human remains which had stained with clouted blood the scattered stones among the flowering broom. He learned also that a bark had been seen far out at sea, and that, like a bird of prey, a royal vessel had pursued, overtaken, and devoured the poor little bird that was flying with such palpitating wings. But there D'Artagnan's certainties ended. The field of supposition was thrown open. Now, what could he conjecture? The vessel had not returned. It is true that a brisk wind had prevailed for three days; but the corvette was known to be a good sailer and solid in its timbers; it had no need to fear a gale of wind, and it ought, according to the calculation of D'Artagnan, to have either returned to Brest, or come back to the mouth of the Loire. Such was the news, ambiguous, it is true, but in some degree reassuring to him personally, which D'Artagnan brought to Louis XIV., when the king, followed by all the court, returned to Paris. Louis, satisfied with his success--Louis, more mild and affable as he felt himself more powerful--had not ceased for an instant to ride beside the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Everybody was anxious to amuse the two queens, so as to make them forget this abandonment by son and husband. Everything breathed the future, the past was nothing to anybody. Only that past was like a painful bleeding wound to the hearts of certain tender and devoted spirits. Scarcely was the king reinstalled in Paris, when he received a touching proof of this. Louis XIV. had just risen and taken his first repast when his captain of the musketeers presented himself before him. D'Artagnan was pale and looked unhappy. The king, at the first glance, perceived the change in a countenance generally so unconcerned. "What is the matter, D'Artagnan?" said he. "Sire, a great misfortune has happened to me." "Good heavens! what is that?" "Sire, I have lost one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the affair of Belle-Isle." And, while speaking these words, D'Artagnan fixed his falcon eye upon Louis XIV., to catch the first feeling that would show itself. "I knew it," replied the king, quietly. "You knew it, and did not tell me!" cried the musketeer. "To what good? Your grief, my friend, was so well worthy of respect. It was my duty to treat it gently. To have informed you of this misfortune, which I knew would pain you so greatly, D'Artagnan, would have been, in your eyes, to have triumphed over you. Yes, I knew that M. du Vallon had buried himself beneath the rocks of Locmaria; I knew that M. d'Herblay had taken one of my vessels with its crew, and had compelled it to convey him to Bayonne. But I was willing you should learn these matters in a direct manner, in order that you might be convinced my friends are with me respected and sacred; that always in me the man will sacrifice himself to subjects, whilst the king is so often found to sacrifice men to majesty and power." "But, sire, how could you know?" "How do you yourself know, D'Artagnan?" "By this letter, sire, which M. d'Herblay, free and out of danger, writes me from Bayonne." "Look here," said the king, drawing from a casket placed upon the table closet to the seat upon which D'Artagnan was leaning, "here is a letter copied exactly from that of M. d'Herblay. Here is the very letter, which Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I am well served, you may perceive." "Yes, sire," murmured the musketeer, "you were the only man whose star was equal to the task of dominating the fortune and strength of my two friends. You have used your power, sire, you will not abuse it, will you?" "D'Artagnan," said the king, with a smile beaming with kindness, "I could have M. d'Herblay carried off from the territories of the king of Spain, and brought here, alive, to inflict justice upon him. But, D'Artagnan, be assured I will not yield to this first and natural impulse. He is free--let him continue free." "Oh, sire! you will not always remain so clement, so noble, so generous as you have shown yourself with respect to me and M. d'Herblay; you will have about you counselors who will cure you of that weakness." "No, D'Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my council of urging me to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare M. d'Herblay comes from Colbert himself." "Oh, sire!" said D'Artagnan, extremely surprised. "As for you," continued the king, with a kindness very uncommon to him, "I have several pieces of good news to announce to you; but you shall know them, my dear captain, the moment I have made my accounts all straight. I have said that I wish to make, and would make, your fortune; that promise will soon become reality." "A thousand times thanks, sire! I can wait. But I implore you, whilst I go and practice patience, that your majesty will deign to notice those poor people who have for so long a time besieged your ante-chamber, and come humbly to lay a petition at your feet." "Who are they?" "Enemies of your majesty." The king raised his head. "Friends of M. Fouquet," added D'Artagnan. "Their names?" "M. Gourville, M. Pelisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine." The king took a moment to reflect. "What do they want?" "I do not know." "How do they appear?" "In great affliction." "What do they say?" "Nothing." "What do they do?" "They weep." "Let them come in," said the king, with a serious brow. D'Artagnan turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which closed the entrance to the royal chamber, and directing his voice to the adjoining room, cried, "Enter." The three men D'Artagnan had named immediately appeared at the door of the cabinet in which were the king and his captain. A profound silence prevailed in their passage. The courtiers, at the approach of the friends of the unfortunate superintendent of finances, drew back, as if fearful of being affected by contagion with disgrace and misfortune. D'Artagnan, with a quick step, came forward to take by the hand the unhappy men who stood trembling at the door of the cabinet; he led them in front of the king's _fauteuil_, who, having placed himself in the embrasure of a window, awaited the moment of presentation, and was preparing himself to give the supplicants a rigorously diplomatic reception. The first of the friends of Fouquet's to advance was Pelisson. He did not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the king might better hear his voice and prayer. Gourville bit his lips to check his tears, out of respect for the king. La Fontaine buried his face in his handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were the convulsive motions of his shoulders, raised by his sobs. The king preserved his dignity. His countenance was impassible. He even maintained the frown which appeared when D'Artagnan announced his enemies. He made a gesture which signified, "Speak;" and he remained standing, with his eyes fixed searchingly on these desponding men. Pelisson bowed to the ground, and La Fontaine knelt as people do in churches. This dismal silence, disturbed only by sighs and groans, began to excite in the king, not compassion, but impatience. "Monsieur Pelisson," said he, in a sharp, dry tone. "Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur--" and he did not name La Fontaine, "I cannot, without sensible displeasure, see you come to plead for one of the greatest criminals it is the duty of justice to punish. A king does not allow himself to soften save at the tears of the innocent, the remorse of the guilty. I have no faith either in the remorse of M. Fouquet or the tears of his friends, because the one is tainted to the very heart, and the others ought to dread offending me in my own palace. For these reasons, I beg you, Monsieur Pelisson, Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur--, to say nothing that will not plainly proclaim the respect you have for my will." "Sire," replied Pelisson, trembling at these words, "we are come to say nothing to your majesty that is not the most profound expression of the most sincere respect and love that are due to a king from all his subjects. Your majesty's justice is redoubtable; every one must yield to the sentences it pronounces. We respectfully bow before it. Far from us the idea of coming to defend him who has had the misfortune to offend your majesty. He who has incurred your displeasure may be a friend of ours, but he is an enemy to the state. We abandon him, but with tears, to the severity of the king." "Besides," interrupted the king, calmed by that supplicating voice, and those persuasive words, "my parliament will decide. I do not strike without first having weighed the crime; my justice does not wield the sword without employing first a pair of scales." "Therefore we have every confidence in that impartiality of the king, and hope to make our feeble voices heard, with the consent of your majesty, when the hour for defending an accused friend strikes." "In that case, messieurs, what do you ask of me?" said the king, with his most imposing air. "Sire," continued Pelisson, "the accused has a wife and family. The little property he had was scarcely sufficient to pay his debts, and Madame Fouquet, since her husband's captivity, is abandoned by everybody. The hand of your majesty strikes like the hand of God. When the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or pestilence into a family, every one flies and shuns the abode of the leprous or plague-stricken. Sometimes, but very rarely, a generous physician alone ventures to approach the ill-reputed threshold, passes it with courage, and risks his life to combat death. He is the last resource of the dying, the chosen instrument of heavenly mercy. Sire, we supplicate you, with clasped hands and bended knees, as a divinity is supplicated! Madame Fouquet has no longer any friends, no longer any means of support; she weeps in her deserted home, abandoned by all those who besieged its doors in the hour of prosperity; she has neither credit nor hope left. At least, the unhappy wretch upon whom your anger falls receives from you, however culpable he may be, his daily bread though moistened by his tears. As much afflicted, more destitute than her husband, Madame Fouquet--the lady who had the honor to receive your majesty at her table--Madame Fouquet, the wife of the ancient superintendent of your majesty's finances, Madame Fouquet has no longer bread." Here the mortal silence which had chained the breath of Pelisson's two friends was broken by an outburst of sobs; and D'Artagnan, whose chest heaved at hearing this humble prayer, turned round towards the angle of the cabinet to bite his mustache and conceal a groan. The king had preserved his eye dry and his countenance severe; but the blood had mounted to his cheeks, and the firmness of his look was visibly diminished. "What do you wish?" said he, in an agitated voice. "We come humbly to ask your majesty," replied Pelisson, upon whom emotion was fast gaining, "to permit us, without incurring the displeasure of your majesty, to lend to Madame Fouquet two thousand pistoles collected among the old friends of her husband, in order that the widow may not stand in need of the necessaries of life." At the word _widow_, pronounced by Pelisson whilst Fouquet was still alive, the king turned very pale;--his pride disappeared; pity rose from his heart to his lips; he cast a softened look upon the men who knelt sobbing at his feet. "God forbid," said he, "that I should confound the innocent with the guilty. They know me but ill who doubt my mercy towards the weak. I strike none but the arrogant. Do, messieurs, do all that your hearts counsel you to assuage the grief of Madame Fouquet. Go, messieurs--go!" The three now rose in silence with dry eyes. The tears had been scorched away by contact with their burning cheeks and eyelids. They had not the strength to address their thanks to the king, who himself cut short their solemn reverences by entrenching himself suddenly behind the _fauteuil_. D'Artagnan remained alone with the king. "Well," said he, approaching the young prince, who interrogated him with his look. "Well, my master! If you had not the device which belongs to your sun, I would recommend you one which M. Conrart might translate into eclectic Latin, 'Calm with the lowly; stormy with the strong.'" The king smiled, and passed into the next apartment, after having said to D'Artagnan, "I give you the leave of absence you must want to put the affairs of your friend, the late M. du Vallon, in order."

Chapter Fifty-Four: The Friends of M. Fouquet

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-four-the-friends-of-m-fouquet

D'Artagnan arrives back in Paris after going to Belle-Isle and discovering no trace of his friends. He knows only that they killed a lot of men. Once the King is settled in Paris, D'Artagnan shows up with a sad face. He has learned of Porthos's death. The King admits he knew. D'Artagnan asks why he was not informed. The King says he wanted D'Artagnan to find out for himself. When asked how he received this information, the King admits to reading D'Artagnan's mail. Aramis had sent him a letter recapping the situation. D'Artagnan admits Louis is the only man who could possibly dominate over his friends. The King mentions that he could easily have Aramis killed in his hiding place in Spain, but since he's generous, he desists. D'Artagnan protests that the King's advisers will change his mind. The King admits that it is Colbert who actually advised sparing Aramis's life. D'Artagnan asks the King to receive three petitioners who have been waiting for a long time in the antechamber. They are the friends of Fouquet: Gourville, Pelisson, and La Fontaine. The three men are weeping. The King remains expressionless as the three men file in with faces contorted by grief. The men can't get it together to speak, and the King gets impatient. He tells them there is no hope of pardoning Fouquet. Pelisson finally speaks. They are actually there on behalf of Madame Fouquet, who has been abandoned and destitute since her husband has fallen out of favor. The friends ask permission to loan her two thousand pistoles. The King grants them permission and they leave. The King then gives D'Artagnan permission to see to the affairs of Porthos.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/55.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_54_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 55

chapter 55: porthos's will

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Five: Porthos's Will", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-five-porthoss-will", "summary": "Pierrefonds has been prepared for his funeral. Mousqueton, , has lost plenty of weight in two days; his clothes hang on his frame. Various friends arrive to hear the reading of the will. D'Artagnan arrives right as the reading is about to begin. He hugs Mousqueton and nods to the guests. Porthos's will first details all of his worldly possessions, then leaves everything to Raoul de Bragelonne, who he considers his son. A tear slides down D'Artagnan's nose. Porthos includes a few stipulations to this bequest, however. He wants D'Artagnan to have whatever D'Artagnan might request, that Aramis receive a pension should he require one, and that Mousqueton receive all forty-seven of his suits of clothing, to be worn in Porthos's memory. Porthos also wills Mousqueton to Raoul, asking that he look out for the servant's happiness. Mousqueton sobs with grief and tries to leave the hall. D'Artagnan offers to take him to Athos's house. The reading of the will is finished and the guests leave. D'Artagnan is left alone to contemplate his friend's last will and testament, which he judges to be admirable. D'Artagnan hears a groan come from an upstairs room, and he is reminded that Mousqueton must be consoled. He goes upstairs to find, in Porthos's room, all his suits of clothes in a giant heap, and Mousqueton on top, kissing the suits. D'Artagnan moves forward into the room and realizes that Mousqueton is dead.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LV. Porthos's Will. At Pierrefonds everything was in mourning. The courts were deserted--the stables closed--the parterres neglected. In the basins, the fountains, formerly so jubilantly fresh and noisy, had stopped of themselves. Along the roads around the chateau came a few grave personages mounted on mules or country nags. These were rural neighbors, cures and bailiffs of adjacent estates. All these people entered the chateau silently, handed their horses to a melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps, conducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining-room, where Mousqueton received them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in two days that his clothes moved upon him like an ill-fitting scabbard in which the sword-blade dances at each motion. His face, composed of red and white, like that of the Madonna of Vandyke, was furrowed by two silver rivulets which had dug their beds in his cheeks, as full formerly as they had become flabby since his grief began. At each fresh arrival, Mousqueton found fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see him press his throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs and lamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing the reading of Porthos's will, announced for that day, and at which all the covetous friends of the dead man were anxious to be present, as he had left no relations behind him. The visitors took their places as they arrived, and the great room had just been closed when the clock struck twelve, the hour fixed for the reading of the important document. Porthos's procureur--and that was naturally the successor of Master Coquenard--commenced by slowly unfolding the vast parchment upon which the powerful hand of Porthos had traced his sovereign will. The seal broken--the spectacles put on--the preliminary cough having sounded--every one pricked up his ears. Mousqueton had squatted himself in a corner, the better to weep and the better to hear. All at once the folding-doors of the great room, which had been shut, were thrown open as if by magic, and a warlike figure appeared upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun. This was D'Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobody to hold his stirrup, had tied his horse to the knocker and announced himself. The splendor of daylight invading the room, the murmur of all present, and, more than all, the instinct of the faithful dog, drew Mousqueton from his reverie; he raised his head, recognized the old friend of his master, and, screaming with grief, he embraced his knees, watering the floor with his tears. D'Artagnan raised the poor intendant, embraced him as if he had been a brother, and, having nobly saluted the assembly, who all bowed as they whispered to each other his name, he went and took his seat at the extremity of the great carved oak hall, still holding by the hand poor Mousqueton, who was suffocating with excess of woe, and sank upon the steps. Then the procureur, who, like the rest, was considerably agitated, commenced. Porthos, after a profession of faith of the most Christian character, asked pardon of his enemies for all the injuries he might have done them. At this paragraph, a ray of inexpressible pride beamed from the eyes of D'Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the old soldier; all those enemies of Porthos brought to earth by his valiant hand; he reckoned up the numbers of them, and said to himself that Porthos had acted wisely, not to enumerate his enemies or the injuries done to them, or the task would have been too much for the reader. Then came the following schedule of his extensive lands: "I possess at this present time, by the grace of God-- "1. The domain of Pierrefonds, lands, woods, meadows, waters, and forests, surrounded by good walls. "2. The domain of Bracieux, chateaux, forests, plowed lands, forming three farms. "3. The little estate Du Vallon, so named because it is in the valley." (Brave Porthos!) "4. Fifty farms in Touraine, amounting to five hundred acres. "5. Three mills upon the Cher, bringing in six hundred livres each. "6. Three fish-pools in Berry, producing two hundred livres a year. "As to my personal or movable property, so called because it can be moved, as is so well explained by my learned friend the bishop of Vannes--" (D'Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached to that name)--the procureur continued imperturbably--"they consist--" "1. In goods which I cannot detail here for want of room, and which furnish all my chateaux or houses, but of which the list is drawn up by my intendant." Every one turned his eyes towards Mousqueton, who was still lost in grief. "2. In twenty horses for saddle and draught, which I have particularly at my chateau of Pierrefonds, and which are called--Bayard, Roland, Charlemagne, Pepin, Dunois, La Hire, Ogier, Samson, Milo, Nimrod, Urganda, Armida, Flastrade, Dalilah, Rebecca, Yolande, Finette, Grisette, Lisette, and Musette. "3. In sixty dogs, forming six packs, divided as follows: the first, for the stag; the second, for the wolf; the third, for the wild boar; the fourth, for the hare; and the two others, for setters and protection. "4. In arms for war and the chase contained in my gallery of arms. "5. My wines of Anjou, selected for Athos, who liked them formerly; my wines of Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and Spain, stocking eight cellars and twelve vaults, in my various houses. "6. My pictures and statues, which are said to be of great value, and which are sufficiently numerous to fatigue the sight. "7. My library, consisting of six thousand volumes, quite new, and have never been opened. "8. My silver plate, which is perhaps a little worn, but which ought to weigh from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds, for I had great trouble in lifting the coffer that contained it and could not carry it more than six times round my chamber. "9. All these objects, in addition to the table and house linen, are divided in the residences I liked the best." Here the reader stopped to take breath. Every one sighed, coughed, and redoubled his attention. The procureur resumed: "I have lived without having any children, and it is probable I never shall have any, which to me is a cutting grief. And yet I am mistaken, for I have a son, in common with my other friends; that is, M. Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, the true son of M. le Comte de la Fere. "This young nobleman appears to me extremely worthy to succeed the valiant gentleman of whom I am the friend and very humble servant." Here a sharp sound interrupted the reader. It was D'Artagnan's sword, which, slipping from his baldric, had fallen on the sonorous flooring. Every one turned his eyes that way, and saw that a large tear had rolled from the thick lid of D'Artagnan, half-way down to his aquiline nose, the luminous edge of which shone like a little crescent moon. "This is why," continued the procureur, "I have left all my property, movable, or immovable, comprised in the above enumerations, to M. le Vicomte Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, son of M. le Comte de la Fere, to console him for the grief he seems to suffer, and enable him to add more luster to his already glorious name." A vague murmur ran through the auditory. The procureur continued, seconded by the flashing eye of D'Artagnan, which, glancing over the assembly, quickly restored the interrupted silence: "On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do give to M. le Chevalier d'Artagnan, captain of the king's musketeers, whatever the said Chevalier d'Artagnan may demand of my property. On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do pay a good pension to M. le Chevalier d'Herblay, my friend, if he should need it in exile. I leave to my intendant Mousqueton all of my clothes, of city, war, or chase, to the number of forty-seven suits, in the assurance that he will wear them till they are worn out, for the love of and in remembrance of his master. Moreover, I bequeath to M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne my old servant and faithful friend Mousqueton, already named, providing that the said vicomte shall so act that Mousqueton shall declare, when dying, he has never ceased to be happy." On hearing these words, Mousqueton bowed, pale and trembling; his shoulders shook convulsively; his countenance, compressed by a frightful grief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the spectators saw him stagger and hesitate, as if, though wishing to leave the hall, he did not know the way. "Mousqueton, my good friend," said D'Artagnan, "go and make your preparations. I will take you with me to Athos's house, whither I shall go on leaving Pierrefonds." Mousqueton made no reply. He scarcely breathed, as if everything in that hall would from that time be foreign. He opened the door, and slowly disappeared. The procureur finished his reading, after which the greater part of those who had come to hear the last will of Porthos dispersed by degrees, many disappointed, but all penetrated with respect. As for D'Artagnan, thus left alone, after having received the formal compliments of the procureur, he was lost in admiration of the wisdom of the testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the most necessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that neither nobleman nor courtier could have displayed more kindly. When Porthos enjoined Raoul de Bragelonne to give D'Artagnan all that he would ask, he knew well, our worthy Porthos, that D'Artagnan would ask or take nothing; and in case he did demand anything, none but himself could say what. Porthos left a pension to Aramis, who, if he should be inclined to ask too much, was checked by the example of D'Artagnan; and that word _exile_, thrown out by the testator, without apparent intention, was it not the mildest, most exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis which had brought about the death of Porthos? But there was no mention of Athos in the testament of the dead. Could the latter for a moment suppose that the son would not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind of Porthos had fathomed all these causes, seized all these shades more clearly than law, better than custom, with more propriety than taste. "Porthos had indeed a heart," said D'Artagnan to himself with a sigh. As he made this reflection, he fancied he hard a groan in the room above him; and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton, whom he felt it was a pleasing duty to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the hall hastily to seek the worthy intendant, as he had not returned. He ascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived, in Porthos's own chamber, a heap of clothes of all colors and materials, upon which Mousqueton had laid himself down after heaping them all on the floor together. It was the legacy of the faithful friend. Those clothes were truly his own; they had been given to him; the hand of Mousqueton was stretched over these relics, which he was kissing with his lips, with all his face, and covered with his body. D'Artagnan approached to console the poor fellow. "My God!" said he, "he does not stir--he has fainted!" But D'Artagnan was mistaken. Mousqueton was dead! Dead, like the dog who, having lost his master, crawls back to die upon his cloak.

Chapter Fifty-Five: Porthos's Will

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-five-porthoss-will

Pierrefonds has been prepared for his funeral. Mousqueton, , has lost plenty of weight in two days; his clothes hang on his frame. Various friends arrive to hear the reading of the will. D'Artagnan arrives right as the reading is about to begin. He hugs Mousqueton and nods to the guests. Porthos's will first details all of his worldly possessions, then leaves everything to Raoul de Bragelonne, who he considers his son. A tear slides down D'Artagnan's nose. Porthos includes a few stipulations to this bequest, however. He wants D'Artagnan to have whatever D'Artagnan might request, that Aramis receive a pension should he require one, and that Mousqueton receive all forty-seven of his suits of clothing, to be worn in Porthos's memory. Porthos also wills Mousqueton to Raoul, asking that he look out for the servant's happiness. Mousqueton sobs with grief and tries to leave the hall. D'Artagnan offers to take him to Athos's house. The reading of the will is finished and the guests leave. D'Artagnan is left alone to contemplate his friend's last will and testament, which he judges to be admirable. D'Artagnan hears a groan come from an upstairs room, and he is reminded that Mousqueton must be consoled. He goes upstairs to find, in Porthos's room, all his suits of clothes in a giant heap, and Mousqueton on top, kissing the suits. D'Artagnan moves forward into the room and realizes that Mousqueton is dead.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/56.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_55_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 56

chapter 56: the old age of athos

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Six: The Old Age of Athos", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-six-the-old-age-of-athos", "summary": "Back on his own estate, Athos has been preparing for his death. Since his son is gone, Athos has no incentive to lead a good example. He slowly begins sleeping in and cutting back on all his exercises. He stops speaking. He tries writing to his friends, but his letters go unanswered. Finally, his servants get so worried they go behind his back and get his old doctor to examine him. The doctor hides and observes Athos. At one point, he can bear it no longer and goes directly up to Athos and begs him to get well. The physician sees that Athos is slowly killing himself. Athos tells the doctor not to worry - he will remain alive as long as Raoul is alive. He tells the doctor that his soul is prepared; he is waiting for the signal that Raoul is dead. The doctor reflects, deciding there is nothing he can do to change Athos's mind. As he leaves he tells the servants to always keep an eye on him. Athos stops sleeping. Instead, he lets his mind wander in dreams. One night he communicates with Raoul, who is sad to hear of Porthos's death. The vision disappears and servants come running in with a letter from Aramis relating Porthos's death. Athos faints from weakness.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LVI. The Old Age of Athos. While these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers, formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos, left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to that foretaste of death which is called the absence of those we love. Back in his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receive a poor smile as he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt the decline of vigor of a nature which for so long a time had seemed impregnable. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the beloved object, arrived with that _cortege_ of pains and inconveniences, which grows by geometrical accretion. Athos had no longer his son to induce him to walk firmly, with head erect, as a good example; he had no longer, in those brilliant eyes of the young man, an ever-ardent focus at which to kindle anew the fire of his looks. And then, must it be said, that nature, exquisite in tenderness and reserve, no longer finding anything to understand its feelings, gave itself up to grief with all the warmth of common natures when they yield to joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had remained a young man to his sixty-second year; the warrior who had preserved his strength in spite of fatigue; his freshness of mind in spite of misfortune, his mild serenity of soul and body in spite of Milady, in spite of Mazarin, in spite of La Valliere; Athos had become an old man in a week, from the moment at which he lost the comfort of his later youth. Still handsome, though bent, noble, but sad, he sought, since his solitude, the deeper glades where sunshine scarcely penetrated. He discontinued all the mighty exercises he had enjoyed through life, when Raoul was no longer with him. The servants, accustomed to see him stirring with the dawn at all seasons, were astonished to hear seven o'clock strike before their master quitted his bed. Athos remained in bed with a book under his pillow--but he did not sleep, neither did he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer have to carry his body, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from their envelope and return to his son, or to God. [6] His people were sometimes terrified to see him, for hours together, absorbed in silent reverie, mute and insensible; he no longer heard the timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to watch the sleeping or waking of his master. It often occurred that he forgot the day had half passed away, that the hours for the two first meals were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to his shady walk, then came out a little into the sun, as though to partake of its warmth for a minute in memory of his absent child. And then the dismal monotonous walk recommenced, until, exhausted, he regained the chamber and his bed, his domicile by choice. For several days the comte did not speak a single word. He refused to receive the visits that were paid him, and during the night he was seen to relight his lamp and pass long hours in writing, or examining parchments. Athos wrote one of these letters to Vannes, another to Fontainebleau; they remained without answers. We know why: Aramis had quitted France, and D'Artagnan was traveling from Nantes to Paris, from Paris to Pierrefonds. His _valet de chambre_ observed that he shortened his walk every day by several turns. The great alley of limes soon became too long for feet that used to traverse it formerly a hundred times a day. The comte walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himself upon a mossy bank that sloped towards a sidewalk, and there waited the return of his strength, or rather the return of night. Very shortly a hundred steps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to rise at all; he declined all nourishment, and his terrified people, although he did not complain, although he wore a smile upon his lips, although he continued to speak with his sweet voice--his people went to Blois in search of the ancient physician of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the Comte de la Fere in such a fashion that he could see the comte without being himself seen. For this purpose, they placed him in a closet adjoining the chamber of the patient, and implored him not to show himself, for fear of displeasing their master, who had not asked for a physician. The doctor obeyed. Athos was a sort of model for the gentlemen of the country; the Blaisois boasted of possessing this sacred relic of French glory. Athos was a great seigneur compared with such nobles as the king improvised by touching with his artificial scepter the patched-up trunks of the heraldic trees of the province. People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician could not bear to see his people weep, to see flock round him the poor of the canton, to whom Athos had so often given life and consolation by his kind words and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the depths of his hiding-place, the nature of that mysterious malady which bent and aged more mortally every day a man but lately so full of life and a desire to live. He remarked upon the cheeks of Athos the hectic hue of fever, which feeds upon itself; slow fever, pitiless, born in a fold of the heart, sheltering itself behind that rampart, growing from the suffering it engenders, at once cause and effect of a perilous situation. The comte spoke to nobody; he did not even talk to himself. His thought feared noise; it approached to that degree of over-excitement which borders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he does not yet belong to God, already appertains no longer to the earth. The doctor remained for several hours studying this painful struggle of the will against superior power; he was terrified at seeing those eyes always fixed, ever directed on some invisible object; was terrified at the monotonous beating of that heart from which never a sigh arose to vary the melancholy state; for often pain becomes the hope of the physician. Half a day passed away thus. The doctor formed his resolution like a brave man; he issued suddenly from his place of retreat, and went straight up to Athos, who beheld him without evincing more surprise than if he had understood nothing of the apparition. "Monsieur le comte, I crave your pardon," said the doctor, coming up to the patient with open arms; "but I have a reproach to make you--you shall hear me." And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who had great trouble in rousing himself from his preoccupation. "What is the matter, doctor?" asked the comte, after a silence. "The matter is, you are ill, monsieur, and have had no advice." "I! ill!" said Athos, smiling. "Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, monsieur le comte!" "Weakness!" replied Athos; "is it possible? I do not get up." "Come, come! monsieur le comte, no subterfuges; you are a good Christian?" "I hope so," said Athos. "Is it your wish to kill yourself?" "Never, doctor." "Well! monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so. Thus to remain is suicide. Get well! monsieur le comte, get well!" "Of what? Find the disease first. For my part, I never knew myself better; never did the sky appear more blue to me; never did I take more care of my flowers." "You have a hidden grief." "Concealed!--not at all; the absence of my son, doctor; that is my malady, and I do not conceal it." "Monsieur le comte, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the future before him--the future of men of merit, of his race; live for him--" "But I do live, doctor; oh! be satisfied of that," added he, with a melancholy smile; "for as long as Raoul lives, it will be plainly known, for as long as he lives, I shall live." "What do you say?" "A very simple thing. At this moment, doctor, I leave life suspended within me. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life would be beyond my strength, now I have no longer Raoul with me. You do not ask the lamp to burn when the match has not illumed the flame; do not ask me to live amidst noise and merriment. I vegetate, I prepare myself, I wait. Look, doctor; remember those soldiers we have so often seen together at the ports, where they were waiting to embark; lying down, indifferent, half on one element, half on the other; they were neither at the place where the sea was going to carry them, nor at the place the earth was going to lose them; baggage prepared, minds on the stretch, arms stacked--they waited. I repeat it, the word is the one which paints my present life. Lying down like the soldiers, my ear on the stretch for the report that may reach me, I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons. Who will make me that summons? life or death? God or Raoul? My baggage is packed, my soul is prepared, I await the signal--I wait, doctor, I wait!" The doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strength of that body; he reflected for the moment, told himself that words were useless, remedies absurd, and left the chateau, exhorting Athos's servants not to quit him for a moment. The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation at having been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that came should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that every distraction which should arise would be a joy, a hope, which his servants would have paid with their blood to procure him. Sleep had become rare. By intense thinking, Athos forgot himself, for a few hours at most, in a reverie most profound, more obscure than other people would have called a dream. The momentary repose which this forgetfulness thus gave the body, still further fatigued the soul, for Athos lived a double life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night, he dreamt that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent, to go upon an expedition commanded by M. de Beaufort in person. The young man was sad; he clasped his cuirass slowly, and slowly he girded on his sword. "What is the matter?" asked his father, tenderly. "What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, ever so dear a friend," replied Raoul. "I suffer here the grief you soon will feel at home." And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one of his servants entered his master's apartment, and gave him a letter which came from Spain. "The writing of Aramis," thought the comte; and he read. "Porthos is dead!" cried he, after the first lines. "Oh! Raoul, Raoul! thanks! thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!" And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed, without any other cause than weakness.

Chapter Fifty-Six: The Old Age of Athos

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-six-the-old-age-of-athos

Back on his own estate, Athos has been preparing for his death. Since his son is gone, Athos has no incentive to lead a good example. He slowly begins sleeping in and cutting back on all his exercises. He stops speaking. He tries writing to his friends, but his letters go unanswered. Finally, his servants get so worried they go behind his back and get his old doctor to examine him. The doctor hides and observes Athos. At one point, he can bear it no longer and goes directly up to Athos and begs him to get well. The physician sees that Athos is slowly killing himself. Athos tells the doctor not to worry - he will remain alive as long as Raoul is alive. He tells the doctor that his soul is prepared; he is waiting for the signal that Raoul is dead. The doctor reflects, deciding there is nothing he can do to change Athos's mind. As he leaves he tells the servants to always keep an eye on him. Athos stops sleeping. Instead, he lets his mind wander in dreams. One night he communicates with Raoul, who is sad to hear of Porthos's death. The vision disappears and servants come running in with a letter from Aramis relating Porthos's death. Athos faints from weakness.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/57.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_56_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 57

chapter 57: the vision of athos

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Vision of Athos", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-seven-the-vision-of-athos", "summary": "Athos gets out of bed, determined to get in touch with D'Artagnan and take a trip to Belle-Isle to pay his last respects to Porthos's resting place. As soon as he is ready to go, however, he loses all his strength and is obliged to rest. Every time he tries to leave, he is overtaken by fatigue. Clearly, he is not supposed to leave the house. Athos takes a nap. Mail is delivered today, but there is nothing for Athos. He is upset, for this means he must wait another eight days. Athos catches a fever. The physician comes to tend to him. Athos dreams he is in Africa witnessing battle. Night falls and Athos can see fallen bodies under a \"mild and pale moon.\" Athos is horrified as he looks at the corpses. He sees Beaufort's white horse lying on the ground. Worried, Athos looks for his son. Finally exhausted, Athos rests for a moment under a tent. From far away he can see a white figure approaching. The figure is dressed as an officer. Athos recognizes Raoul and cries out to him. Raoul beckons his father to follow him, then glides away. Athos follows Raoul to the top of a hill. Raoul begins to ascend straight up into the air and beckons his father to follow.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LVII. Athos's Vision. When this fainting of Athos had ceased, the comte, almost ashamed of having given way before this superior natural event, dressed himself and ordered his horse, determined to ride to Blois, to open more certain correspondences with either Africa, D'Artagnan, or Aramis. In fact, this letter from Aramis informed the Comte de la Fere of the bad success of the expedition of Belle-Isle. It gave him sufficient details of the death of Porthos to move the tender and devoted heart of Athos to its innermost fibers. Athos wished to go and pay his friend Porthos a last visit. To render this honor to his companion in arms, he meant to send to D'Artagnan, to prevail upon him to recommence the painful voyage to Belle-Isle, to accomplish in his company that sad pilgrimage to the tomb of the giant he had so much loved, then to return to his dwelling to obey that secret influence which was conducting him to eternity by a mysterious road. But scarcely had his joyous servants dressed their master, whom they saw with pleasure preparing for a journey which might dissipate his melancholy; scarcely had the comte's gentlest horse been saddled and brought to the door, when the father of Raoul felt his head become confused, his legs give way, and he clearly perceived the impossibility of going one step further. He ordered himself to be carried into the sun; they laid him upon his bed of moss where he passed a full hour before he could recover his spirits. Nothing could be more natural than this weakness after then inert repose of the latter days. Athos took a _bouillon_, to give him strength, and bathed his dried lips in a glassful of the wine he loved the best--that old Anjou wine mentioned by Porthos in his admirable will. Then, refreshed, free in mind, he had his horse brought again; but only with the aid of his servants was he able painfully to climb into the saddle. He did not go a hundred paces; a shivering seized him again at the turning of the road. "This is very strange!" said he to his _valet de chambre_, who accompanied him. "Let us stop, monsieur--I conjure you!" replied the faithful servant; "how pale you are getting!" "That will not prevent my pursuing my route, now I have once started," replied the comte. And he gave his horse his head again. But suddenly, the animal, instead of obeying the thought of his master, stopped. A movement, of which Athos was unconscious, had checked the bit. "Something," said Athos, "wills that I should go no further. Support me," added he, stretching out his arms; "quick! come closer! I feel my muscles relax--I shall fall from my horse." The valet had seen the movement made by his master at the moment he received the order. He went up to him quickly, received the comte in his arms, and as they were not yet sufficiently distant from the house for the servants, who had remained at the door to watch their master's departure, not to perceive the disorder in the usually regular proceeding of the comte, the valet called his comrades by gestures and voice, and all hastened to his assistance. Athos had gone but a few steps on his return, when he felt himself better again. His strength seemed to revive and with it the desire to go to Blois. He made his horse turn round: but, at the animal's first steps, he sunk again into a state of torpor and anguish. "Well! decidedly," said he, "it is _willed_ that I should stay at home." His people flocked around him; they lifted him from his horse, and carried him as quickly as possible into the house. Everything was prepared in his chamber, and they put him to bed. "You will be sure to remember," said he, disposing himself to sleep, "that I expect letters from Africa this very day." "Monsieur will no doubt hear with pleasure that Blaisois's son is gone on horseback, to gain an hour over the courier of Blois," replied his _valet de chambre_. "Thank you," replied Athos, with his placid smile. The comte fell asleep, but his disturbed slumber resembled torture rather than repose. The servant who watched him saw several times the expression of internal suffering shadowed on his features. Perhaps Athos was dreaming. The day passed away. Blaisois's son returned; the courier had brought no news. The comte reckoned the minutes with despair; he shuddered when those minutes made an hour. The idea that he was forgotten seized him once, and brought on a fearful pang of the heart. Everybody in the house had given up all hopes of the courier--his hour had long passed. Four times the express sent to Blois had repeated his journey, and there was nothing to the address of the comte. Athos knew that the courier only arrived once a week. Here, then, was a delay of eight mortal days to be endured. He commenced the night in this painful persuasion. All that a sick man, irritated by suffering, can add of melancholy suppositions to probabilities already gloomy, Athos heaped up during the early hours of this dismal night. The fever rose: it invaded the chest, where the fire soon caught, according to the expression of the physician, who had been brought back from Blois by Blaisois at his last journey. Soon it gained the head. The physician made two successive bleedings, which dislodged it for the time, but left the patient very weak, and without power of action in anything but his brain. And yet this redoubtable fever had ceased. It besieged with its last palpitations the tense extremities; it ended by yielding as midnight struck. The physician, seeing the incontestable improvement, returned to Blois, after having ordered some prescriptions, and declared that the comte was saved. Then commenced for Athos a strange, indefinable state. Free to think, his mind turned towards Raoul, that beloved son. His imagination penetrated the fields of Africa in the environs of Gigelli, where M. de Beaufort must have landed with his army. A waste of gray rocks, rendered green in certain parts by the waters of the sea, when it lashed the shore in storms and tempest. Beyond, the shore, strewed over with these rocks like gravestones, ascended, in form of an amphitheater among mastic-trees and cactus, a sort of small town, full of smoke, confused noises, and terrified movements. All of a sudden, from the bosom of this smoke arose a flame, which succeeded, creeping along the houses, in covering the entire surface of the town, and increased by degrees, uniting in its red and angry vortices tears, screams, and supplicating arms outstretched to Heaven. There was, for a moment, a frightful _pele-mele_ of timbers falling to pieces, of swords broken, of stones calcined, trees burnt and disappearing. It was a strange thing that in this chaos, in which Athos distinguished raised arms, in which he heard cries, sobs, and groans, he did not see one human figure. The cannon thundered at a distance, musketry madly barked, the sea moaned, flocks made their escape, bounding over the verdant slope. But not a soldier to apply the match to the batteries of cannon, not a sailor to assist in maneuvering the fleet, not a shepherd in charge of the flocks. After the ruin of the village, the destruction of the forts which dominated it, a ruin and destruction magically wrought without the co-operation of a single human being, the flames were extinguished, the smoke began to subside, then diminished in intensity, paled and disappeared entirely. Night then came over the scene; night dark upon the earth, brilliant in the firmament. The large blazing stars which spangled the African sky glittered and gleamed without illuminating anything. A long silence ensued, which gave, for a moment, repose to the troubled imagination of Athos; and as he felt that that which he saw was not terminated, he applied more attentively the eyes of his understanding on the strange spectacle which his imagination had presented. This spectacle was soon continued for him. A mild pale moon rose behind the declivities of the coast, streaking at first the undulating ripples of the sea, which appeared to have calmed after the roaring it had sent forth during the vision of Athos--the moon, we say, shed its diamonds and opals upon the briers and bushes of the hills. The gray rocks, so many silent and attentive phantoms, appeared to raise their heads to examine likewise the field of battle by the light of the moon, and Athos perceived that the field, empty during the combat, was now strewn with fallen bodies. An inexpressible shudder of fear and horror seized his soul as he recognized the white and blue uniforms of the soldiers of Picardy, with their long pikes and blue handles, and muskets marked with the _fleur-de-lis_ on the butts. When he saw all the gaping wounds, looking up to the bright heavens as if to demand back of them the souls to which they had opened a passage,--when he saw the slaughtered horses, stiff, their tongues hanging out at one side of their mouths, sleeping in the shiny blood congealed around them, staining their furniture and their manes,--when he saw the white horse of M. de Beaufort, with his head beaten to pieces, in the first ranks of the dead, Athos passed a cold hand over his brow, which he was astonished not to find burning. He was convinced by this touch that he was present, as a spectator, without delirium's dreadful aid, the day after the battle fought upon the shores of Gigelli by the army of the expedition, which he had seen leave the coast of France and disappear upon the dim horizon, and of which he had saluted with thought and gesture the last cannon-shot fired by the duke as a signal of farewell to his country. Who can paint the mortal agony with which his soul followed, like a vigilant eye, these effigies of clay-cold soldiers, and examined them, one after the other, to see if Raoul slept among them? Who can express the intoxication of joy with which Athos bowed before God, and thanked Him for not having seen him he sought with so much fear among the dead? In fact, fallen in their ranks, stiff, icy, the dead, still recognizable with ease, seemed to turn with complacency towards the Comte de la Fere, to be the better seen by him, during his sad review. But yet, he was astonished, while viewing all these bodies, not to perceive the survivors. To such a point did the illusion extend, that this vision was for him a real voyage made by the father into Africa, to obtain more exact information respecting his son. Fatigued, therefore, with having traversed seas and continents, he sought repose under one of the tents sheltered behind a rock, on the top of which floated the white _fleur-de-lised_ pennon. He looked for a soldier to conduct him to the tent of M. de Beaufort. Then, while his eye was wandering over the plain, turning on all sides, he saw a white form appear behind the scented myrtles. This figure was clothed in the costume of an officer; it held in its hand a broken sword; it advanced slowly towards Athos, who, stopping short and fixing his eyes upon it, neither spoke nor moved, but wished to open his arms, because in this silent officer he had already recognized Raoul. The comte attempted to utter a cry, but it was stifled in his throat. Raoul, with a gesture, directed him to be silent, placing his finger on his lips and drawing back by degrees, without Athos being able to see his legs move. The comte, still paler than Raoul, followed his son, painfully traversing briers and bushes, stones and ditches, Raoul not appearing to touch the earth, no obstacle seeming to impede the lightness of his march. The comte, whom the inequalities of the path fatigued, soon stopped, exhausted. Raoul still continued to beckon him to follow him. The tender father, to whom love restored strength, made a last effort, and climbed the mountain after the young man, who attracted him by gesture and by smile. At length he gained the crest of the hill, and saw, thrown out in black, upon the horizon whitened by the moon, the aerial form of Raoul. Athos reached forth his hand to get closer to his beloved son upon the plateau, and the latter also stretched out his; but suddenly, as if the young man had been drawn away in his own despite, still retreating, he left the earth, and Athos saw the clear blue sky shine between the feet of his child and the ground of the hill. Raoul rose insensibly into the void, smiling, still calling with gesture:--he departed towards heaven. Athos uttered a cry of tenderness and terror. He looked below again. He saw a camp destroyed, and all those white bodies of the royal army, like so many motionless atoms. And, then, raising his head, he saw the figure of his son still beckoning him to climb the mystic void.

Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Vision of Athos

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-seven-the-vision-of-athos

Athos gets out of bed, determined to get in touch with D'Artagnan and take a trip to Belle-Isle to pay his last respects to Porthos's resting place. As soon as he is ready to go, however, he loses all his strength and is obliged to rest. Every time he tries to leave, he is overtaken by fatigue. Clearly, he is not supposed to leave the house. Athos takes a nap. Mail is delivered today, but there is nothing for Athos. He is upset, for this means he must wait another eight days. Athos catches a fever. The physician comes to tend to him. Athos dreams he is in Africa witnessing battle. Night falls and Athos can see fallen bodies under a "mild and pale moon." Athos is horrified as he looks at the corpses. He sees Beaufort's white horse lying on the ground. Worried, Athos looks for his son. Finally exhausted, Athos rests for a moment under a tent. From far away he can see a white figure approaching. The figure is dressed as an officer. Athos recognizes Raoul and cries out to him. Raoul beckons his father to follow him, then glides away. Athos follows Raoul to the top of a hill. Raoul begins to ascend straight up into the air and beckons his father to follow.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/58.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_57_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 58

chapter 58: the angel of death

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Angel of Death", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-eight-the-angel-of-death", "summary": "The vision is interrupted by a loud noise. A man on horseback has arrived and is now ascending the stairs. It is Grimaud. Athos asks if Raoul is dead. Grimaud answers in the affirmative. Athos raises his eyes to heaven, imagining that he is once again on the hill, watching his son ascend into heaven. He says, \"Here I am,\" then dies. Athos looks so peaceful that the servants think he is sleeping. Grimaud knows better. He can tell his master is dead. D'Artagnan walks in, calling for Athos. Grimaud points to the bed. It is clear Athos is dead. Grimaud kisses the foot of the bed and begins to cry. D'Artagnan kisses his friend Athos on the forehead. He begins to wail with grief. The servants join in. Only Grimaud remains silent as Athos taught him. The next day, D'Artagnan asks Grimaud for information on Raoul's death.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LVIII. The Angel of Death. Athos was at this part of his marvelous vision, when the charm was suddenly broken by a great noise rising from the outer gates. A horse was heard galloping over the hard gravel of the great alley, and the sound of noisy and animated conversations ascended to the chamber in which the comte was dreaming. Athos did not stir from the place he occupied; he scarcely turned his head towards the door to ascertain the sooner what these noises could be. A heavy step ascended the stairs; the horse, which had recently galloped, departed slowly towards the stables. Great hesitation appeared in the steps, which by degrees approached the chamber. A door was opened, and Athos, turning a little towards the part of the room the noise came from, cried, in a weak voice: "It is a courier from Africa, is it not?" "No, monsieur le comte," replied a voice which made the father of Raoul start upright in his bed. "Grimaud!" murmured he. And the sweat began to pour down his face. Grimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we have seen, still young with courage and devotion, when he jumped the first into the boat destined to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the vessels of the royal fleet. 'Twas now a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered with dust, and hair whitened by old age. He trembled whilst leaning against the door-frame, and was near falling on seeing, by the light of the lamps, the countenance of his master. These two men who had lived so long together in a community of intelligence, and whose eyes, accustomed to economize expressions, knew how to say so many things silently--these two old friends, one as noble as the other in heart, if they were unequal in fortune and birth, remained tongue-tied whilst looking at each other. By the exchange of a single glance they had just read to the bottom of each other's hearts. The old servitor bore upon his countenance the impression of a grief already old, the outward token of a grim familiarity with woe. He appeared to have no longer in use more than a single version of his thoughts. As formerly he was accustomed not to speak much, he was now accustomed not to smile at all. Athos read at a glance all these shades upon the visage of his faithful servant, and in the same tone he would have employed to speak to Raoul in his dream: "Grimaud," said he, "Raoul is dead. _Is it not so?_" Behind Grimaud the other servants listened breathlessly, with their eyes fixed upon the bed of their sick master. They heard the terrible question, and a heart-breaking silence followed. "Yes," replied the old man, heaving the monosyllable from his chest with a hoarse, broken sigh. Then arose voices of lamentation, which groaned without measure, and filled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the agonized father sought with his eyes the portrait of his son. This was for Athos like the transition which led to his dream. Without uttering a cry, without shedding a tear, patient, mild, resigned as a martyr, he raised his eyes towards Heaven, in order there to see again, rising above the mountain of Gigelli, the beloved shade that was leaving him at the moment of Grimaud's arrival. Without doubt, while looking towards the heavens, resuming his marvelous dream, he repassed by the same road by which the vision, at once so terrible and sweet, had led him before; for after having gently closed his eyes, he reopened them and began to smile: he had just seen Raoul, who had smiled upon him. With his hands joined upon his breast, his face turned towards the window, bathed by the fresh air of night, which brought upon its wings the aroma of the flowers and the woods, Athos entered, never again to come out of it, into the contemplation of that paradise which the living never see. God willed, no doubt, to open to this elect the treasures of eternal beatitude, at this hour when other men tremble with the idea of being severely received by the Lord, and cling to this life they know, in the dread of the other life of which they get but merest glimpses by the dismal murky torch of death. Athos was spirit-guided by the pure serene soul of his son, which aspired to be like the paternal soul. Everything for this just man was melody and perfume in the rough road souls take to return to the celestial country. After an hour of this ecstasy, Athos softly raised his hands as white as wax; the smile did not quit his lips, and he murmured low, so low as scarcely to be audible, these three words addressed to God or to Raoul: "HERE I AM!" And his hands fell slowly, as though he himself had laid them on the bed. Death had been kind and mild to this noble creature. It had spared him the tortures of the agony, convulsions of the last departure; had opened with an indulgent finger the gates of eternity to that noble soul. God had no doubt ordered it thus that the pious remembrance of this death should remain in the hearts of those present, and in the memory of other men--a death which caused to be loved the passage from this life to the other by those whose existence upon this earth leads them not to dread the last judgment. Athos preserved, even in the eternal sleep, that placid and sincere smile--an ornament which was to accompany him to the tomb. The quietude and calm of his fine features made his servants for a long time doubt whether he had really quitted life. The comte's people wished to remove Grimaud, who, from a distance, devoured the face now quickly growing marble-pale, and did not approach, from pious fear of bringing to him the breath of death. But Grimaud, fatigued as he was, refused to leave the room. He sat himself down upon the threshold, watching his master with the vigilance of a sentinel, jealous to receive either his first waking look or his last dying sigh. The noises all were quiet in the house--every one respected the slumber of their lord. But Grimaud, by anxiously listening, perceived that the comte no longer breathed. He raised himself with his hands leaning on the ground, looked to see if there did not appear some motion in the body of his master. Nothing! Fear seized him; he rose completely up, and, at the very moment, heard some one coming up the stairs. A noise of spurs knocking against a sword--a warlike sound familiar to his ears--stopped him as he was going towards the bed of Athos. A voice more sonorous than brass or steel resounded within three paces of him. "Athos! Athos! my friend!" cried this voice, agitated even to tears. "Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan," faltered out Grimaud. "Where is he? Where is he?" continued the musketeer. Grimaud seized his arm in his bony fingers, and pointed to the bed, upon the sheets of which the livid tints of death already showed. A choked respiration, the opposite to a sharp cry, swelled the throat of D'Artagnan. He advanced on tip-toe, trembling, frightened at the noise his feet made on the floor, his heart rent by a nameless agony. He placed his ear to the breast of Athos, his face to the comte's mouth. Neither noise, nor breath! D'Artagnan drew back. Grimaud, who had followed him with his eyes, and for whom each of his movements had been a revelation, came timidly; seated himself at the foot of the bed, and glued his lips to the sheet which was raised by the stiffened feet of his master. Then large drops began to flow from his red eyes. This old man in invincible despair, who wept, bent doubled without uttering a word, presented the most touching spectacle that D'Artagnan, in a life so filled with emotion, had ever met with. The captain resumed standing in contemplation before that smiling dead man, who seemed to have burnished his last thought, to give his best friend, the man he had loved next to Raoul, a gracious welcome even beyond life. And for reply to that exalted flattery of hospitality, D'Artagnan went and kissed Athos fervently on the brow, and with his trembling fingers closed his eyes. Then he seated himself by the pillow without dread of that dead man, who had been so kind and affectionate to him for five and thirty years. He was feeding his soul with the remembrances the noble visage of the comte brought to his mind in crowds--some blooming and charming as that smile--some dark, dismal, and icy as that visage with its eyes now closed to all eternity. All at once the bitter flood which mounted from minute to minute invaded his heart, and swelled his breast almost to bursting. Incapable of mastering his emotion, he arose, and tearing himself violently from the chamber where he had just found dead him to whom he came to report the news of the death of Porthos, he uttered sobs so heart-rending that the servants, who seemed only to wait for an explosion of grief, answered to it by their lugubrious clamors, and the dogs of the late comte by their lamentable howlings. Grimaud was the only one who did not lift up his voice. Even in the paroxysm of his grief he would not have dared to profane the dead, or for the first time disturb the slumber of his master. Had not Athos always bidden him be dumb? At daybreak D'Artagnan, who had wandered about the lower hall, biting his fingers to stifle his sighs--D'Artagnan went up once more; and watching the moments when Grimaud turned his head towards him, he made him a sign to come to him, which the faithful servant obeyed without making more noise than a shadow. D'Artagnan went down again, followed by Grimaud; and when he had gained the vestibule, taking the old man's hands, "Grimaud," said he, "I have seen how the father died; now let me know about the son." Grimaud drew from his breast a large letter, upon the envelope of which was traced the address of Athos. He recognized the writing of M. de Beaufort, broke the seal, and began to read, while walking about in the first steel-chill rays of dawn, in the dark alley of old limes, marked by the still visible footsteps of the comte who had just died.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Angel of Death

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-eight-the-angel-of-death

The vision is interrupted by a loud noise. A man on horseback has arrived and is now ascending the stairs. It is Grimaud. Athos asks if Raoul is dead. Grimaud answers in the affirmative. Athos raises his eyes to heaven, imagining that he is once again on the hill, watching his son ascend into heaven. He says, "Here I am," then dies. Athos looks so peaceful that the servants think he is sleeping. Grimaud knows better. He can tell his master is dead. D'Artagnan walks in, calling for Athos. Grimaud points to the bed. It is clear Athos is dead. Grimaud kisses the foot of the bed and begins to cry. D'Artagnan kisses his friend Athos on the forehead. He begins to wail with grief. The servants join in. Only Grimaud remains silent as Athos taught him. The next day, D'Artagnan asks Grimaud for information on Raoul's death.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/59.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_58_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 59

chapter 59: the bulletin

{"name": "Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Bulletin", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-nine-the-bulletin", "summary": "We get a copy of the letter Beaufort wrote to Athos . Beaufort writes that Raoul died gloriously, and encloses a report of the death. It goes like this: The attack started in the morning. As per instructions, Raoul stayed close to Beaufort. When a task that would expose him to heavy fire needed completion, Raoul volunteers. Beaufort refuses, trying to spare the young man. The man who takes the task ends up being killed. Beaufort asks Raoul to take note, since he has promised Athos he would bring him back alive. The enemy troops are bombarded and eventually they spill out of the fort to begin fighting on the ground. The corps engages in combat. Raoul is part of the group that surrounds Beaufort. Raoul kills three soldiers. Beaufort commands him to stop, but Raoul rides towards the fort. Everyone yells at him to stop, and when he doesn't, they assume his horse has run away with him. They take aim at the horse, but don't shoot for fear of hitting Raoul instead. Finally, a sharpshooter hits the horse. Raoul continues on foot towards the fort. Raoul goes down as the fort is hit. And thus begins the fight for Raoul's body: the Arabs want it, but the French refuse to let them have it. They engage in battle. Eventually, they recover Raoul's body. He is miraculously alive but has lost a great deal of blood. Physicians predict he will make a full recovery if he rests and does not move even a finger. Later that night, an assistant finds Raoul dead upon the ground, clutching a lock of fair hair to his heart. Full of grief, D'Artagnan notes that father and son must finally be reunited.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LIX. The Bulletin. The Duc de Beaufort wrote to Athos. The letter destined for the living only reached the dead. God had changed the address. "MY DEAR COMTE," wrote the prince, in his large, school-boy's hand,--"a great misfortune has struck us amidst a great triumph. The king loses one of the bravest of soldiers. I lose a friend. You lose M. de Bragelonne. He has died gloriously, so gloriously that I have not the strength to weep as I could wish. Receive my sad compliments, my dear comte. Heaven distributes trials according to the greatness of our hearts. This is an immense one, but not above your courage. Your good friend, "LE DUC DE BEAUFORT." The letter contained a relation written by one of the prince's secretaries. It was the most touching recital, and the most true, of that dismal episode which unraveled two existences. D'Artagnan, accustomed to battle emotions, and with a heart armed against tenderness, could not help starting on reading the name of Raoul, the name of that beloved boy who had become a shade now--like his father. "In the morning," said the prince's secretary, "monseigneur commanded the attack. Normandy and Picardy had taken positions in the rocks dominated by the heights of the mountain, upon the declivity of which were raised the bastions of Gigelli. "The cannon opened the action; the regiments marched full of resolution; the pikemen with pikes elevated, the musket-bearers with their weapons ready. The prince followed attentively the march and movements of the troops, so as to be able to sustain them with a strong reserve. With monseigneur were the oldest captains and his aides-de-camp. M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne had received orders not to leave his highness. In the meantime the enemy's cannon, which at first thundered with little success against the masses, began to regulate their fire, and the balls, better directed, killed several men near the prince. The regiments formed in column, and, advancing against the ramparts, were rather roughly handled. There was a sort of hesitation in our troops, who found themselves ill-seconded by the artillery. In fact, the batteries which had been established the evening before had but a weak and uncertain aim, on account of their position. The upward direction of the aim lessened the justness of the shots as well as their range. "Monseigneur, comprehending the bad effect of this position on the siege artillery, commanded the frigates moored in the little road to commence a regular fire against the place. M. de Bragelonne offered himself at once to carry this order. But monseigneur refused to acquiesce in the vicomte's request. Monseigneur was right, for he loved and wished to spare the young nobleman. He was quite right, and the event took upon itself to justify his foresight and refusal; for scarcely had the sergeant charged with the message solicited by M. de Bragelonne gained the seashore, when two shots from long carbines issued from the enemy's ranks and laid him low. The sergeant fell, dyeing the sand with his blood; observing which, M. de Bragelonne smiled at monseigneur, who said to him, 'You see, vicomte, I have saved your life. Report that, some day, to M. le Comte de la Fere, in order that, learning it from you, he may thank me.' The young nobleman smiled sadly, and replied to the duke, 'It is true, monseigneur, that but for your kindness I should have been killed, where the poor sergeant has fallen, and should be at rest.' M. de Bragelonne made this reply in such a tone that monseigneur answered him warmly, '_Vrai Dieu!_ Young man, one would say that your mouth waters for death; but, by the soul of Henry IV., I have promised your father to bring you back alive; and, please the Lord, I mean to keep my word.' "Monseigneur de Bragelonne colored, and replied, in a lower voice, 'Monseigneur, pardon me, I beseech you. I have always had a desire to meet good opportunities; and it is so delightful to distinguish ourselves before our general, particularly when that general is M. le Duc de Beaufort.' "Monseigneur was a little softened by this; and, turning to the officers who surrounded him, gave different orders. The grenadiers of the two regiments got near enough to the ditches and intrenchments to launch their grenades, which had but small effect. In the meanwhile, M. d'Estrees, who commanded the fleet, having seen the attempt of the sergeant to approach the vessels, understood that he must act without orders, and opened fire. Then the Arabs, finding themselves seriously injured by the balls from the fleet, and beholding the destruction and the ruin of their walls, uttered the most fearful cries. Their horsemen descended the mountain at a gallop, bent over their saddles, and rushed full tilt upon the columns of infantry, which, crossing their pikes, stopped this mad assault. Repulsed by the firm attitude of the battalion, the Arabs threw themselves with fury towards the _etat-major_, which was not on its guard at that moment. "The danger was great; monseigneur drew his sword; his secretaries and people imitated him; the officers of the suite engaged in combat with the furious Arabs. It was then M. de Bragelonne was able to satisfy the inclination he had so clearly shown from the commencement of the action. He fought near the prince with the valor of a Roman, and killed three Arabs with his small sword. But it was evident that his bravery did not arise from that sentiment of pride so natural to all who fight. It was impetuous, affected, even forced; he sought to glut, intoxicate himself with strife and carnage. He excited himself to such a degree that monseigneur called to him to stop. He must have heard the voice of monseigneur, because we who were close to him heard it. He did not, however, stop, but continued his course to the intrenchments. As M. de Bragelonne was a well-disciplined officer, this disobedience to the orders of monseigneur very much surprised everybody, and M. de Beaufort redoubled his earnestness, crying, 'Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you going? Stop,' repeated monseigneur, 'I command you!' "We all, imitating the gesture of M. le duc, we all raised our hands. We expected that the cavalier would turn bridle; but M. de Bragelonne continued to ride towards the palisades. "'Stop, Bragelonne!' repeated the prince, in a very loud voice, 'stop! in the name of your father!' "At these words M. de Bragelonne turned round; his countenance expressed a lively grief, but he did not stop; we then concluded that his horse must have run away with him. When M. le duc saw cause to conclude that the vicomte was no longer master of his horse, and had watched him precede the first grenadiers, his highness cried, 'Musketeers, kill his horse! A hundred pistoles for the man who kills his horse!' But who could expect to hit the beast without at least wounding his rider? No one dared the attempt. At length one presented himself; he was a sharp-shooter of the regiment of Picardy, named Luzerne, who took aim at the animal, fired, and hit him in the quarters, for we saw the blood redden the hair of the horse. Instead of falling, the cursed jennet was irritated, and carried him on more furiously than ever. Every Picard who saw this unfortunate young man rushing on to meet certain death, shouted in the loudest manner, 'Throw yourself off, monsieur le vicomte!--off!--off! throw yourself off!' M. de Bragelonne was an officer much beloved in the army. Already had the vicomte arrived within pistol-shot of the ramparts, when a discharge was poured upon him that enshrouded him in fire and smoke. We lost sight of him; the smoke dispersed; he was on foot, upright; his horse was killed. "The vicomte was summoned to surrender by the Arabs, but he made them a negative sign with his head, and continued to march towards the palisades. This was a mortal imprudence. Nevertheless the entire army was pleased that he would not retreat, since ill-chance had led him so near. He marched a few paces further, and the two regiments clapped their hands. It was at this moment the second discharge shook the walls, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne again disappeared in the smoke; but this time the smoke dispersed in vain; we no longer saw him standing. He was down, with his head lower than his legs, among the bushes, and the Arabs began to think of leaving their intrenchments to come and cut off his head or take his body--as is the custom with the infidels. But Monseigneur le Duc de Beaufort had followed all this with his eyes, and the sad spectacle drew from him many painful sighs. He then cried aloud, seeing the Arabs running like white phantoms among the mastic-trees, 'Grenadiers! lancers! will you let them take that noble body?' "Saying these words and waving his sword, he himself rode towards the enemy. The regiments, rushing in his steps, ran in their turn, uttering cries as terrible as those of the Arabs were wild. "The combat commenced over the body of M. de Bragelonne, and with such inveteracy was it fought that a hundred and sixty Arabs were left upon the field, by the side of at least fifty of our troops. It was a lieutenant from Normandy who took the body of the vicomte on his shoulders and carried it back to the lines. The advantage was, however, pursued, the regiments took the reserve with them, and the enemy's palisades were utterly destroyed. At three o'clock the fire of the Arabs ceased; the hand-to-hand fight lasted two hours; it was a massacre. At five o'clock we were victorious at all points; the enemy had abandoned his positions, and M. le duc ordered the white flag to be planted on the summit of the little mountain. It was then we had time to think of M. de Bragelonne, who had eight large wounds in his body, through which almost all his blood had welled away. Still, however, he had breathed, which afforded inexpressible joy to monseigneur, who insisted on being present at the first dressing of the wounds and the consultation of the surgeons. There were two among them who declared M. de Bragelonne would live. Monseigneur threw his arms around their necks, and promised them a thousand louis each if they could save him. "The vicomte heard these transports of joy, and whether he was in despair, or whether he suffered much from his wounds, he expressed by his countenance a contradiction, which gave rise to reflection, particularly in one of the secretaries when he had heard what follows. The third surgeon was the brother of Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most learned of them all. He probed the wounds in his turn, and said nothing. M. de Bragelonne fixed his eyes steadily upon the skillful surgeon, and seemed to interrogate his every movement. The latter, upon being questioned by monseigneur, replied that he saw plainly three mortal wounds out of eight, but so strong was the constitution of the wounded, so rich was he in youth, and so merciful was the goodness of God, that perhaps M. de Bragelonne might recover, particularly if he did not move in the slightest manner. Frere Sylvain added, turning towards his assistants, 'Above everything, do not allow him to move, even a finger, or you will kill him;' and we all left the tent in very low spirits. That secretary I have mentioned, on leaving the tent, thought he perceived a faint and sad smile glide over the lips of M. de Bragelonne when the duke said to him, in a cheerful, kind voice, 'We will save you, vicomte, we will save you yet.' "In the evening, when it was believed the wounded youth had taken some repose, one of the assistants entered his tent, but rushed out again immediately, uttering loud cries. We all ran up in disorder, M. le duc with us, and the assistant pointed to the body of M. de Bragelonne upon the ground, at the foot of his bed, bathed in the remainder of his blood. It appeared that he had suffered some convulsion, some delirium, and that he had fallen; that the fall had accelerated his end, according to the prognosis of Frere Sylvain. We raised the vicomte; he was cold and dead. He held a lock of fair hair in his right hand, and that hand was tightly pressed upon his heart." Then followed the details of the expedition, and of the victory obtained over the Arabs. D'Artagnan stopped at the account of the death of poor Raoul. "Oh!" murmured he, "unhappy boy! a suicide!" And turning his eyes towards the chamber of the chateau, in which Athos slept in eternal sleep, "They kept their words with each other," said he, in a low voice; "now I believe them to be happy; they must be reunited." And he returned through the parterre with slow and melancholy steps. All the village--all the neighborhood--were filled with grieving neighbors relating to each other the double catastrophe, and making preparations for the funeral.

Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Bulletin

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-fifty-nine-the-bulletin

We get a copy of the letter Beaufort wrote to Athos . Beaufort writes that Raoul died gloriously, and encloses a report of the death. It goes like this: The attack started in the morning. As per instructions, Raoul stayed close to Beaufort. When a task that would expose him to heavy fire needed completion, Raoul volunteers. Beaufort refuses, trying to spare the young man. The man who takes the task ends up being killed. Beaufort asks Raoul to take note, since he has promised Athos he would bring him back alive. The enemy troops are bombarded and eventually they spill out of the fort to begin fighting on the ground. The corps engages in combat. Raoul is part of the group that surrounds Beaufort. Raoul kills three soldiers. Beaufort commands him to stop, but Raoul rides towards the fort. Everyone yells at him to stop, and when he doesn't, they assume his horse has run away with him. They take aim at the horse, but don't shoot for fear of hitting Raoul instead. Finally, a sharpshooter hits the horse. Raoul continues on foot towards the fort. Raoul goes down as the fort is hit. And thus begins the fight for Raoul's body: the Arabs want it, but the French refuse to let them have it. They engage in battle. Eventually, they recover Raoul's body. He is miraculously alive but has lost a great deal of blood. Physicians predict he will make a full recovery if he rests and does not move even a finger. Later that night, an assistant finds Raoul dead upon the ground, clutching a lock of fair hair to his heart. Full of grief, D'Artagnan notes that father and son must finally be reunited.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2759-chapters/60.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Man in the Iron Mask/section_59_part_0.txt

The Man in the Iron Mask.chapter 60

chapter 60: the last canto of the poem

{"name": "Chapter Sixty: The Last Canto of the Poem", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-sixty-the-last-canto-of-the-poem", "summary": "The next day, all the nobility arrives to pay their last respects. D'Artagnan keeps to himself. He helps prepare for the funeral and writes to the King, requesting a longer leave of absence. The bodies of father and son are laid out in the front hall. Grimuad brought Raoul's body back with him . Athos and Raoul are buried by a chapel on the edge of Athos's estate. After the funeral, D'Artagnan lingers to pay his last respects. He finds a woman grieving over the double graves. She is overcome, asking for forgiveness. D'Artagnan discovers it is La Valliere. He shames her mercilessly, saying it is she who put both men in their graves. She says she left court as soon as she heard of Raoul's death, hoping to beg forgiveness from the father, and wound up arriving just in time for the funeral. D'Artagnan repeats Raoul's feelings to La Valliere: no one could have loved her as he did. La Valliere is full of suffering. She tells D'Artagnan that she will never be able to love without remorse. She tells D'Artagnan that she could not help but love Louis, but now she will suffer from Raoul's love for her. La Valliere again asks for forgiveness before she leaves. D'Artagnan is left alone to wonder when he will be buried. He bids farewell to the departed and rides back to Paris.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter LX. The Last Canto of the Poem. On the morrow, all the _noblesse_ of the provinces, of the environs, and wherever messengers had carried the news, might have been seen arriving in detachments. D'Artagnan had shut himself up, without being willing to speak to anybody. Two such heavy deaths falling upon the captain, so closely after the death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit which had hitherto been so indefatigable and invulnerable. Except Grimaud, who entered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants nor guests. He supposed, from the noises in the house, and the continual coming and going, that preparations were being made for the funeral of the comte. He wrote to the king to ask for an extension of his leave of absence. Grimaud, as we have said, had entered D'Artagnan's apartment, had seated himself upon a joint-stool near the door, like a man who meditates profoundly; then, rising, he made a sign to D'Artagnan to follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the comte's bed-chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the empty bed, and raised his eyes eloquently towards Heaven. "Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "yes, good Grimaud--now with the son he loved so much!" Grimaud left the chamber, and led the way to the hall, where, according to the custom of the province, the body was laid out, previously to being put away forever. D'Artagnan was struck at seeing two open coffins in the hall. In reply to the mute invitation of Grimaud, he approached, and saw in one of them Athos, still handsome in death, and, in the other, Raoul with his eyes closed, his cheeks pearly as those of the Palls of Virgil, with a smile on his violet lips. He shuddered at seeing the father and son, those two departed souls, represented on earth by two silent, melancholy bodies, incapable of touching each other, however close they might be. "Raoul here!" murmured he. "Oh! Grimaud, why did you not tell me this?" Grimaud shook his head, and made no reply; but taking D'Artagnan by the hand, he led him to the coffin, and showed him, under the thin winding-sheet, the black wounds by which life had escaped. The captain turned away his eyes, and, judging it was useless to question Grimaud, who would not answer, he recollected that M. de Beaufort's secretary had written more than he, D'Artagnan, had had the courage to read. Taking up the recital of the affair which had cost Raoul his life, he found these words, which ended the concluding paragraph of the letter: "Monseigneur le duc has ordered that the body of monsieur le vicomte should be embalmed, after the manner practiced by the Arabs when they wish their dead to be carried to their native land; and monsieur le duc has appointed relays, so that the same confidential servant who brought up the young man might take back his remains to M. le Comte de la Fere." "And so," thought D'Artagnan, "I shall follow thy funeral, my dear boy--I, already old--I, who am of no value on earth--and I shall scatter dust upon that brow I kissed but two months since. God has willed it to be so. Thou hast willed it to be so, thyself. I have no longer the right even to weep. Thou hast chosen death; it seemed to thee a preferable gift to life." At length arrived the moment when the chill remains of these two gentlemen were to be given back to mother earth. There was such an affluence of military and other people that up to the place of the sepulture, which was a little chapel on the plain, the road from the city was filled with horsemen and pedestrians in mourning. Athos had chosen for his resting-place the little inclosure of a chapel erected by himself near the boundary of his estates. He had had the stones, cut in 1550, brought from an old Gothic manor-house in Berry, which had sheltered his early youth. The chapel, thus rebuilt, transported, was pleasing to the eye beneath its leafy curtains of poplars and sycamores. It was ministered in every Sunday, by the cure of the neighboring bourg, to whom Athos paid an allowance of two hundred francs for this service; and all the vassals of his domain, with their families, came thither to hear mass, without having any occasion to go to the city. Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of hazel, elder and white thorn, and a deep ditch, the little inclosure--uncultivated, though gay in its sterility; because the mosses there grew thick, wild heliotrope and ravenelles there mingled perfumes, while from beneath an ancient chestnut issued a crystal spring, a prisoner in its marble cistern, and on the thyme all around alighted thousands of bees from the neighboring plants, whilst chaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully among the flower-spangled hedges. It was to this place the somber coffins were carried, attended by a silent and respectful crowd. The office of the dead being celebrated, the last adieux paid to the noble departed, the assembly dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and mild death of the father, of the hopes the son had given, and of his melancholy end upon the arid coast of Africa. Little by little, all noises were extinguished, like the lamps illuminating the humble nave. The minister bowed for the last time to the altar and the still fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery. D'Artagnan, left alone, perceived that night was coming on. He had forgotten the hour, thinking only of the dead. He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated in the chapel, and wished, as the priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu to the double grave which contained his two lost friends. A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D'Artagnan stopped at the door of the chapel, to avoid disturbing her, and also to endeavor to find out who was the pious friend who performed this sacred duty with so much zeal and perseverance. The unknown had hidden her face in her hands, which were white as alabaster. From the noble simplicity of her costume, she must be a woman of distinction. Outside the inclosure were several horses mounted by servants; a travelling carriage was in waiting for this lady. D'Artagnan in vain sought to make out what caused her delay. She continued praying, and frequently pressed her handkerchief to her face, by which D'Artagnan perceived she was weeping. He beheld her strike her breast with the compunction of a Christian woman. He heard her several times exclaim as from a wounded heart: "Pardon! pardon!" And as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to her grief, as she threw herself down, almost fainting, exhausted by complaints and prayers, D'Artagnan, touched by this love for his so much regretted friends, made a few steps towards the grave, in order to interrupt the melancholy colloquy of the penitent with the dead. But as soon as his step sounded on the gravel, the unknown raised her head, revealing to D'Artagnan a face aflood with tears, a well-known face. It was Mademoiselle de la Valliere! "Monsieur d'Artagnan!" murmured she. "You!" replied the captain, in a stern voice, "you here!--oh! madame, I should better have liked to see you decked with flowers in the mansion of the Comte de la Fere. You would have wept less--and they too--and I!" "Monsieur!" said she, sobbing. "For it was you," added this pitiless friend of the dead,--"it was you who sped these two men to the grave." "Oh! spare me!" "God forbid, madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I should make her weep in vain; but I must say that the place of the murderer is not upon the grave of her victims." She wished to reply. "What I now tell you," added he, coldly, "I have already told the king." She clasped her hands. "I know," said she, "I have caused the death of the Vicomte de Bragelonne." "Ah! you know it?" "The news arrived at court yesterday. I have traveled during the night forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the comte, whom I supposed to be still living, and to pray God, on the tomb of Raoul, that he would send me all the misfortunes I have merited, except a single one. Now, monsieur, I know that the death of the son has killed the father; I have two crimes to reproach myself with; I have two punishments to expect from Heaven." "I will repeat to you, mademoiselle," said D'Artagnan, "what M. de Bragelonne said of you, at Antibes, when he already meditated death: 'If pride and coquetry have misled her, I pardon her while despising her. If love has produced her error, I pardon her, but I swear that no one could have loved her as I have done.'" "You know," interrupted Louise, "that of my love I was about to sacrifice myself; you know whether I suffered when you met me lost, dying, abandoned. Well! never have I suffered so much as now; because then I hoped, desired,--now I have no longer anything to wish for; because this death drags all my joy into the tomb; because I can no longer dare to love without remorse, and I feel that he whom I love--oh! it is but just!--will repay me with the tortures I have made others undergo." D'Artagnan made no reply; he was too well convinced that she was not mistaken. "Well, then," added she, "dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, do not overwhelm me to-day, I again implore you! I am like the branch torn from the trunk, I no longer hold to anything in this world--a current drags me on, I know not whither. I love madly, even to the point of coming to tell it, wretch that I am, over the ashes of the dead, and I do not blush for it--I have no remorse on this account. Such love is a religion. Only, as hereafter you will see me alone, forgotten, disdained; as you will see me punished, as I am destined to be punished, spare me in my ephemeral happiness, leave it to me for a few days, for a few minutes. Now, even at the moment I am speaking to you, perhaps it no longer exists. My God! this double murder is perhaps already expiated!" While she was speaking thus, the sound of voices and of horses drew the attention of the captain. M. de Saint-Aignan came to seek La Valliere. "The king," he said, "is a prey to jealousy and uneasiness." Saint-Aignan did not perceive D'Artagnan, half concealed by the trunk of a chestnut-tree which shaded the double grave. Louise thanked Saint-Aignan, and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined the party outside the inclosure. "You see, madame," said the captain bitterly to the young woman,--"you see your happiness still lasts." The young woman raised her head with a solemn air. "A day will come," said she, "when you will repent of having so misjudged me. On that day, it is I who will pray God to forgive you for having been unjust towards me. Besides, I shall suffer so much that you yourself will be the first to pity my sufferings. Do not reproach me with my fleeting happiness, Monsieur d'Artagnan; it costs me dear, and I have not paid all my debt." Saying these words, she again knelt down, softly and affectionately. "Pardon me the last time, my affianced Raoul!" said she. "I have broken our chain; we are both destined to die of grief. It is thou who departest first; fear nothing, I shall follow thee. See, only, that I have not been base, and that I have come to bid thee this last adieu. The Lord is my witness, Raoul, that if with my life I could have redeemed thine, I would have given that life without hesitation. I could not give my love. Once more, forgive me, dearest, kindest friend." She strewed a few sweet flowers on the freshly sodded earth; then, wiping the tears from her eyes, the heavily stricken lady bowed to D'Artagnan, and disappeared. The captain watched the departure of the horses, horsemen, and carriage, then crossing his arms upon his swelling chest, "When will it be my turn to depart?" said he, in an agitated voice. "What is there left for man after youth, love, glory, friendship, strength, and wealth have disappeared? That rock, under which sleeps Porthos, who possessed all I have named; this moss, under which repose Athos and Raoul, who possessed much more!" He hesitated for a moment, with a dull eye; then, drawing himself up, "Forward! still forward!" said he. "When it is time, God will tell me, as he foretold the others." He touched the earth, moistened with the evening dew, with the ends of his fingers, signed himself as if he had been at the _benitier_ in church, and retook alone--ever alone--the road to Paris. Epilogue. Four years after the scene we have just described, two horsemen, well mounted, traversed Blois early in the morning, for the purpose of arranging a hawking party the king had arranged to make in that uneven plain the Loire divides in two, which borders on the one side Meung, on the other Amboise. These were the keeper of the king's harriers and the master of the falcons, personages greatly respected in the time of Louis XIII., but rather neglected by his successor. The horsemen, having reconnoitered the ground, were returning, their observations made, when they perceived certain little groups of soldiers, here and there, whom the sergeants were placing at distances at the openings of the inclosures. These were the king's musketeers. Behind them came, upon a splendid horse, the captain, known by his richly embroidered uniform. His hair was gray, his beard turning so. He seemed a little bent, although sitting and handling his horse gracefully. He was looking about him watchfully. "M. d'Artagnan does not get any older," said the keeper of the harriers to his colleague the falconer; "with ten years more to carry than either of us, he has the seat of a young man on horseback." "That is true," replied the falconer. "I don't see any change in him for the last twenty years." But this officer was mistaken; D'Artagnan in the last four years had lived a dozen. Age had printed its pitiless claws at each angle of his eyes; his brow was bald; his hands, formerly brown and nervous, were getting white, as if the blood had half forgotten them. D'Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which distinguishes superiors, and received in turn for his courtesy two most respectful bows. "Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried the falconer. "It is rather I who should say that, messieurs," replied the captain, "for nowadays, the king makes more frequent use of his musketeers than of his falcons." "Ah! it is not as it was in the good old times," sighed the falconer. "Do you remember, Monsieur d'Artagnan, when the late king flew the pie in the vineyards beyond Beaugence? Ah! _dame!_ you were not the captain of the musketeers at that time, Monsieur d'Artagnan." [7] "And you were nothing but under-corporal of the tiercelets," replied D'Artagnan, laughing. "Never mind that, it was a good time, seeing that it is always a good time when we are young. Good day, monsieur the keeper of the harriers." "You do me honor, monsieur le comte," said the latter. D'Artagnan made no reply. The title of comte had hardly struck him; D'Artagnan had been a comte four years. "Are you not very much fatigued with the long journey you have taken, monsieur le capitaine?" continued the falconer. "It must be full two hundred leagues from hence to Pignerol." "Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to return," said D'Artagnan, quietly. "And," said the falconer, "is _he_ well?" "Who?" asked D'Artagnan. "Why, poor M. Fouquet," continued the falconer, in a low voice. The keeper of the harriers had prudently withdrawn. "No," replied D'Artagnan, "the poor man frets terribly; he cannot comprehend how imprisonment can be a favor; he says that parliament absolved him by banishing him, and banishment is, or should be, liberty. He cannot imagine that they had sworn his death, and that to save his life from the claws of parliament was to be under too much obligation to Heaven." "Ah! yes; the poor man had a close chance of the scaffold," replied the falconer; "it is said that M. Colbert had given orders to the governor of the Bastile, and that the execution was ordered." "Enough!" said D'Artagnan, pensively, and with a view of cutting short the conversation. "Yes," said the keeper of the harriers, drawing towards them, "M. Fouquet is now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He had the good fortune to be conducted there by you; he robbed the king sufficiently." D'Artagnan launched at the master of the dogs one of his crossest looks, and said to him, "Monsieur, if any one told me you had eaten your dogs' meat, not only would I refuse to believe it; but still more, if you were condemned to the lash or to jail for it, I should pity you and would not allow people to speak ill of you. And yet, monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you that you are not more so than poor M. Fouquet was." After having undergone this sharp rebuke, the keeper of the harriers hung his head, and allowed the falconer to get two steps in advance of him nearer to D'Artagnan. "He is content," said the falconer, in a low voice, to the musketeer; "we all know that harriers are in fashion nowadays; if he were a falconer he would not talk in that way." D'Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great political question resolved by the discontent of such humble interest. He for a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence of the surintendant, the crumbling of his fortunes, and the melancholy death that awaited him; and to conclude, "Did M. Fouquet love falconry?" said he. "Oh, passionately, monsieur!" repeated the falconer, with an accent of bitter regret and a sigh that was the funeral oration of Fouquet. D'Artagnan allowed the ill-humor of the one and the regret of the other to pass, and continued to advance. They could already catch glimpses of the huntsmen at the issue of the wood, the feathers of the outriders passing like shooting stars across the clearings, and the white horses skirting the bosky thickets looking like illuminated apparitions. "But," resumed D'Artagnan, "will the sport last long? Pray, give us a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a swan?" "Both, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the falconer; "but you need not be alarmed; the king is not much of a sportsman; he does not take the field on his own account, he only wishes to amuse the ladies." The words "to amuse the ladies" were so strongly accented they set D'Artagnan thinking. "Ah!" said he, looking keenly at the falconer. The keeper of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making it up with the musketeer. "Oh! you may safely laugh," said D'Artagnan; "I know nothing of current news; I only arrived yesterday, after a month's absence. I left the court mourning the death of the queen-mother. The king was not willing to take any amusement after receiving the last sigh of Anne of Austria; but everything comes to an end in this world. Well! then he is no longer sad? So much the better." [8] "And everything begins as well as ends," said the keeper with a coarse laugh. "Ah!" said D'Artagnan, a second time,--he burned to know, but dignity would not allow him to interrogate people below him,--"there is something beginning, then, it seems?" The keeper gave him a significant wink; but D'Artagnan was unwilling to learn anything from this man. "Shall we see the king early?" asked he of the falconer. "At seven o'clock, monsieur, I shall fly the birds." "Who comes with the king? How is Madame? How is the queen?" "Better, monsieur." "Has she been ill, then?" "Monsieur, since the last chagrin she suffered, her majesty has been unwell." "What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I have but just returned." "It appears that the queen, a little neglected since the death of her mother-in-law, complained to the king, who answered her,--'Do I not sleep at home every night, madame? What more do you expect?'" "Ah!" said D'Artagnan,--"poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de la Valliere." "Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Valliere," replied the falconer. "Who then--" The blast of a hunting-horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companions set off immediately, leaving D'Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended sentence. The king appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot's pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and horses. There was an animation in the scene, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendor of a theatric spectacle. D'Artagnan, with an eye a little, just a little, dimmed by age, distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the queen; it was empty. D'Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de la Valliere by the king's side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the king, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skillful hand, shone a lady of most dazzling beauty. The king smiled upon her, and she smiled upon the king. Loud laughter followed every word she uttered. "I must know that woman," thought the musketeer; "who can she be?" And he stooped towards his friend, the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put to himself. The falconer was about to reply, when the king, perceiving D'Artagnan, "Ah, comte!" said he, "you are amongst us once more then! Why have I not seen you?" "Sire," replied the captain, "because your majesty was asleep when I arrived, and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning." "Still the same," said Louis, in a loud voice, denoting satisfaction. "Take some rest, comte; I command you to do so. You will dine with me to-day." A murmur of admiration surrounded D'Artagnan like a caress. Every one was eager to salute him. Dining with the king was an honor his majesty was not so prodigal of as Henry IV. had been. The king passed a few steps in advance, and D'Artagnan found himself in the midst of a fresh group, among whom shone Colbert. "Good-day, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the minister, with marked affability, "have you had a pleasant journey?" "Yes, monsieur," said D'Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse. "I heard the king invite you to his table for this evening," continued the minister; "you will meet an old friend there." "An old friend of mine?" asked D'Artagnan, plunging painfully into the dark waves of the past, which had swallowed up for him so many friendships and so many hatreds. "M. le Duc d'Almeda, who is arrived this morning from Spain." "The Duc d'Almeda?" said D'Artagnan, reflecting in vain. "Here!" cried an old man, white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage, which he caused to be thrown open to make room for the musketeer. "_Aramis!_" cried D'Artagnan, struck with profound amazement. And he felt, inert as it was, the thin arm of the old nobleman hanging round his neck. Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a few moments, urged his horse forward, and left the two old friends together. "And so," said the musketeer, taking Aramis's arm, "you, the exile, the rebel, are again in France?" "Ah! and I shall dine with you at the king's table," said Aramis, smiling. "Yes, will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Valliere's carriage to pass. Look, how uneasy she is! How her eyes, dim with tears, follow the king, who is riding on horseback yonder!" "With whom?" "With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now Madame de Montespan," replied Aramis. "She is jealous. Is she then deserted?" "Not quite yet, but it will not be long before she _is_." [9] They chatted together, while following the sport, and Aramis's coachman drove them so cleverly that they arrived at the instant when the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down, and fell upon him. The king alighted; Madame de Montespan followed his example. They were in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by huge trees, already despoiled of their leaves by the first cutting winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was an inclosure, closed by a latticed gate. The falcon had beaten down his prey in the inclosure belonging to this little chapel, and the king was desirous of going in to take the first feather, according to custom. The _cortege_ formed a circle round the building and the hedges, too small to receive so many. D'Artagnan held back Aramis by the arm, as he was about, like the rest, to alight from his carriage, and in a hoarse, broken voice, "Do you know, Aramis," said he, "whither chance has conducted us?" "No," replied the duke. "Here repose men that we knew well," said D'Artagnan, greatly agitated. Aramis, without divining anything, and with a trembling step, penetrated into the chapel by a little door which D'Artagnan opened for him. "Where are they buried?" said he. "There, in the inclosure. There is a cross, you see, beneath yon little cypress. The tree of grief is planted over their tomb; don't go to it; the king is going that way; the heron has fallen just there." Aramis stopped, and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw, without being seen, the pale face of La Valliere, who, neglected in her carriage, at first looked on, with a melancholy heart, from the door, and then, carried away by jealousy, advanced into the chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar, she contemplated the king smiling and making signs to Madame de Montespan to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de Montespan complied; she took the hand the king held out to her, and he, plucking out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had strangled, placed it in his beautiful companion's hat. She, smiling in her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this present. The king grew scarlet with vanity and pleasure; he looked at Madame de Montespan with all the fire of new love. "What will you give me in exchange?" said he. She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the king, who looked intoxicated with hope. "Humph!" said Aramis to D'Artagnan; "the present is but a sad one, for that cypress shades a tomb." "Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne," said D'Artagnan aloud; "of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with his father." A groan resounded--they saw a woman fall fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de la Valliere had seen all, heard all. "Poor woman!" muttered D'Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to carry back to her carriage the lonely lady whose lot henceforth in life was suffering. That evening D'Artagnan was seated at the king's table, near M. Colbert and M. le Duc d'Almeda. The king was very gay. He paid a thousand little attentions to the queen, a thousand kindnesses to Madame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been supposed that time of calm when the king was wont to watch his mother's eyes for the approval or disapproval of what he had just done. Of mistresses there was no question at this dinner. The king addressed Aramis two or three times, calling him M. l'ambassadeur, which increased the surprise already felt by D'Artagnan at seeing his friend the rebel so marvelously well received at court. The king, on rising from table, gave his hand to the queen, and made a sign to Colbert, whose eye was on his master's face. Colbert took D'Artagnan and Aramis on one side. The king began to chat with his sister, whilst Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the queen with a preoccupied air, without ceasing to watch his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis, D'Artagnan, and Colbert turned upon indifferent subjects. They spoke of preceding ministers; Colbert related the successful tricks of Mazarin, and desired those of Richelieu to be related to him. D'Artagnan could not overcome his surprise at finding this man, with his heavy eyebrows and low forehead, display so much sound knowledge and cheerful spirits. Aramis was astonished at that lightness of character which permitted this serious man to retard with advantage the moment for more important conversation, to which nobody made any allusion, although all three interlocutors felt its imminence. It was very plain, from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur, how much the conversation of the king and Madame annoyed him. Madame's eyes were almost red: was she going to complain? Was she going to expose a little scandal in open court? The king took her on one side, and in a tone so tender that it must have reminded the princess of the time when she was loved for herself: "Sister," said he, "why do I see tears in those lovely eyes?" "Why--sire--" said she. "Monsieur is jealous, is he not, sister?" She looked towards Monsieur, an infallible sign that they were talking about him. "Yes," said she. "Listen to me," said the king; "if your friends compromise you, it is not Monsieur's fault." He spoke these words with so much kindness that Madame, encouraged, having borne so many solitary griefs so long, was nearly bursting into tears, so full was her heart. "Come, come, dear little sister," said the king, "tell me your griefs; on the word of a brother, I pity them; on the word of a king, I will put an end to them." She raised her glorious eyes and, in a melancholy tone: "It is not my friends who compromise me," said she; "they are either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your majesty; they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!" "You say this on account of De Guiche, whom I have exiled, at Monsieur's desire?" "And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavored to get himself killed once every day." "Unjust, say you, sister?" "So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mixed with friendship that I have always entertained for your majesty--" "Well!" "Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, upon whom I can always--" The king started. "What, then?" "I would have asked him to have had it represented to you that Monsieur and his favorite M. le Chevalier de Lorraine ought not with impunity to constitute themselves the executioners of my honor and my happiness." "The Chevalier de Lorraine," said the king; "that dismal fellow?" "Is my mortal enemy. Whilst that man lives in my household, where Monsieur retains him and delegates his power to him, I shall be the most miserable woman in the kingdom." "So," said the king, slowly, "you call your brother of England a better friend than I am?" "Actions speak for themselves, sire." "And you would prefer going to ask assistance there--" "To my own country!" said she with pride; "yes, sire." "You are the grandchild of Henry IV. as well as myself, lady. Cousin and brother-in-law, does not that amount pretty well to the title of brother-germain?" "Then," said Henrietta, "act!" "Let us form an alliance." "Begin." "I have, you say, unjustly exiled De Guiche." "Oh! yes," said she, blushing. "De Guiche shall return." [10] "So far, well." "And now you say that I do wrong in having in your household the Chevalier de Lorraine, who gives Monsieur ill advice respecting you?" "Remember well what I tell you, sire; the Chevalier de Lorraine some day--Observe, if ever I come to a dreadful end, I beforehand accuse the Chevalier de Lorraine; he has a spirit that is capable of any crime!" "The Chevalier de Lorraine shall no longer annoy you--I promise you that." [11] "Then that will be a true preliminary of alliance, sire,--I sign; but since you have done your part, tell me what shall be mine." "Instead of embroiling me with your brother Charles, you must make him a more intimate friend than ever." "That is very easy." "Oh! not quite so easy as you may suppose, for in ordinary friendship people embrace or exercise hospitality, and that only costs a kiss or a return, profitable expenses; but in political friendship--" "Ah! it's a political friendship, is it?" "Yes, my sister; and then, instead of embraces and feasts, it is soldiers--it is soldiers all alive and well equipped--that we must serve up to our friends; vessels we must offer, all armed with cannons and stored with provisions. It hence results that we have not always coffers in a fit condition for such friendships." "Ah! you are quite right," said Madame; "the coffers of the king of England have been sonorous for some time." "But you, my sister, who have so much influence over your brother, you can secure more than an ambassador could ever get the promise of." "To effect that I must go to London, my dear brother." "I have thought so," replied the king, eagerly; "and I have said to myself that such a voyage would do your health and spirits good." "Only," interrupted Madame, "it is possible I should fail. The king of England has dangerous counselors." "Counselors, do you say?" "Precisely. If, by chance, your majesty had any intention--I am only supposing so--of asking Charles II. his alliance in a war--" "A war?" "Yes; well! then the king's counselors, who are in number seven--Mademoiselle Stewart, Mademoiselle Wells, Mademoiselle Gwyn, Miss Orchay, Mademoiselle Zunga, Miss Davies, and the proud Countess of Castlemaine--will represent to the king that war costs a great deal of money; that it is better to give balls and suppers at Hampton Court than to equip ships of the line at Portsmouth and Greenwich." "And then your negotiations will fail?" "Oh! those ladies cause all negotiations to fall through which they don't make themselves." "Do you know the idea that has struck me, sister?" "No; inform me what it is." "It is that, searching well around you, you might perhaps find a female counselor to take with you to your brother, whose eloquence might paralyze the ill-will of the seven others." "That is really an idea, sire, and I will search." "You will find what you want." "I hope so." "A pretty ambassadress is necessary; an agreeable face is better than an ugly one, is it not?" "Most assuredly." "An animated, lively, audacious character." "Certainly." "Nobility; that is, enough to enable her to approach the king without awkwardness--not too lofty, so as not to trouble herself about the dignity of her race." "Very true." "And who knows a little English." "_Mon Dieu!_ why, some one," cried Madame, "like Mademoiselle de Keroualle, for instance!" "Oh! why, yes!" said Louis XIV.; "you have hit the mark,--it is you who have found, my sister." "I will take her; she will have no cause to complain, I suppose." "Oh! no, I will name her _seductrice plenipotentiaire_ at once, and will add a dowry to the title." "That is well." "I fancy you already on your road, my dear little sister, consoled for all your griefs." "I will go, on two conditions. The first is, that I shall know what I am negotiating about." "That is it. The Dutch, you know, insult me daily in their gazettes, and by their republican attitude. I do not like republics." "That may easily be imagined, sire." "I see with pain that these kings of the sea--they call themselves so--keep trade from France in the Indies, and that their vessels will soon occupy all the ports of Europe. Such a power is too near me, sister." "They are your allies, nevertheless." "That is why they were wrong in having the medal you have heard of struck; a medal which represents Holland stopping the sun, as Joshua did, with this legend: _The sun had stopped before me_. There is not much fraternity in that, _is_ there?" "I thought you had forgotten that miserable episode?" "I never forget anything, sister. And if my true friends, such as your brother Charles, are willing to second me--" The princess remained pensively silent. "Listen to me; there is the empire of the seas to be shared," said Louis XIV. "For this partition, which England submits to, could I not represent the second party as well as the Dutch?" "We have Mademoiselle de Keroualle to treat that question," replied Madame. "Your second condition for going, if you please, sister?" "The consent of Monsieur, my husband." "You shall have it." "Then consider me already gone, brother." On hearing these words, Louis XIV. turned round towards the corner of the room in which D'Artagnan, Colbert, and Aramis stood, and made an affirmative sign to his minister. Colbert then broke in on the conversation suddenly, and said to Aramis: "Monsieur l'ambassadeur, shall we talk about business?" D'Artagnan immediately withdrew, from politeness. He directed his steps towards the fireplace, within hearing of what the king was about to say to Monsieur, who, evidently uneasy, had gone to him. The face of the king was animated. Upon his brow was stamped a strength of will, the expression of which already met no further contradiction in France, and was soon to meet no more in Europe. "Monsieur," said the king to his brother, "I am not pleased with M. le Chevalier de Lorraine. You, who do him the honor to protect him, must advise him to travel for a few months." These words fell with the crush of an avalanche upon Monsieur, who adored his favorite, and concentrated all his affections in him. "In what has the chevalier been inconsiderate enough to displease your majesty?" cried he, darting a furious look at Madame. "I will tell you that when he is gone," said the king, suavely. "And also when Madame, here, shall have crossed over into England." "Madame! in England!" murmured Monsieur, in amazement. "In a week, brother," continued the king, "whilst we will go whither I will shortly tell you." And the king turned on his heel, smiling in his brother's face, to sweeten, as it were, the bitter draught he had given him. During this time Colbert was talking with the Duc d'Almeda. "Monsieur," said Colbert to Aramis, "this is the moment for us to come to an understanding. I have made your peace with the king, and I owed that clearly to a man of so much merit; but as you have often expressed friendship for me, an opportunity presents itself for giving me a proof of it. You are, besides, more a Frenchman than a Spaniard. Shall we secure--answer me frankly--the neutrality of Spain, if we undertake anything against the United Provinces?" "Monsieur," replied Aramis, "the interest of Spain is clear. To embroil Europe with the Provinces would doubtless be our policy, but the king of France is an ally of the United Provinces. You are not ignorant, besides, that it would infer a maritime war, and that France is in no state to undertake this with advantage." Colbert, turning round at this moment, saw D'Artagnan who was seeking some interlocutor, during this "aside" of the king and Monsieur. He called him, at the same time saying in a low voice to Aramis, "We may talk openly with D'Artagnan, I suppose?" "Oh! certainly," replied the ambassador. "We were saying, M. d'Almeda and I," said Colbert, "that a conflict with the United Provinces would mean a maritime war." "That's evident enough," replied the musketeer. "And what do you think of it, Monsieur d'Artagnan?" "I think that to carry on such a war successfully, you must have very large land forces." "What did you say?" said Colbert, thinking he had ill understood him. "Why such a large land army?" said Aramis. "Because the king will be beaten by sea if he has not the English with him, and that when beaten by sea, he will soon be invaded, either by the Dutch in his ports, or by the Spaniards by land." "And Spain neutral?" asked Aramis. "Neutral as long as the king shall prove stronger," rejoined D'Artagnan. Colbert admired that sagacity which never touched a question without enlightening it thoroughly. Aramis smiled, as he had long known that in diplomacy D'Artagnan acknowledged no superior. Colbert, who, like all proud men, dwelt upon his fantasy with a certainty of success, resumed the subject, "Who told you, M. d'Artagnan, that the king had no navy?" "Oh! I take no heed of these details," replied the captain. "I am but an indifferent sailor. Like all nervous people, I hate the sea; and yet I have an idea that, with ships, France being a seaport with two hundred exits, we might have sailors." Colbert drew from his pocket a little oblong book divided into two columns. On the first were the names of vessels, on the other the figures recapitulating the number of cannon and men requisite to equip these ships. "I have had the same idea as you," said he to D'Artagnan, "and I have had an account drawn up of the vessels we have altogether--thirty-five ships." "Thirty-five ships! impossible!" cried D'Artagnan. "Something like two thousand pieces of cannon," said Colbert. "That is what the king possesses at this moment. Of five and thirty vessels we can make three squadrons, but I must have five." "Five!" cried Aramis. "They will be afloat before the end of the year, gentlemen; the king will have fifty ship of the line. We may venture on a contest with them, may we not?" "To build vessels," said D'Artagnan, "is difficult, but possible. As to arming them, how is that to be done? In France there are neither foundries nor military docks." "Bah!" replied Colbert, in a bantering tone, "I have planned all that this year and a half past, did you not know it? Do you know M. d'Imfreville?" "D'Imfreville?" replied D'Artagnan; "no." "He is a man I have discovered; he has a specialty; he is a man of genius--he knows how to set men to work. It is he who has cast cannon and cut the woods of Bourgogne. And then, monsieur l'ambassadeur, you may not believe what I am going to tell you, but I have a still further idea." "Oh, monsieur!" said Aramis, civilly, "I always believe you." "Calculating upon the character of the Dutch, our allies, I said to myself, 'They are merchants, they are friendly with the king; they will be happy to sell to the king what they fabricate for themselves; then the more we buy'--Ah! I must add this: I have Forant--do you know Forant, D'Artagnan?" Colbert, in his warmth, forgot himself; he called the captain simply _D'Artagnan_, as the king did. But the captain only smiled at it. "No," replied he, "I do not know him." "That is another man I have discovered, with a genius for buying. This Forant has purchased for me 350,000 pounds of iron in balls, 200,000 pounds of powder, twelve cargoes of Northern timber, matches, grenades, pitch, tar--I know not what! with a saving of seven per cent upon what all those articles would cost me fabricated in France." "That is a capital and quaint idea," replied D'Artagnan, "to have Dutch cannon-balls cast which will return to the Dutch." "Is it not, with loss, too?" And Colbert laughed aloud. He was delighted with his own joke. "Still further," added he, "these same Dutch are building for the king, at this moment, six vessels after the model of the best of their name. Destouches--Ah! perhaps you don't know Destouches?" "No, monsieur." "He is a man who has a sure glance to discern, when a ship is launched, what are the defects and qualities of that ship--that is valuable, observe! Nature is truly whimsical. Well, this Destouches appeared to me to be a man likely to prove useful in marine affairs, and he is superintending the construction of six vessels of seventy-eight guns, which the Provinces are building for his majesty. It results from this, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, that the king, if he wished to quarrel with the Provinces, would have a very pretty fleet. Now, you know better than anybody else if the land army is efficient." D'Artagnan and Aramis looked at each other, wondering at the mysterious labors this man had undertaken in so short a time. Colbert understood them, and was touched by this best of flatteries. "If we, in France, were ignorant of what was going on," said D'Artagnan, "out of France still less must be known." "That is why I told monsieur l'ambassadeur," said Colbert, "that, Spain promising its neutrality, England helping us--" "If England assists you," said Aramis, "I promise the neutrality of Spain." "I take you at your word," Colbert hastened to reply with his blunt _bonhomie_. "And, _a propos_ of Spain, you have not the 'Golden Fleece,' Monsieur d'Almeda. I heard the king say the other day that he should like to see you wear the _grand cordon_ of St. Michael." Aramis bowed. "Oh!" thought D'Artagnan, "and Porthos is no longer here! What ells of ribbons would there be for him in these _largesses!_ Dear Porthos!" "Monsieur d'Artagnan," resumed Colbert, "between us two, you will have, I wager, an inclination to lead your musketeers into Holland. Can you swim?" And he laughed like a man in high good humor. "Like an eel," replied D'Artagnan. "Ah! but there are some bitter passages of canals and marshes yonder, Monsieur d'Artagnan, and the best swimmers are sometimes drowned there." "It is my profession to die for his majesty," said the musketeer. "Only, as it is seldom in war that much water is met with without a little fire, I declare to you beforehand, that I will do my best to choose fire. I am getting old; water freezes me--but fire warms, Monsieur Colbert." And D'Artagnan looked so handsome still in quasi-juvenile strength as he pronounced these words, that Colbert, in his turn, could not help admiring him. D'Artagnan perceived the effect he had produced. He remembered that the best tradesman is he who fixes a high price upon his goods, when they are valuable. He prepared his price in advance. "So, then," said Colbert, "we go into Holland?" "Yes," replied D'Artagnan; "only--" "Only?" said M. Colbert. "Only," repeated D'Artagnan, "there lurks in everything the question of interest, the question of self-love. It is a very fine title, that of captain of the musketeers; but observe this: we have now the king's guards and the military household of the king. A captain of musketeers ought to command all that, and then he would absorb a hundred thousand livres a year for expenses." "Well! but do you suppose the king would haggle with you?" said Colbert. "Eh! monsieur, you have not understood me," replied D'Artagnan, sure of carrying his point. "I was telling you that I, an old captain, formerly chief of the king's guard, having precedence of the _marechaux_ of France--I saw myself one day in the trenches with two other equals, the captain of the guards and the colonel commanding the Swiss. Now, at no price will I suffer that. I have old habits, and I will stand or fall by them." Colbert felt this blow, but he was prepared for it. "I have been thinking of what you said just now," replied he. "About what, monsieur?" "We were speaking of canals and marshes in which people are drowned." "Well!" "Well! if they are drowned, it is for want of a boat, a plank, or a stick." "Of a stick, however short it may be," said D'Artagnan. "Exactly," said Colbert. "And, therefore, I never heard of an instance of a _marechal_ of France being drowned." D'Artagnan became very pale with joy, and in a not very firm voice, "People would be very proud of me in my country," said he, "if I were a _marechal_ of France; but a man must have commanded an expedition in chief to obtain the _baton_." "Monsieur!" said Colbert, "here is in this pocket-book which you will study, a plan of campaign you will have to lead a body of troops to carry out in the next spring." [12] D'Artagnan took the book, tremblingly, and his fingers meeting those of Colbert, the minister pressed the hand of the musketeer loyally. "Monsieur," said he, "we had both a revenge to take, one over the other. I have begun; it is now your turn!" "I will do you justice, monsieur," replied D'Artagnan, "and implore you to tell the king that the first opportunity that shall offer, he may depend upon a victory, or to behold me dead--_or both_." "Then I will have the _fleurs-de-lis_ for your _marechal's baton_ prepared immediately," said Colbert. On the morrow, Aramis, who was setting out for Madrid, to negotiate the neutrality of Spain, came to embrace D'Artagnan at his hotel. "Let us love each other for four," said D'Artagnan. "We are now but two." "And you will, perhaps, never see me again, dear D'Artagnan," said Aramis; "if you knew how I have loved you! I am old, I am extinct--ah, I am almost dead." "My friend," said D'Artagnan, "you will live longer than I shall: diplomacy commands you to live; but, for my part, honor condemns me to die." "Bah! such men as we are, monsieur le marechal," said Aramis, "only die satisfied with joy in glory." "Ah!" replied D'Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, "I assure you, monsieur le duc, I feel very little appetite for either." They once more embraced, and, two hours after, separated--forever. The Death of D'Artagnan. Contrary to that which generally happens, whether in politics or morals, each kept his promises, and did honor to his engagements. The king recalled M. de Guiche, and banished M. le Chevalier de Lorraine; so that Monsieur became ill in consequence. Madame set out for London, where she applied herself so earnestly to make her brother, Charles II., acquire a taste for the political counsels of Mademoiselle de Keroualle, that the alliance between England and France was signed, and the English vessels, ballasted by a few millions of French gold, made a terrible campaign against the fleets of the United Provinces. Charles II. had promised Mademoiselle de Keroualle a little gratitude for her good counsels; he made her Duchess of Portsmouth. Colbert had promised the king vessels, munitions, victories. He kept his word, as is well known. At length Aramis, upon whose promises there was least dependence to be placed, wrote Colbert the following letter, on the subject of the negotiations which he had undertaken at Madrid: "MONSIEUR COLBERT,--I have the honor to expedite to you the R. P. Oliva, general _ad interim_ of the Society of Jesus, my provisional successor. The reverend father will explain to you, Monsieur Colbert, that I preserve to myself the direction of all the affairs of the order which concern France and Spain; but that I am not willing to retain the title of general, which would throw too high a side-light on the progress of the negotiations with which His Catholic Majesty wishes to intrust me. I shall resume that title by the command of his majesty, when the labors I have undertaken in concert with you, for the great glory of God and His Church, shall be brought to a good end. The R. P. Oliva will inform you likewise, monsieur, of the consent His Catholic Majesty gives to the signature of a treaty which assures the neutrality of Spain in the event of a war between France and the United Provinces. This consent will be valid even if England, instead of being active, should satisfy herself with remaining neutral. As for Portugal, of which you and I have spoken, monsieur, I can assure you it will contribute with all its resources to assist the Most Christian King in his war. I beg you, Monsieur Colbert, to preserve your friendship and also to believe in my profound attachment, and to lay my respect at the feet of His Most Christian Majesty. Signed, "LE DUC D'ALMEDA." [13] Aramis had performed more than he had promised; it remained to be seen how the king, M. Colbert, and D'Artagnan would be faithful to each other. In the spring, as Colbert had predicted, the land army entered on its campaign. It preceded, in magnificent order, the court of Louis XIV., who, setting out on horseback, surrounded by carriages filled with ladies and courtiers, conducted the _elite_ of his kingdom to this sanguinary _fete_. The officers of the army, it is true, had no other music save the artillery of the Dutch forts; but it was enough for a great number, who found in this war honor, advancement, fortune--or death. M. d'Artagnan set out commanding a body of twelve thousand men, cavalry, and infantry, with which he was ordered to take the different places which form knots of that strategic network called La Frise. Never was an army conducted more gallantly to an expedition. The officers knew that their leader, prudent and skillful as he was brave, would not sacrifice a single man, nor yield an inch of ground without necessity. He had the old habits of war, to live upon the country, keeping his soldiers singing and the enemy weeping. The captain of the king's musketeers well knew his business. Never were opportunities better chosen, _coups-de-main_ better supported, errors of the besieged more quickly taken advantage of. The army commanded by D'Artagnan took twelve small places within a month. He was engaged in besieging the thirteenth, which had held out five days. D'Artagnan caused the trenches to be opened without appearing to suppose that these people would ever allow themselves to be taken. The pioneers and laborers were, in the army of this man, a body full of ideas and zeal, because their commander treated them like soldiers, knew how to render their work glorious, and never allowed them to be killed if he could help it. It should have been seen with what eagerness the marshy glebes of Holland were turned over. Those turf-heaps, mounds of potter's clay, melted at the word of the soldiers like butter in the frying-pans of Friesland housewives. M. d'Artagnan dispatched a courier to the king to give him an account of the last success, which redoubled the good humor of his majesty and his inclination to amuse the ladies. These victories of M. d'Artagnan gave so much majesty to the prince, that Madame de Montespan no longer called him anything but Louis the Invincible. So that Mademoiselle de la Valliere, who only called the king Louis the Victorious, lost much of his majesty's favor. Besides, her eyes were frequently red, and to an Invincible nothing is more disagreeable than a mistress who weeps while everything is smiling round her. The star of Mademoiselle de la Valliere was being drowned in clouds and tears. But the gayety of Madame de Montespan redoubled with the successes of the king, and consoled him for every other unpleasant circumstance. It was to D'Artagnan the king owed this; and his majesty was anxious to acknowledge these services; he wrote to M. Colbert: "MONSIEUR COLBERT,--We have a promise to fulfil with M. d'Artagnan, who so well keeps his. This is to inform you that the time is come for performing it. All provisions for this purpose you shall be furnished with in due time. LOUIS." In consequence of this, Colbert, detaining D'Artagnan's envoy, placed in the hands of that messenger a letter from himself, and a small coffer of ebony inlaid with gold, not very important in appearance, but which, without doubt, was very heavy, as a guard of five men was given to the messenger, to assist him in carrying it. These people arrived before the place which D'Artagnan was besieging towards daybreak, and presented themselves at the lodgings of the general. They were told that M. d'Artagnan, annoyed by a sortie which the governor, an artful man, had made the evening before, and in which the works had been destroyed and seventy-seven men killed, and the reparation of the breaches commenced, had just gone with twenty companies of grenadiers to reconstruct the works. M. Colbert's envoy had orders to go and seek M. d'Artagnan, wherever he might be, or at whatever hour of the day or night. He directed his course, therefore, towards the trenches, followed by his escort, all on horseback. They perceived M. d'Artagnan in the open plain, with his gold-laced hat, his long cane, and gilt cuffs. He was biting his white mustache, and wiping off, with his left hand, the dust which the passing balls threw up from the ground they plowed so near him. They also saw, amidst this terrible fire, which filled the air with whistling hisses, officers handling the shovel, soldiers rolling barrows, and vast fascines, rising by being either carried or dragged by from ten to twenty men, cover the front of the trench reopened to the center by this extraordinary effort of the general. In three hours, all was reinstated. D'Artagnan began to speak more mildly; and he became quite calm when the captain of the pioneers approached him, hat in hand, to tell him that the trench was again in proper order. This man had scarcely finished speaking, when a ball took off one of his legs, and he fell into the arms of D'Artagnan. The latter lifted up his soldier, and quietly, with soothing words, carried him into the trench, amidst the enthusiastic applause of the regiments. From that time it was no longer a question of valor--the army was delirious; two companies stole away to the advanced posts, which they instantly destroyed. When their comrades, restrained with great difficulty by D'Artagnan, saw them lodged upon the bastions, they rushed forward likewise; and soon a furious assault was made upon the counterscarp, upon which depended the safety of the place. D'Artagnan perceived there was only one means left of checking his army--to take the place. He directed all his force to the two breaches, where the besieged were busy in repairing. The shock was terrible; eighteen companies took part in it, and D'Artagnan went with the rest, within half cannon-shot of the place, to support the attack by _echelons_. The cries of the Dutch, who were being poniarded upon their guns by D'Artagnan's grenadiers, were distinctly audible. The struggle grew fiercer with the despair of the governor, who disputed his position foot by foot. D'Artagnan, to put an end to the affair, and to silence the fire, which was unceasing, sent a fresh column, which penetrated like a very wedge; and he soon perceived upon the ramparts, through the fire, the terrified flight of the besieged, pursued by the besiegers. At this moment the general, breathing feely and full of joy, heard a voice behind him, saying, "Monsieur, if you please, from M. Colbert." He broke the seal of the letter, which contained these words: "MONSIEUR D'ARTAGNAN:--The king commands me to inform you that he has nominated you marechal of France, as a reward for your magnificent services, and the honor you do to his arms. The king is highly pleased, monsieur, with the captures you have made; he commands you, in particular, to finish the siege you have commenced, with good fortune to you, and success for him." D'Artagnan was standing with a radiant countenance and sparkling eye. He looked up to watch the progress of his troops upon the walls, still enveloped in red and black volumes of smoke. "I have finished," replied he to the messenger; "the city will have surrendered in a quarter of an hour." He then resumed his reading: "The _coffret_, Monsieur d'Artagnan, is my own present. You will not be sorry to see that, whilst you warriors are drawing the sword to defend the king, I am moving the pacific arts to ornament a present worthy of you. I commend myself to your friendship, monsieur le marechal, and beg you to believe in mine. COLBERT" D'Artagnan, intoxicated with joy, made a sign to the messenger, who approached, with his _coffret_ in his hands. But at the moment the _marechal_ was going to look at it, a loud explosion resounded from the ramparts, and called his attention towards the city. "It is strange," said D'Artagnan, "that I don't yet see the king's flag on the walls, or hear the drums beat the _chamade_." He launched three hundred fresh men, under a high-spirited officer, and ordered another breach to be made. Then, more tranquilly, he turned towards the _coffret_, which Colbert's envoy held out to him.--It was his treasure--he had won it. D'Artagnan was holding out his hand to open the _coffret_, when a ball from the city crushed the _coffret_ in the arms of the officer, struck D'Artagnan full in the chest, and knocked him down upon a sloping heap of earth, whilst the _fleur-de-lised baton_, escaping from the broken box, came rolling under the powerless hand of the _marechal_. D'Artagnan endeavored to raise himself. It was thought he had been knocked down without being wounded. A terrible cry broke from the group of terrified officers; the _marechal_ was covered with blood; the pallor of death ascended slowly to his noble countenance. Leaning upon the arms held out on all sides to receive him, he was able once more to turn his eyes towards the place, and to distinguish the white flag at the crest of the principal bastion; his ears, already deaf to the sounds of life, caught feebly the rolling of the drum which announced the victory. Then, clasping in his nerveless hand the _baton_, ornamented with its _fleurs-de-lis_, he cast on it his eyes, which had no longer the power of looking upwards towards Heaven, and fell back, murmuring strange words, which appeared to the soldiers cabalistic--words which had formerly represented so many things on earth, and which none but the dying man any longer comprehended: "Athos--Porthos, farewell till we meet again! Aramis, adieu forever!" Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there now remained but one. Heaven had taken to itself three noble souls. [14] Footnotes [Footnote 1: "He is patient because he is eternal." is how the Latin translates. It is from St. Augustine. This motto was sometimes applied to the Papacy, but not to the Jesuits.] [Footnote 2: In the five-volume edition, Volume 4 ends here.] [Footnote 3: It is possible that the preceding conversation is an obscure allegorical allusion to the Fronde, or perhaps an intimation that the Duc was the father of Mordaunt, from Twenty Years After, but a definite interpretation still eludes modern scholars.] [Footnote 4: The dictates of such a service would require Raoul to spend the rest of his life outside of France, hence Athos's and Grimaud's extreme reactions.] [Footnote 5: Dumas here, and later in the chapter, uses the name Roncherat. Roncherolles is the actual name of the man.] [Footnote 6: In some editions, "in spite of Milady" reads "in spite of malady".] [Footnote 7: "Pie" in this case refers to magpies, the prey for the falcons.] [Footnote 8: Anne of Austria did not die until 1666, and Dumas sets the current year as 1665.] [Footnote 9: Madame de Montespan would oust Louise from the king's affections by 1667.] [Footnote 10: De Guiche would not return to court until 1671.] [Footnote 11: Madame did die of poison in 1670, shortly after returning from the mission described later. The Chevalier de Lorraine had actually been ordered out of France in 1662.] [Footnote 12: This particular campaign did not actually occur until 1673.] [Footnote 13: Jean-Paul Oliva was the actual general of the Jesuits from 1664-1681.] [Footnote 14: In earlier editions, the last line reads, "Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there now no longer remained but one single body; God had resumed the souls." Dumas made the revision in later editions.]

Chapter Sixty: The Last Canto of the Poem

https://web.archive.org/web/20210507123624/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/man-in-the-iron-mask/summary/chapter-sixty-the-last-canto-of-the-poem

The next day, all the nobility arrives to pay their last respects. D'Artagnan keeps to himself. He helps prepare for the funeral and writes to the King, requesting a longer leave of absence. The bodies of father and son are laid out in the front hall. Grimuad brought Raoul's body back with him . Athos and Raoul are buried by a chapel on the edge of Athos's estate. After the funeral, D'Artagnan lingers to pay his last respects. He finds a woman grieving over the double graves. She is overcome, asking for forgiveness. D'Artagnan discovers it is La Valliere. He shames her mercilessly, saying it is she who put both men in their graves. She says she left court as soon as she heard of Raoul's death, hoping to beg forgiveness from the father, and wound up arriving just in time for the funeral. D'Artagnan repeats Raoul's feelings to La Valliere: no one could have loved her as he did. La Valliere is full of suffering. She tells D'Artagnan that she will never be able to love without remorse. She tells D'Artagnan that she could not help but love Louis, but now she will suffer from Raoul's love for her. La Valliere again asks for forgiveness before she leaves. D'Artagnan is left alone to wonder when he will be buried. He bids farewell to the departed and rides back to Paris.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Cymbeline/section_0_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 1-scene 6

act 1

{"name": "Act One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180408180734/http://www.gradesaver.com/cymbeline/study-guide/summary-act-one", "summary": "At the beginning of Act One, two gentlemen fill the audience in on the play's back-story. It seems that there has been a falling-out between the King of England, Cymbeline, and his daughter, Imogen, who has married Posthumus Leonatus without the King's consent. Indeed, Cymbeline had intended Imogen, who is his only remaining child by a previous marriage, to wed Cloten, who is his new queen's only son by a previous marriage of her own. However, Cloten is a stupid and unworthy suitor and Posthumus, Imogen's new husband, is an excellent and valiant man, though not wealthy. The gentleman reports that the courtiers universally recognize Posthumus to be a perfect match for the virtuous and intelligent Imogen-only the Queen, Cymbeline and Cloten feel otherwise. But due to the power of these three royals the courtiers must keep their opinion to themselves, pretending to be sad that Imogen defied her father when in fact they are pleased. Posthumus, Imogen and the Queen enter the scene and indicate that Posthumus has been banished. The Queen pretends to be chagrined at this development, though both Posthumus and Imogen know that she is a duplicitous person, glad that this marriage has been apparently foiled and that her son will take Imogen as his own. The Queen pretends to attempt to delay Cymbeline, who has ordered Imogen and Posthumus not to see each other, but this is mere hypocrisy-she exits to hurry Cymbeline to the scene. Before the King arrives, Posthumus and Imogen swear fidelity to one another no matter what. They signify this oath with two bands: Imogen gives Posthumus a ring, and he gives her a bracelet. The King then barrels into the scene and orders Posthumus to leave Britain immediately, which Posthumus does after reluctantly parting from Imogen with Rome as his destination. Before leaving, Posthumus commands his servant, Pisanio, who has been faithful to him, to remain in Britain and serve Imogen. After a brief scene in which we are introduced to the clueless Cloten, and another that describes in very moving poetry Imogen's thoughts about Posthumus's departure, we find ourselves in a tavern in Rome. Some time has passed, and Posthumus is about to arrive. His reputation precedes him, as two Italians-Iachimo and Philario-a Frenchman, a Dutchman and a Spaniard discuss his imminent arrival. The Frenchman and the two Italians have all already met Posthumus several years before, and all but Philario are cynical about the youth's supposed virtue. When Posthumus arrives, he and the Frenchman renew an old quarrel: Posthumus once insisted, and still does, that his beloved Imogen would never commit infidelity, whereas the rest of the tavern-goers are sure that all wives and sweethearts are untrue. The deeply cynical Iachimo bets Posthumus that he himself could sleep with Imogen, wagering half of his estate against Posthumus' precious ring, which Imogen had given him. Posthumus accepts this wager, and gives Iachimo his ring as a testimonial. He tells Iachimo that he will gladly part with the ring, no hard feelings, if he succeeds in bedding Imogen, because Imogen would then not be worthy of his care, but warns Iachimo that if he fails to bed Imogen they will settle his insult to so virtuous a lady with their swords. Meanwhile, back in England, the Queen has solicited a deadly potion from Cornelius, the court physician. Cornelius, realizing the Queen's wicked nature, instead gives her a tonic that causes the mere appearance of death, a long and deep sleep, in whomever takes it. The Queen comes across Pisanio and tells him that she wants to talk to Imogen, meanwhile giving the servant the potion that she thinks is poison and telling him that it's a powerful restorative that has helped Cymbeline many times. Iachimo soon arrives from Rome and introduces himself as a friend of Posthumus. Immediately upon being introduced to Imogen he realizes that Posthumus has exaggerated neither her beauty nor her virtue. However, he still makes a desperate and artful effort to seduce her, insinuating that Posthumus is being unfaithful to her in Italy and suggesting that she ought to seek revenge against Posthumus by sleeping with him. Imogen, though initially concerned that Iachimo is telling the truth about Posthumus's infidelity, sees through his lies when Iachimo propositions her. Iachimo swears that he was merely testing her virtue on Posthumus's behalf, a test that he says she has passed perfectly. Imogen accepts this explanation, whereupon Iachimo informs her that he must embark for Italy the following morning. He asks her before leaving if, as a favor, she would keep a chest full of valuables safe for him. She says, yes, she'll keep the chest overnight in her bedroom.", "analysis": "In a play that is so rife with ambiguous, fairy-tale qualities, the first factor that must be discussed is the setting. Cymbeline is set in a mythic, medieval time. Historically, Cymbeline the king reigned over England in the first century A.D., while England was still the northern frontier of the Roman Empire. Shakespeare constantly alludes to Ancient Rome and to England's relationship with Rome; indeed, one of the main plots of Cymbeline is the ambivalent conflict between the ancient Roman Empire and the nascent British Empire. Some historical background is necessary to see the full import of this relationship. In the mythology of the English, the same refugees from Troy who founded Rome also founded England. England and Rome are thus part of the same great historical movement, both having Trojan heritage. That Rome is at once Britain's ruler and its peer will prove a major ambiguity in the play. On top of this ambiguity in the mythology of Empire, one immediately notices that although Shakespeare sets his drama in the days of the Caesars, the Rome to which Posthumus has been banished has much more in common with the Renaissance Italy of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet or Twelfth Night than it does to the ancient capital of, say, Julius Caesar or Titus Andronicus. Posthumus and Iachimo strike their bargain in a tavern, just as Shakespeare might himself, and the loose Machiavellian character of the Italian is a Renaissance, not an Ancient Roman, prejudice. Thus there is from the beginning a refusal on Shakespeare's part to write a simple history. The historical plot, which pits England against Rome, is only one among many-there is also the tragic plot that rends Imogen from Posthumus with the help of the dastardly Iachimo, the pastoral plot that depicts Belarius and his stolen sons , and the comic resolution of all the strains of narrative. It is tempting for a modern reader to see such a jumble of settings and genres as a shortcoming on Shakespeare's part, but to the contrary, Shakespeare is not writing a realistic play. The effect he wishes to get across is dependent upon this jumble. It is best to read Cymbeline-as well as Shakespeare's other romances: Pericles, The Winter's Tale and The Tempest-as intensely cerebral fairy tales. There is in Cymbeline a wicked stepmother with a vial of poison, an impossible-wager motif adapted from Boccaccio's Decameron, and a falsely accused princes-all motives familiar to readers of fairy tales. More generally, as in fantasy literatures, the laws of nature and realism apply only fitfully, coincidences abound, and identities are in flux. Nowhere is this flux clearer than in the language of Cymbeline. This is undoubtedly one of Shakespeare's most difficult plays, with passages of such obscurity that we cannot hope to parse them. This difficulty seems at times to be exercised merely for its own sake, as in the opening dialogue between the two gentlemen. As Frank Kermode notes, the First Gentleman hyperbolizes Posthumus to a ridiculous extent, and for no apparent reason. The praise goes on and on, serving merely to undermine our eventual realization that Posthumus, too, has his human weaknesses. But perhaps the extravagance of passages such as the two gentlemen's dialogue is precisely Shakespeare's point. Poetic language fails to map onto reality perfectly, and if reality fails to match up with it, can it really be blamed? The First Gentleman's speeches, as well as Posthumus's to Imogen, show us the paradoxical power of poetry-both intoxicating and ephemeral. The First Gentleman clearly thinks Posthumus to be a fine fellow, and this sends him on a flight of hyperbole that no man can live up to. Posthumus may declare Imogen to be as chaste as the goddess Diana, but that doesn't stop him from revising his opinion in Act Two when faced with Iachimo's superficial proofs and equally hyperbolic poetic allegations to the contrary. And indeed, Posthumus's harangue against women, which we'll see more of in the next section, is absurdly overstated as well. There is danger in poetry, Shakespeare suggests-very rarely does it have much to do with reality. Except, it appears, when used by Imogen. She alone in Act One-and indeed throughout the play-stands up to the promises of her intensely poetic language. Some of the most beautiful language in the play occurs when she describes how she would have seen Posthumus's ship off. She says, \"I would have broke my eye-strings, crack'd them, but / To look upon him, till the diminution / Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle: / Nay, followed him, till he had melted from / The smallness of a gnat, to air: and then / Have turned my eyes, and wept.\" This is poetry to bank on. As Imogen declares, her devotion to Posthumus-as represented by the avidness with which she seeks out his shrinking form-only increases with his distance from her. But Posthumus changes as he recedes, transforming from his noble self to take on the appearance of a tiny gnat, and finally turning to air. Indeed, as we shall see, Posthumus shrinks to a gnat of a man while in Italy."}

ACT I. SCENE I. Britain. The garden of CYMBELINE'S palace FIRST GENTLEMAN. You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the King's. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what's the matter? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His daughter, and the heir of's kingdom, whom He purpos'd to his wife's sole son- a widow That late he married- hath referr'd herself Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She's wedded; Her husband banish'd; she imprison'd. All Is outward sorrow, though I think the King Be touch'd at very heart. SECOND GENTLEMAN. None but the King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath lost her too. So is the Queen, That most desir'd the match. But not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King's looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And why so? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath miss'd the Princess is a thing Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her- I mean that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish'd- is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You speak him far. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What's his name and birth? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I cannot delve him to the root; his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He serv'd with glory and admir'd success, So gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus; And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars o' th' time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being; and his gentle lady, Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas'd As he was born. The King he takes the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make him the receiver of; which he took, As we do air, fast as 'twas minist'red, And in's spring became a harvest, liv'd in court- Which rare it is to do- most prais'd, most lov'd, A sample to the youngest; to th' more mature A glass that feated them; and to the graver A child that guided dotards. To his mistress, For whom he now is banish'd- her own price Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I honour him Even out of your report. But pray you tell me, Is she sole child to th' King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His only child. He had two sons- if this be worth your hearing, Mark it- the eldest of them at three years old, I' th' swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. SECOND GENTLEMAN. How long is this ago? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That a king's children should be so convey'd, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow That could not trace them! FIRST GENTLEMAN. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do well believe you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. We must forbear; here comes the gentleman, The Queen, and Princess. Exeunt Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN QUEEN. No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey'd unto you. You're my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win th' offended King, I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you. POSTHUMUS. Please your Highness, I will from hence to-day. QUEEN. You know the peril. I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections, though the King Hath charg'd you should not speak together. Exit IMOGEN. O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing- Always reserv'd my holy duty- what His rage can do on me. You must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again. POSTHUMUS. My queen! my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth; My residence in Rome at one Philario's, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Re-enter QUEEN QUEEN. Be brief, I pray you. If the King come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I'll move him To walk this way. I never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for my offences. Exit POSTHUMUS. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! IMOGEN. Nay, stay a little. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love: This diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; But keep it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead. POSTHUMUS. How, how? Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here [Puts on the ring] While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles I still win of you. For my sake wear this; It is a manacle of love; I'll place it Upon this fairest prisoner. [Puts a bracelet on her arm] IMOGEN. O the gods! When shall we see again? Enter CYMBELINE and LORDS POSTHUMUS. Alack, the King! CYMBELINE. Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood. POSTHUMUS. The gods protect you, And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone. Exit IMOGEN. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. CYMBELINE. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st A year's age on me! IMOGEN. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation. I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. CYMBELINE. Past grace? obedience? IMOGEN. Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace. CYMBELINE. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen! IMOGEN. O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock. CYMBELINE. Thou took'st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness. IMOGEN. No; I rather added A lustre to it. CYMBELINE. O thou vile one! IMOGEN. Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus. You bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman; overbuys me Almost the sum he pays. CYMBELINE. What, art thou mad? IMOGEN. Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd's son! Re-enter QUEEN CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing! [To the QUEEN] They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up. QUEEN. Beseech your patience.- Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace!- Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort Out of your best advice. CYMBELINE. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day and, being aged, Die of this folly. Exit, with LORDS Enter PISANIO QUEEN. Fie! you must give way. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news? PISANIO. My lord your son drew on my master. QUEEN. Ha! No harm, I trust, is done? PISANIO. There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than fought, And had no help of anger; they were parted By gentlemen at hand. QUEEN. I am very glad on't. IMOGEN. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both together; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came you from your master? PISANIO. On his command. He would not suffer me To bring him to the haven; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to, When't pleas'd you to employ me. QUEEN. This hath been Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour He will remain so. PISANIO. I humbly thank your Highness. QUEEN. Pray walk awhile. IMOGEN. About some half-hour hence, Pray you speak with me. You shall at least Go see my lord aboard. For this time leave me. Exeunt SCENE II. Britain. A public place Enter CLOTEN and two LORDS FIRST LORD. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. CLOTEN. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him? SECOND LORD. [Aside] No, faith; not so much as his patience. FIRST LORD. Hurt him! His body's a passable carcass if he be not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt. SECOND LORD. [Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o' th' back side the town. CLOTEN. The villain would not stand me. SECOND LORD. [Aside] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face. FIRST LORD. Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground. SECOND LORD. [Aside] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies! CLOTEN. I would they had not come between us. SECOND LORD. [Aside] So would I, till you had measur'd how long a fool you were upon the ground. CLOTEN. And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me! SECOND LORD. [Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn'd. FIRST LORD. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she's a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit. SECOND LORD. [Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her. CLOTEN. Come, I'll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done! SECOND LORD. [Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt. CLOTEN. You'll go with us? FIRST LORD. I'll attend your lordship. CLOTEN. Nay, come, let's go together. SECOND LORD. Well, my lord. Exeunt SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter IMOGEN and PISANIO IMOGEN. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven, And questioned'st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost, As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee? PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen! IMOGEN. Then wav'd his handkerchief? PISANIO. And kiss'd it, madam. IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I! And that was all? PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with his eye, or care Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him. PISANIO. Madam, so I did. IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack'd them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him? PISANIO. Be assur'd, madam, With his next vantage. IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg'd him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, T' encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. Enter a LADY LADY. The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness' company. IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch'd. I will attend the Queen. PISANIO. Madam, I shall. Exeunt SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter PHILARIO, IACHIMO, a FRENCHMAN, a DUTCHMAN, and a SPANIARD IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look'd on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items. PHILARIO. You speak of him when he was less furnish'd than now he is with that which makes him both without and within. FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his king's daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter. FRENCHMAN. And then his banishment. IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance? PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Enter POSTHUMUS Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing. FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans. POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still. FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o'errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature. POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn'd to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others' experiences; but upon my mended judgment- if I offend not to say it is mended- my quarrel was not altogether slight. FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall'n both. IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference? FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. 'Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching- and upon warrant of bloody affirmation- his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France. IACHIMO. That lady is not now living, or this gentleman's opinion, by this, worn out. POSTHUMUS. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind. IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer her fore ours of Italy. POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok'd as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend. IACHIMO. As fair and as good- a kind of hand-in-hand comparison- had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. POSTHUMUS. I prais'd her as I rated her. So do I my stone. IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at? POSTHUMUS. More than the world enjoys. IACHIMO. Either your unparagon'd mistress is dead, or she's outpriz'd by a trifle. POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. IACHIMO. Which the gods have given you? POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep. IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol'n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish'd courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last. POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish'd a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring. PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen. POSTHUMUS. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first. IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend. POSTHUMUS. No, no. IACHIMO. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o'ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus'd in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y'are worthy of by your attempt. IACHIMO. What's that? POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more- a punishment too. PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted. IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour's on th' approbation of what I have spoke! POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to assail? IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv'd. POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; 'tis part of it. IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear. POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope. IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what's spoken, I swear. POSTHUMUS. Will you? I Shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between's. My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: here's my ring. PHILARIO. I will have it no lay. IACHIMO. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy'd the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours- provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment. POSTHUMUS. I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail'd, I am no further your enemy- she is not worth our debate; if she remain unseduc'd, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and th' assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword. IACHIMO. Your hand- a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. POSTHUMUS. Agreed. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and IACHIMO FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you? PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow 'em. Exeunt SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter QUEEN, LADIES, and CORNELIUS QUEEN. Whiles yet the dew's on ground, gather those flowers; Make haste; who has the note of them? LADY. I, madam. QUEEN. Dispatch. Exeunt LADIES Now, Master Doctor, have you brought those drugs? CORNELIUS. Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they are, madam. [Presenting a box] But I beseech your Grace, without offence- My conscience bids me ask- wherefore you have Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds Which are the movers of a languishing death, But, though slow, deadly? QUEEN. I wonder, Doctor, Thou ask'st me such a question. Have I not been Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn'd me how To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections? Having thus far proceeded- Unless thou think'st me devilish- is't not meet That I did amplify my judgment in Other conclusions? I will try the forces Of these thy compounds on such creatures as We count not worth the hanging- but none human- To try the vigour of them, and apply Allayments to their act, and by them gather Their several virtues and effects. CORNELIUS. Your Highness Shall from this practice but make hard your heart; Besides, the seeing these effects will be Both noisome and infectious. QUEEN. O, content thee. Enter PISANIO [Aside] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him Will I first work. He's for his master, An enemy to my son.- How now, Pisanio! Doctor, your service for this time is ended; Take your own way. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do suspect you, madam; But you shall do no harm. QUEEN. [To PISANIO] Hark thee, a word. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she has Strange ling'ring poisons. I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of her malice with A drug of such damn'd nature. Those she has Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile, Which first perchance she'll prove on cats and dogs, Then afterward up higher; but there is No danger in what show of death it makes, More than the locking up the spirits a time, To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool'd With a most false effect; and I the truer So to be false with her. QUEEN. No further service, Doctor, Until I send for thee. CORNELIUS. I humbly take my leave. Exit QUEEN. Weeps she still, say'st thou? Dost thou think in time She will not quench, and let instructions enter Where folly now possesses? Do thou work. When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, I'll tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master; greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name Is at last gasp. Return he cannot, nor Continue where he is. To shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes to A day's work in him. What shalt thou expect To be depender on a thing that leans, Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends So much as but to prop him? [The QUEEN drops the box. PISANIO takes it up] Thou tak'st up Thou know'st not what; but take it for thy labour. It is a thing I made, which hath the King Five times redeem'd from death. I do not know What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee take it; It is an earnest of a further good That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how The case stands with her; do't as from thyself. Think what a chance thou changest on; but think Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son, Who shall take notice of thee. I'll move the King To any shape of thy preferment, such As thou'lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this desert, am bound To load thy merit richly. Call my women. Think on my words. Exit PISANIO A sly and constant knave, Not to be shak'd; the agent for his master, And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of leigers for her sweet; and which she after, Except she bend her humour, shall be assur'd To taste of too. Re-enter PISANIO and LADIES So, so. Well done, well done. The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio; Think on my words. Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES PISANIO. And shall do. But when to my good lord I prove untrue I'll choke myself- there's all I'll do for you. Exit SCENE VI. Britain. The palace Enter IMOGEN alone IMOGEN. A father cruel and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady That hath her husband banish'd. O, that husband! My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n, As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable Is the desire that's glorious. Blessed be those, How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie! Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO PISANIO. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome Comes from my lord with letters. IACHIMO. Change you, madam? The worthy Leonatus is in safety, And greets your Highness dearly. [Presents a letter] IMOGEN. Thanks, good sir. You're kindly welcome. IACHIMO. [Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich! If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare, She is alone th' Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; Rather, directly fly. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust. LEONATUS.' So far I read aloud; But even the very middle of my heart Is warm'd by th' rest and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you; and shall find it so In all that I can do. IACHIMO. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones Upon the number'd beach, and can we not Partition make with spectacles so precious 'Twixt fair and foul? IMOGEN. What makes your admiration? IACHIMO. It cannot be i' th' eye, for apes and monkeys, 'Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and Contemn with mows the other; nor i' th' judgment, For idiots in this case of favour would Be wisely definite; nor i' th' appetite; Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos'd, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur'd to feed. IMOGEN. What is the matter, trow? IACHIMO. The cloyed will- That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill'd and running- ravening first the lamb, Longs after for the garbage. IMOGEN. What, dear sir, Thus raps you? Are you well? IACHIMO. Thanks, madam; well.- Beseech you, sir, Desire my man's abode where I did leave him. He's strange and peevish. PISANIO. I was going, sir, To give him welcome. Exit IMOGEN. Continues well my lord? His health beseech you? IACHIMO. Well, madam. IMOGEN. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope he is. IACHIMO. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome. He is call'd The Britain reveller. IMOGEN. When he was here He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why. IACHIMO. I never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton- Your lord, I mean- laughs from's free lungs, cries 'O, Can my sides hold, to think that man- who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be- will's free hours languish for Assured bondage?' IMOGEN. Will my lord say so? IACHIMO. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. It is a recreation to be by And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know Some men are much to blame. IMOGEN. Not he, I hope. IACHIMO. Not he; but yet heaven's bounty towards him might Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much; In you, which I account his, beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound To pity too. IMOGEN. What do you pity, sir? IACHIMO. Two creatures heartily. IMOGEN. Am I one, sir? You look on me: what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity? IACHIMO. Lamentable! What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I' th' dungeon by a snuff? IMOGEN. I pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me? IACHIMO. That others do, I was about to say, enjoy your- But It is an office of the gods to venge it, Not mine to speak on't. IMOGEN. You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you- Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born- discover to me What both you spur and stop. IACHIMO. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul To th' oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; should I, damn'd then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood- falsehood as With labour; then by-peeping in an eye Base and illustrious as the smoky light That's fed with stinking tallow- it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt. IMOGEN. My lord, I fear, Has forgot Britain. IACHIMO. And himself. Not I Inclin'd to this intelligence pronounce The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out. IMOGEN. Let me hear no more. IACHIMO. O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart With pity that doth make me sick! A lady So fair, and fasten'd to an empery, Would make the great'st king double, to be partner'd With tomboys hir'd with that self exhibition Which your own coffers yield! with diseas'd ventures That play with all infirmities for gold Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff As well might poison poison! Be reveng'd; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil from your great stock. IMOGEN. Reveng'd? How should I be reveng'd? If this be true- As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse- if it be true, How should I be reveng'd? IACHIMO. Should he make me Live like Diana's priest betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection, Still close as sure. IMOGEN. What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. Let me my service tender on your lips. IMOGEN. Away! I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange. Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far From thy report as thou from honour; and Solicits here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike.- What ho, Pisanio!- The King my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew, and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for, and a daughter who He not respects at all.- What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. O happy Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assur'd credit. Blessed live you long, A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call'd his! and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. I have spoke this to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord That which he is new o'er; and he is one The truest manner'd, such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him, Half all men's hearts are his. IMOGEN. You make amends. IACHIMO. He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon. IMOGEN. All's well, sir; take my pow'r i' th' court for yours. IACHIMO. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot T' entreat your Grace but in a small request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other noble friends Are partners in the business. IMOGEN. Pray what is't? IACHIMO. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord- The best feather of our wing- have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor; Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France. 'Tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in safe stowage. May it please you To take them in protection? IMOGEN. Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber. IACHIMO. They are in a trunk, Attended by my men. I will make bold To send them to you only for this night; I must aboard to-morrow. IMOGEN. O, no, no. IACHIMO. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By length'ning my return. From Gallia I cross'd the seas on purpose and on promise To see your Grace. IMOGEN. I thank you for your pains. But not away to-morrow! IACHIMO. O, I must, madam. Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night. I have outstood my time, which is material 'To th' tender of our present. IMOGEN. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. Exeunt

Act One

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At the beginning of Act One, two gentlemen fill the audience in on the play's back-story. It seems that there has been a falling-out between the King of England, Cymbeline, and his daughter, Imogen, who has married Posthumus Leonatus without the King's consent. Indeed, Cymbeline had intended Imogen, who is his only remaining child by a previous marriage, to wed Cloten, who is his new queen's only son by a previous marriage of her own. However, Cloten is a stupid and unworthy suitor and Posthumus, Imogen's new husband, is an excellent and valiant man, though not wealthy. The gentleman reports that the courtiers universally recognize Posthumus to be a perfect match for the virtuous and intelligent Imogen-only the Queen, Cymbeline and Cloten feel otherwise. But due to the power of these three royals the courtiers must keep their opinion to themselves, pretending to be sad that Imogen defied her father when in fact they are pleased. Posthumus, Imogen and the Queen enter the scene and indicate that Posthumus has been banished. The Queen pretends to be chagrined at this development, though both Posthumus and Imogen know that she is a duplicitous person, glad that this marriage has been apparently foiled and that her son will take Imogen as his own. The Queen pretends to attempt to delay Cymbeline, who has ordered Imogen and Posthumus not to see each other, but this is mere hypocrisy-she exits to hurry Cymbeline to the scene. Before the King arrives, Posthumus and Imogen swear fidelity to one another no matter what. They signify this oath with two bands: Imogen gives Posthumus a ring, and he gives her a bracelet. The King then barrels into the scene and orders Posthumus to leave Britain immediately, which Posthumus does after reluctantly parting from Imogen with Rome as his destination. Before leaving, Posthumus commands his servant, Pisanio, who has been faithful to him, to remain in Britain and serve Imogen. After a brief scene in which we are introduced to the clueless Cloten, and another that describes in very moving poetry Imogen's thoughts about Posthumus's departure, we find ourselves in a tavern in Rome. Some time has passed, and Posthumus is about to arrive. His reputation precedes him, as two Italians-Iachimo and Philario-a Frenchman, a Dutchman and a Spaniard discuss his imminent arrival. The Frenchman and the two Italians have all already met Posthumus several years before, and all but Philario are cynical about the youth's supposed virtue. When Posthumus arrives, he and the Frenchman renew an old quarrel: Posthumus once insisted, and still does, that his beloved Imogen would never commit infidelity, whereas the rest of the tavern-goers are sure that all wives and sweethearts are untrue. The deeply cynical Iachimo bets Posthumus that he himself could sleep with Imogen, wagering half of his estate against Posthumus' precious ring, which Imogen had given him. Posthumus accepts this wager, and gives Iachimo his ring as a testimonial. He tells Iachimo that he will gladly part with the ring, no hard feelings, if he succeeds in bedding Imogen, because Imogen would then not be worthy of his care, but warns Iachimo that if he fails to bed Imogen they will settle his insult to so virtuous a lady with their swords. Meanwhile, back in England, the Queen has solicited a deadly potion from Cornelius, the court physician. Cornelius, realizing the Queen's wicked nature, instead gives her a tonic that causes the mere appearance of death, a long and deep sleep, in whomever takes it. The Queen comes across Pisanio and tells him that she wants to talk to Imogen, meanwhile giving the servant the potion that she thinks is poison and telling him that it's a powerful restorative that has helped Cymbeline many times. Iachimo soon arrives from Rome and introduces himself as a friend of Posthumus. Immediately upon being introduced to Imogen he realizes that Posthumus has exaggerated neither her beauty nor her virtue. However, he still makes a desperate and artful effort to seduce her, insinuating that Posthumus is being unfaithful to her in Italy and suggesting that she ought to seek revenge against Posthumus by sleeping with him. Imogen, though initially concerned that Iachimo is telling the truth about Posthumus's infidelity, sees through his lies when Iachimo propositions her. Iachimo swears that he was merely testing her virtue on Posthumus's behalf, a test that he says she has passed perfectly. Imogen accepts this explanation, whereupon Iachimo informs her that he must embark for Italy the following morning. He asks her before leaving if, as a favor, she would keep a chest full of valuables safe for him. She says, yes, she'll keep the chest overnight in her bedroom.

In a play that is so rife with ambiguous, fairy-tale qualities, the first factor that must be discussed is the setting. Cymbeline is set in a mythic, medieval time. Historically, Cymbeline the king reigned over England in the first century A.D., while England was still the northern frontier of the Roman Empire. Shakespeare constantly alludes to Ancient Rome and to England's relationship with Rome; indeed, one of the main plots of Cymbeline is the ambivalent conflict between the ancient Roman Empire and the nascent British Empire. Some historical background is necessary to see the full import of this relationship. In the mythology of the English, the same refugees from Troy who founded Rome also founded England. England and Rome are thus part of the same great historical movement, both having Trojan heritage. That Rome is at once Britain's ruler and its peer will prove a major ambiguity in the play. On top of this ambiguity in the mythology of Empire, one immediately notices that although Shakespeare sets his drama in the days of the Caesars, the Rome to which Posthumus has been banished has much more in common with the Renaissance Italy of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet or Twelfth Night than it does to the ancient capital of, say, Julius Caesar or Titus Andronicus. Posthumus and Iachimo strike their bargain in a tavern, just as Shakespeare might himself, and the loose Machiavellian character of the Italian is a Renaissance, not an Ancient Roman, prejudice. Thus there is from the beginning a refusal on Shakespeare's part to write a simple history. The historical plot, which pits England against Rome, is only one among many-there is also the tragic plot that rends Imogen from Posthumus with the help of the dastardly Iachimo, the pastoral plot that depicts Belarius and his stolen sons , and the comic resolution of all the strains of narrative. It is tempting for a modern reader to see such a jumble of settings and genres as a shortcoming on Shakespeare's part, but to the contrary, Shakespeare is not writing a realistic play. The effect he wishes to get across is dependent upon this jumble. It is best to read Cymbeline-as well as Shakespeare's other romances: Pericles, The Winter's Tale and The Tempest-as intensely cerebral fairy tales. There is in Cymbeline a wicked stepmother with a vial of poison, an impossible-wager motif adapted from Boccaccio's Decameron, and a falsely accused princes-all motives familiar to readers of fairy tales. More generally, as in fantasy literatures, the laws of nature and realism apply only fitfully, coincidences abound, and identities are in flux. Nowhere is this flux clearer than in the language of Cymbeline. This is undoubtedly one of Shakespeare's most difficult plays, with passages of such obscurity that we cannot hope to parse them. This difficulty seems at times to be exercised merely for its own sake, as in the opening dialogue between the two gentlemen. As Frank Kermode notes, the First Gentleman hyperbolizes Posthumus to a ridiculous extent, and for no apparent reason. The praise goes on and on, serving merely to undermine our eventual realization that Posthumus, too, has his human weaknesses. But perhaps the extravagance of passages such as the two gentlemen's dialogue is precisely Shakespeare's point. Poetic language fails to map onto reality perfectly, and if reality fails to match up with it, can it really be blamed? The First Gentleman's speeches, as well as Posthumus's to Imogen, show us the paradoxical power of poetry-both intoxicating and ephemeral. The First Gentleman clearly thinks Posthumus to be a fine fellow, and this sends him on a flight of hyperbole that no man can live up to. Posthumus may declare Imogen to be as chaste as the goddess Diana, but that doesn't stop him from revising his opinion in Act Two when faced with Iachimo's superficial proofs and equally hyperbolic poetic allegations to the contrary. And indeed, Posthumus's harangue against women, which we'll see more of in the next section, is absurdly overstated as well. There is danger in poetry, Shakespeare suggests-very rarely does it have much to do with reality. Except, it appears, when used by Imogen. She alone in Act One-and indeed throughout the play-stands up to the promises of her intensely poetic language. Some of the most beautiful language in the play occurs when she describes how she would have seen Posthumus's ship off. She says, "I would have broke my eye-strings, crack'd them, but / To look upon him, till the diminution / Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle: / Nay, followed him, till he had melted from / The smallness of a gnat, to air: and then / Have turned my eyes, and wept." This is poetry to bank on. As Imogen declares, her devotion to Posthumus-as represented by the avidness with which she seeks out his shrinking form-only increases with his distance from her. But Posthumus changes as he recedes, transforming from his noble self to take on the appearance of a tiny gnat, and finally turning to air. Indeed, as we shall see, Posthumus shrinks to a gnat of a man while in Italy.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Cymbeline/section_1_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 1-scene 5

act 2

{"name": "Act Two", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180408180734/http://www.gradesaver.com/cymbeline/study-guide/summary-act-two", "summary": "Cloten' second short scene - in which, once again, he demonstrates his buffoonery - opens Act Two, after which we are shown Imogen in her bedchamber, preparing for sleep. She says goodnight to her Lady-in-Waiting, then, after she has fallen fast asleep, Iachimo climbs out of the trunk that she agreed to keep in her room. He creeps around the room and jots down details both of the room's furnishings and of Imogen's intimate physical appearance, noting a mole on her left breast, with the intention of using these details to prove to Posthumus that he has spent the night with her. As further proof, he slips Posthumus's bracelet off of Imogen's wrist, then departs the room silently. Scene three returns to Cloten, who in his attempt to woo Imogen has hired a eunuch to sing a love song, to no avail. Cymbeline and the Queen enter and console him, only to be interrupted by the news that Caius Lucius, a Roman ambassador, has come to meet them. The King and Queen depart, leaving Cloten to again attempt to charm Imogen. His wooing, which Imogen immediately dismisses, soon dissolves into a bitter exchange of insults, as Cloten castigates Posthumus as a poor \"pantling\" unworthy of Imogen's love, and Imogen retorts that Cloten is not worth as much as Posthumus's \"mean'st garment.\" She departs in high dudgeon, and Cloten obsesses over this comparison of his royal self to Posthumus's shabbiest clothing. In the meantime, back in Rome, Philario and Posthumus discuss the futility of the rake-like Iachimo ever winning the virtuous Imogen; that is, until Iachimo himself returns and insinuates that he has won the wager. Posthumus demands evidence, and Iachimo describes the furnishings and art in Imogen's bedroom. When these descriptions fail to satisfy him, Iachimo shows Posthumus the bracelet. This alarms Posthumus greatly, though Philario says that Iachimo might have gotten the bracelet a number of ways that didn't involve sleeping with Imogen. Finally, Iachimo pulls his trump card and describes the mole on Imogen's breast. This compelling piece of evidence convinces Posthumus of Imogen's infidelity. Enraged, he rushes off-stage with vengeance on his mind, returning to deliver a scathing, hate-filled soliloquy directed against all womankind.", "analysis": "One of the key questions in Imogen and Cloten's exchange in Act Two is that of the legitimacy of the marriage between Imogen and Posthumus. Marriage in Early Modern England was a very different thing than it is in present-day Western cultures. There were several ways to get married in addition to the traditional bride-down-the-aisle approach. Posthumus and Imogen have been married, obviously without Cymbeline's consent, in the manner of the lower classes, by simply pledging to one another that they are wed. Cloten says: hough it be allow'd in meaner parties / to knit their souls / in self-figured knot, / Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement, by / The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil / The precious note of it; with a base slave, / A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, / A pantler; not so eminent. Cloten interprets Imogen's choice of Posthumus as perverse not merely because Posthumus is so far below her in status-\"a holding for a livery\", as Cloten calls him-but also because their method of marrying was in itself lower-class. Their \"self-figured knot\" is not appropriate for a princess. Because she is a public figure, Cloten feels that Imogen ought to have been married in public, in a manner suiting her station. Cloten's concern with appearances finds an analogue in the theme of clothing, which begins to play a major part in Act Two. Clothing is our public display of ourselves; if we wear rich clothes we are assumed to be rich, and if we wear shabby clothes we are assumed to be shabby. Imogen's insult to Cloten that he is not worthy of Posthumus' \"meanest garment\" is her way of saying that Posthumus has so much intrinsic value that his most ragged clothing is imbued with personal favor that Cloten can never match. Cloten, who as we can tell by his reaction to Imogen's method of marrying Posthumus is a man highly concerned with appearances, becomes obsessed with Imogen's insult. He cannot understand how, exactly, the clothes don't make the man in Imogen's eyes. His superficiality corresponds to a superficial interpretation of her language, with disastrous results for him, as we shall soon see. The other major plot development in Act Two, the resolution of Posthumus and Iachimo's wager, touches on similar themes of truth and appearances. A modern reader ought to be quite concerned that Iachimo so easily convinces Posthumus of his beloved's guilt. It is commonplace to compare this sub-plot to Othello and to note that Iachimo's name recalls Iago's. Indeed, some call Iachimo \"Little Iago\", recognizing the diminutive in the Italian. One oughtn't go too far with this comparison, but it is interesting to read Posthumus' encroaching doubt as a burlesque of Othello. Whereas Iago requires several long conversations to even plant Othello's doubts about Desdemona, the infinitely less artful Iachimo snookers Posthumus in a relatively short scene. The vituperative passion of Posthumus's ensuing harangue against womankind tempts us to read it as simple misogyny on Shakespeare's part, and is thus squarely ironic. When Posthumus declares, \"Could I find out / The woman's part in me-for there's no motion / That tends to vice in man, but I affirm / It is the woman's part: be it lying, note it, / The woman's: flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; / Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers,\" we know that he is perfectly mistaken. The liar and deceiver in his case is a man, Iachimo. When he says, \"They are not constant, but are changing still,\" Posthumus refers only to himself. Shakespeare suggests, in Posthumus' case-recalling that Posthumus is a paragon of men-that in fact the source of social confusion and strife is chiefly male. This is complicated, of course, by the Queen's mechanistic ways, but Posthumus' declaration that it's all the women's fault is completely wrong regardless of how one interprets it."}

ACT II. SCENE I. Britain. Before CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss'd the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on't; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure. FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. SECOND LORD. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out. CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha? SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them. CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been one of my rank! SECOND LORD. [Aside] To have smell'd like a fool. CLOTEN. I am not vex'd more at anything in th' earth. A pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on. CLOTEN. Sayest thou? SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to. CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. CLOTEN. Why, so I say. FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night? CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on't? SECOND LORD. [Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. FIRST LORD. There's an Italian come, and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus' friends. CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish'd rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger? FIRST LORD. One of your lordship's pages. CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't? SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord. CLOTEN. Not easily, I think. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate. CLOTEN. Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go. SECOND LORD. I'll attend your lordship. Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak'd That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T' enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Exit SCENE II. Britain. IMOGEN'S bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen? LADY. Please you, madam. IMOGEN. What hour is it? LADY. Almost midnight, madam. IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' th' clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. Exit LADY To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye! [Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk] IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that's riveted, Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes] One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk SCENE III. CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments Enter CLOTEN and LORDS FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up ace. CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose. FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not? FIRST LORD. Day, my lord. CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate. Enter musicians Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it- and then let her consider. SONG Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flow'rs that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise! So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN SECOND LORD. Here comes the King. CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother. CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth? CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice. CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she's yours. QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless. CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. Exeunt all but CLOTEN CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks] I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold Which buys admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th' stand o' th' stealer; and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave. [Knocks] Enter a LADY LADY. Who's there that knocks? CLOTEN. A gentleman. LADY. No more? CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. LADY. That's more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure? CLOTEN. Your lady's person; is she ready? LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber. CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report. LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess! Enter IMOGEN CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand. Exit LADY IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you. IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. CLOTEN. This is no answer. IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin; I will not. IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks. CLOTEN. Do you call me fool? IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do; If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady's manners By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th' very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast. CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o' th' court- it is no contract, none. And though it be allowed in meaner parties- Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls- On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot, Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler- not so eminent! IMOGEN. Profane fellow! Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr'd so well. CLOTEN. The south fog rot him! IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment That ever hath but clipp'd his body is dearer In my respect than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio! Enter PISANIO CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil- IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently. CLOTEN. 'His garment'! IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe! I do think I saw't this morning; confident I am Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost. IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO CLOTEN. You have abus'd me. 'His meanest garment'! IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't. CLOTEN. I will inform your father. IMOGEN. Your mother too. She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th' worst of discontent. Exit CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd. 'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure To win the King as I am bold her honour Will remain hers. PHILARIO. What means do you make to him? POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter's state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear'd hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor. PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O'erpays all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius Will do's commission throughly; and I think He'll grant the tribute, send th' arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief. POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world. Enter IACHIMO PHILARIO. See! Iachimo! POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land, And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble. PHILARIO. Welcome, sir. POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return. IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon. POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them. IACHIMO. Here are letters for you. POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust. IACHIMO. 'Tis very like. PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there? IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach'd. POSTHUMUS. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not Too dull for your good wearing? IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I'll make a journey twice as far t' enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won. POSTHUMUS. The stone's too hard to come by. IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy. POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must not continue friends. IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills. POSTHUMUS. If you can make't apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them. IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe- whose strength I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not You'll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not. POSTHUMUS. Proceed. IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber, Where I confess I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching-it was hang'd With tapestry of silk and silver; the story, Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride. A piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on't was- POSTHUMUS. This is true; And this you might have heard of here, by me Or by some other. IACHIMO. More particulars Must justify my knowledge. POSTHUMUS. So they must, Or do your honour injury. IACHIMO. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures So likely to report themselves. The cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out. POSTHUMUS. This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of. IACHIMO. The roof o' th' chamber With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons- I had forgot them- were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands. POSTHUMUS. This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise Be given to your remembrance; the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid. IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [Shows the bracelet] Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See! And now 'tis up again. It must be married To that your diamond; I'll keep them. POSTHUMUS. Jove! Once more let me behold it. Is it that Which I left with her? IACHIMO. Sir- I thank her- that. She stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me, and said She priz'd it once. POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck'd it off To send it me. IACHIMO. She writes so to you, doth she? POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too; [Gives the ring] It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love Where there's another man. The vows of women Of no more bondage be to where they are made Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. O, above measure false! PHILARIO. Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won. It may be probable she lost it, or Who knows if one her women, being corrupted Hath stol'n it from her? POSTHUMUS. Very true; And so I hope he came by't. Back my ring. Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than this; for this was stol'n. IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm! POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true- nay, keep the ring, 'tis true. I am sure She would not lose it. Her attendants are All sworn and honourable- they induc'd to steal it! And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy'd her. The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you! PHILARIO. Sir, be patient; This is not strong enough to be believ'd Of one persuaded well of. POSTHUMUS. Never talk on't; She hath been colted by him. IACHIMO. If you seek For further satisfying, under her breast- Worthy the pressing- lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodging. By my life, I kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger To feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her? POSTHUMUS. Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it. IACHIMO. Will you hear more? POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns. Once, and a million! IACHIMO. I'll be sworn- POSTHUMUS. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done't, you lie; And I will kill thee if thou dost deny Thou'st made me cuckold. IACHIMO. I'll deny nothing. POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! I will go there and do't, i' th' court, before Her father. I'll do something- Exit PHILARIO. Quite besides The government of patience! You have won. Let's follow him and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself. IACHIMO. With all my heart. Exeunt SCENE V. Rome. Another room in PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS POSTHUMUS. Is there no way for men to be, but women Must be half-workers? We are all bastards, And that most venerable man which I Did call my father was I know not where When I was stamp'd. Some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem'd The Dian of that time. So doth my wife The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance! Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd, And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't Might well have warm'd old Saturn; that I thought her As chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils! This yellow Iachimo in an hour- was't not? Or less!- at first? Perchance he spoke not, but, Like a full-acorn'd boar, a German one, Cried "O!' and mounted; found no opposition But what he look'd for should oppose and she Should from encounter guard. Could I find out The woman's part in me! For there's no motion That tends to vice in man but I affirm It is the woman's part. Be it lying, note it, The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, Nice longing, slanders, mutability, All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows, Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all; For even to vice They are not constant, but are changing still One vice but of a minute old for one Not half so old as that. I'll write against them, Detest them, curse them. Yet 'tis greater skill In a true hate to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague them better. Exit

Act Two

https://web.archive.org/web/20180408180734/http://www.gradesaver.com/cymbeline/study-guide/summary-act-two

Cloten' second short scene - in which, once again, he demonstrates his buffoonery - opens Act Two, after which we are shown Imogen in her bedchamber, preparing for sleep. She says goodnight to her Lady-in-Waiting, then, after she has fallen fast asleep, Iachimo climbs out of the trunk that she agreed to keep in her room. He creeps around the room and jots down details both of the room's furnishings and of Imogen's intimate physical appearance, noting a mole on her left breast, with the intention of using these details to prove to Posthumus that he has spent the night with her. As further proof, he slips Posthumus's bracelet off of Imogen's wrist, then departs the room silently. Scene three returns to Cloten, who in his attempt to woo Imogen has hired a eunuch to sing a love song, to no avail. Cymbeline and the Queen enter and console him, only to be interrupted by the news that Caius Lucius, a Roman ambassador, has come to meet them. The King and Queen depart, leaving Cloten to again attempt to charm Imogen. His wooing, which Imogen immediately dismisses, soon dissolves into a bitter exchange of insults, as Cloten castigates Posthumus as a poor "pantling" unworthy of Imogen's love, and Imogen retorts that Cloten is not worth as much as Posthumus's "mean'st garment." She departs in high dudgeon, and Cloten obsesses over this comparison of his royal self to Posthumus's shabbiest clothing. In the meantime, back in Rome, Philario and Posthumus discuss the futility of the rake-like Iachimo ever winning the virtuous Imogen; that is, until Iachimo himself returns and insinuates that he has won the wager. Posthumus demands evidence, and Iachimo describes the furnishings and art in Imogen's bedroom. When these descriptions fail to satisfy him, Iachimo shows Posthumus the bracelet. This alarms Posthumus greatly, though Philario says that Iachimo might have gotten the bracelet a number of ways that didn't involve sleeping with Imogen. Finally, Iachimo pulls his trump card and describes the mole on Imogen's breast. This compelling piece of evidence convinces Posthumus of Imogen's infidelity. Enraged, he rushes off-stage with vengeance on his mind, returning to deliver a scathing, hate-filled soliloquy directed against all womankind.

One of the key questions in Imogen and Cloten's exchange in Act Two is that of the legitimacy of the marriage between Imogen and Posthumus. Marriage in Early Modern England was a very different thing than it is in present-day Western cultures. There were several ways to get married in addition to the traditional bride-down-the-aisle approach. Posthumus and Imogen have been married, obviously without Cymbeline's consent, in the manner of the lower classes, by simply pledging to one another that they are wed. Cloten says: hough it be allow'd in meaner parties / to knit their souls / in self-figured knot, / Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement, by / The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil / The precious note of it; with a base slave, / A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, / A pantler; not so eminent. Cloten interprets Imogen's choice of Posthumus as perverse not merely because Posthumus is so far below her in status-"a holding for a livery", as Cloten calls him-but also because their method of marrying was in itself lower-class. Their "self-figured knot" is not appropriate for a princess. Because she is a public figure, Cloten feels that Imogen ought to have been married in public, in a manner suiting her station. Cloten's concern with appearances finds an analogue in the theme of clothing, which begins to play a major part in Act Two. Clothing is our public display of ourselves; if we wear rich clothes we are assumed to be rich, and if we wear shabby clothes we are assumed to be shabby. Imogen's insult to Cloten that he is not worthy of Posthumus' "meanest garment" is her way of saying that Posthumus has so much intrinsic value that his most ragged clothing is imbued with personal favor that Cloten can never match. Cloten, who as we can tell by his reaction to Imogen's method of marrying Posthumus is a man highly concerned with appearances, becomes obsessed with Imogen's insult. He cannot understand how, exactly, the clothes don't make the man in Imogen's eyes. His superficiality corresponds to a superficial interpretation of her language, with disastrous results for him, as we shall soon see. The other major plot development in Act Two, the resolution of Posthumus and Iachimo's wager, touches on similar themes of truth and appearances. A modern reader ought to be quite concerned that Iachimo so easily convinces Posthumus of his beloved's guilt. It is commonplace to compare this sub-plot to Othello and to note that Iachimo's name recalls Iago's. Indeed, some call Iachimo "Little Iago", recognizing the diminutive in the Italian. One oughtn't go too far with this comparison, but it is interesting to read Posthumus' encroaching doubt as a burlesque of Othello. Whereas Iago requires several long conversations to even plant Othello's doubts about Desdemona, the infinitely less artful Iachimo snookers Posthumus in a relatively short scene. The vituperative passion of Posthumus's ensuing harangue against womankind tempts us to read it as simple misogyny on Shakespeare's part, and is thus squarely ironic. When Posthumus declares, "Could I find out / The woman's part in me-for there's no motion / That tends to vice in man, but I affirm / It is the woman's part: be it lying, note it, / The woman's: flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; / Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers," we know that he is perfectly mistaken. The liar and deceiver in his case is a man, Iachimo. When he says, "They are not constant, but are changing still," Posthumus refers only to himself. Shakespeare suggests, in Posthumus' case-recalling that Posthumus is a paragon of men-that in fact the source of social confusion and strife is chiefly male. This is complicated, of course, by the Queen's mechanistic ways, but Posthumus' declaration that it's all the women's fault is completely wrong regardless of how one interprets it.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/act_3.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Cymbeline/section_2_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 1-scene 7

act 3

{"name": "Act Three", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180408180734/http://www.gradesaver.com/cymbeline/study-guide/summary-act-three", "summary": "Cymbeline and the Queen, who were informed of Caius Lucius's presence in Act Two, begin Act Three by meeting with the Roman ambassador. Lucius informs them that Rome is demanding an annual tribute of three thousand pounds, which the empire has levied ever since conquering Cymbeline's uncle, Cassibelan. Cymbeline tells Lucius that England will no longer pay the tribute, a sentiment that both the Queen and Cloten wax upon. Lucius regrets to inform them that they are then enemies of the Roman Empire, and that they should prepare for battle. Filled with national pride and convinced of Britain's strength, Cymbeline and his family look forward to doing so. Meanwhile, Pisanio has just received a letter from Posthumus ordering him to kill Imogen for her perceived infidelity. Imogen comes along as he is contemplating the injustice of Posthumus's command and asks Pisanio what he is reading. Pisanio gives her a second letter from Posthumus in which he tells her to meet him in Wales, at Milford-Haven. Imogen is elated and won't listen to Pisanio's attempts to dissuade her from taking the trip too rashly. Scene three takes us to Wales, where Belarius lives disguised under the name of Morgan with his two supposed sons, whom he calls Polydore and Cadmus and who are in actuality Guiderius and Arvigarus, Cymbeline's twin sons. Belarius was once a loyal general in the employ of Cymbeline who was falsely accused of treason. Before being banished, he stole the twin heirs, Guiderius and Arvigarus, from Cymbeline with the help of their nurse, Euriphile. These boys have been raised as Polydore and Cadmus ever since, considering \"Morgan\" their father and the nurse, lately deceased, their mother. Belarius notes nonetheless that the boys exhibit royal spirits, inexplicable courage, and a natural thirst to learn of the world of the court. Nearby, around Milford-Haven, Imogen demands to know where Posthumus is. By way of explanation, Pisanio shows her Posthumus's letter, which accuses her of infidelity and orders him to kill her. Imogen is devastated by the news that Posthumus has so little faith in her. She insists that Pisanio obey his master's order to kill her, but he adamantly refuses. Instead, he tells Imogen of his plan to disguise her as a man and have her taken on as Lucius' page. Imogen agrees to the plan. Back in England, Lucius asks for an escort to Milford-Haven and announces that thus afterward Cymbeline and Rome shall be considered enemies. Cymbeline gives him his escort and abruptly turns from his dealings with Rome to his concerns about Imogen, whom he thinks has been hiding in her room all day. Cloten discovers that she is missing, and Pisanio soon enters, only to be confronted with Cloten's rage at this development. Pisanio gives Cymbeline Posthumus's letter to Imogen, saying they should meet at Milford-Haven, meanwhile noting to himself that he'll write Posthumus and tell him that he has killed Imogen. Cloten, still obsessed with Imogen's comment that he is less worthy than Posthumus's meanest garment, forces Pisanio to give him a suit of Posthumus's clothes, planning to kill Posthumus and rape Imogen while wearing her beloved's clothes during their supposed rendezvous at Milford-Haven. Imogen has, in the meantime, adapted to her new male identity, calling herself Fidele. Starving, she comes upon Belarius's cave, and eats the food that she finds on the table. Belarius and his \"sons\" return from a hunt to find a stranger in their home, but after a confrontation they realize that all parties are quite civilized. In fact, Guiderius and Arvigarus immediately sense something noble about Imogen-as she does about them-and declare that if she were a woman, they would \"woo hard.\" In a short closing scene, the Roman Senators and Tribunes indicate that Lucius will soon lead an army of Roman gentry against England.", "analysis": "Many of Shakespeare's best-loved comedies, including As You Like It and A Midsummer Night's Dream, take place in two distinct locations: one urban, one rural. The two locations inevitably contrast the order and constancy of urban civilization with the fluidity of pastoral life, a clash of values that is often expressed through a cross-dressing heroine. Cymbeline, in its particular way, fits this classically Shakespearean model. Much like Rosalind in As You Like It or Viola in Twelfth Night, Imogen escapes from the unjust pressure of being a woman in a rigid, male-dominated society by taking on a false male identity in a more indeterminate environment. A further layer of complication attends any instance of cross-dressing in Shakespeare's plays. Historically, women were not allowed to act on the stage until the Reformation, long after Shakespeare and his contemporaries had passed away. Thus, female roles in Shakespeare's plays were played by young men, often no older than boys, with fair complexions and feminine bearings. It is often difficult for a modern reader to get her or his head around this, but a cross-dressing female in Shakespeare is, effectually, a male cross-cross-dressing as a male. Gender was always already an indeterminate characteristic in any performance. Thus one can safely assume that gender-bending, so to speak, was more acceptable for an Elizabethan or Jacobean audience than it would be for ours. Cross-dressing did not inevitably pass judgment on the character who cross-dressed-it was a given facet of the theater. Likewise, cross-dressing was not an individual psychological matter, as it is often considered to be today; it was a matter of broader, cultural psychology. In other words, it is Imogen's culture, not Imogen's nature, which forces her to swap genders. Imogen's cross-dressing also continues the theme of clothing. In taking on the clothes of a man, Imogen becomes a man. She is immediately recognized as male by Belarius and his supposed sons, and indeed in Act Five even her own husband does not recognize her beneath her masculine attire. This may seem as ludicrous as no one recognizing that Clark Kent is Superman, just because Clark is wearing glasses and a tie. And indeed, Cymbeline operates by a logic similar to that of comic books. The deeper questions in the story-questions of appearance versus identity, of historical context, and so on-are consistently expressed in naive and superficial imagery. Imogen's superficial change in clothing expresses her essential need for a change in identity following her condemnation by Posthumus; and the other characters' failure to recognize her appearance echoes their failure to recognize her virtue."}

ACT III. SCENE I. Britain. A hall in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter in state, CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, and LORDS at one door, and at another CAIUS LUCIUS and attendants CYMBELINE. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us? LUCIUS. When Julius Caesar- whose remembrance yet Lives in men's eyes, and will to ears and tongues Be theme and hearing ever- was in this Britain, And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle, Famous in Caesar's praises no whit less Than in his feats deserving it, for him And his succession granted Rome a tribute, Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately Is left untender'd. QUEEN. And, to kill the marvel, Shall be so ever. CLOTEN. There be many Caesars Ere such another Julius. Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses. QUEEN. That opportunity, Which then they had to take from 's, to resume We have again. Remember, sir, my liege, The kings your ancestors, together with The natural bravery of your isle, which stands As Neptune's park, ribb'd and pal'd in With rocks unscalable and roaring waters, With sands that will not bear your enemies' boats But suck them up to th' top-mast. A kind of conquest Caesar made here; but made not here his brag Of 'came, and saw, and overcame.' With shame- The first that ever touch'd him- he was carried From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping- Poor ignorant baubles!- on our terrible seas, Like egg-shells mov'd upon their surges, crack'd As easily 'gainst our rocks; for joy whereof The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point- O, giglot fortune!- to master Caesar's sword, Made Lud's Town with rejoicing fires bright And Britons strut with courage. CLOTEN. Come, there's no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no moe such Caesars. Other of them may have crook'd noses; but to owe such straight arms, none. CYMBELINE. Son, let your mother end. CLOTEN. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan. I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? Why should we pay tribute? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now. CYMBELINE. You must know, Till the injurious Romans did extort This tribute from us, we were free. Caesar's ambition- Which swell'd so much that it did almost stretch The sides o' th' world- against all colour here Did put the yoke upon's; which to shake off Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon Ourselves to be. CLOTEN. We do. CYMBELINE. Say then to Caesar, Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which Ordain'd our laws- whose use the sword of Caesar Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws, Who was the first of Britain which did put His brows within a golden crown, and call'd Himself a king. LUCIUS. I am sorry, Cymbeline, That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar- Caesar, that hath moe kings his servants than Thyself domestic officers- thine enemy. Receive it from me, then: war and confusion In Caesar's name pronounce I 'gainst thee; look For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, I thank thee for myself. CYMBELINE. Thou art welcome, Caius. Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent Much under him; of him I gather'd honour, Which he to seek of me again, perforce, Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent Which not to read would show the Britons cold; So Caesar shall not find them. LUCIUS. Let proof speak. CLOTEN. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer. If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle. If you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there's an end. LUCIUS. So, sir. CYMBELINE. I know your master's pleasure, and he mine; All the remain is, welcome. Exeunt SCENE II. Britain. Another room in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter PISANIO reading of a letter PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange infection Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian- As poisonous-tongu'd as handed- hath prevail'd On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] 'Do't. The letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.' O damn'd paper, Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a fedary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. Enter IMOGEN I am ignorant in what I am commanded. IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio! PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord- Leonatus? O, learn'd indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters- He'd lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content; yet not That we two are asunder- let that grieve him! Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love- of his content, All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods! [Reads] 'Justice and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.' O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio- Who long'st like me to see thy lord, who long'st- O, let me 'bate!- but not like me, yet long'st, But in a fainter kind- O, not like me, For mine's beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick- Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th' smothering of the sense- how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as T' inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour? PISANIO. One score 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too. IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's huswife. PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider. IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt SCENE III. Wales. A mountainous country with a cave Enter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven! ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven! BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours! GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd, Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not What air's from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit. ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you but know the city's usuries, And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search, And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse- Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather. GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour! BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains! This is not hunters' language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys. Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd! O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit SCENE IV. Wales, near Milford Haven Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN IMOGEN. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th' inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter? Why tender'st thou that paper to me with A look untender! If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand? That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me. PISANIO. Please you read, And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.' PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam? IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed, Is it? PISANIO. Alas, good lady! IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him. Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls I must be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies. PISANIO. Good madam, hear me. IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon's weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men: Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur'd From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master's bidding; when thou seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look! I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike. Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, But now thou seem'st a coward. PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my hand. IMOGEN. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart- Something's afore't. Soft, soft! we'll no defence!- Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn'd to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers; though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, That didst set up my disobedience 'gainst the King My father, and make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage but A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee dispatch. The lamp entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, When I desire it too. PISANIO. O gracious lady, Since I receiv'd command to do this busines I have not slept one wink. IMOGEN. Do't, and to bed then. PISANIO. I'll wake mine eyeballs first. IMOGEN. Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus'd So many miles with a pretence? This place? Mine action and thine own? our horses' labour? The time inviting thee? the perturb'd court, For my being absent?- whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand, Th' elected deer before thee? PISANIO. But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider'd of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience. IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary- speak. I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. PISANIO. Then, madam, I thought you would not back again. IMOGEN. Most like- Bringing me here to kill me. PISANIO. Not so, neither; But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus'd. Some villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury. IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan! PISANIO. No, on my life! I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for 'tis commanded I should do so. You shall be miss'd at court, And that will well confirm it. IMOGEN. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? where bide? how live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband? PISANIO. If you'll back to th' court- IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing- That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege. PISANIO. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide. IMOGEN. Where then? Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they not but in Britain? I' th' world's volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in't; In a great pool a swan's nest. Prithee think There's livers out of Britain. PISANIO. I am most glad You think of other place. Th' ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which t' appear itself must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least, That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves. IMOGEN. O! for such means, Though peril to my modesty, not death on't, I would adventure. PISANIO. Well then, here's the point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness- The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman it pretty self- into a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it- but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy!- to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein You made great Juno angry. IMOGEN. Nay, be brief; I see into thy end, and am almost A man already. PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one. Fore-thinking this, I have already fit- 'Tis in my cloak-bag- doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them. Would you, in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him Wherein you're happy- which will make him know If that his head have ear in music; doubtless With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable, And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad- You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment. IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Prithee away! There's more to be consider'd; but we'll even All that good time will give us. This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince's courage. Away, I prithee. PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box; I had it from the Queen. What's in't is precious. If you are sick at sea Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best! IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee. Exeunt severally SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS CYMBELINE. Thus far; and so farewell. LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence, And am right sorry that I must report ye My master's enemy. CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike. LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct overland to Milford Haven. Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you! CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit. So farewell, noble Lucius. LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord. CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy. LUCIUS. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well. CYMBELINE. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness! Exeunt LUCIUS and LORDS QUEEN. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause. CLOTEN. 'Tis all the better; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. CYMBELINE. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness. The pow'rs that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain. QUEEN. 'Tis not sleepy business, But must be look'd to speedily and strongly. CYMBELINE. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd The duty of the day. She looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty; We have noted it. Call her before us, for We have been too slight in sufferance. Exit a MESSENGER QUEEN. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her; she's a lady So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, And strokes death to her. Re-enter MESSENGER CYMBELINE. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? MESSENGER. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be given to th' loud of noise we make. QUEEN. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close; Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity She should that duty leave unpaid to you Which daily she was bound to proffer. This She wish'd me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in memory. CYMBELINE. Her doors lock'd? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Prove false! Exit QUEEN. Son, I say, follow the King. CLOTEN. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days. QUEEN. Go, look after. Exit CLOTEN Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz'd her; Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she's flown To her desir'd Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonour, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British crown. Re-enter CLOTEN How now, my son? CLOTEN. 'Tis certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none Dare come about him. QUEEN. All the better. May This night forestall him of the coming day! Exit CLOTEN. I love and hate her; for she's fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment That what's else rare is chok'd; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng'd upon her. For when fools Shall- Enter PISANIO Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither. Ah, you precious pander! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the fiends. PISANIO. O good my lord! CLOTEN. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter- I will not ask again. Close villain, I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn. PISANIO. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss'd? He is in Rome. CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer. No farther halting! Satisfy me home What is become of her. PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord! CLOTEN. All-worthy villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word. No more of 'worthy lord'! Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death. PISANIO. Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight. [Presenting a letter] CLOTEN. Let's see't. I will pursue her Even to Augustus' throne. PISANIO. [Aside] Or this or perish. She's far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger. CLOTEN. Humh! PISANIO. [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter true? PISANIO. Sir, as I think. CLOTEN. It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry- that is, what villainy soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly- I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment. PISANIO. Well, my good lord. CLOTEN. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me? PISANIO. Sir, I will. CLOTEN. Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy late master's garments in thy possession? PISANIO. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress. CLOTEN. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy first service; go. PISANIO. I shall, my lord. Exit CLOTEN. Meet thee at Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one thing; I'll remember't anon. Even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time- the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart- that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined- which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so prais'd- to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis'd me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge. Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes Be those the garments? PISANIO. Ay, my noble lord. CLOTEN. How long is't since she went to Milford Haven? PISANIO. She can scarce be there yet. CLOTEN. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous and true, preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true. Exit PISANIO. Thou bid'st me to my loss; for true to thee Were to prove false, which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed Be cross'd with slowness! Labour be his meed! Exit SCENE VI. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one. I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here? If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword, like me, he'll scarcely look on't. Such a foe, good heavens! Exit into the cave Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what's homely savoury; weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep'st thyself! GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary. ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy. GUIDERIUS. What's the matter, sir? BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy! Re-enter IMOGEN IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol'n nought; nor would not though I had found Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and parted With pray'rs for the provider. GUIDERIUS. Money, youth? ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those Who worship dirty gods. IMOGEN. I see you're angry. Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Have died had I not made it. BELARIUS. Whither bound? IMOGEN. To Milford Haven. BELARIUS. What's your name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall'n in this offence. BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd! 'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty I bid for you as I'd buy. ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort He is a man. I'll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I'd give to him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends, If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so that they Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize Been less, and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus. BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress. GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't! ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be, What pain it cost, what danger! Gods! BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys. IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal'd them, laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! I'd change my sex to be companion with them, Since Leonatus' false. BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd, We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it. GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near. ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less welcome. IMOGEN. Thanks, sir. ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near. Exeunt SCENE VII. Rome. A public place Enter two ROMAN SENATORS and TRIBUNES FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor's writ: That since the common men are now in action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission. Long live Caesar! TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces? SECOND SENATOR. Ay. TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia? FIRST SENATOR. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch. TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty. Exeunt

Act Three

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Cymbeline and the Queen, who were informed of Caius Lucius's presence in Act Two, begin Act Three by meeting with the Roman ambassador. Lucius informs them that Rome is demanding an annual tribute of three thousand pounds, which the empire has levied ever since conquering Cymbeline's uncle, Cassibelan. Cymbeline tells Lucius that England will no longer pay the tribute, a sentiment that both the Queen and Cloten wax upon. Lucius regrets to inform them that they are then enemies of the Roman Empire, and that they should prepare for battle. Filled with national pride and convinced of Britain's strength, Cymbeline and his family look forward to doing so. Meanwhile, Pisanio has just received a letter from Posthumus ordering him to kill Imogen for her perceived infidelity. Imogen comes along as he is contemplating the injustice of Posthumus's command and asks Pisanio what he is reading. Pisanio gives her a second letter from Posthumus in which he tells her to meet him in Wales, at Milford-Haven. Imogen is elated and won't listen to Pisanio's attempts to dissuade her from taking the trip too rashly. Scene three takes us to Wales, where Belarius lives disguised under the name of Morgan with his two supposed sons, whom he calls Polydore and Cadmus and who are in actuality Guiderius and Arvigarus, Cymbeline's twin sons. Belarius was once a loyal general in the employ of Cymbeline who was falsely accused of treason. Before being banished, he stole the twin heirs, Guiderius and Arvigarus, from Cymbeline with the help of their nurse, Euriphile. These boys have been raised as Polydore and Cadmus ever since, considering "Morgan" their father and the nurse, lately deceased, their mother. Belarius notes nonetheless that the boys exhibit royal spirits, inexplicable courage, and a natural thirst to learn of the world of the court. Nearby, around Milford-Haven, Imogen demands to know where Posthumus is. By way of explanation, Pisanio shows her Posthumus's letter, which accuses her of infidelity and orders him to kill her. Imogen is devastated by the news that Posthumus has so little faith in her. She insists that Pisanio obey his master's order to kill her, but he adamantly refuses. Instead, he tells Imogen of his plan to disguise her as a man and have her taken on as Lucius' page. Imogen agrees to the plan. Back in England, Lucius asks for an escort to Milford-Haven and announces that thus afterward Cymbeline and Rome shall be considered enemies. Cymbeline gives him his escort and abruptly turns from his dealings with Rome to his concerns about Imogen, whom he thinks has been hiding in her room all day. Cloten discovers that she is missing, and Pisanio soon enters, only to be confronted with Cloten's rage at this development. Pisanio gives Cymbeline Posthumus's letter to Imogen, saying they should meet at Milford-Haven, meanwhile noting to himself that he'll write Posthumus and tell him that he has killed Imogen. Cloten, still obsessed with Imogen's comment that he is less worthy than Posthumus's meanest garment, forces Pisanio to give him a suit of Posthumus's clothes, planning to kill Posthumus and rape Imogen while wearing her beloved's clothes during their supposed rendezvous at Milford-Haven. Imogen has, in the meantime, adapted to her new male identity, calling herself Fidele. Starving, she comes upon Belarius's cave, and eats the food that she finds on the table. Belarius and his "sons" return from a hunt to find a stranger in their home, but after a confrontation they realize that all parties are quite civilized. In fact, Guiderius and Arvigarus immediately sense something noble about Imogen-as she does about them-and declare that if she were a woman, they would "woo hard." In a short closing scene, the Roman Senators and Tribunes indicate that Lucius will soon lead an army of Roman gentry against England.

Many of Shakespeare's best-loved comedies, including As You Like It and A Midsummer Night's Dream, take place in two distinct locations: one urban, one rural. The two locations inevitably contrast the order and constancy of urban civilization with the fluidity of pastoral life, a clash of values that is often expressed through a cross-dressing heroine. Cymbeline, in its particular way, fits this classically Shakespearean model. Much like Rosalind in As You Like It or Viola in Twelfth Night, Imogen escapes from the unjust pressure of being a woman in a rigid, male-dominated society by taking on a false male identity in a more indeterminate environment. A further layer of complication attends any instance of cross-dressing in Shakespeare's plays. Historically, women were not allowed to act on the stage until the Reformation, long after Shakespeare and his contemporaries had passed away. Thus, female roles in Shakespeare's plays were played by young men, often no older than boys, with fair complexions and feminine bearings. It is often difficult for a modern reader to get her or his head around this, but a cross-dressing female in Shakespeare is, effectually, a male cross-cross-dressing as a male. Gender was always already an indeterminate characteristic in any performance. Thus one can safely assume that gender-bending, so to speak, was more acceptable for an Elizabethan or Jacobean audience than it would be for ours. Cross-dressing did not inevitably pass judgment on the character who cross-dressed-it was a given facet of the theater. Likewise, cross-dressing was not an individual psychological matter, as it is often considered to be today; it was a matter of broader, cultural psychology. In other words, it is Imogen's culture, not Imogen's nature, which forces her to swap genders. Imogen's cross-dressing also continues the theme of clothing. In taking on the clothes of a man, Imogen becomes a man. She is immediately recognized as male by Belarius and his supposed sons, and indeed in Act Five even her own husband does not recognize her beneath her masculine attire. This may seem as ludicrous as no one recognizing that Clark Kent is Superman, just because Clark is wearing glasses and a tie. And indeed, Cymbeline operates by a logic similar to that of comic books. The deeper questions in the story-questions of appearance versus identity, of historical context, and so on-are consistently expressed in naive and superficial imagery. Imogen's superficial change in clothing expresses her essential need for a change in identity following her condemnation by Posthumus; and the other characters' failure to recognize her appearance echoes their failure to recognize her virtue.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/act_4.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Cymbeline/section_3_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 1-scene 4

act 4

{"name": "Act Four", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180408180734/http://www.gradesaver.com/cymbeline/study-guide/summary-act-four", "summary": "Cloten, having arrived in Wales, prepares to execute his ghastly plan against Posthumus and Imogen, while Belarius and his supposed sons leave an ailing Imogen for the hunt. As they part, Imogen, Guiderius, and Arvigarus declare an inscrutable love for one another; they sense the deep bond of their royal siblinghood, though all are as yet ignorant of its true nature. Imogen, \"heart-sick\" from betrayal and the trials of the wilderness, takes Pisano's drug, which he had received from the Queen, while the men are out hunting. While on the hunt, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arvigarus run into Cloten. Belarius recognizes the young prince from his days at court and thinks that he and his sons must be the object of an ambush. Guiderius sends his father and brother away and confronts Cloten himself. When Cloten insults him vigorously, Guiderius insults Cloten right back; when Cloten swears Guiderius shall be beheaded for his impudence, Guiderius-ever the man of action-cuts Cloten's head off. As the three rustics return to their cave, Belarius is convinced that Guiderius's slaying of Cloten will be the end of them. This concern recedes, however, when they come upon the apparently dead body of \"Fidele\"-i.e. Imogen. The Queen's potion, just as Cornelius had promised, has indeed cast upon her the appearance of death. They eulogize over Imogen's body and sing a dirge, then lay her out on a flowerbed, near which Guiderius has placed the beheaded body of Cloten. As soon as they have left, Imogen awakens. She recognizes the clothes Cloten is wearing as Posthumus's, and assumes that Pisanio and Cloten have conspired to poison her and then torment her with the dead body of her beloved. Grieving, she weeps over the body she assumes to be her lover's. Just then, Lucius and his troops enter the same pasture. Philarmonus, the soothsayer, prophesies a Roman victory in the coming battle. Then Lucius comes upon Imogen and Cloten. He is hugely impressed by the devotion that Imogen-who is still calling herself Fidele-displays for her beheaded love, whom she declares is her dead master, calling him \"Richard du Champ.\" He determines to take this loyal page as his own, and Fidele follows him as he prepares for war. Meanwhile, in Cymbeline's court, the Queen has taken ill following the news of her son's disappearance. Cymbeline's dying Queen distracts him from preparing for the approaching battle with Rome, and Pisanio notes that he hasn't heard from either Cloten or Posthumus, whom he has told of Imogen's death and whom he has sent a bloodied cloth as proof. Back in Wales, Guiderius and Arvigarus argue with Belarius, who insists that they should flee into the wilderness before Cloten's body is discovered. The twins say that they will fight for Britain in the coming battle instead, driven by their innate nobility to engage in conflict. Belarius finally agrees to accompany his sons, hoping that his agedness will hide his identity from those who might recognize him in the British army.", "analysis": "The analysis of Act Three concluded with the observation that no one recognizes Imogen to be a woman simply because she wears the clothing of a man. Yet some nevertheless recognize something essentially-rather than superficially-compelling in Imogen: her royalty. Her brothers, who are also disguised royals, feel an instinctual love for her that overwhelms their love for the man they think is their father. This love contrasts with their immediate impression of another prince, Cloten, whom they declare to be false and whom Guiderius has no compunction about killing in Act Four. Imogen, Guiderius, and Arvigarus, as the right-born royals in the play, know Cloten to be an imposter without actually knowing it, just as they know one another to be virtuous without being aware of each other's true identities. Royalty announces itself not only in this sibling bond, but also in the very natures of Guiderius and Arvigarus. Taken at face value, these characters are absurd: they have never lived outside of the forest, have never known company besides that of each other and their supposed father and mother. Even granted that Belarius was once a high-ranking court official, there is no way that they could have realistically developed the high speech, refined social sensitivity, or royal bearing that both of them demonstrate. Of course, as is consistently apparent in Cymbeline, common-sense is not particularly vital to the plot. Guiderius and Arvigarus behave royally simply because they are royal. Their understanding of their royalty has nothing to do with being royal-the being trumps the understanding. They are the extreme opposite of Cloten, who expected the world to recognize his importance because of the clothes he wore. The twins wear the clothes of peasantry, yet act the part of royalty because their genetics trump their upbringing. This unstoppable virtuousness spills over, in the Act's end, into their comportment on the battlefield. As Belarius says, \"The time seems long, their blood thinks scorn / Till it fly out and show them princes born.\" The disguised princes obey no law but that of their blood-instinct dictates that they kill Cloten and long for battle. Self-preservation does not enter into the equation except at the farthest remove of destiny: because their blood will \"show them princes born,\" they throw themselves into the fray. What would be incredibly stupid actions in anyone else-killing a prince and then fighting for the prince's side in war-in this case are revealed as the workings of divine fate. Imogen, for her part, has perhaps her finest moment in the whole play when she mourns over the body of the man she thinks is Posthumus. This situation, more than any other, captures the absurd beauty of Cymbeline. Keep in mind that Imogen consistently-almost obsessively-refers to Cloten's dead body as that of Posthumus, that a headless corpse on stage is the object of an impassioned eulogy, that Imogen has herself been absurdly left for dead on a bed of flowers, then inexplicably abandoned just before she wakes up, and that given all of these absurdities, the scene remains deeply moving. J.M. Nosworthy, writing of the scene in the Arden edition, writes, \"Shakespeare resolves the complexities with facetious grace liberating the spirit of comedy into what is ostensibly a tragic period and allowing Imogen's half-conscious thoughts free play.\" In other words, Imogen experiences the scene as pure tragedy; the audience, knowing the body to be Cloten's, experiences it as farce. The facts render the scene ridiculous, yet Imogen's naive pathos makes it moving. These old audience reactions-ridicule, empathy, etc.-combine to make something new, some absurd mingling of reactions. Indeed, perhaps this scene expresses something new to Shakespeare, even something new to the dramatic genre, but something familiar to human beings-it conveys the inherent ambiguity of different perspectives on a given situation. Imogen's perspective is not the audience's, yet both views are equally valid."}

ACT IV. SCENE I. Wales. Near the cave of BELARIUS Enter CLOTEN alone CLOTEN. I am near to th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp'd it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather- saving reverence of the word- for 'tis said a woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber- I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me. Exit SCENE II. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter, from the cave, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, and IMOGEN BELARIUS. [To IMOGEN] You are not well. Remain here in the cave; We'll come to you after hunting. ARVIRAGUS. [To IMOGEN] Brother, stay here. Are we not brothers? IMOGEN. So man and man should be; But clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick. GUIDERIUS. Go you to hunting; I'll abide with him. IMOGEN. So sick I am not, yet I am not well; But not so citizen a wanton as To seem to die ere sick. So please you, leave me; Stick to your journal course. The breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me; society is no comfort To one not sociable. I am not very sick, Since I can reason of it. Pray you trust me here. I'll rob none but myself; and let me die, Stealing so poorly. GUIDERIUS. I love thee; I have spoke it. How much the quantity, the weight as much As I do love my father. BELARIUS. What? how? how? ARVIRAGUS. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me In my good brother's fault. I know not why I love this youth, and I have heard you say Love's reason's without reason. The bier at door, And a demand who is't shall die, I'd say 'My father, not this youth.' BELARIUS. [Aside] O noble strain! O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! Cowards father cowards and base things sire base. Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. I'm not their father; yet who this should be Doth miracle itself, lov'd before me.- 'Tis the ninth hour o' th' morn. ARVIRAGUS. Brother, farewell. IMOGEN. I wish ye sport. ARVIRAGUS. Your health. [To BELARIUS] So please you, sir. IMOGEN. [Aside] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard! Our courtiers say all's savage but at court. Experience, O, thou disprov'st report! Th' imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish, Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio, I'll now taste of thy drug. [Swallows some] GUIDERIUS. I could not stir him. He said he was gentle, but unfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. ARVIRAGUS. Thus did he answer me; yet said hereafter I might know more. BELARIUS. To th' field, to th' field! We'll leave you for this time. Go in and rest. ARVIRAGUS. We'll not be long away. BELARIUS. Pray be not sick, For you must be our huswife. IMOGEN. Well, or ill, I am bound to you. BELARIUS. And shalt be ever. Exit IMOGEN into the cave This youth, howe'er distress'd, appears he hath had Good ancestors. ARVIRAGUS. How angel-like he sings! GUIDERIUS. But his neat cookery! He cut our roots in characters, And sauc'd our broths as Juno had been sick, And he her dieter. ARVIRAGUS. Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh Was that it was for not being such a smile; The smile mocking the sigh that it would fly From so divine a temple to commix With winds that sailors rail at. GUIDERIUS. I do note That grief and patience, rooted in him both, Mingle their spurs together. ARVIRAGUS. Grow patience! And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine His perishing root with the increasing vine! BELARIUS. It is great morning. Come, away! Who's there? Enter CLOTEN CLOTEN. I cannot find those runagates; that villain Hath mock'd me. I am faint. BELARIUS. Those runagates? Means he not us? I partly know him; 'tis Cloten, the son o' th' Queen. I fear some ambush. I saw him not these many years, and yet I know 'tis he. We are held as outlaws. Hence! GUIDERIUS. He is but one; you and my brother search What companies are near. Pray you away; Let me alone with him. Exeunt BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS CLOTEN. Soft! What are you That fly me thus? Some villain mountaineers? I have heard of such. What slave art thou? GUIDERIUS. A thing More slavish did I ne'er than answering 'A slave' without a knock. CLOTEN. Thou art a robber, A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief. GUIDERIUS. To who? To thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine, a heart as big? Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art; Why I should yield to thee. CLOTEN. Thou villain base, Know'st me not by my clothes? GUIDERIUS. No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather; he made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee. CLOTEN. Thou precious varlet, My tailor made them not. GUIDERIUS. Hence, then, and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool; I am loath to beat thee. CLOTEN. Thou injurious thief, Hear but my name, and tremble. GUIDERIUS. What's thy name? CLOTEN. Cloten, thou villain. GUIDERIUS. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it. Were it toad, or adder, spider, 'Twould move me sooner. CLOTEN. To thy further fear, Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know I am son to th' Queen. GUIDERIUS. I'm sorry for't; not seeming So worthy as thy birth. CLOTEN. Art not afeard? GUIDERIUS. Those that I reverence, those I fear- the wise: At fools I laugh, not fear them. CLOTEN. Die the death. When I have slain thee with my proper hand, I'll follow those that even now fled hence, And on the gates of Lud's Town set your heads. Yield, rustic mountaineer. Exeunt, fighting Re-enter BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. No company's abroad. ARVIRAGUS. None in the world; you did mistake him, sure. BELARIUS. I cannot tell; long is it since I saw him, But time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of favour Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute 'Twas very Cloten. ARVIRAGUS. In this place we left them. I wish my brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell. BELARIUS. Being scarce made up, I mean to man, he had not apprehension Or roaring terrors; for defect of judgment Is oft the cease of fear. Re-enter GUIDERIUS with CLOTEN'S head But, see, thy brother. GUIDERIUS. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; There was no money in't. Not Hercules Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had none; Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne My head as I do his. BELARIUS. What hast thou done? GUIDERIUS. I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten's head, Son to the Queen, after his own report; Who call'd me traitor, mountaineer, and swore With his own single hand he'd take us in, Displace our heads where- thank the gods!- they grow, And set them on Lud's Town. BELARIUS. We are all undone. GUIDERIUS. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose But that he swore to take, our lives? The law Protects not us; then why should we be tender To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us, Play judge and executioner all himself, For we do fear the law? What company Discover you abroad? BELARIUS. No single soul Can we set eye on, but in all safe reason He must have some attendants. Though his humour Was nothing but mutation- ay, and that From one bad thing to worse- not frenzy, not Absolute madness could so far have rav'd, To bring him here alone. Although perhaps It may be heard at court that such as we Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head- the which he hearing, As it is like him, might break out and swear He'd fetch us in; yet is't not probable To come alone, either he so undertaking Or they so suffering. Then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this body hath a tail More perilous than the head. ARVIRAGUS. Let ordinance Come as the gods foresay it. Howsoe'er, My brother hath done well. BELARIUS. I had no mind To hunt this day; the boy Fidele's sickness Did make my way long forth. GUIDERIUS. With his own sword, Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en His head from him. I'll throw't into the creek Behind our rock, and let it to the sea And tell the fishes he's the Queen's son, Cloten. That's all I reck. Exit BELARIUS. I fear 'twill be reveng'd. Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done't! though valour Becomes thee well enough. ARVIRAGUS. Would I had done't, So the revenge alone pursu'd me! Polydore, I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou hast robb'd me of this deed. I would revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us through, And put us to our answer. BELARIUS. Well, 'tis done. We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger Where there's no profit. I prithee to our rock. You and Fidele play the cooks; I'll stay Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him To dinner presently. ARVIRAGUS. Poor sick Fidele! I'll willingly to him; to gain his colour I'd let a parish of such Cloten's blood, And praise myself for charity. Exit BELARIUS. O thou goddess, Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon'st In these two princely boys! They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind That by the top doth take the mountain pine And make him stoop to th' vale. 'Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn'd, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow'd. Yet still it's strange What Cloten's being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us. Re-enter GUIDERIUS GUIDERIUS. Where's my brother? I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream, In embassy to his mother; his body's hostage For his return. [Solemn music] BELARIUS. My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds. But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark! GUIDERIUS. Is he at home? BELARIUS. He went hence even now. GUIDERIUS. What does he mean? Since death of my dear'st mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Should answer solemn accidents. The matter? Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. Is Cadwal mad? Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, with IMOGEN as dead, bearing her in his arms BELARIUS. Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his arms Of what we blame him for! ARVIRAGUS. The bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch, Than have seen this. GUIDERIUS. O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears thee not the one half so well As when thou grew'st thyself. BELARIUS. O melancholy! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find The ooze to show what coast thy sluggish care Might'st easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing! Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. How found you him? ARVIRAGUS. Stark, as you see; Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at; his right cheek Reposing on a cushion. GUIDERIUS. Where? ARVIRAGUS. O' th' floor; His arms thus leagu'd. I thought he slept, and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud. GUIDERIUS. Why, he but sleeps. If he be gone he'll make his grave a bed; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee. ARVIRAGUS. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweet'ned not thy breath. The ruddock would, With charitable bill- O bill, sore shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie Without a monument!- bring thee all this; Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flow'rs are none, To winter-ground thy corse- GUIDERIUS. Prithee have done, And do not play in wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let us bury him, And not protract with admiration what Is now due debt. To th' grave. ARVIRAGUS. Say, where shall's lay him? GUIDERIUS. By good Euriphile, our mother. ARVIRAGUS. Be't so; And let us, Polydore, though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th' ground, As once to our mother; use like note and words, Save that Euriphile must be Fidele. GUIDERIUS. Cadwal, I cannot sing. I'll weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse Than priests and fanes that lie. ARVIRAGUS. We'll speak it, then. BELARIUS. Great griefs, I see, med'cine the less, for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys; And though he came our enemy, remember He was paid for that. Though mean and mighty rotting Together have one dust, yet reverence- That angel of the world- doth make distinction Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely; And though you took his life, as being our foe, Yet bury him as a prince. GUIDERIUS. Pray you fetch him hither. Thersites' body is as good as Ajax', When neither are alive. ARVIRAGUS. If you'll go fetch him, We'll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin. Exit BELARIUS GUIDERIUS. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th' East; My father hath a reason for't. ARVIRAGUS. 'Tis true. GUIDERIUS. Come on, then, and remove him. ARVIRAGUS. So. Begin. SONG GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. ARVIRAGUS. Fear no more the frown o' th' great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust. GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the lightning flash, ARVIRAGUS. Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone; GUIDERIUS. Fear not slander, censure rash; ARVIRAGUS. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan. BOTH. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust. GUIDERIUS. No exorciser harm thee! ARVIRAGUS. Nor no witchcraft charm thee! GUIDERIUS. Ghost unlaid forbear thee! ARVIRAGUS. Nothing ill come near thee! BOTH. Quiet consummation have, And renowned be thy grave! Re-enter BELARIUS with the body of CLOTEN GUIDERIUS. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down. BELARIUS. Here's a few flowers; but 'bout midnight, more. The herbs that have on them cold dew o' th' night Are strewings fit'st for graves. Upon their faces. You were as flow'rs, now wither'd. Even so These herblets shall which we upon you strew. Come on, away. Apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again. Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain. Exeunt all but IMOGEN IMOGEN. [Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way? I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither? 'Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet? I have gone all night. Faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow. O gods and goddesses! [Seeing the body] These flow'rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on't. I hope I dream; For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures. But 'tis not so; 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind. Good faith, I tremble still with fear; but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it! The dream's here still. Even when I wake it is Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt. A headless man? The garments of Posthumus? I know the shape of's leg; this is his hand, His foot Mercurial, his Martial thigh, The brawns of Hercules; but his Jovial face- Murder in heaven! How! 'Tis gone. Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, Conspir'd with that irregulous devil, Cloten, Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read Be henceforth treacherous! Damn'd Pisanio Hath with his forged letters- damn'd Pisanio- From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top. O Posthumus! alas, Where is thy head? Where's that? Ay me! where's that? Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio? 'Tis he and Cloten; malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. O, 'tis pregnant, pregnant! The drug he gave me, which he said was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murd'rous to th' senses? That confirms it home. This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten. O! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us. O, my lord, my lord! [Falls fainting on the body] Enter LUCIUS, CAPTAINS, and a SOOTHSAYER CAPTAIN. To them the legions garrison'd in Gallia, After your will, have cross'd the sea, attending You here at Milford Haven; with your ships, They are in readiness. LUCIUS. But what from Rome? CAPTAIN. The Senate hath stirr'd up the confiners And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits, That promise noble service; and they come Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, Sienna's brother. LUCIUS. When expect you them? CAPTAIN. With the next benefit o' th' wind. LUCIUS. This forwardness Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers Be muster'd; bid the captains look to't. Now, sir, What have you dream'd of late of this war's purpose? SOOTHSAYER. Last night the very gods show'd me a vision- I fast and pray'd for their intelligence- thus: I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing'd From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish'd in the sunbeams; which portends, Unless my sins abuse my divination, Success to th' Roman host. LUCIUS. Dream often so, And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime It was a worthy building. How? a page? Or dead or sleeping on him? But dead, rather; For nature doth abhor to make his bed With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. Let's see the boy's face. CAPTAIN. He's alive, my lord. LUCIUS. He'll then instruct us of this body. Young one, Inform us of thy fortunes; for it seems They crave to be demanded. Who is this Thou mak'st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest In this sad wreck? How came't? Who is't? What art thou? IMOGEN. I am nothing; or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton and a good, That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas! There is no more such masters. I may wander From east to occident; cry out for service; Try many, all good; serve truly; never Find such another master. LUCIUS. 'Lack, good youth! Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend. IMOGEN. Richard du Champ. [Aside] If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope They'll pardon it.- Say you, sir? LUCIUS. Thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. LUCIUS. Thou dost approve thyself the very same; Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say Thou shalt be so well master'd; but, be sure, No less belov'd. The Roman Emperor's letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me. IMOGEN. I'll follow, sir. But first, an't please the gods, I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his grave, And on it said a century of prayers, Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep and sigh; And leaving so his service, follow you, So please you entertain me. LUCIUS. Ay, good youth; And rather father thee than master thee. My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave. Come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr'd By thee to us; and he shall be interr'd As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes. Some falls are means the happier to arise. Exeunt SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, LORDS, PISANIO, and attendants CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how 'tis with her. Exit an attendant A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life's in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant. LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he's true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found. CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [To PISANIO] We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent. CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz'd with matter. LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're ready. The want is but to put those pow'rs in motion That long to move. CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let's withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away! Exeunt all but PISANIO PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. 'Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex'd in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o' th' King, or I'll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. Exit SCENE IV. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us. BELARIUS. Let us from it. ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure? GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after. BELARIUS. Sons, We'll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King's party there's no going. Newness Of Cloten's death- we being not known, not muster'd Among the bands-may drive us to a render Where we have liv'd, and so extort from's that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture. GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us. ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv'd my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis'd, But to be still hot summer's tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter. GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th' army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown, Cannot be questioned. ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I'll thither. What thing is't that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look'd on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham'd To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I'll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I'll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans! ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen. BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I'll lie. Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born. Exeunt

Act Four

https://web.archive.org/web/20180408180734/http://www.gradesaver.com/cymbeline/study-guide/summary-act-four

Cloten, having arrived in Wales, prepares to execute his ghastly plan against Posthumus and Imogen, while Belarius and his supposed sons leave an ailing Imogen for the hunt. As they part, Imogen, Guiderius, and Arvigarus declare an inscrutable love for one another; they sense the deep bond of their royal siblinghood, though all are as yet ignorant of its true nature. Imogen, "heart-sick" from betrayal and the trials of the wilderness, takes Pisano's drug, which he had received from the Queen, while the men are out hunting. While on the hunt, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arvigarus run into Cloten. Belarius recognizes the young prince from his days at court and thinks that he and his sons must be the object of an ambush. Guiderius sends his father and brother away and confronts Cloten himself. When Cloten insults him vigorously, Guiderius insults Cloten right back; when Cloten swears Guiderius shall be beheaded for his impudence, Guiderius-ever the man of action-cuts Cloten's head off. As the three rustics return to their cave, Belarius is convinced that Guiderius's slaying of Cloten will be the end of them. This concern recedes, however, when they come upon the apparently dead body of "Fidele"-i.e. Imogen. The Queen's potion, just as Cornelius had promised, has indeed cast upon her the appearance of death. They eulogize over Imogen's body and sing a dirge, then lay her out on a flowerbed, near which Guiderius has placed the beheaded body of Cloten. As soon as they have left, Imogen awakens. She recognizes the clothes Cloten is wearing as Posthumus's, and assumes that Pisanio and Cloten have conspired to poison her and then torment her with the dead body of her beloved. Grieving, she weeps over the body she assumes to be her lover's. Just then, Lucius and his troops enter the same pasture. Philarmonus, the soothsayer, prophesies a Roman victory in the coming battle. Then Lucius comes upon Imogen and Cloten. He is hugely impressed by the devotion that Imogen-who is still calling herself Fidele-displays for her beheaded love, whom she declares is her dead master, calling him "Richard du Champ." He determines to take this loyal page as his own, and Fidele follows him as he prepares for war. Meanwhile, in Cymbeline's court, the Queen has taken ill following the news of her son's disappearance. Cymbeline's dying Queen distracts him from preparing for the approaching battle with Rome, and Pisanio notes that he hasn't heard from either Cloten or Posthumus, whom he has told of Imogen's death and whom he has sent a bloodied cloth as proof. Back in Wales, Guiderius and Arvigarus argue with Belarius, who insists that they should flee into the wilderness before Cloten's body is discovered. The twins say that they will fight for Britain in the coming battle instead, driven by their innate nobility to engage in conflict. Belarius finally agrees to accompany his sons, hoping that his agedness will hide his identity from those who might recognize him in the British army.

The analysis of Act Three concluded with the observation that no one recognizes Imogen to be a woman simply because she wears the clothing of a man. Yet some nevertheless recognize something essentially-rather than superficially-compelling in Imogen: her royalty. Her brothers, who are also disguised royals, feel an instinctual love for her that overwhelms their love for the man they think is their father. This love contrasts with their immediate impression of another prince, Cloten, whom they declare to be false and whom Guiderius has no compunction about killing in Act Four. Imogen, Guiderius, and Arvigarus, as the right-born royals in the play, know Cloten to be an imposter without actually knowing it, just as they know one another to be virtuous without being aware of each other's true identities. Royalty announces itself not only in this sibling bond, but also in the very natures of Guiderius and Arvigarus. Taken at face value, these characters are absurd: they have never lived outside of the forest, have never known company besides that of each other and their supposed father and mother. Even granted that Belarius was once a high-ranking court official, there is no way that they could have realistically developed the high speech, refined social sensitivity, or royal bearing that both of them demonstrate. Of course, as is consistently apparent in Cymbeline, common-sense is not particularly vital to the plot. Guiderius and Arvigarus behave royally simply because they are royal. Their understanding of their royalty has nothing to do with being royal-the being trumps the understanding. They are the extreme opposite of Cloten, who expected the world to recognize his importance because of the clothes he wore. The twins wear the clothes of peasantry, yet act the part of royalty because their genetics trump their upbringing. This unstoppable virtuousness spills over, in the Act's end, into their comportment on the battlefield. As Belarius says, "The time seems long, their blood thinks scorn / Till it fly out and show them princes born." The disguised princes obey no law but that of their blood-instinct dictates that they kill Cloten and long for battle. Self-preservation does not enter into the equation except at the farthest remove of destiny: because their blood will "show them princes born," they throw themselves into the fray. What would be incredibly stupid actions in anyone else-killing a prince and then fighting for the prince's side in war-in this case are revealed as the workings of divine fate. Imogen, for her part, has perhaps her finest moment in the whole play when she mourns over the body of the man she thinks is Posthumus. This situation, more than any other, captures the absurd beauty of Cymbeline. Keep in mind that Imogen consistently-almost obsessively-refers to Cloten's dead body as that of Posthumus, that a headless corpse on stage is the object of an impassioned eulogy, that Imogen has herself been absurdly left for dead on a bed of flowers, then inexplicably abandoned just before she wakes up, and that given all of these absurdities, the scene remains deeply moving. J.M. Nosworthy, writing of the scene in the Arden edition, writes, "Shakespeare resolves the complexities with facetious grace liberating the spirit of comedy into what is ostensibly a tragic period and allowing Imogen's half-conscious thoughts free play." In other words, Imogen experiences the scene as pure tragedy; the audience, knowing the body to be Cloten's, experiences it as farce. The facts render the scene ridiculous, yet Imogen's naive pathos makes it moving. These old audience reactions-ridicule, empathy, etc.-combine to make something new, some absurd mingling of reactions. Indeed, perhaps this scene expresses something new to Shakespeare, even something new to the dramatic genre, but something familiar to human beings-it conveys the inherent ambiguity of different perspectives on a given situation. Imogen's perspective is not the audience's, yet both views are equally valid.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/act_5.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Cymbeline/section_4_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 1-scene 5

act 5

{"name": "Act Five", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180408180734/http://www.gradesaver.com/cymbeline/study-guide/summary-act-five", "summary": "After two Acts where he has been absent, Posthumus finally reappears. He is thoroughly repentant of his decision to order Imogen to be killed, though he still believes her to be guilty, and is determined to atone for his murder by fighting on the side of the British in the coming conflict. He abandons his Italian garb, dresses as a British peasant, and jumps into the raging battle. He engages Iachimo, who is fighting on the Roman side, and takes him prisoner. Nevertheless, the battle goes the Romans' way-that is, until Guiderius, Arvigarus, and Belarius rally the British troops and lead them back against the Romans. Inspired by the rustics, the British win the day. Posthumus and a British Lord discuss the victory, the British Lord departs, and Posthumus, still heavy with guilt over Imogen's death, again dons his Italian dress. Now taken for a Roman gentleman, he is captured by British soldiers and presented to a \"gaoler\" . While in jail, Posthumus dreams that his famous ancestors intercede on his part with Jupiter in an eerie play-within-a-play. Jupiter, reluctantly won over by their pleas, writes Posthumus's fortune on a tablet and lays it in the jail. Posthumus awakens, thinking that this has all been a dream, only to discover the tablet. Two clownish jailers re-enter his cell and speak with him about his imminent death by hanging. Posthumus accepts his fate, but then a messenger with word that Cymbeline wants to see the prisoner interrupts this conversation with the jailers. The scene then shifts to Cymbeline's tent, where the King is knighting Belarius, Guiderius, and Arvigarus for their decisive role in turning the battle against the Romans. He remarks that the fourth conspicuous soldier, the British peasant who defeated Iachimo, is nowhere to be found. Cornelius then interrupts the King with the announcement that the Queen has died. He further remarks that before dying the Queen fully confessed her wickedness, saying that she never loved Cymbeline, that she hated Imogen, and that she had planned to murder both the King and his daughter-whom she thought she had killed with her poison-in order that her son might rule Britain. Cymbeline is flabbergasted at the news. The Roman prisoners, including Iachimo, Lucius, Philarmonus, and Imogen then enter the tent. Lucius attempts to dissuade the King from killing them all, and especially entreats him not to kill Fidele. Seeing his disguised daughter, though not yet recognizing her, Cymbeline declares that he loves \"Fidele\" without knowing why, and says that not only will the page be spared, he will also be granted a wish. Lucius assumes that Fidele will ask the King to spare her master, but \"he\" doesn't, instead insisting that Iachimo reveal to her where he got the ring on his finger, which she recognizes as Posthumus's. The guilt-ridden Iachimo, only too eager to unburden himself of his crime, tells of his wager with Posthumus and of how he cheated the ring away. This confession inspires the disguised Posthumus to reveal himself. He rages against Iachimo for his duplicity, and against himself for having ordered Imogen's murder as a result. Imogen herself tries to interrupt him, but Posthumus, misinterpreting the interruption, knocks her to the floor. Then Pisanio, who has recognized Fidele to be Imogen, reveals her true identity to Posthumus. Cymbeline is blind with joy, and Imogen and Posthumus are tearfully reunited. Imogen, meanwhile, thinking that Pisanio poisoned her, rails against him. Cornelius interrupts, saying that the Queen also confessed that she had given Pisanio a bottle of poison, telling him it was medicinal, but that he himself had made the drug only appear poisonous, and that it was in fact benign. This inspires Belarius and Guiderius to recognize their error in supposing that Fidele ever died. In this spirit of confession, Pisanio reveals that he knows Cloten's whereabouts-Cloten, he says, went to Wales in search of Posthumus and Imogen. Guiderius then admits that he met the prince there, and beheaded him. Cymbeline, although terribly disappointed that a war hero must die for the crime of having killed a prince, nevertheless orders his death. Belarius interjects, saying that Guiderius is better than the man he killed, and equal to the King. Cymbeline, enraged, orders that Belarius too be killed for such presumptuousness. Belarius holds off this sentence, however, by revealing his own tale, saying that he is the supposed traitor who was banished so many years before, and that before he left he conspired with the King's sons' nurse to kidnap the infant twins. He then presents Guiderius and Arvigarus using their real names: Polydore and Cadwal. The King's sons tell their father that when they met Imogen in Wales, they instinctually recognized the royal bond between them. Next, Posthumus reveals that he was the British peasant who did so well in battle, and appeals to Iachimo to testify on his behalf. Iachimo does so, entreating Posthumus to kill him as punishment for his deceit. Posthumus asserts his power over Iachimo by pardoning him, and in that spirit Cymbeline pardons all the Romans, announcing that he had only begun the war with Rome at his dead Queen's insistence. Cymbeline adds that even though Britain has won the battle, they will still pay tribute to Rome. As a final harmonious gesture, Posthumus calls upon Philarmonus to interpret the tablet that Jupiter left in his jail cell. Philarmonus does so, reading the symbols as portents of the reconciliation of Posthumus and Imogen, as well as the reunion of Cymbeline with his sons. Finally, Philarmonus notes that his original prediction that the Romans would prevail has proven true. On that note, Cymbeline orders a march of peace through the city, signifying the union of Britain and the Roman Empire.", "analysis": "One of the features that define Shakespeare's later plays is the prevalence of special effects. Richard Hosley, discussing the staging of Cymbeline, suggests that the introduction of the indoor theater known as the Blackfriar's, where Shakespeare's company, The King's Men, most likely staged his later plays, provided the playwright with numerous opportunities to introduce effects that would have been impossible at the Globe, such as the storm that opens The Tempest. Act Five, scene four seems to contain another such effect: the mini-drama that occurs while Posthumus sleeps between his ancestors and Jupiter would have been far less effective if the play were produced at an inferior locale. Cymbeline is the first of Shakespeare's plays to depict a deity descending from above, and although this trick is as old as the deus ex machina of Ancient Greece, perhaps the presence of a ceiling in the Blackfriar's theater made this effect at least somewhat realistic. At any rate, this scene is one of the strangest in Cymbeline, which is saying quite a lot. It does nothing to move the plot forward, and is thus not strictly necessary; its main function seems to be to place the often inscrutable action of Cymbeline within a greater explanatory framework. Jupiter addresses the incredible pressure he has put on Posthumus in the play by declaring, \"Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, / The more delayed, delighted.\" By Aristotle's definition, a tragicomedy is a play that brings its characters near to death without actually killing them. Here, Shakespeare lets us know that he is aware of the rules of his genre: Posthumus will not die, though he is very close to death. Moreover, Jupiter appears to be speaking for the playwright himself. Cymbeline is a play that \"crosses\" its characters repeatedly-it cross-dresses Imogen, it double-crosses both Posthumus and Belarius, it creates problems for just about anyone we might \"love\", and kills off those we shouldn't. Jupiter's speech thus alludes to the fatal force driving Cymbeline, which is, on one level, the poet's delight in complicating his characters' lives, getting us to care about them, and then delaying gratification until the last possible second. On another level, Jupiter's \"cross\" has religious implications. The historical King Cymbeline was understood, in English mythology, to have reigned during the life of Jesus Christ. The play's redemptive trajectory-in which several characters, including Posthumus and Imogen, are effectively \"raised from the grave,\" in which both Posthumus and Cymbeline are redeemed for their errors in trusting deceivers, and in which forgiveness is afforded universally-certainly maps onto a loosely Christian allegorical reading of the work. Whether we want to go this far or not, scene four shows us without a doubt that divine forces have had a vested interest in the unfolding of the events on stage, and provides at least some explanation for the arguably foolish courage displayed by Guiderius and Arvigarus, who are guided into near-certain death by the force of their royal blood. Just as Jupiter reveals all to the spiritual participants in scene four, so all is revealed to the human participants in scene five. The final scene of Cymbeline has long been recognized, even by the play's detractors, as a tour de force. Frank Kermode, for instance, writes, \"The clearing up of the political crisis and the reunions of Cymbeline and his sons and daughter, of his daughter and her husband, are rattled off as if in a demonstration of dramaturgical virtuosity.\" Kermode finds this virtuosity more than a little insincere; and indeed an uncharitable soul might read Cymbeline as having three or four plots too many, and thus read the final Act, which resolves all of the plots in an elaborately self-conscious way, as the successful execution of a self-imposed wager of sorts, as though Shakespeare himself is chuckling that he pulled it off after all. Yet it is worth mentioning that the last scene represents perhaps the most elaborate and wrenching instance of one of Shakespeare's favorite plot devices, the multiple-recognition. Although the scene begins with a bevy of disguised secrets, by scene's end the characters have revealed everything to each other in a burst of exhilarated honesty. Wherever misunderstanding arises once again, it is quickly and ruthlessly stamped out: for example, Posthumus dramatically strikes the disguised Imogen for objecting to his grief, only to be interrupted by Pisanio; moments later, Pisanio is interrupted by Imogen, who thinks Pisanio has poisoned her, but Imogen is interrupted by Cornelius, who explains that it wasn't poison at all. In the end, the dust settles, and the community is restored. This scene clearly conveys the poet's joy in playing with his audience, and inspires the audience's joy in having arrived at a happy ending. The confirmation of the two prophesies in the play ties up this happy ending with a neat little bow. Philarmonus, whose very name evokes love , interprets the images of a lion embraced by tender air, a cedar's lopped branches restored, and an eagle flying into the sun. Images of vegetation and birds are found throughout the play, and we realize with this final interpretation that, as Philarmonus puts it, \"The fingers of the powers above do tune / The harmony of this peace.\" The words that the characters have used throughout to describe their confusing ordeal have in fact all the while conformed to the great scheme of it all. Posthumus has been compared to an eagle from the start, and Imogen to that even rarer bird, the Phoenix, and so on. The final harmonious beauty of Cymbeline, if we accept it, is that its members have been divinely inspired even in the absurdity of their situations. Like Guiderius and Arvigarus, who have ignorantly represented royalty far better than the ostensibly royal Queen and her son, so Shakespeare's divine fingers have guided his ignorant characters all along. And at the play's end, it seems, Shakespeare wants them-as well as us-to revel in his skill."}

ACT V. SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody handkerchief POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom. 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I'll fight Against the part I come with; so I'll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' th' Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin The fashion- less without and more within. Exit SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS. He vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. Exit The battle continues; the BRITONS fly; CYMBELINE is taken. Then enter to his rescue BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th' advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears. GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight! Re-enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then re-enter LUCIUS and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hoodwink'd. IACHIMO. 'Tis their fresh supplies. LUCIUS. It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes Let's reinforce or fly. Exeunt SCENE III. Another part of the field Enter POSTHUMUS and a Britain LORD LORD. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. LORD. I did. POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying, Through a strait lane- the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length'ned shame. LORD. Where was this lane? POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier- An honest one, I warrant, who deserv'd So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for's country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings- lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas'd or shame- Made good the passage, cried to those that fled 'Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!' These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many- For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing- with this word 'Stand, stand!' Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some turn'd coward But by example- O, a sin in war Damn'd in the first beginners!- gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o' th' hunters. Then began A stop i' th' chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o' th' need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O'erborne i' th' former wave. Ten chas'd by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o' th' field. LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And vent it for a mock'ry? Here is one: 'Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.' LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir. POSTHUMUS. 'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I'll be his friend; For if he'll do as he is made to do, I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. LORD. Farewell; you're angry. Exit POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i' th' field and ask 'What news?' of me! To-day how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses! took heel to do't, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i' th' war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum'd again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom's death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I'll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two BRITISH CAPTAINS and soldiers FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken. 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th' affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN. So 'tis reported; But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there? POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer'd him. SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th' King. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman captives. The CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a gaoler. Exeunt omnes SCENE IV. Britain. A prison Enter POSTHUMUS and two GAOLERS FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol'n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture. SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach. Exeunt GAOLERS POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that's sick o' th' gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd By th' sure physician death, who is the key T' unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is't enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir'd more than constrain'd. To satisfy, If of my freedom 'tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that's not my desire. For Imogen's dear life take mine; and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it. 'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow'rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I'll speak to thee in silence. [Sleeps] Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, SICILIUS LEONATUS, father to POSTHUMUS, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his WIFE, and mother to POSTHUMUS, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young LEONATI, brothers to POSTHUMUS, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle POSTHUMUS round as he lies sleeping SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay'd Attending nature's law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans' father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp'd, Came crying 'mongst his foes, A thing of pity. SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv'd the praise o' th' world As great Sicilius' heir. FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity? MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exil'd and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen? SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O' th' other's villainy? SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our country's cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius' right With honour to maintain. FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform'd. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn'd The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn'd? SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries. MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries. SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th' shining synod of the rest Against thy deity. BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly. JUPITER descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The GHOSTS fall on their knees JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flow'rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay'd, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends] SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulpherous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop'd as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas'd. ALL. Thanks, Jupiter! SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest. [GHOSTS vanish] POSTHUMUS. [Waking] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness' favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' 'Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I'll keep, if but for sympathy. Re-enter GAOLER GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death? POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago. GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook'd. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes in's head, then; I have not seen him so pictur'd. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one. POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging's the way of winking. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS. Thou bring'st good news: I am call'd to be made free. GAOLER. I'll be hang'd then. POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and MESSENGER GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't. Exit SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S tent Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, LORDS, OFFICERS, and attendants CYMBELINE. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp'd before targes of proof, cannot be found. He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so. BELARIUS. I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought But beggary and poor looks. CYMBELINE. No tidings of him? PISANIO. He hath been search'd among the dead and living, But no trace of him. CYMBELINE. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward; [To BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS] which I will add To you, the liver, heart, and brain, of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. 'Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it. BELARIUS. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen; Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add we are honest. CYMBELINE. Bow your knees. Arise my knights o' th' battle; I create you Companions to our person, and will fit you With dignities becoming your estates. Enter CORNELIUS and LADIES There's business in these faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory? You look like Romans, And not o' th' court of Britain. CORNELIUS. Hail, great King! To sour your happiness I must report The Queen is dead. CYMBELINE. Who worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she? CORNELIUS. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd I will report, so please you; these her women Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks Were present when she finish'd. CYMBELINE. Prithee say. CORNELIUS. First, she confess'd she never lov'd you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you; Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorr'd your person. CYMBELINE. She alone knew this; And but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed. CORNELIUS. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her flight prevented it, she had Ta'en off by poison. CYMBELINE. O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more? CORNELIUS. More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral, which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life, and ling'ring, By inches waste you. In which time she purpos'd, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O'ercome you with her show; and in time, When she had fitted you with her craft, to work Her son into th' adoption of the crown; But failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate, open'd, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented The evils she hatch'd were not effected; so, Despairing, died. CYMBELINE. Heard you all this, her women? LADY. We did, so please your Highness. CYMBELINE. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter! That it was folly in me thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the SOOTHSAYER, and other Roman prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind, and IMOGEN Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute; that The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So think of your estate. LUCIUS. Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten'd Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call'd ransom, let it come. Sufficeth A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer. Augustus lives to think on't; and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom'd. Never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join With my request, which I'll make bold your Highness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm Though he have serv'd a Roman. Save him, sir, And spare no blood beside. CYMBELINE. I have surely seen him; His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore To say 'Live, boy.' Ne'er thank thy master. Live; And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, I'll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta'en. IMOGEN. I humbly thank your Highness. LUCIUS. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt. IMOGEN. No, no! Alack, There's other work in hand. I see a thing Bitter to me as death; your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself. LUCIUS. The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why stands he so perplex'd? CYMBELINE. What wouldst thou, boy? I love thee more and more; think more and more What's best to ask. Know'st him thou look'st on? Speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend? IMOGEN. He is a Roman, no more kin to me Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer. CYMBELINE. Wherefore ey'st him so? IMOGEN. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. CYMBELINE. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. CYMBELINE. Thou'rt my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart] BELARIUS. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? ARVIRAGUS. One sand another Not more resembles- that sweet rosy lad Who died and was Fidele. What think you? GUIDERIUS. The same dead thing alive. BELARIUS. Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear. Creatures may be alike; were't he, I am sure He would have spoke to us. GUIDERIUS. But we saw him dead. BELARIUS. Be silent; let's see further. PISANIO. [Aside] It is my mistress. Since she is living, let the time run on To good or bad. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN advance] CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud. [To IACHIMO] Sir, step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely, Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, Which is our honour, bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him. IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring. POSTHUMUS. [Aside] What's that to him? CYMBELINE. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours? IACHIMO. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken that Which to be spoke would torture thee. CYMBELINE. How? me? IACHIMO. I am glad to be constrain'd to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villainy I got this ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel, Whom thou didst banish; and- which more may grieve thee, As it doth me- a nobler sir ne'er liv'd 'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord? CYMBELINE. All that belongs to this. IACHIMO. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits Quail to remember- Give me leave, I faint. CYMBELINE. My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength; I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak. IACHIMO. Upon a time- unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!- was in Rome- accurs'd The mansion where!- 'twas at a feast- O, would Our viands had been poison'd, or at least Those which I heav'd to head!- the good Posthumus- What should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Amongst the rar'st of good ones- sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty that made barren the swell'd boast Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the eye- CYMBELINE. I stand on fire. Come to the matter. IACHIMO. All too soon I shall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a noble lord in love and one That had a royal lover, took his hint; And not dispraising whom we prais'd- therein He was as calm as virtue- he began His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in't, either our brags Were crack'd of kitchen trulls, or his description Prov'd us unspeaking sots. CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th' purpose. IACHIMO. Your daughter's chastity- there it begins. He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch, Made scruple of his praise, and wager'd with him Pieces of gold 'gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour'd finger, to attain In suit the place of's bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of Phoebus' wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth of's car. Away to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference 'Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench'd Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain Gan in your duller Britain operate Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent; And, to be brief, my practice so prevail'd That I return'd with simular proof enough To make the noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his belief in her renown With tokens thus and thus; averring notes Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet- O cunning, how I got it!- nay, some marks Of secret on her person, that he could not But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd, I having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon- Methinks I see him now- POSTHUMUS. [Coming forward] Ay, so thou dost, Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool, Egregious murderer, thief, anything That's due to all the villains past, in being, To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison, Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out For torturers ingenious. It is I That all th' abhorred things o' th' earth amend By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, That kill'd thy daughter; villain-like, I lie- That caus'd a lesser villain than myself, A sacrilegious thief, to do't. The temple Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself. Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set The dogs o' th' street to bay me. Every villain Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villainy less than 'twas! O Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen! IMOGEN. Peace, my lord. Hear, hear! POSTHUMUS. Shall's have a play of this? Thou scornful page, There lies thy part. [Strikes her. She falls] PISANIO. O gentlemen, help! Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus! You ne'er kill'd Imogen till now. Help, help! Mine honour'd lady! CYMBELINE. Does the world go round? POSTHUMUS. How comes these staggers on me? PISANIO. Wake, my mistress! CYMBELINE. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy. PISANIO. How fares my mistress? IMOGEN. O, get thee from my sight; Thou gav'st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where princes are. CYMBELINE. The tune of Imogen! PISANIO. Lady, The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if That box I gave you was not thought by me A precious thing! I had it from the Queen. CYMBELINE. New matter still? IMOGEN. It poison'd me. CORNELIUS. O gods! I left out one thing which the Queen confess'd, Which must approve thee honest. 'If Pisanio Have' said she 'given his mistress that confection Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv'd As I would serve a rat.' CYMBELINE. What's this, Cornelius? CORNELIUS. The Queen, sir, very oft importun'd me To temper poisons for her; still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge only In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs, Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certain stuff, which, being ta'en would cease The present pow'r of life, but in short time All offices of nature should again Do their due functions. Have you ta'en of it? IMOGEN. Most like I did, for I was dead. BELARIUS. My boys, There was our error. GUIDERIUS. This is sure Fidele. IMOGEN. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a rock, and now Throw me again. [Embracing him] POSTHUMUS. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die! CYMBELINE. How now, my flesh? my child? What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me? IMOGEN. [Kneeling] Your blessing, sir. BELARIUS. [To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not; You had a motive for't. CYMBELINE. My tears that fall Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mother's dead. IMOGEN. I am sorry for't, my lord. CYMBELINE. O, she was naught, and long of her it was That we meet here so strangely; but her son Is gone, we know not how nor where. PISANIO. My lord, Now fear is from me, I'll speak troth. Lord Cloten, Upon my lady's missing, came to me With his sword drawn, foam'd at the mouth, and swore, If I discover'd not which way she was gone, It was my instant death. By accident I had a feigned letter of my master's Then in my pocket, which directed him To seek her on the mountains near to Milford; Where, in a frenzy, in my master's garments, Which he enforc'd from me, away he posts With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My lady's honour. What became of him I further know not. GUIDERIUS. Let me end the story: I slew him there. CYMBELINE. Marry, the gods forfend! I would not thy good deeds should from my lips Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth, Deny't again. GUIDERIUS. I have spoke it, and I did it. CYMBELINE. He was a prince. GUIDERIUS. A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me With language that would make me spurn the sea, If it could so roar to me. I cut off's head, And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale of mine. CYMBELINE. I am sorry for thee. By thine own tongue thou art condemn'd, and must Endure our law. Thou'rt dead. IMOGEN. That headless man I thought had been my lord. CYMBELINE. Bind the offender, And take him from our presence. BELARIUS. Stay, sir King. This man is better than the man he slew, As well descended as thyself, and hath More of thee merited than a band of Clotens Had ever scar for. [To the guard] Let his arms alone; They were not born for bondage. CYMBELINE. Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we? ARVIRAGUS. In that he spake too far. CYMBELINE. And thou shalt die for't. BELARIUS. We will die all three; But I will prove that two on's are as good As I have given out him. My sons, I must For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech, Though haply well for you. ARVIRAGUS. Your danger's ours. GUIDERIUS. And our good his. BELARIUS. Have at it then by leave! Thou hadst, great King, a subject who Was call'd Belarius. CYMBELINE. What of him? He is A banish'd traitor. BELARIUS. He it is that hath Assum'd this age; indeed a banish'd man; I know not how a traitor. CYMBELINE. Take him hence, The whole world shall not save him. BELARIUS. Not too hot. First pay me for the nursing of thy sons, And let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have receiv'd it. CYMBELINE. Nursing of my sons? BELARIUS. I am too blunt and saucy: here's my knee. Ere I arise I will prefer my sons; Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, These two young gentlemen that call me father, And think they are my sons, are none of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting. CYMBELINE. How? my issue? BELARIUS. So sure as you your father's. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd. Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer'd Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes- For such and so they are- these twenty years Have I train'd up; those arts they have as Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment; I mov'd her to't, Having receiv'd the punishment before For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shap'd Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, Here are your sons again, and I must lose Two of the sweet'st companions in the world. The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars. CYMBELINE. Thou weep'st and speak'st. The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tell'st. I lost my children. If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier sons. BELARIUS. Be pleas'd awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius; This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp'd In a most curious mantle, wrought by th' hand Of his queen mother, which for more probation I can with ease produce. CYMBELINE. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder. BELARIUS. This is he, Who hath upon him still that natural stamp. It was wise nature's end in the donation, To be his evidence now. CYMBELINE. O, what am I? A mother to the birth of three? Ne'er mother Rejoic'd deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now! O Imogen, Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. IMOGEN. No, my lord; I have got two worlds by't. O my gentle brothers, Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter But I am truest speaker! You call'd me brother, When I was but your sister: I you brothers, When we were so indeed. CYMBELINE. Did you e'er meet? ARVIRAGUS. Ay, my good lord. GUIDERIUS. And at first meeting lov'd, Continu'd so until we thought he died. CORNELIUS. By the Queen's dram she swallow'd. CYMBELINE. O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgment Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv'd you? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your brothers? how first met them? Why fled you from the court? and whither? These, And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be demanded, And all the other by-dependences, From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place Will serve our long interrogatories. See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen; And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting Each object with a joy; the counterchange Is severally in all. Let's quit this ground, And smoke the temple with our sacrifices. [To BELARIUS] Thou art my brother; so we'll hold thee ever. IMOGEN. You are my father too, and did relieve me To see this gracious season. CYMBELINE. All o'erjoy'd Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort. IMOGEN. My good master, I will yet do you service. LUCIUS. Happy be you! CYMBELINE. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He would have well becom'd this place and grac'd The thankings of a king. POSTHUMUS. I am, sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor beseeming; 'twas a fitment for The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he, Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might Have made you finish. IACHIMO. [Kneeling] I am down again; But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe; but your ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith. POSTHUMUS. Kneel not to me. The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, And deal with others better. CYMBELINE. Nobly doom'd! We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law; Pardon's the word to all. ARVIRAGUS. You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our brother; Joy'd are we that you are. POSTHUMUS. Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back'd, Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows Of mine own kindred. When I wak'd, I found This label on my bosom; whose containing Is so from sense in hardness that I can Make no collection of it. Let him show His skill in the construction. LUCIUS. Philarmonus! SOOTHSAYER. Here, my good lord. LUCIUS. Read, and declare the meaning. SOOTHSAYER. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name, Being Leo-natus, doth import so much. [To CYMBELINE] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which we call 'mollis aer,' and 'mollis aer' We term it 'mulier'; which 'mulier' I divine Is this most constant wife, who even now Answering the letter of the oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about With this most tender air. CYMBELINE. This hath some seeming. SOOTHSAYER. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee; and thy lopp'd branches point Thy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol'n, For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd, To the majestic cedar join'd, whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty. CYMBELINE. Well, My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, Although the victor, we submit to Caesar And to the Roman empire, promising To pay our wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen, Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers, Have laid most heavy hand. SOOTHSAYER. The fingers of the pow'rs above do tune The harmony of this peace. The vision Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke Of yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant Is full accomplish'd; for the Roman eagle, From south to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessen'd herself and in the beams o' th' sun So vanish'd; which foreshow'd our princely eagle, Th'imperial Caesar, should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines here in the west. CYMBELINE. Laud we the gods; And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our bless'd altars. Publish we this peace To all our subjects. Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud's Town march; And in the temple of great Jupiter Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace. Exeunt THE END

Act Five

https://web.archive.org/web/20180408180734/http://www.gradesaver.com/cymbeline/study-guide/summary-act-five

After two Acts where he has been absent, Posthumus finally reappears. He is thoroughly repentant of his decision to order Imogen to be killed, though he still believes her to be guilty, and is determined to atone for his murder by fighting on the side of the British in the coming conflict. He abandons his Italian garb, dresses as a British peasant, and jumps into the raging battle. He engages Iachimo, who is fighting on the Roman side, and takes him prisoner. Nevertheless, the battle goes the Romans' way-that is, until Guiderius, Arvigarus, and Belarius rally the British troops and lead them back against the Romans. Inspired by the rustics, the British win the day. Posthumus and a British Lord discuss the victory, the British Lord departs, and Posthumus, still heavy with guilt over Imogen's death, again dons his Italian dress. Now taken for a Roman gentleman, he is captured by British soldiers and presented to a "gaoler" . While in jail, Posthumus dreams that his famous ancestors intercede on his part with Jupiter in an eerie play-within-a-play. Jupiter, reluctantly won over by their pleas, writes Posthumus's fortune on a tablet and lays it in the jail. Posthumus awakens, thinking that this has all been a dream, only to discover the tablet. Two clownish jailers re-enter his cell and speak with him about his imminent death by hanging. Posthumus accepts his fate, but then a messenger with word that Cymbeline wants to see the prisoner interrupts this conversation with the jailers. The scene then shifts to Cymbeline's tent, where the King is knighting Belarius, Guiderius, and Arvigarus for their decisive role in turning the battle against the Romans. He remarks that the fourth conspicuous soldier, the British peasant who defeated Iachimo, is nowhere to be found. Cornelius then interrupts the King with the announcement that the Queen has died. He further remarks that before dying the Queen fully confessed her wickedness, saying that she never loved Cymbeline, that she hated Imogen, and that she had planned to murder both the King and his daughter-whom she thought she had killed with her poison-in order that her son might rule Britain. Cymbeline is flabbergasted at the news. The Roman prisoners, including Iachimo, Lucius, Philarmonus, and Imogen then enter the tent. Lucius attempts to dissuade the King from killing them all, and especially entreats him not to kill Fidele. Seeing his disguised daughter, though not yet recognizing her, Cymbeline declares that he loves "Fidele" without knowing why, and says that not only will the page be spared, he will also be granted a wish. Lucius assumes that Fidele will ask the King to spare her master, but "he" doesn't, instead insisting that Iachimo reveal to her where he got the ring on his finger, which she recognizes as Posthumus's. The guilt-ridden Iachimo, only too eager to unburden himself of his crime, tells of his wager with Posthumus and of how he cheated the ring away. This confession inspires the disguised Posthumus to reveal himself. He rages against Iachimo for his duplicity, and against himself for having ordered Imogen's murder as a result. Imogen herself tries to interrupt him, but Posthumus, misinterpreting the interruption, knocks her to the floor. Then Pisanio, who has recognized Fidele to be Imogen, reveals her true identity to Posthumus. Cymbeline is blind with joy, and Imogen and Posthumus are tearfully reunited. Imogen, meanwhile, thinking that Pisanio poisoned her, rails against him. Cornelius interrupts, saying that the Queen also confessed that she had given Pisanio a bottle of poison, telling him it was medicinal, but that he himself had made the drug only appear poisonous, and that it was in fact benign. This inspires Belarius and Guiderius to recognize their error in supposing that Fidele ever died. In this spirit of confession, Pisanio reveals that he knows Cloten's whereabouts-Cloten, he says, went to Wales in search of Posthumus and Imogen. Guiderius then admits that he met the prince there, and beheaded him. Cymbeline, although terribly disappointed that a war hero must die for the crime of having killed a prince, nevertheless orders his death. Belarius interjects, saying that Guiderius is better than the man he killed, and equal to the King. Cymbeline, enraged, orders that Belarius too be killed for such presumptuousness. Belarius holds off this sentence, however, by revealing his own tale, saying that he is the supposed traitor who was banished so many years before, and that before he left he conspired with the King's sons' nurse to kidnap the infant twins. He then presents Guiderius and Arvigarus using their real names: Polydore and Cadwal. The King's sons tell their father that when they met Imogen in Wales, they instinctually recognized the royal bond between them. Next, Posthumus reveals that he was the British peasant who did so well in battle, and appeals to Iachimo to testify on his behalf. Iachimo does so, entreating Posthumus to kill him as punishment for his deceit. Posthumus asserts his power over Iachimo by pardoning him, and in that spirit Cymbeline pardons all the Romans, announcing that he had only begun the war with Rome at his dead Queen's insistence. Cymbeline adds that even though Britain has won the battle, they will still pay tribute to Rome. As a final harmonious gesture, Posthumus calls upon Philarmonus to interpret the tablet that Jupiter left in his jail cell. Philarmonus does so, reading the symbols as portents of the reconciliation of Posthumus and Imogen, as well as the reunion of Cymbeline with his sons. Finally, Philarmonus notes that his original prediction that the Romans would prevail has proven true. On that note, Cymbeline orders a march of peace through the city, signifying the union of Britain and the Roman Empire.

One of the features that define Shakespeare's later plays is the prevalence of special effects. Richard Hosley, discussing the staging of Cymbeline, suggests that the introduction of the indoor theater known as the Blackfriar's, where Shakespeare's company, The King's Men, most likely staged his later plays, provided the playwright with numerous opportunities to introduce effects that would have been impossible at the Globe, such as the storm that opens The Tempest. Act Five, scene four seems to contain another such effect: the mini-drama that occurs while Posthumus sleeps between his ancestors and Jupiter would have been far less effective if the play were produced at an inferior locale. Cymbeline is the first of Shakespeare's plays to depict a deity descending from above, and although this trick is as old as the deus ex machina of Ancient Greece, perhaps the presence of a ceiling in the Blackfriar's theater made this effect at least somewhat realistic. At any rate, this scene is one of the strangest in Cymbeline, which is saying quite a lot. It does nothing to move the plot forward, and is thus not strictly necessary; its main function seems to be to place the often inscrutable action of Cymbeline within a greater explanatory framework. Jupiter addresses the incredible pressure he has put on Posthumus in the play by declaring, "Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, / The more delayed, delighted." By Aristotle's definition, a tragicomedy is a play that brings its characters near to death without actually killing them. Here, Shakespeare lets us know that he is aware of the rules of his genre: Posthumus will not die, though he is very close to death. Moreover, Jupiter appears to be speaking for the playwright himself. Cymbeline is a play that "crosses" its characters repeatedly-it cross-dresses Imogen, it double-crosses both Posthumus and Belarius, it creates problems for just about anyone we might "love", and kills off those we shouldn't. Jupiter's speech thus alludes to the fatal force driving Cymbeline, which is, on one level, the poet's delight in complicating his characters' lives, getting us to care about them, and then delaying gratification until the last possible second. On another level, Jupiter's "cross" has religious implications. The historical King Cymbeline was understood, in English mythology, to have reigned during the life of Jesus Christ. The play's redemptive trajectory-in which several characters, including Posthumus and Imogen, are effectively "raised from the grave," in which both Posthumus and Cymbeline are redeemed for their errors in trusting deceivers, and in which forgiveness is afforded universally-certainly maps onto a loosely Christian allegorical reading of the work. Whether we want to go this far or not, scene four shows us without a doubt that divine forces have had a vested interest in the unfolding of the events on stage, and provides at least some explanation for the arguably foolish courage displayed by Guiderius and Arvigarus, who are guided into near-certain death by the force of their royal blood. Just as Jupiter reveals all to the spiritual participants in scene four, so all is revealed to the human participants in scene five. The final scene of Cymbeline has long been recognized, even by the play's detractors, as a tour de force. Frank Kermode, for instance, writes, "The clearing up of the political crisis and the reunions of Cymbeline and his sons and daughter, of his daughter and her husband, are rattled off as if in a demonstration of dramaturgical virtuosity." Kermode finds this virtuosity more than a little insincere; and indeed an uncharitable soul might read Cymbeline as having three or four plots too many, and thus read the final Act, which resolves all of the plots in an elaborately self-conscious way, as the successful execution of a self-imposed wager of sorts, as though Shakespeare himself is chuckling that he pulled it off after all. Yet it is worth mentioning that the last scene represents perhaps the most elaborate and wrenching instance of one of Shakespeare's favorite plot devices, the multiple-recognition. Although the scene begins with a bevy of disguised secrets, by scene's end the characters have revealed everything to each other in a burst of exhilarated honesty. Wherever misunderstanding arises once again, it is quickly and ruthlessly stamped out: for example, Posthumus dramatically strikes the disguised Imogen for objecting to his grief, only to be interrupted by Pisanio; moments later, Pisanio is interrupted by Imogen, who thinks Pisanio has poisoned her, but Imogen is interrupted by Cornelius, who explains that it wasn't poison at all. In the end, the dust settles, and the community is restored. This scene clearly conveys the poet's joy in playing with his audience, and inspires the audience's joy in having arrived at a happy ending. The confirmation of the two prophesies in the play ties up this happy ending with a neat little bow. Philarmonus, whose very name evokes love , interprets the images of a lion embraced by tender air, a cedar's lopped branches restored, and an eagle flying into the sun. Images of vegetation and birds are found throughout the play, and we realize with this final interpretation that, as Philarmonus puts it, "The fingers of the powers above do tune / The harmony of this peace." The words that the characters have used throughout to describe their confusing ordeal have in fact all the while conformed to the great scheme of it all. Posthumus has been compared to an eagle from the start, and Imogen to that even rarer bird, the Phoenix, and so on. The final harmonious beauty of Cymbeline, if we accept it, is that its members have been divinely inspired even in the absurdity of their situations. Like Guiderius and Arvigarus, who have ignorantly represented royalty far better than the ostensibly royal Queen and her son, so Shakespeare's divine fingers have guided his ignorant characters all along. And at the play's end, it seems, Shakespeare wants them-as well as us-to revel in his skill.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_0_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline11.asp", "summary": "The scene opens in the garden of King Cymbeline's palace in Britain. Two gentleman of the court enter, talking animatedly of the happenings over the past few days. From their conversation, the reader learns that Cymbeline is very unhappy with his daughter, Imogen, who had married a man against her father's wishes. Imogen's husband, Posthumus Leonatus, a gentleman of the court, comes from a distinguished family. His father, Sicilius had fought bravely against the Romans and had earned the surname Leonatus through his valor. Overcome by grief at the death of his elder sons , he had died before Posthumus was born. Sicilius's wife had died in childbirth, and the child, named Posthumus had also been a playmate for the gentle Imogen. The two young people had fallen in love. However, Imogen's stepmother, the Queen, had persuaded the King to marry Imogen to her unpleasant, uncouth son, Cloten. When the King discovers that Imogen has disobeyed him and married Posthumus, he becomes furious, and banishes Posthumus from Britain. From the conversation it can also be perceived that Cymbeline had two sons, apart from his daughter Imogen, but the children were stolen from the nursery almost twenty years ago and never found. The Queen enters with Posthumus and Imogen. She pretends to be on their side as she assures Imogen that she shall not persecute her as a stepmother would. She leaves them alone to talk to each other, even though the King has forbidden this. Imogen is aware of the true nature of her stepmother but is willing to take the opportunity to bid farewell to her husband. The lovers take leave of each other in a poignant scene. Posthumus is leaving for Rome to stay with his father's friend and promises to write often. Meanwhile, the Queen re-enters briefly to ask them to hurry up as the King may come by at any moment. However, in an aside, she reveals her intentions of persuading the King to come and see for himself his daughter's outright disobedience. The couple exchange tokens of love; Imogen gives her husband a diamond ring that had belonged to her mother and insists that he wear it until her death. Posthumus gives her a bracelet, a \"manacle of love\" that she should wear constantly. The King enters, with his lords, and sees the lovers together. Cymbeline is angry and banishes Posthumus from his presence, bidding him never to return. With a hasty farewell, Posthumus leaves. Father and daughter exchange bitter words as Cymbeline berates his daughter for disobeying him by refusing to marry Cloten. Imogen is scornful of the uncouth Cloten, and declares that she has chosen a fine man, \"worth any woman.\" The Queen enters and tries to make peace between them, but Cymbeline leaves. A little later, Posthumus' servant Pisanio enters with the news that Cloten had challenged his master to a duel, but that no harm had come to either. Imogen sends Pisanio to bid his master farewell as he boards the ship, before returning to serve her as per Posthumus's instructions while he is away.", "analysis": ""}

ACT I. SCENE I. Britain. The garden of CYMBELINE'S palace FIRST GENTLEMAN. You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the King's. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what's the matter? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His daughter, and the heir of's kingdom, whom He purpos'd to his wife's sole son- a widow That late he married- hath referr'd herself Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She's wedded; Her husband banish'd; she imprison'd. All Is outward sorrow, though I think the King Be touch'd at very heart. SECOND GENTLEMAN. None but the King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath lost her too. So is the Queen, That most desir'd the match. But not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King's looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And why so? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath miss'd the Princess is a thing Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her- I mean that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish'd- is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You speak him far. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What's his name and birth? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I cannot delve him to the root; his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He serv'd with glory and admir'd success, So gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus; And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars o' th' time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being; and his gentle lady, Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas'd As he was born. The King he takes the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make him the receiver of; which he took, As we do air, fast as 'twas minist'red, And in's spring became a harvest, liv'd in court- Which rare it is to do- most prais'd, most lov'd, A sample to the youngest; to th' more mature A glass that feated them; and to the graver A child that guided dotards. To his mistress, For whom he now is banish'd- her own price Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I honour him Even out of your report. But pray you tell me, Is she sole child to th' King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His only child. He had two sons- if this be worth your hearing, Mark it- the eldest of them at three years old, I' th' swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. SECOND GENTLEMAN. How long is this ago? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That a king's children should be so convey'd, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow That could not trace them! FIRST GENTLEMAN. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do well believe you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. We must forbear; here comes the gentleman, The Queen, and Princess. Exeunt Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN QUEEN. No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey'd unto you. You're my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win th' offended King, I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you. POSTHUMUS. Please your Highness, I will from hence to-day. QUEEN. You know the peril. I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections, though the King Hath charg'd you should not speak together. Exit IMOGEN. O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing- Always reserv'd my holy duty- what His rage can do on me. You must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again. POSTHUMUS. My queen! my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth; My residence in Rome at one Philario's, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Re-enter QUEEN QUEEN. Be brief, I pray you. If the King come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I'll move him To walk this way. I never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for my offences. Exit POSTHUMUS. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! IMOGEN. Nay, stay a little. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love: This diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; But keep it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead. POSTHUMUS. How, how? Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here [Puts on the ring] While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles I still win of you. For my sake wear this; It is a manacle of love; I'll place it Upon this fairest prisoner. [Puts a bracelet on her arm] IMOGEN. O the gods! When shall we see again? Enter CYMBELINE and LORDS POSTHUMUS. Alack, the King! CYMBELINE. Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood. POSTHUMUS. The gods protect you, And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone. Exit IMOGEN. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. CYMBELINE. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st A year's age on me! IMOGEN. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation. I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. CYMBELINE. Past grace? obedience? IMOGEN. Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace. CYMBELINE. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen! IMOGEN. O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock. CYMBELINE. Thou took'st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness. IMOGEN. No; I rather added A lustre to it. CYMBELINE. O thou vile one! IMOGEN. Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus. You bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman; overbuys me Almost the sum he pays. CYMBELINE. What, art thou mad? IMOGEN. Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd's son! Re-enter QUEEN CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing! [To the QUEEN] They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up. QUEEN. Beseech your patience.- Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace!- Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort Out of your best advice. CYMBELINE. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day and, being aged, Die of this folly. Exit, with LORDS Enter PISANIO QUEEN. Fie! you must give way. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news? PISANIO. My lord your son drew on my master. QUEEN. Ha! No harm, I trust, is done? PISANIO. There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than fought, And had no help of anger; they were parted By gentlemen at hand. QUEEN. I am very glad on't. IMOGEN. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both together; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came you from your master? PISANIO. On his command. He would not suffer me To bring him to the haven; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to, When't pleas'd you to employ me. QUEEN. This hath been Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour He will remain so. PISANIO. I humbly thank your Highness. QUEEN. Pray walk awhile. IMOGEN. About some half-hour hence, Pray you speak with me. You shall at least Go see my lord aboard. For this time leave me. Exeunt

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline11.asp

The scene opens in the garden of King Cymbeline's palace in Britain. Two gentleman of the court enter, talking animatedly of the happenings over the past few days. From their conversation, the reader learns that Cymbeline is very unhappy with his daughter, Imogen, who had married a man against her father's wishes. Imogen's husband, Posthumus Leonatus, a gentleman of the court, comes from a distinguished family. His father, Sicilius had fought bravely against the Romans and had earned the surname Leonatus through his valor. Overcome by grief at the death of his elder sons , he had died before Posthumus was born. Sicilius's wife had died in childbirth, and the child, named Posthumus had also been a playmate for the gentle Imogen. The two young people had fallen in love. However, Imogen's stepmother, the Queen, had persuaded the King to marry Imogen to her unpleasant, uncouth son, Cloten. When the King discovers that Imogen has disobeyed him and married Posthumus, he becomes furious, and banishes Posthumus from Britain. From the conversation it can also be perceived that Cymbeline had two sons, apart from his daughter Imogen, but the children were stolen from the nursery almost twenty years ago and never found. The Queen enters with Posthumus and Imogen. She pretends to be on their side as she assures Imogen that she shall not persecute her as a stepmother would. She leaves them alone to talk to each other, even though the King has forbidden this. Imogen is aware of the true nature of her stepmother but is willing to take the opportunity to bid farewell to her husband. The lovers take leave of each other in a poignant scene. Posthumus is leaving for Rome to stay with his father's friend and promises to write often. Meanwhile, the Queen re-enters briefly to ask them to hurry up as the King may come by at any moment. However, in an aside, she reveals her intentions of persuading the King to come and see for himself his daughter's outright disobedience. The couple exchange tokens of love; Imogen gives her husband a diamond ring that had belonged to her mother and insists that he wear it until her death. Posthumus gives her a bracelet, a "manacle of love" that she should wear constantly. The King enters, with his lords, and sees the lovers together. Cymbeline is angry and banishes Posthumus from his presence, bidding him never to return. With a hasty farewell, Posthumus leaves. Father and daughter exchange bitter words as Cymbeline berates his daughter for disobeying him by refusing to marry Cloten. Imogen is scornful of the uncouth Cloten, and declares that she has chosen a fine man, "worth any woman." The Queen enters and tries to make peace between them, but Cymbeline leaves. A little later, Posthumus' servant Pisanio enters with the news that Cloten had challenged his master to a duel, but that no harm had come to either. Imogen sends Pisanio to bid his master farewell as he boards the ship, before returning to serve her as per Posthumus's instructions while he is away.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_1_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline13.asp", "summary": "Cloten, the Queen's son by a former marriage, enters with two lords. His shirt is torn and bloody after his confrontation with Posthumus, and one of the lords advises him to change it. Cloten is more interested in inquiring if Posthumus has been injured. To Cloten's various questions, the First Lord gives placating, false replies while the Second Lord, in a series of asides, lets the audience know the real state of affairs. It is learned that Cloten, although so full of self-importance, could not even inflict a scratch on Posthumus. When Cloten pompously declares that he could have defeated Posthumus, if the courtiers had not restrained him, the Second Lord in an aside explains that if he had not been restrained, Cloten would have had to face the indignity of being thrown to the ground by his superior rival. Cloten cannot understand how Imogen could love such a man and refuse him. He then repairs to his chamber to change, attended by his lords.", "analysis": "Notes This short scene introduces Cloten, a conceited coward. He boasts so much that in any company he can easily pass for a fool. The First Lord flatters him to such an extent that it calls into question his sincerity while the Second Lord ridicules him in \"asides. \" This scene is comedic and relies on the dramatic effect of having the Second Lord undermine everything Cloten says with his insults. A rich commentary upon the dramatic effect of the scene comes from Granville-Barker: \"Half the effect of Cloten's first scene lies in the peculiar pattern given to the action of it by the Second Lord's strange succession of asides.\" Cloten is crossing the stage, returning to his apartments from the frustrated duel, with the First Lord fawning on him. The Second Lord follows, five spaces or so behind, commenting on the conversation he can just overhear. There will be a very slight midway pause, then the walk continues. Within reach of the door Cloten turns and sees the Second Lord for the first time. He catches him in the midst of his final mocking aside. A scene of no great importance, it serves to introduce Cloten, and to fill up the \"half-hour\" for Posthumus's embarking. The whole scene strikes one as essentially comic."}

SCENE II. Britain. A public place Enter CLOTEN and two LORDS FIRST LORD. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. CLOTEN. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him? SECOND LORD. [Aside] No, faith; not so much as his patience. FIRST LORD. Hurt him! His body's a passable carcass if he be not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt. SECOND LORD. [Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o' th' back side the town. CLOTEN. The villain would not stand me. SECOND LORD. [Aside] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face. FIRST LORD. Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground. SECOND LORD. [Aside] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies! CLOTEN. I would they had not come between us. SECOND LORD. [Aside] So would I, till you had measur'd how long a fool you were upon the ground. CLOTEN. And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me! SECOND LORD. [Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn'd. FIRST LORD. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she's a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit. SECOND LORD. [Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her. CLOTEN. Come, I'll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done! SECOND LORD. [Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt. CLOTEN. You'll go with us? FIRST LORD. I'll attend your lordship. CLOTEN. Nay, come, let's go together. SECOND LORD. Well, my lord. Exeunt

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline13.asp

Cloten, the Queen's son by a former marriage, enters with two lords. His shirt is torn and bloody after his confrontation with Posthumus, and one of the lords advises him to change it. Cloten is more interested in inquiring if Posthumus has been injured. To Cloten's various questions, the First Lord gives placating, false replies while the Second Lord, in a series of asides, lets the audience know the real state of affairs. It is learned that Cloten, although so full of self-importance, could not even inflict a scratch on Posthumus. When Cloten pompously declares that he could have defeated Posthumus, if the courtiers had not restrained him, the Second Lord in an aside explains that if he had not been restrained, Cloten would have had to face the indignity of being thrown to the ground by his superior rival. Cloten cannot understand how Imogen could love such a man and refuse him. He then repairs to his chamber to change, attended by his lords.

Notes This short scene introduces Cloten, a conceited coward. He boasts so much that in any company he can easily pass for a fool. The First Lord flatters him to such an extent that it calls into question his sincerity while the Second Lord ridicules him in "asides. " This scene is comedic and relies on the dramatic effect of having the Second Lord undermine everything Cloten says with his insults. A rich commentary upon the dramatic effect of the scene comes from Granville-Barker: "Half the effect of Cloten's first scene lies in the peculiar pattern given to the action of it by the Second Lord's strange succession of asides." Cloten is crossing the stage, returning to his apartments from the frustrated duel, with the First Lord fawning on him. The Second Lord follows, five spaces or so behind, commenting on the conversation he can just overhear. There will be a very slight midway pause, then the walk continues. Within reach of the door Cloten turns and sees the Second Lord for the first time. He catches him in the midst of his final mocking aside. A scene of no great importance, it serves to introduce Cloten, and to fill up the "half-hour" for Posthumus's embarking. The whole scene strikes one as essentially comic.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_2_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline14.asp", "summary": "Imogen is burdened with the grief due to her separation from Posthumus. She enters with Pisanio, the servant of Posthumus, and declares that if she were in Pisanio's place, she would wait at the shore hoping that each ship that arrived would bring news of her husband. She questions him over and over again regarding Posthumus's departure. Pisanio replies that his master had spoken of her even at the moment of departure, that he had waved his handkerchief and kissed it in farewell. Pisanio further says that his master had waited on deck, waving his glove or hat or handkerchief in an effort to show how slow and terrible the journey was to his soul, at the separation from his lady. Imogen is moved to tears as she elaborates on what she would have done if she were there. She has had no letter from Posthumus, but Pisanio assures her that it will come soon. Imogen is unhappy that she could not take leave of him properly, for even before she could give Posthumus a parting kiss, her father had rushed in like an intruder and separated them. She begs Pisanio to send a message to her lord, to think of her at prayers at certain fixed hours of the day, for she would then be able to meet him in her prayers. Pisanio leaves on this errand while Imogen is summoned to a meeting with the Queen.", "analysis": "Notes This short scene introduces Pisanio, the faithful servant of Posthumus and Imogen. He is a typical faithful servant found in many of Shakespeare's plays. Imogen's clever witty talk is as full of enchanting sentiment as it is full of pathos. The reference to the seductive charms of Italian women with reference to Posthumus is only a playful one. It need not be taken seriously in light of her confidence in the fidelity of her husband. His reported disloyalty to her by his friend fails to inspire instant belief in her. Imogen, separated from her husband, is lost without him. She is grief- stricken and anxious for news. What comes across most clearly is her faithfulness to him. The natural imagery she suggests when describing her father as being like a North wind that \"shakes all our buds from growing\" reveals the impact of her loss."}

SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter IMOGEN and PISANIO IMOGEN. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven, And questioned'st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost, As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee? PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen! IMOGEN. Then wav'd his handkerchief? PISANIO. And kiss'd it, madam. IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I! And that was all? PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with his eye, or care Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him. PISANIO. Madam, so I did. IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack'd them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him? PISANIO. Be assur'd, madam, With his next vantage. IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg'd him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, T' encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. Enter a LADY LADY. The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness' company. IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch'd. I will attend the Queen. PISANIO. Madam, I shall. Exeunt

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline14.asp

Imogen is burdened with the grief due to her separation from Posthumus. She enters with Pisanio, the servant of Posthumus, and declares that if she were in Pisanio's place, she would wait at the shore hoping that each ship that arrived would bring news of her husband. She questions him over and over again regarding Posthumus's departure. Pisanio replies that his master had spoken of her even at the moment of departure, that he had waved his handkerchief and kissed it in farewell. Pisanio further says that his master had waited on deck, waving his glove or hat or handkerchief in an effort to show how slow and terrible the journey was to his soul, at the separation from his lady. Imogen is moved to tears as she elaborates on what she would have done if she were there. She has had no letter from Posthumus, but Pisanio assures her that it will come soon. Imogen is unhappy that she could not take leave of him properly, for even before she could give Posthumus a parting kiss, her father had rushed in like an intruder and separated them. She begs Pisanio to send a message to her lord, to think of her at prayers at certain fixed hours of the day, for she would then be able to meet him in her prayers. Pisanio leaves on this errand while Imogen is summoned to a meeting with the Queen.

Notes This short scene introduces Pisanio, the faithful servant of Posthumus and Imogen. He is a typical faithful servant found in many of Shakespeare's plays. Imogen's clever witty talk is as full of enchanting sentiment as it is full of pathos. The reference to the seductive charms of Italian women with reference to Posthumus is only a playful one. It need not be taken seriously in light of her confidence in the fidelity of her husband. His reported disloyalty to her by his friend fails to inspire instant belief in her. Imogen, separated from her husband, is lost without him. She is grief- stricken and anxious for news. What comes across most clearly is her faithfulness to him. The natural imagery she suggests when describing her father as being like a North wind that "shakes all our buds from growing" reveals the impact of her loss.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_3_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline15.asp", "summary": "The setting is Rome where a group of men are gathered in Philario's house: Philario, Iachimo, and a Frenchman, a Dutchman and a Spaniard. They are talking about Posthumus, who is to arrive there as the guest of Philario because he has been banished from his homeland. Iachimo maintains that he has seen Posthumus once in Britain before his marriage to Imogen. Philario requests the company to look after Posthumus, whose father had been his friend, and treat him as a gentleman. Posthumus arrives, and after being introduced to the other gentlemen, it transpires that he is acquainted with the Frenchman from Orleans. Their conversation, about a quarrel that almost came to be decided with swords, intrigues Posthumus and he insists on knowing the full details. It turns out to be a wager about the chastity, beauty and virtue of their \"country mistresses.\" Posthumus then declares that his British lady is more fair, virtuous, wise and chaste than any woman in France. Iachimo now takes charge, and manipulates Posthumus into renewing the wager with him. So confident is he about his sexual prowess, Iachimo promises to prove to Posthumus that his lady is no paragon of virtue, and further states that if he comes back with proof of Imogen's infidelity, Posthumus will have to forego the diamond ring that Imogen had given him. However, if Imogen remains chaste and pure, Iachimo would lose ten thousand ducats and would have to fight a duel with Posthumus. Against the protests of Philario, the two men agree to the wager, and record a covenant before Iachimo leaves for Britain.", "analysis": "Notes This scene takes place after an interval of time required for Posthumus to travel from Britain to Rome. It seems from the opening few lines that Posthumus arrived in Rome just a few hours before the action of the scene takes place. The shifting of scenes was easy on the Shakespearean stage, as the settings were practically non-existent. A passing hint in the dialogue about the atmosphere was considered enough to indicate the locality of action. This scene is a very important one, as the main action of the play pivots on the wager between Posthumus and Iachimo. That Posthumus accepts so disgraceful a challenge reveals that his value as a husband may be less than what it appears to be to Imogen. However, it also reveals Iachimo's powers of persuasion and manipulation. The conversation between Iachimo and Posthumus takes a serious turn, though it begins as a casual discussion. One will find that it becomes not only serious but finally verges on a point of honor when Iachimo maliciously remarks, \"I see, you have some religion in you, that you fear. \" By this he means that Posthumus is the wiser in fearing to have his wife put to proof. Thus he brings his confidence in her over the side of the wager and trial. Iachimo is introduced here as a stereotypical Latin lover. He is full of himself and his capability to seduce women even those who are reputed to be virtuous and faithful. Although a scoundrel, he is not as evil a figure as Cloten or The Queen. He is a troublemaker and schemer who creates trouble but often has a conscience about what he has done. More in question in this scene is Posthumus' ability to wager such a bet without any compunction. In doing so, he sets himself up for trouble. What makes the wager more reprehensible is his stipulation that if Iachimo proves he is right, then they will be friends as Imogen is not worth a fight. Yet if she proves Iachimo wrong, then he and Posthumus will have a duel."}

SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter PHILARIO, IACHIMO, a FRENCHMAN, a DUTCHMAN, and a SPANIARD IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look'd on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items. PHILARIO. You speak of him when he was less furnish'd than now he is with that which makes him both without and within. FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his king's daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter. FRENCHMAN. And then his banishment. IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance? PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Enter POSTHUMUS Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing. FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans. POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still. FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o'errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature. POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn'd to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others' experiences; but upon my mended judgment- if I offend not to say it is mended- my quarrel was not altogether slight. FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall'n both. IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference? FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. 'Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching- and upon warrant of bloody affirmation- his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France. IACHIMO. That lady is not now living, or this gentleman's opinion, by this, worn out. POSTHUMUS. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind. IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer her fore ours of Italy. POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok'd as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend. IACHIMO. As fair and as good- a kind of hand-in-hand comparison- had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. POSTHUMUS. I prais'd her as I rated her. So do I my stone. IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at? POSTHUMUS. More than the world enjoys. IACHIMO. Either your unparagon'd mistress is dead, or she's outpriz'd by a trifle. POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. IACHIMO. Which the gods have given you? POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep. IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol'n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish'd courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last. POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish'd a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring. PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen. POSTHUMUS. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first. IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend. POSTHUMUS. No, no. IACHIMO. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o'ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus'd in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y'are worthy of by your attempt. IACHIMO. What's that? POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more- a punishment too. PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted. IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour's on th' approbation of what I have spoke! POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to assail? IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv'd. POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; 'tis part of it. IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear. POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope. IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what's spoken, I swear. POSTHUMUS. Will you? I Shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between's. My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: here's my ring. PHILARIO. I will have it no lay. IACHIMO. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy'd the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours- provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment. POSTHUMUS. I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail'd, I am no further your enemy- she is not worth our debate; if she remain unseduc'd, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and th' assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword. IACHIMO. Your hand- a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. POSTHUMUS. Agreed. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and IACHIMO FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you? PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow 'em. Exeunt

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline15.asp

The setting is Rome where a group of men are gathered in Philario's house: Philario, Iachimo, and a Frenchman, a Dutchman and a Spaniard. They are talking about Posthumus, who is to arrive there as the guest of Philario because he has been banished from his homeland. Iachimo maintains that he has seen Posthumus once in Britain before his marriage to Imogen. Philario requests the company to look after Posthumus, whose father had been his friend, and treat him as a gentleman. Posthumus arrives, and after being introduced to the other gentlemen, it transpires that he is acquainted with the Frenchman from Orleans. Their conversation, about a quarrel that almost came to be decided with swords, intrigues Posthumus and he insists on knowing the full details. It turns out to be a wager about the chastity, beauty and virtue of their "country mistresses." Posthumus then declares that his British lady is more fair, virtuous, wise and chaste than any woman in France. Iachimo now takes charge, and manipulates Posthumus into renewing the wager with him. So confident is he about his sexual prowess, Iachimo promises to prove to Posthumus that his lady is no paragon of virtue, and further states that if he comes back with proof of Imogen's infidelity, Posthumus will have to forego the diamond ring that Imogen had given him. However, if Imogen remains chaste and pure, Iachimo would lose ten thousand ducats and would have to fight a duel with Posthumus. Against the protests of Philario, the two men agree to the wager, and record a covenant before Iachimo leaves for Britain.

Notes This scene takes place after an interval of time required for Posthumus to travel from Britain to Rome. It seems from the opening few lines that Posthumus arrived in Rome just a few hours before the action of the scene takes place. The shifting of scenes was easy on the Shakespearean stage, as the settings were practically non-existent. A passing hint in the dialogue about the atmosphere was considered enough to indicate the locality of action. This scene is a very important one, as the main action of the play pivots on the wager between Posthumus and Iachimo. That Posthumus accepts so disgraceful a challenge reveals that his value as a husband may be less than what it appears to be to Imogen. However, it also reveals Iachimo's powers of persuasion and manipulation. The conversation between Iachimo and Posthumus takes a serious turn, though it begins as a casual discussion. One will find that it becomes not only serious but finally verges on a point of honor when Iachimo maliciously remarks, "I see, you have some religion in you, that you fear. " By this he means that Posthumus is the wiser in fearing to have his wife put to proof. Thus he brings his confidence in her over the side of the wager and trial. Iachimo is introduced here as a stereotypical Latin lover. He is full of himself and his capability to seduce women even those who are reputed to be virtuous and faithful. Although a scoundrel, he is not as evil a figure as Cloten or The Queen. He is a troublemaker and schemer who creates trouble but often has a conscience about what he has done. More in question in this scene is Posthumus' ability to wager such a bet without any compunction. In doing so, he sets himself up for trouble. What makes the wager more reprehensible is his stipulation that if Iachimo proves he is right, then they will be friends as Imogen is not worth a fight. Yet if she proves Iachimo wrong, then he and Posthumus will have a duel.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_4_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 5

scene 5

{"name": "Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline16.asp", "summary": "The scene shifts back to Britain to Cymbeline's palace. The Queen is closeted with her ladies when Cornelius, the physician, enters. The Queen sends her ladies to gather flowers while she talks to Cornelius. The physician is apprehensive about giving her the box he has brought with him as it contains deadly and poisonous compounds that bring about a slow and agonizing death. The Queen, however, assures him that she would not administer it to any human being but will try its effects on creatures that are not \"worth the hanging.\" The Queen spots Pisanio and bids him come to her. In an aside, she reveals her intention of trying the poison on him as he is loyal to his master and an enemy to her son. Cornelius, who witnesses her summons to Pisanio, in an aside voices his apprehensions, and reveals that the \"deadly\" compounds he has supplied her are not really so. Instead of death, they bring a death-like sleep to the person who takes it, and helps him to wake refreshed. Cornelius leaves, and the Queen, in her conversation with Pisanio, tries to make him see the impossibility of his master's return. She tells Pisanio to try and turn Imogen's attention away from the memory of her husband and to look upon Cloten favorably. She promises Pisanio that if he should succeed in the task, she will reward him richly with wealth and position. During the conversation, she lets the little box fall, and when Pisanio takes it up, she bids him to keep it. She tells him that it is a potion she has made, which has the power to bring a person back from the dead. She then sends him to summon her ladies; while he is away, she reveals that Pisanio, not won over by wealth or pomp, has to be killed in order to deprive Imogen of the only support she had. Only then would the Queen and Cloten have a chance of persuading her to change her mind; if she did not, she too could taste the deadly brew. Pisanio accompanies the ladies to the Queen's chamber, and leaves. To the Queen's parting words, he replies in an aside that he would rather die than prove faithless to his master.", "analysis": "Notes This short scene is introduced to indicate the lapse of time required for Iachimo to reach Britain from Rome while also reinforcing the impression of the Queen as a maligned woman who is trusted by none but the king. Her own doctor, with whom she seems to be closely associated, does not trust her. In his long soliloquy, he reveals that the Queen has told him that she is only to test it on cats and dogs, which he does not believe. Then he assures the audience that the mixture that he had given the Queen is not fatal but only feigns death. Who will end up taking this concoction is called into question by the Queen's soliloquy. Pisanio is seen here as a loyal subject who sees through the Queen's friendly guise and who refuses to be coerced into bringing Cloten and Imogen together. He proves more loyal than his master whose character is flawed because of his wager."}

SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter QUEEN, LADIES, and CORNELIUS QUEEN. Whiles yet the dew's on ground, gather those flowers; Make haste; who has the note of them? LADY. I, madam. QUEEN. Dispatch. Exeunt LADIES Now, Master Doctor, have you brought those drugs? CORNELIUS. Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they are, madam. [Presenting a box] But I beseech your Grace, without offence- My conscience bids me ask- wherefore you have Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds Which are the movers of a languishing death, But, though slow, deadly? QUEEN. I wonder, Doctor, Thou ask'st me such a question. Have I not been Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn'd me how To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections? Having thus far proceeded- Unless thou think'st me devilish- is't not meet That I did amplify my judgment in Other conclusions? I will try the forces Of these thy compounds on such creatures as We count not worth the hanging- but none human- To try the vigour of them, and apply Allayments to their act, and by them gather Their several virtues and effects. CORNELIUS. Your Highness Shall from this practice but make hard your heart; Besides, the seeing these effects will be Both noisome and infectious. QUEEN. O, content thee. Enter PISANIO [Aside] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him Will I first work. He's for his master, An enemy to my son.- How now, Pisanio! Doctor, your service for this time is ended; Take your own way. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do suspect you, madam; But you shall do no harm. QUEEN. [To PISANIO] Hark thee, a word. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she has Strange ling'ring poisons. I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of her malice with A drug of such damn'd nature. Those she has Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile, Which first perchance she'll prove on cats and dogs, Then afterward up higher; but there is No danger in what show of death it makes, More than the locking up the spirits a time, To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool'd With a most false effect; and I the truer So to be false with her. QUEEN. No further service, Doctor, Until I send for thee. CORNELIUS. I humbly take my leave. Exit QUEEN. Weeps she still, say'st thou? Dost thou think in time She will not quench, and let instructions enter Where folly now possesses? Do thou work. When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, I'll tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master; greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name Is at last gasp. Return he cannot, nor Continue where he is. To shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes to A day's work in him. What shalt thou expect To be depender on a thing that leans, Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends So much as but to prop him? [The QUEEN drops the box. PISANIO takes it up] Thou tak'st up Thou know'st not what; but take it for thy labour. It is a thing I made, which hath the King Five times redeem'd from death. I do not know What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee take it; It is an earnest of a further good That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how The case stands with her; do't as from thyself. Think what a chance thou changest on; but think Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son, Who shall take notice of thee. I'll move the King To any shape of thy preferment, such As thou'lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this desert, am bound To load thy merit richly. Call my women. Think on my words. Exit PISANIO A sly and constant knave, Not to be shak'd; the agent for his master, And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of leigers for her sweet; and which she after, Except she bend her humour, shall be assur'd To taste of too. Re-enter PISANIO and LADIES So, so. Well done, well done. The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio; Think on my words. Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES PISANIO. And shall do. But when to my good lord I prove untrue I'll choke myself- there's all I'll do for you. Exit

Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline16.asp

The scene shifts back to Britain to Cymbeline's palace. The Queen is closeted with her ladies when Cornelius, the physician, enters. The Queen sends her ladies to gather flowers while she talks to Cornelius. The physician is apprehensive about giving her the box he has brought with him as it contains deadly and poisonous compounds that bring about a slow and agonizing death. The Queen, however, assures him that she would not administer it to any human being but will try its effects on creatures that are not "worth the hanging." The Queen spots Pisanio and bids him come to her. In an aside, she reveals her intention of trying the poison on him as he is loyal to his master and an enemy to her son. Cornelius, who witnesses her summons to Pisanio, in an aside voices his apprehensions, and reveals that the "deadly" compounds he has supplied her are not really so. Instead of death, they bring a death-like sleep to the person who takes it, and helps him to wake refreshed. Cornelius leaves, and the Queen, in her conversation with Pisanio, tries to make him see the impossibility of his master's return. She tells Pisanio to try and turn Imogen's attention away from the memory of her husband and to look upon Cloten favorably. She promises Pisanio that if he should succeed in the task, she will reward him richly with wealth and position. During the conversation, she lets the little box fall, and when Pisanio takes it up, she bids him to keep it. She tells him that it is a potion she has made, which has the power to bring a person back from the dead. She then sends him to summon her ladies; while he is away, she reveals that Pisanio, not won over by wealth or pomp, has to be killed in order to deprive Imogen of the only support she had. Only then would the Queen and Cloten have a chance of persuading her to change her mind; if she did not, she too could taste the deadly brew. Pisanio accompanies the ladies to the Queen's chamber, and leaves. To the Queen's parting words, he replies in an aside that he would rather die than prove faithless to his master.

Notes This short scene is introduced to indicate the lapse of time required for Iachimo to reach Britain from Rome while also reinforcing the impression of the Queen as a maligned woman who is trusted by none but the king. Her own doctor, with whom she seems to be closely associated, does not trust her. In his long soliloquy, he reveals that the Queen has told him that she is only to test it on cats and dogs, which he does not believe. Then he assures the audience that the mixture that he had given the Queen is not fatal but only feigns death. Who will end up taking this concoction is called into question by the Queen's soliloquy. Pisanio is seen here as a loyal subject who sees through the Queen's friendly guise and who refuses to be coerced into bringing Cloten and Imogen together. He proves more loyal than his master whose character is flawed because of his wager.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_5_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 6

scene 6

{"name": "Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline17.asp", "summary": "Imogen ruminates on her fate: a cruel father who is opposed to her love; a stepmother who is cunning and double-faced; a foolish suitor, Cloten, who does not think it improper to woo a married woman. She wonders if she is actually luckier than the brothers who were stolen as babies, for she feels sure that they must be happier than her. Pisanio enters with Iachimo who brings letters from Posthumus. While Imogen reads the letter, Iachimo, smitten by her beauty, determines to win her favor. He sends Pisanio to take care of his manservant and tries to woo Imogen. He deliberately tells her that Posthumus is very happy and satisfied in Italy, without a thought of his despairing wife. He tells her that she should revenge herself on her uncaring husband by taking him, Iachimo, as a lover. Imogen is furious and threatens to haul Iachimo before the King for his unacceptable advances. However, Iachimo immediately turns the tables on her by declaring that he was only testing her loyalty and love for Posthumus. The good and naive Imogen relents, and allows him to make amends for his forthright conduct. He requests her to keep safely in her bedchamber a chest containing some expensive gifts for the Emperor which he will take with him the next morning. She agrees to do so and leaves.", "analysis": "Notes This is an important scene in which the action decides the fate of the hero and heroine. This scene, along with the wager-scene, weaves the threads that form the web of the plot. The whole scene is charged with a variety of emotions as Iachimo attempts several times to seduce Imogen but to no avail. It depicts the sorry and foredoomed attempt of Iachimo to win the wager, as he is smitten at the first sight of Imogen. He doubts the success of his advances, which he had planned, but invoking \"audacity\" to his aid, he makes a desperate and cautious bid for success. Imogen appears to be embarrassed by the first part of Iachimo's insinuating speech. She does not become suspicious about the motives of the stranger as he has come to see her with high recommendations from her husband. Naturally, she has no reason to doubt the credentials of her husband's friend. Iachimo also very cunningly manages to take her in by talking out loud about how Posthumus is unable to distinguish between women such as herself and those who are more common. He hints that Posthumus is having a fine time in Rome and is called the \"Briton reveler.\" By subtle suggestions about her supposed misfortune he rouses her curiosity. Being pressed to be more definite, he becomes more and more direct and less vague in his insinuations. Imogen appears to be perplexed. She balances herself on the thin edge of belief and disbelief for a considerable time. But Iachimo soon commits the fatal mistake of expounding \"his beastly mind\" to her. She immediately scents danger and calls out to Pisanio. Her first instinct is to safeguard her position. Iachimo, perfect master of his emotions, beats a masterly retreat. But he returns to gain ground by altogether different methods. He quickly realizes the weak spot in her character - her love and admiration for her husband - and soon regains her confidence. He praises her husband and pretends to be his great friend. The latter part of the scene shows Iachimo to be a diabolically clever person and Imogen to be magnificently noble. It is obvious that Iachimo has already come prepared for both direct and deceptive attacks. The former failing, he is prepared for the second plan. Rather than seduce her, he will have to pretend as if he did. This means he needs access to Imogen's room in order to steal the bracelet and show that he and Imogen were lovers. The action in the scene is so skillfully managed that it has commanded the praise of many critics. An exquisite touch of Shakespeare's hand occurs in a single pronoun in a speech of Imogen. Born a princess, she has given herself to Posthumus, a nameless man, as freely as if she were a peasant's daughter. She is remarkable, with all her dignity, for her unassuming deportment. But the insult of Iachimo stings her pride. For the first and only time, she asserts her position as royalty and speaks of herself in the plural number. She says that Iachimo has expounded, \"His beastly mind to us.\" On the other hand, Iachimo is lacking any morals and will do what he can in order to win his bet, even if it means cheating."}

SCENE VI. Britain. The palace Enter IMOGEN alone IMOGEN. A father cruel and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady That hath her husband banish'd. O, that husband! My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n, As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable Is the desire that's glorious. Blessed be those, How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie! Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO PISANIO. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome Comes from my lord with letters. IACHIMO. Change you, madam? The worthy Leonatus is in safety, And greets your Highness dearly. [Presents a letter] IMOGEN. Thanks, good sir. You're kindly welcome. IACHIMO. [Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich! If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare, She is alone th' Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; Rather, directly fly. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust. LEONATUS.' So far I read aloud; But even the very middle of my heart Is warm'd by th' rest and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you; and shall find it so In all that I can do. IACHIMO. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones Upon the number'd beach, and can we not Partition make with spectacles so precious 'Twixt fair and foul? IMOGEN. What makes your admiration? IACHIMO. It cannot be i' th' eye, for apes and monkeys, 'Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and Contemn with mows the other; nor i' th' judgment, For idiots in this case of favour would Be wisely definite; nor i' th' appetite; Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos'd, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur'd to feed. IMOGEN. What is the matter, trow? IACHIMO. The cloyed will- That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill'd and running- ravening first the lamb, Longs after for the garbage. IMOGEN. What, dear sir, Thus raps you? Are you well? IACHIMO. Thanks, madam; well.- Beseech you, sir, Desire my man's abode where I did leave him. He's strange and peevish. PISANIO. I was going, sir, To give him welcome. Exit IMOGEN. Continues well my lord? His health beseech you? IACHIMO. Well, madam. IMOGEN. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope he is. IACHIMO. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome. He is call'd The Britain reveller. IMOGEN. When he was here He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why. IACHIMO. I never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton- Your lord, I mean- laughs from's free lungs, cries 'O, Can my sides hold, to think that man- who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be- will's free hours languish for Assured bondage?' IMOGEN. Will my lord say so? IACHIMO. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. It is a recreation to be by And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know Some men are much to blame. IMOGEN. Not he, I hope. IACHIMO. Not he; but yet heaven's bounty towards him might Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much; In you, which I account his, beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound To pity too. IMOGEN. What do you pity, sir? IACHIMO. Two creatures heartily. IMOGEN. Am I one, sir? You look on me: what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity? IACHIMO. Lamentable! What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I' th' dungeon by a snuff? IMOGEN. I pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me? IACHIMO. That others do, I was about to say, enjoy your- But It is an office of the gods to venge it, Not mine to speak on't. IMOGEN. You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you- Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born- discover to me What both you spur and stop. IACHIMO. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul To th' oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; should I, damn'd then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood- falsehood as With labour; then by-peeping in an eye Base and illustrious as the smoky light That's fed with stinking tallow- it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt. IMOGEN. My lord, I fear, Has forgot Britain. IACHIMO. And himself. Not I Inclin'd to this intelligence pronounce The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out. IMOGEN. Let me hear no more. IACHIMO. O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart With pity that doth make me sick! A lady So fair, and fasten'd to an empery, Would make the great'st king double, to be partner'd With tomboys hir'd with that self exhibition Which your own coffers yield! with diseas'd ventures That play with all infirmities for gold Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff As well might poison poison! Be reveng'd; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil from your great stock. IMOGEN. Reveng'd? How should I be reveng'd? If this be true- As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse- if it be true, How should I be reveng'd? IACHIMO. Should he make me Live like Diana's priest betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection, Still close as sure. IMOGEN. What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. Let me my service tender on your lips. IMOGEN. Away! I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange. Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far From thy report as thou from honour; and Solicits here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike.- What ho, Pisanio!- The King my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew, and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for, and a daughter who He not respects at all.- What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. O happy Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assur'd credit. Blessed live you long, A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call'd his! and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. I have spoke this to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord That which he is new o'er; and he is one The truest manner'd, such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him, Half all men's hearts are his. IMOGEN. You make amends. IACHIMO. He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon. IMOGEN. All's well, sir; take my pow'r i' th' court for yours. IACHIMO. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot T' entreat your Grace but in a small request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other noble friends Are partners in the business. IMOGEN. Pray what is't? IACHIMO. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord- The best feather of our wing- have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor; Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France. 'Tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in safe stowage. May it please you To take them in protection? IMOGEN. Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber. IACHIMO. They are in a trunk, Attended by my men. I will make bold To send them to you only for this night; I must aboard to-morrow. IMOGEN. O, no, no. IACHIMO. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By length'ning my return. From Gallia I cross'd the seas on purpose and on promise To see your Grace. IMOGEN. I thank you for your pains. But not away to-morrow! IACHIMO. O, I must, madam. Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night. I have outstood my time, which is material 'To th' tender of our present. IMOGEN. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. Exeunt

Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline17.asp

Imogen ruminates on her fate: a cruel father who is opposed to her love; a stepmother who is cunning and double-faced; a foolish suitor, Cloten, who does not think it improper to woo a married woman. She wonders if she is actually luckier than the brothers who were stolen as babies, for she feels sure that they must be happier than her. Pisanio enters with Iachimo who brings letters from Posthumus. While Imogen reads the letter, Iachimo, smitten by her beauty, determines to win her favor. He sends Pisanio to take care of his manservant and tries to woo Imogen. He deliberately tells her that Posthumus is very happy and satisfied in Italy, without a thought of his despairing wife. He tells her that she should revenge herself on her uncaring husband by taking him, Iachimo, as a lover. Imogen is furious and threatens to haul Iachimo before the King for his unacceptable advances. However, Iachimo immediately turns the tables on her by declaring that he was only testing her loyalty and love for Posthumus. The good and naive Imogen relents, and allows him to make amends for his forthright conduct. He requests her to keep safely in her bedchamber a chest containing some expensive gifts for the Emperor which he will take with him the next morning. She agrees to do so and leaves.

Notes This is an important scene in which the action decides the fate of the hero and heroine. This scene, along with the wager-scene, weaves the threads that form the web of the plot. The whole scene is charged with a variety of emotions as Iachimo attempts several times to seduce Imogen but to no avail. It depicts the sorry and foredoomed attempt of Iachimo to win the wager, as he is smitten at the first sight of Imogen. He doubts the success of his advances, which he had planned, but invoking "audacity" to his aid, he makes a desperate and cautious bid for success. Imogen appears to be embarrassed by the first part of Iachimo's insinuating speech. She does not become suspicious about the motives of the stranger as he has come to see her with high recommendations from her husband. Naturally, she has no reason to doubt the credentials of her husband's friend. Iachimo also very cunningly manages to take her in by talking out loud about how Posthumus is unable to distinguish between women such as herself and those who are more common. He hints that Posthumus is having a fine time in Rome and is called the "Briton reveler." By subtle suggestions about her supposed misfortune he rouses her curiosity. Being pressed to be more definite, he becomes more and more direct and less vague in his insinuations. Imogen appears to be perplexed. She balances herself on the thin edge of belief and disbelief for a considerable time. But Iachimo soon commits the fatal mistake of expounding "his beastly mind" to her. She immediately scents danger and calls out to Pisanio. Her first instinct is to safeguard her position. Iachimo, perfect master of his emotions, beats a masterly retreat. But he returns to gain ground by altogether different methods. He quickly realizes the weak spot in her character - her love and admiration for her husband - and soon regains her confidence. He praises her husband and pretends to be his great friend. The latter part of the scene shows Iachimo to be a diabolically clever person and Imogen to be magnificently noble. It is obvious that Iachimo has already come prepared for both direct and deceptive attacks. The former failing, he is prepared for the second plan. Rather than seduce her, he will have to pretend as if he did. This means he needs access to Imogen's room in order to steal the bracelet and show that he and Imogen were lovers. The action in the scene is so skillfully managed that it has commanded the praise of many critics. An exquisite touch of Shakespeare's hand occurs in a single pronoun in a speech of Imogen. Born a princess, she has given herself to Posthumus, a nameless man, as freely as if she were a peasant's daughter. She is remarkable, with all her dignity, for her unassuming deportment. But the insult of Iachimo stings her pride. For the first and only time, she asserts her position as royalty and speaks of herself in the plural number. She says that Iachimo has expounded, "His beastly mind to us." On the other hand, Iachimo is lacking any morals and will do what he can in order to win his bet, even if it means cheating.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_6_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline18.asp", "summary": "Cloten enters with his two lords, complaining about losing money in gambling. He has been embroiled in a fight with someone and feels that he is entitled to swear and quarrel with his inferiors, by rank of his position. As in the earlier scene, the First Lord is obsequious while the Second Lord, in a series of asides, reveals what they both really feel. The First Lord informs Cloten that an Italian, presumed to be a friend of Posthumus, had arrived at court. Cloten, who wishes to woo Imogen himself, is annoyed that the exiled Posthumus has sent a messenger, and decides to meet the Italian. It is obvious that Cloten is looking for a brawl, and he leaves with the First Lord. The Second Lord, in a soliloquy, wonders that such a crafty, cunning woman as the Queen should have such an ignorant ass for a son. He pities the hapless Imogen who suffers between a father who is controlled by his wife, a hateful suitor, and a stepmother, conniving and conspiring to kill her. He prays that the princess is able to keep her mind and honor intact under the pressure, and not agree to the divorce that the King is planning.", "analysis": "Notes This scene provides time for Imogen to undress and get into her bed and gives another view of Cloten as a repugnant and vile creature that likes to curse and gamble. His nature is in startling contrast to Imogen's and even to Iachimo, who despite being a schemer has a somewhat poetic nature as can be seen in his description of Imogen in the previous scene. The dialogue between Cloten and the First Lord is important. It reveals some details of Cloten's life: his gambling, his late hours, his position in the court and his high-handed behavior with courtiers. The asides of the Second Lord serve as a running commentary upon the dialogue. The Second Lord's last soliloquy, however, is dramatically significant as it reveals the terrible position of Imogen and the cunning of the Queen and her dim- witted son. It becomes obvious that with all her cunning, the Queen is able to deceive none else but the King. The Second Lord describes her as \"a crafty devil\" who \"Bears all down with her brain. \" It is only on account of her influence over the king that she is able to carry on her machinations. No one, not even her own doctor, has any illusions about her being virtuous. Perhaps owing to her influence over the king she is not particularly careful in covering up her selfish and malicious designs. A connection is being made between the forces that are attempting to separate Imogen and Posthumus and those that are causing social unrest within Britain's royal family. So as Imogen is being attacked by Iachimo, an outside force, and the Queen and her son, the internal forces, so is England's social order vulnerable due to the machinations of the Queen and an impotent King."}

ACT II. SCENE I. Britain. Before CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss'd the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on't; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure. FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. SECOND LORD. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out. CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha? SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them. CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been one of my rank! SECOND LORD. [Aside] To have smell'd like a fool. CLOTEN. I am not vex'd more at anything in th' earth. A pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on. CLOTEN. Sayest thou? SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to. CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. CLOTEN. Why, so I say. FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night? CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on't? SECOND LORD. [Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. FIRST LORD. There's an Italian come, and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus' friends. CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish'd rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger? FIRST LORD. One of your lordship's pages. CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't? SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord. CLOTEN. Not easily, I think. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate. CLOTEN. Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go. SECOND LORD. I'll attend your lordship. Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak'd That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T' enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Exit

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline18.asp

Cloten enters with his two lords, complaining about losing money in gambling. He has been embroiled in a fight with someone and feels that he is entitled to swear and quarrel with his inferiors, by rank of his position. As in the earlier scene, the First Lord is obsequious while the Second Lord, in a series of asides, reveals what they both really feel. The First Lord informs Cloten that an Italian, presumed to be a friend of Posthumus, had arrived at court. Cloten, who wishes to woo Imogen himself, is annoyed that the exiled Posthumus has sent a messenger, and decides to meet the Italian. It is obvious that Cloten is looking for a brawl, and he leaves with the First Lord. The Second Lord, in a soliloquy, wonders that such a crafty, cunning woman as the Queen should have such an ignorant ass for a son. He pities the hapless Imogen who suffers between a father who is controlled by his wife, a hateful suitor, and a stepmother, conniving and conspiring to kill her. He prays that the princess is able to keep her mind and honor intact under the pressure, and not agree to the divorce that the King is planning.

Notes This scene provides time for Imogen to undress and get into her bed and gives another view of Cloten as a repugnant and vile creature that likes to curse and gamble. His nature is in startling contrast to Imogen's and even to Iachimo, who despite being a schemer has a somewhat poetic nature as can be seen in his description of Imogen in the previous scene. The dialogue between Cloten and the First Lord is important. It reveals some details of Cloten's life: his gambling, his late hours, his position in the court and his high-handed behavior with courtiers. The asides of the Second Lord serve as a running commentary upon the dialogue. The Second Lord's last soliloquy, however, is dramatically significant as it reveals the terrible position of Imogen and the cunning of the Queen and her dim- witted son. It becomes obvious that with all her cunning, the Queen is able to deceive none else but the King. The Second Lord describes her as "a crafty devil" who "Bears all down with her brain. " It is only on account of her influence over the king that she is able to carry on her machinations. No one, not even her own doctor, has any illusions about her being virtuous. Perhaps owing to her influence over the king she is not particularly careful in covering up her selfish and malicious designs. A connection is being made between the forces that are attempting to separate Imogen and Posthumus and those that are causing social unrest within Britain's royal family. So as Imogen is being attacked by Iachimo, an outside force, and the Queen and her son, the internal forces, so is England's social order vulnerable due to the machinations of the Queen and an impotent King.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_7_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline19.asp", "summary": "Imogen is lying in bed, reading. In one corner of the room is placed the trunk that Iachimo has requested her to keep for the night. As the scene opens, Imogen bids her lady attendant to put away the book she has been reading, as it is nearly midnight. However, she asks the woman to leave the taper burning while she sleeps. A short while later, Iachimo comes from the trunk. After ascertaining that Imogen is indeed asleep, he proceeds to make note of her bedchamber, the pictures on the wall, the placement of the window, the book she was reading, and so on. To add greater conviction to his account, he makes notes of her bodily features, and in particular notes a small mole on her left breast that is exposed as she sleeps. Iachimo is moved by lust but does not molest Imogen for he knows that he will not succeed. However, he is sure that this single detail will be enough to convince Posthumus that he has succeeded in seducing her. He carefully slips off the bracelet that Posthumus has given her, and gets back into the trunk before Imogen awakens.", "analysis": "Notes The twists and turns of the plot are carried further in this somewhat farcical scene. Using an old trick, Iachimo remains hidden in the trunk that he sends to Imogen for safe-keeping. At night, while she sleeps, he emerges to take note of details that will help him to deceive Posthumus of his wife's faithfulness. Iachimo's lust and fantasies regarding Imogen are clearly expressed: \"Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. \" The reference is to The Rape of Lucrece, the seduction of a good and chaste woman such as Imogen herself. Iachimo longs to touch and steal \"one kiss\" but he does not dare. He knows only too well that Imogen is too pure and chaste and will resist him. Her purity, although threatened by his lust, is not overrun or contaminated. Iachimo thus has to resort to trickery to convince Posthumus that he had succeeded in seducing Imogen. Although Iachimo is resorting to deception in order to win his bet, he is also deeply in love with Imogen and realizes her purity and fidelity unlike her husband who will soon respond to Iachimo's evidence with unduly criticism of her. Iachimo can be seen as an external invader as he rummages around Imogen's room, stealing her valuables and observing her sleeping."}

SCENE II. Britain. IMOGEN'S bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen? LADY. Please you, madam. IMOGEN. What hour is it? LADY. Almost midnight, madam. IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' th' clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. Exit LADY To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye! [Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk] IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that's riveted, Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes] One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline19.asp

Imogen is lying in bed, reading. In one corner of the room is placed the trunk that Iachimo has requested her to keep for the night. As the scene opens, Imogen bids her lady attendant to put away the book she has been reading, as it is nearly midnight. However, she asks the woman to leave the taper burning while she sleeps. A short while later, Iachimo comes from the trunk. After ascertaining that Imogen is indeed asleep, he proceeds to make note of her bedchamber, the pictures on the wall, the placement of the window, the book she was reading, and so on. To add greater conviction to his account, he makes notes of her bodily features, and in particular notes a small mole on her left breast that is exposed as she sleeps. Iachimo is moved by lust but does not molest Imogen for he knows that he will not succeed. However, he is sure that this single detail will be enough to convince Posthumus that he has succeeded in seducing her. He carefully slips off the bracelet that Posthumus has given her, and gets back into the trunk before Imogen awakens.

Notes The twists and turns of the plot are carried further in this somewhat farcical scene. Using an old trick, Iachimo remains hidden in the trunk that he sends to Imogen for safe-keeping. At night, while she sleeps, he emerges to take note of details that will help him to deceive Posthumus of his wife's faithfulness. Iachimo's lust and fantasies regarding Imogen are clearly expressed: "Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. " The reference is to The Rape of Lucrece, the seduction of a good and chaste woman such as Imogen herself. Iachimo longs to touch and steal "one kiss" but he does not dare. He knows only too well that Imogen is too pure and chaste and will resist him. Her purity, although threatened by his lust, is not overrun or contaminated. Iachimo thus has to resort to trickery to convince Posthumus that he had succeeded in seducing Imogen. Although Iachimo is resorting to deception in order to win his bet, he is also deeply in love with Imogen and realizes her purity and fidelity unlike her husband who will soon respond to Iachimo's evidence with unduly criticism of her. Iachimo can be seen as an external invader as he rummages around Imogen's room, stealing her valuables and observing her sleeping.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_8_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline20.asp", "summary": "Cloten and his lords enter an antechamber adjoining Imogen's rooms. Cloten has decided to woo the princess with music and has arranged for musicians to play before her door while he serenades her with a song. He hopes that his efforts will pay off and that Imogen will accept him. Meanwhile, the King and Queen enter, and are pleased to see him thus engaged. The King asks Cloten to give her more time to forget Posthumus since \"the exile of her minion is too new.\" The King is called away as a messenger has arrived from Rome with a message from the Emperor. Waiting in vain for Imogen to appear, Cloten decides to bribe one of her ladies, for he feels that money will buy him admittance. While he is talking to one, Imogen appears. She is not pleased to see him, but is polite. Cloten, however, refuses to leave and keeps on declaring his love for her until Imogen becomes annoyed and at the end of her tether, she tells him that she hates him. Cloten now charges her with disobedience and speaks disparagingly of Posthumus as \"One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, / With scraps o'the court.\" Imogen is enraged and declares that Cloten is not even as worthy as a discarded garment of Posthumus. She ignores him as he sputters in anger and summons Pisanio to search for her lost bracelet. Cloten is slighted by her abuse and vows revenge.", "analysis": "Notes This scene is introduced here mainly to depict the lapse of time, which is required for Iachimo's journey from Britain to Rome. After an all night session of gambling, Cloten appears before the door of Imogen's chamber as he has been \"advised to give her music o'morning.\" He follows the advice because he is assured that \"it will penetrate.\" His use of sexual innuendo reveals his sordid nature. He does not shine in wooing, though he rises into verse for the occasion. The perfect gem of a song that \"very excellent, good- conceited thing,\" is wasted upon Imogen. However, his scheme proves ineffective so he resorts to what he knows best: bribing her ladies to gain entrance into her bedroom. Money, Cloten thinks, will buy anything yet the lady is not impressed and says she will provide neither information nor access. The dialogue that later takes place between Cloten and Imogen reveals his sordid as well as uncouth nature even more. He refers to Posthumus as a wretch because he lacks money and noble status yet he is the one who reeks of turpitude despite his noble heritage. Here he is turned round and round until all the foulness under his folly can be seen. Imogen is not afraid to put him in his place and she defends her husband resolutely and sharply lashes out at Cloten, though later she expresses regret for forgetting \"a lady's manners. \" She plainly tells him that his behavior is responsible for it. Finally, she is compelled to tell him, \"I care not for you!\" and tells him that he is not worth even a discarded garment of Posthumus.' This last comment bothers Cloten and he is nonplussed as he can only mutter \"his meanest garment\" several times, shocked by her vehemence. In modern times, this comment could be taken to mean her lover's dirty underwear is worth more to her than Cloten is. In the former scene with Iachimo, Imogen is attacked by the outside forces of an Italian lover, though she is impervious to what has occurred. Here there is a brutal attempt by Cloten to gain access to her sexually and economically. He is really after the fortune and title, which would come with marrying Imogen, rather than herself. Imogen braces herself against her attack although she is weakened by it, revealing a side of herself that is not becoming of her. She is on the defensive. Both of these men can be representative of the internal and external forces that attempt to destroy the social order."}

SCENE III. CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments Enter CLOTEN and LORDS FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up ace. CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose. FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not? FIRST LORD. Day, my lord. CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate. Enter musicians Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it- and then let her consider. SONG Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flow'rs that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise! So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN SECOND LORD. Here comes the King. CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother. CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth? CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice. CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she's yours. QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless. CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. Exeunt all but CLOTEN CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks] I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold Which buys admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th' stand o' th' stealer; and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave. [Knocks] Enter a LADY LADY. Who's there that knocks? CLOTEN. A gentleman. LADY. No more? CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. LADY. That's more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure? CLOTEN. Your lady's person; is she ready? LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber. CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report. LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess! Enter IMOGEN CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand. Exit LADY IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you. IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. CLOTEN. This is no answer. IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin; I will not. IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks. CLOTEN. Do you call me fool? IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do; If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady's manners By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th' very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast. CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o' th' court- it is no contract, none. And though it be allowed in meaner parties- Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls- On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot, Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler- not so eminent! IMOGEN. Profane fellow! Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr'd so well. CLOTEN. The south fog rot him! IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment That ever hath but clipp'd his body is dearer In my respect than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio! Enter PISANIO CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil- IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently. CLOTEN. 'His garment'! IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe! I do think I saw't this morning; confident I am Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost. IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO CLOTEN. You have abus'd me. 'His meanest garment'! IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't. CLOTEN. I will inform your father. IMOGEN. Your mother too. She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th' worst of discontent. Exit CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd. 'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline20.asp

Cloten and his lords enter an antechamber adjoining Imogen's rooms. Cloten has decided to woo the princess with music and has arranged for musicians to play before her door while he serenades her with a song. He hopes that his efforts will pay off and that Imogen will accept him. Meanwhile, the King and Queen enter, and are pleased to see him thus engaged. The King asks Cloten to give her more time to forget Posthumus since "the exile of her minion is too new." The King is called away as a messenger has arrived from Rome with a message from the Emperor. Waiting in vain for Imogen to appear, Cloten decides to bribe one of her ladies, for he feels that money will buy him admittance. While he is talking to one, Imogen appears. She is not pleased to see him, but is polite. Cloten, however, refuses to leave and keeps on declaring his love for her until Imogen becomes annoyed and at the end of her tether, she tells him that she hates him. Cloten now charges her with disobedience and speaks disparagingly of Posthumus as "One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, / With scraps o'the court." Imogen is enraged and declares that Cloten is not even as worthy as a discarded garment of Posthumus. She ignores him as he sputters in anger and summons Pisanio to search for her lost bracelet. Cloten is slighted by her abuse and vows revenge.

Notes This scene is introduced here mainly to depict the lapse of time, which is required for Iachimo's journey from Britain to Rome. After an all night session of gambling, Cloten appears before the door of Imogen's chamber as he has been "advised to give her music o'morning." He follows the advice because he is assured that "it will penetrate." His use of sexual innuendo reveals his sordid nature. He does not shine in wooing, though he rises into verse for the occasion. The perfect gem of a song that "very excellent, good- conceited thing," is wasted upon Imogen. However, his scheme proves ineffective so he resorts to what he knows best: bribing her ladies to gain entrance into her bedroom. Money, Cloten thinks, will buy anything yet the lady is not impressed and says she will provide neither information nor access. The dialogue that later takes place between Cloten and Imogen reveals his sordid as well as uncouth nature even more. He refers to Posthumus as a wretch because he lacks money and noble status yet he is the one who reeks of turpitude despite his noble heritage. Here he is turned round and round until all the foulness under his folly can be seen. Imogen is not afraid to put him in his place and she defends her husband resolutely and sharply lashes out at Cloten, though later she expresses regret for forgetting "a lady's manners. " She plainly tells him that his behavior is responsible for it. Finally, she is compelled to tell him, "I care not for you!" and tells him that he is not worth even a discarded garment of Posthumus.' This last comment bothers Cloten and he is nonplussed as he can only mutter "his meanest garment" several times, shocked by her vehemence. In modern times, this comment could be taken to mean her lover's dirty underwear is worth more to her than Cloten is. In the former scene with Iachimo, Imogen is attacked by the outside forces of an Italian lover, though she is impervious to what has occurred. Here there is a brutal attempt by Cloten to gain access to her sexually and economically. He is really after the fortune and title, which would come with marrying Imogen, rather than herself. Imogen braces herself against her attack although she is weakened by it, revealing a side of herself that is not becoming of her. She is on the defensive. Both of these men can be representative of the internal and external forces that attempt to destroy the social order.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_9_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline21.asp", "summary": "The scene shifts again to Rome to Philario's house where Posthumus is engaged in a conversation with Philario. Posthumus is sure that he will win the wager as he has great faith in his lady. In reply to Philario's questions about Cymbeline, he has nothing to say except to wait for time to heal all wounds. They talk of Caius Lucius' visit to Britain to collect the tribute due to the Roman Emperor. Posthumus prophesies that they will soon hear of war, for he does not expect Cymbeline to pay the tribute. Iachimo enters, and is greeted warmly by Posthumus who does not know what awaits him. Swiftly and with consummate ease, Iachimo describes his supposed seduction of Imogen yet he never quite admits to actually making love to her. Instead he uses the details of the room and its furnishing, and produces the bracelet as proof, but when Posthumus declares that all these could have been obtained by other means, Iachimo clinches the argument with his description of the mole on her breast. He intersperses his remarks with lewd comments to suggest that he had found the conquest too easy. Posthumus is shattered; the lady whose honor he believed was invincible, had made him a cuckold. He leaves, defeated and angry at Imogen, followed by Philario and Iachimo.", "analysis": "Notes The wager leads to the destruction of Posthumus's happiness as Iachimo arrives with the news of his conquest. Even as he tells Posthumus the details of her room, its arrangement, and produces the bracelet, Posthumus does not believe him. He declares that all these details could have been obtained otherwise, through bribing her maids or stealing the bracelet. Yet at the same time, he becomes filled with rage at the possibility that Imogen has made him a cuckold. His pride is wounded and he denounces not just Imogen but all women: \"Let there be no honor where there is beauty; truth, where semblence.... \" By being so easily deceived and denouncing all women, Posthumus reveals his lack of faith not only in Imogen but in his own ability to love and be faithful. Philario pipes in as the voice of reason, commenting that it is not such a done deal and that Iachimo needs to offer further proof of his conquest. However, when Iachimo describes the mole located on her breast, even the steadfast Philario is inclined to believe him, and Posthumus considers his wife little better than a whore. It does not occur to him that Iachimo could have noticed the mole quite by accident, as her robes were dislodged in sleep. In fact, Iachimo does not ever say that he has slept with Imogen; he simply provides the evidence that leads Posthumus to his own conclusion. Therefore, it is Posthumus who becomes his own victim by allowing himself to be duped. He is defeated and believes that he has lost everything - his wife, honor and country, as he is in exile, for the love of a worthless woman. Little wonder, then, that Philario asks Iachimo to see that Posthumus does not harm himself. There are references to the political situation as well. From the conversation between Philario and Posthumus, it appears that the Roman messenger to Britain, Caius Lucius, had been sent by the Emperor to collect the tribute due to him, with arrears, from Cymbeline. Knowing the nature of the British, he does not believe that a penny will be paid in tribute, and that war is inevitable. He shows more confidence in the power of the British army than he does in his wife's fidelity. Most of the modern critics find it difficult to sympathize with Posthumus who lays a wager upon his wife's virtue. He denounces her as a disloyal wife and condemns her to death. \"Why\", asked Sir Walter Raleigh, \"did create so exquisite a being as Imogen for the jealous and paltry Posthumus?\" Granville-Barker admits that Posthumus falls an easy prey to Iachimo's wiles. He describes his failure to see through the mischief and machinations of Iachimo as a \"pretty ignominious collapse.\" He explains Posthumus's failure by pointing out that he had no chance to \"store up resistant virtues\" because until his exile he had been Cymbeline's favorite, \"most praised, most loved.\""}

SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure To win the King as I am bold her honour Will remain hers. PHILARIO. What means do you make to him? POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter's state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear'd hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor. PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O'erpays all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius Will do's commission throughly; and I think He'll grant the tribute, send th' arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief. POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world. Enter IACHIMO PHILARIO. See! Iachimo! POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land, And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble. PHILARIO. Welcome, sir. POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return. IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon. POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them. IACHIMO. Here are letters for you. POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust. IACHIMO. 'Tis very like. PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there? IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach'd. POSTHUMUS. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not Too dull for your good wearing? IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I'll make a journey twice as far t' enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won. POSTHUMUS. The stone's too hard to come by. IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy. POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must not continue friends. IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills. POSTHUMUS. If you can make't apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them. IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe- whose strength I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not You'll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not. POSTHUMUS. Proceed. IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber, Where I confess I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching-it was hang'd With tapestry of silk and silver; the story, Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride. A piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on't was- POSTHUMUS. This is true; And this you might have heard of here, by me Or by some other. IACHIMO. More particulars Must justify my knowledge. POSTHUMUS. So they must, Or do your honour injury. IACHIMO. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures So likely to report themselves. The cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out. POSTHUMUS. This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of. IACHIMO. The roof o' th' chamber With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons- I had forgot them- were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands. POSTHUMUS. This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise Be given to your remembrance; the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid. IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [Shows the bracelet] Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See! And now 'tis up again. It must be married To that your diamond; I'll keep them. POSTHUMUS. Jove! Once more let me behold it. Is it that Which I left with her? IACHIMO. Sir- I thank her- that. She stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me, and said She priz'd it once. POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck'd it off To send it me. IACHIMO. She writes so to you, doth she? POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too; [Gives the ring] It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love Where there's another man. The vows of women Of no more bondage be to where they are made Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. O, above measure false! PHILARIO. Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won. It may be probable she lost it, or Who knows if one her women, being corrupted Hath stol'n it from her? POSTHUMUS. Very true; And so I hope he came by't. Back my ring. Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than this; for this was stol'n. IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm! POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true- nay, keep the ring, 'tis true. I am sure She would not lose it. Her attendants are All sworn and honourable- they induc'd to steal it! And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy'd her. The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you! PHILARIO. Sir, be patient; This is not strong enough to be believ'd Of one persuaded well of. POSTHUMUS. Never talk on't; She hath been colted by him. IACHIMO. If you seek For further satisfying, under her breast- Worthy the pressing- lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodging. By my life, I kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger To feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her? POSTHUMUS. Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it. IACHIMO. Will you hear more? POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns. Once, and a million! IACHIMO. I'll be sworn- POSTHUMUS. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done't, you lie; And I will kill thee if thou dost deny Thou'st made me cuckold. IACHIMO. I'll deny nothing. POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! I will go there and do't, i' th' court, before Her father. I'll do something- Exit PHILARIO. Quite besides The government of patience! You have won. Let's follow him and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself. IACHIMO. With all my heart. Exeunt

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline21.asp

The scene shifts again to Rome to Philario's house where Posthumus is engaged in a conversation with Philario. Posthumus is sure that he will win the wager as he has great faith in his lady. In reply to Philario's questions about Cymbeline, he has nothing to say except to wait for time to heal all wounds. They talk of Caius Lucius' visit to Britain to collect the tribute due to the Roman Emperor. Posthumus prophesies that they will soon hear of war, for he does not expect Cymbeline to pay the tribute. Iachimo enters, and is greeted warmly by Posthumus who does not know what awaits him. Swiftly and with consummate ease, Iachimo describes his supposed seduction of Imogen yet he never quite admits to actually making love to her. Instead he uses the details of the room and its furnishing, and produces the bracelet as proof, but when Posthumus declares that all these could have been obtained by other means, Iachimo clinches the argument with his description of the mole on her breast. He intersperses his remarks with lewd comments to suggest that he had found the conquest too easy. Posthumus is shattered; the lady whose honor he believed was invincible, had made him a cuckold. He leaves, defeated and angry at Imogen, followed by Philario and Iachimo.

Notes The wager leads to the destruction of Posthumus's happiness as Iachimo arrives with the news of his conquest. Even as he tells Posthumus the details of her room, its arrangement, and produces the bracelet, Posthumus does not believe him. He declares that all these details could have been obtained otherwise, through bribing her maids or stealing the bracelet. Yet at the same time, he becomes filled with rage at the possibility that Imogen has made him a cuckold. His pride is wounded and he denounces not just Imogen but all women: "Let there be no honor where there is beauty; truth, where semblence.... " By being so easily deceived and denouncing all women, Posthumus reveals his lack of faith not only in Imogen but in his own ability to love and be faithful. Philario pipes in as the voice of reason, commenting that it is not such a done deal and that Iachimo needs to offer further proof of his conquest. However, when Iachimo describes the mole located on her breast, even the steadfast Philario is inclined to believe him, and Posthumus considers his wife little better than a whore. It does not occur to him that Iachimo could have noticed the mole quite by accident, as her robes were dislodged in sleep. In fact, Iachimo does not ever say that he has slept with Imogen; he simply provides the evidence that leads Posthumus to his own conclusion. Therefore, it is Posthumus who becomes his own victim by allowing himself to be duped. He is defeated and believes that he has lost everything - his wife, honor and country, as he is in exile, for the love of a worthless woman. Little wonder, then, that Philario asks Iachimo to see that Posthumus does not harm himself. There are references to the political situation as well. From the conversation between Philario and Posthumus, it appears that the Roman messenger to Britain, Caius Lucius, had been sent by the Emperor to collect the tribute due to him, with arrears, from Cymbeline. Knowing the nature of the British, he does not believe that a penny will be paid in tribute, and that war is inevitable. He shows more confidence in the power of the British army than he does in his wife's fidelity. Most of the modern critics find it difficult to sympathize with Posthumus who lays a wager upon his wife's virtue. He denounces her as a disloyal wife and condemns her to death. "Why", asked Sir Walter Raleigh, "did create so exquisite a being as Imogen for the jealous and paltry Posthumus?" Granville-Barker admits that Posthumus falls an easy prey to Iachimo's wiles. He describes his failure to see through the mischief and machinations of Iachimo as a "pretty ignominious collapse." He explains Posthumus's failure by pointing out that he had no chance to "store up resistant virtues" because until his exile he had been Cymbeline's favorite, "most praised, most loved."

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_10_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 5

scene 5

{"name": "Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline22.asp", "summary": "Posthumus, angry and distraught, rages against his wife and women in general in a soliloquy. He is now inclined to believe the worst about women, to the extent of doubting his own parentage and questioning his mother's own fidelity. He cannot understand how Imogen, who had restrained him from his \"lawful pleasure\" should have allowed Iachimo to seduce her. He, who had called her chaste, now calls her a whore. He is convinced that it is the woman who is evil, and who induces the man to do evil. At the beginning of the soliloquy he hovers on the brink of intense emotion and mental turmoil, but then the speech issues into a conventional cynicism that is quite remote from tragic feeling and more involved with charging women with all the evils known to humanity.", "analysis": "Notes It is in this scene that some incongruity in the characterization of Posthumus emerges. In the opening scenes of the play, he is introduced as a hero, the brave and handsome gentleman of limited means, who is preferred by the heroine to the influential Cloten. He woos and wins her; when banished, he takes leave of Imogen with the grace and ardor of Romeo, and the tender eloquence with which Pisanio describes his master's departure seems designed to fix the wronged exile as a sympathetic memory in the minds of the audience. However, once in Rome, a curious change comes over him, perhaps due to the influence of companions such as Iachimo. His readiness to wager his wife's honor and the credulous alacrity with which he accepts Iachimo's story do credit neither to his intelligence nor his love. He is too ready to accept as true the story told him and his subsequent jealous frenzy is as unpleasant as Othello's, while he lacks almost all the excuses, which make the Moor's passion and predicament comparatively tragic. The purpose of this soliloquy is obvious. The dramatist wants to convey some idea of the turbulent condition of Posthumus's mind. The volcanic outbursts of his soul show that he is affected beyond all measure. He denounces the whole of womankind, not excluding even his mother. This volcanic flare-up also shows how deeply he loved Imogen and what an infinite trust he had in her yet he lashes out in generalities rather than specifics because underneath he knows Imogen's value and her inability to be duplicitous. Consequently, on further investigation of his character, one could make an argument that his fury is projected onto women when it should be directed towards himself. By testing his faith in his wife, he ends up being the one who comes up morally wanting. His faith in Imogen was not able to survive such a sordid test of faith. By waging money on her fidelity, Posthumus comes off as being unscrupulous and deserving of his tortured state."}

SCENE V. Rome. Another room in PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS POSTHUMUS. Is there no way for men to be, but women Must be half-workers? We are all bastards, And that most venerable man which I Did call my father was I know not where When I was stamp'd. Some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem'd The Dian of that time. So doth my wife The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance! Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd, And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't Might well have warm'd old Saturn; that I thought her As chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils! This yellow Iachimo in an hour- was't not? Or less!- at first? Perchance he spoke not, but, Like a full-acorn'd boar, a German one, Cried "O!' and mounted; found no opposition But what he look'd for should oppose and she Should from encounter guard. Could I find out The woman's part in me! For there's no motion That tends to vice in man but I affirm It is the woman's part. Be it lying, note it, The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, Nice longing, slanders, mutability, All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows, Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all; For even to vice They are not constant, but are changing still One vice but of a minute old for one Not half so old as that. I'll write against them, Detest them, curse them. Yet 'tis greater skill In a true hate to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague them better. Exit

Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline22.asp

Posthumus, angry and distraught, rages against his wife and women in general in a soliloquy. He is now inclined to believe the worst about women, to the extent of doubting his own parentage and questioning his mother's own fidelity. He cannot understand how Imogen, who had restrained him from his "lawful pleasure" should have allowed Iachimo to seduce her. He, who had called her chaste, now calls her a whore. He is convinced that it is the woman who is evil, and who induces the man to do evil. At the beginning of the soliloquy he hovers on the brink of intense emotion and mental turmoil, but then the speech issues into a conventional cynicism that is quite remote from tragic feeling and more involved with charging women with all the evils known to humanity.

Notes It is in this scene that some incongruity in the characterization of Posthumus emerges. In the opening scenes of the play, he is introduced as a hero, the brave and handsome gentleman of limited means, who is preferred by the heroine to the influential Cloten. He woos and wins her; when banished, he takes leave of Imogen with the grace and ardor of Romeo, and the tender eloquence with which Pisanio describes his master's departure seems designed to fix the wronged exile as a sympathetic memory in the minds of the audience. However, once in Rome, a curious change comes over him, perhaps due to the influence of companions such as Iachimo. His readiness to wager his wife's honor and the credulous alacrity with which he accepts Iachimo's story do credit neither to his intelligence nor his love. He is too ready to accept as true the story told him and his subsequent jealous frenzy is as unpleasant as Othello's, while he lacks almost all the excuses, which make the Moor's passion and predicament comparatively tragic. The purpose of this soliloquy is obvious. The dramatist wants to convey some idea of the turbulent condition of Posthumus's mind. The volcanic outbursts of his soul show that he is affected beyond all measure. He denounces the whole of womankind, not excluding even his mother. This volcanic flare-up also shows how deeply he loved Imogen and what an infinite trust he had in her yet he lashes out in generalities rather than specifics because underneath he knows Imogen's value and her inability to be duplicitous. Consequently, on further investigation of his character, one could make an argument that his fury is projected onto women when it should be directed towards himself. By testing his faith in his wife, he ends up being the one who comes up morally wanting. His faith in Imogen was not able to survive such a sordid test of faith. By waging money on her fidelity, Posthumus comes off as being unscrupulous and deserving of his tortured state.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_11_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline23.asp", "summary": "The political situation arising out of Cymbeline's refusal to pay tribute to Augustus Caesar is dramatized in this scene. When Caius Lucius, on behalf of the Roman Emperor, reminds Cymbeline of the events leading to the payment of the annual tribute of three thousand pounds which Cymbeline has neglected to pay, the Queen and Cloten are vociferous in opposing the payment of the tribute. Cloten shows rare spunk in declaring: \"Britain is/a world by itself; and we will nothing pay/for wearing our noses.\" The Queen also shows courage in resisting the Roman claim, and reminds the King of the Roman aggression and how the British King, Cassibelan, had fought bravely and almost defeated Caesar. She declares that it is time now, when Britain was stronger and more powerful than in Cassibelan's time, to ensure their freedom from Roman dominance. Cymbeline adds that Caesar had put a yoke upon them, and the warlike British have decided to shake it off. Faced with such opposition, Caius Lucius can do nothing better than to declare war on behalf of the Emperor. Cymbeline is not afraid; he is willing to face the consequences of his action even as he is gracious enough to extend an invitation to Lucius to stay as a friend for a day or two.", "analysis": "Notes The scene depicts the negotiations between Cymbeline and Caius Lucius, the Roman ambassador. The influence of the Queen even in the high state affairs is well revealed in the action. Cymbeline's authority as King is entirely usurped by the Queen. She curtly tells the Roman ambassador, who complains about the non-payment of tribute, that it \"..... shall be so ever.\" And before Cymbeline can say a word, Cloten cuts in bluntly to arrogantly declare Britain's resistance to Roman dominance. His lack of tact is softened by Cymbeline's more graceful negotiations yet Caius is affronted, and the negotiations naturally end in failure. Cloten speaks the language of a patriot and a diplomat. Here his action and speech justify a critic's remark that Cloten \"is a natural fool.\" He often talks with the wit of one of Shakespeare's professed fools. One wonders, however, what the motive of the wily Queen is in instigating Cymbeline against the Romans. One cannot imagine her to be actuated by any elevated idea like patriotism or love of freedom, but something more self-serving. The forces which attempt to separate Imogen and Posthumus are here united against the Romans."}

ACT III. SCENE I. Britain. A hall in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter in state, CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, and LORDS at one door, and at another CAIUS LUCIUS and attendants CYMBELINE. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us? LUCIUS. When Julius Caesar- whose remembrance yet Lives in men's eyes, and will to ears and tongues Be theme and hearing ever- was in this Britain, And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle, Famous in Caesar's praises no whit less Than in his feats deserving it, for him And his succession granted Rome a tribute, Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately Is left untender'd. QUEEN. And, to kill the marvel, Shall be so ever. CLOTEN. There be many Caesars Ere such another Julius. Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses. QUEEN. That opportunity, Which then they had to take from 's, to resume We have again. Remember, sir, my liege, The kings your ancestors, together with The natural bravery of your isle, which stands As Neptune's park, ribb'd and pal'd in With rocks unscalable and roaring waters, With sands that will not bear your enemies' boats But suck them up to th' top-mast. A kind of conquest Caesar made here; but made not here his brag Of 'came, and saw, and overcame.' With shame- The first that ever touch'd him- he was carried From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping- Poor ignorant baubles!- on our terrible seas, Like egg-shells mov'd upon their surges, crack'd As easily 'gainst our rocks; for joy whereof The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point- O, giglot fortune!- to master Caesar's sword, Made Lud's Town with rejoicing fires bright And Britons strut with courage. CLOTEN. Come, there's no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no moe such Caesars. Other of them may have crook'd noses; but to owe such straight arms, none. CYMBELINE. Son, let your mother end. CLOTEN. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan. I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? Why should we pay tribute? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now. CYMBELINE. You must know, Till the injurious Romans did extort This tribute from us, we were free. Caesar's ambition- Which swell'd so much that it did almost stretch The sides o' th' world- against all colour here Did put the yoke upon's; which to shake off Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon Ourselves to be. CLOTEN. We do. CYMBELINE. Say then to Caesar, Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which Ordain'd our laws- whose use the sword of Caesar Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws, Who was the first of Britain which did put His brows within a golden crown, and call'd Himself a king. LUCIUS. I am sorry, Cymbeline, That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar- Caesar, that hath moe kings his servants than Thyself domestic officers- thine enemy. Receive it from me, then: war and confusion In Caesar's name pronounce I 'gainst thee; look For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, I thank thee for myself. CYMBELINE. Thou art welcome, Caius. Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent Much under him; of him I gather'd honour, Which he to seek of me again, perforce, Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent Which not to read would show the Britons cold; So Caesar shall not find them. LUCIUS. Let proof speak. CLOTEN. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer. If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle. If you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there's an end. LUCIUS. So, sir. CYMBELINE. I know your master's pleasure, and he mine; All the remain is, welcome. Exeunt

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline23.asp

The political situation arising out of Cymbeline's refusal to pay tribute to Augustus Caesar is dramatized in this scene. When Caius Lucius, on behalf of the Roman Emperor, reminds Cymbeline of the events leading to the payment of the annual tribute of three thousand pounds which Cymbeline has neglected to pay, the Queen and Cloten are vociferous in opposing the payment of the tribute. Cloten shows rare spunk in declaring: "Britain is/a world by itself; and we will nothing pay/for wearing our noses." The Queen also shows courage in resisting the Roman claim, and reminds the King of the Roman aggression and how the British King, Cassibelan, had fought bravely and almost defeated Caesar. She declares that it is time now, when Britain was stronger and more powerful than in Cassibelan's time, to ensure their freedom from Roman dominance. Cymbeline adds that Caesar had put a yoke upon them, and the warlike British have decided to shake it off. Faced with such opposition, Caius Lucius can do nothing better than to declare war on behalf of the Emperor. Cymbeline is not afraid; he is willing to face the consequences of his action even as he is gracious enough to extend an invitation to Lucius to stay as a friend for a day or two.

Notes The scene depicts the negotiations between Cymbeline and Caius Lucius, the Roman ambassador. The influence of the Queen even in the high state affairs is well revealed in the action. Cymbeline's authority as King is entirely usurped by the Queen. She curtly tells the Roman ambassador, who complains about the non-payment of tribute, that it "..... shall be so ever." And before Cymbeline can say a word, Cloten cuts in bluntly to arrogantly declare Britain's resistance to Roman dominance. His lack of tact is softened by Cymbeline's more graceful negotiations yet Caius is affronted, and the negotiations naturally end in failure. Cloten speaks the language of a patriot and a diplomat. Here his action and speech justify a critic's remark that Cloten "is a natural fool." He often talks with the wit of one of Shakespeare's professed fools. One wonders, however, what the motive of the wily Queen is in instigating Cymbeline against the Romans. One cannot imagine her to be actuated by any elevated idea like patriotism or love of freedom, but something more self-serving. The forces which attempt to separate Imogen and Posthumus are here united against the Romans.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_12_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline24.asp", "summary": "Pisanio is astonished at the letter he has received from his master, accusing Imogen of adultery. He knows the power and strength of her love and chastity, and wonders who has poisoned his master's mind. Posthumus has written that Pisanio should kill Imogen, and that Posthumus himself, in his letter to Imogen, had provided the opportunity. The noble Pisanio is unable to even think of committing such a crime, but reveals nothing to Imogen when she arrives. Pisanio only reads half of the letter which states that Posthumus is in Cambria , at Milford-Haven, and wants Imogen to meet him there. His aim is to have Pisanio kill her on the way to Milford-Haven, but Imogen does not know this yet. She immediately prepares to leave for Milford-Haven and appeals to Pisanio to make the necessary arrangements for horses and to get her a riding-suit that should not be ostentatious. She also has to think of an excuse to explain her absence at court for a couple of days, that will help her get way before her absence is noticed. Pisanio, who is aware of the dark fate planned for her by Posthumus, can only listen in silence. He attempts to derail her plans but does not tell her now.", "analysis": "Notes The scene opens with Pisanio's soliloquy and conveys the order given by Posthumus to murder Imogen, whom he charges with adultery. Pisanio's reaction to it raises him in the reader's estimation. The whole scene, after the entry of Imogen, is an example of prolonged dramatic irony. It gives a tinge of pathos to her enthusiastic, ardent talk as Imogen only thinks of how slow traveling feels , and wishes for a horse with wings. Her love for Posthumus is deep and sharply contrasted to his wrathful feelings against her supposed infidelity. In this scene, with Imogen's flight from the court, the action now begins to move towards a solution of the complication."}

SCENE II. Britain. Another room in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter PISANIO reading of a letter PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange infection Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian- As poisonous-tongu'd as handed- hath prevail'd On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] 'Do't. The letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.' O damn'd paper, Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a fedary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. Enter IMOGEN I am ignorant in what I am commanded. IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio! PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord- Leonatus? O, learn'd indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters- He'd lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content; yet not That we two are asunder- let that grieve him! Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love- of his content, All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods! [Reads] 'Justice and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.' O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio- Who long'st like me to see thy lord, who long'st- O, let me 'bate!- but not like me, yet long'st, But in a fainter kind- O, not like me, For mine's beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick- Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th' smothering of the sense- how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as T' inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour? PISANIO. One score 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too. IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's huswife. PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider. IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline24.asp

Pisanio is astonished at the letter he has received from his master, accusing Imogen of adultery. He knows the power and strength of her love and chastity, and wonders who has poisoned his master's mind. Posthumus has written that Pisanio should kill Imogen, and that Posthumus himself, in his letter to Imogen, had provided the opportunity. The noble Pisanio is unable to even think of committing such a crime, but reveals nothing to Imogen when she arrives. Pisanio only reads half of the letter which states that Posthumus is in Cambria , at Milford-Haven, and wants Imogen to meet him there. His aim is to have Pisanio kill her on the way to Milford-Haven, but Imogen does not know this yet. She immediately prepares to leave for Milford-Haven and appeals to Pisanio to make the necessary arrangements for horses and to get her a riding-suit that should not be ostentatious. She also has to think of an excuse to explain her absence at court for a couple of days, that will help her get way before her absence is noticed. Pisanio, who is aware of the dark fate planned for her by Posthumus, can only listen in silence. He attempts to derail her plans but does not tell her now.

Notes The scene opens with Pisanio's soliloquy and conveys the order given by Posthumus to murder Imogen, whom he charges with adultery. Pisanio's reaction to it raises him in the reader's estimation. The whole scene, after the entry of Imogen, is an example of prolonged dramatic irony. It gives a tinge of pathos to her enthusiastic, ardent talk as Imogen only thinks of how slow traveling feels , and wishes for a horse with wings. Her love for Posthumus is deep and sharply contrasted to his wrathful feelings against her supposed infidelity. In this scene, with Imogen's flight from the court, the action now begins to move towards a solution of the complication.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_13_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline25.asp", "summary": "From a cave in the mountainous Welsh countryside enters Belarius followed by his sons Guiderius and Arviragus. It is a fine morning, and Belarius exhorts his sons not to sit inside the cave, but to enjoy the wonderful weather. They plan to go hunting as usual with the brothers climbing the hill while Belarius tries to track game on the plain. He tells his sons that their simple life is worth all the advantages of courtly life, where every moment one could expect to be snubbed. Life at court was like living on a slippery slope, remarks Belarius bitterly, for it is precisely when one is at the peak of one's success that one is in danger of falling. The two lads, Guiderius and Arviragus, are restive. They have known nothing of court life, and cannot say if the peaceful life they lead is better than anything else. However, Belarius tells them that if they only knew the treacherous life at court, they would agree with him that the life they lead now is the best. He recounts his tenure in Cymbeline's court, when the King loved and respected him as a brave and valiant soldier. However, the King had readily listened to the false testimony of two villains who alleged that Belarius was consorting with the Romans. Cymbeline had not even given Belarius the chance to explain, and had banished him. It is only when the boys leave that Belarius reveals in a soliloquy, that Guiderius, known as Polydore, and Arviragus, called Cadwal, are actually the sons of Cymbeline. Angered at his unjust banishment, he had stolen the infant sons of the King in order to bar the line of succession to the throne. Yet, as Belarius observes, blood will tell: the lads who had known nothing of court, have the bearing and thoughts of princes.", "analysis": "Notes The scene now shifts to distant mountains in Wales and another part of the plot emerges as the reader is introduced to three new characters. This is a welcome relief from the oppressive atmosphere of the court. The whole scene is devoted to introduce Belarius, the banished lord who now lives as a \"woodman\" assuming the name of Morgan. The two princely youths, the abducted sons of Cymbeline, are seen here out of their natural setting. Their princely instinct is at variance with the crude conditions around them. Their restlessness reveals that they were not meant for the pastoral life and their ambitions are for something greater although their innocence is sharply contrasted to Cloten, who is product of the corruption of the courts. Cymbeline's sons, Guiderius and Arviragus, which are their original names, have been renamed Polydore and Cadwall by Belarius. It is their nurse, Euriphile, who had managed the kidnapping of the princes and as her reward, Belarius married her. The boys were too young to remember their real parentage and so they look upon Belarius and Euriphile as their parents. Their simple life, far from the madding crowds' ignoble strife, passes unmolested in their mountain cave for twenty years. During this period, Belarius trains and educates the princes so well as to render them worthy of a high station in life. Their separation from the royal family is another instance of the court being disrupted and that the sons will eventually reunite with their biological family hints at a resolution of the political and emotional conflicts that now disrupt the court."}

SCENE III. Wales. A mountainous country with a cave Enter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven! ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven! BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours! GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd, Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not What air's from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit. ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you but know the city's usuries, And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search, And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse- Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather. GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour! BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains! This is not hunters' language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys. Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd! O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline25.asp

From a cave in the mountainous Welsh countryside enters Belarius followed by his sons Guiderius and Arviragus. It is a fine morning, and Belarius exhorts his sons not to sit inside the cave, but to enjoy the wonderful weather. They plan to go hunting as usual with the brothers climbing the hill while Belarius tries to track game on the plain. He tells his sons that their simple life is worth all the advantages of courtly life, where every moment one could expect to be snubbed. Life at court was like living on a slippery slope, remarks Belarius bitterly, for it is precisely when one is at the peak of one's success that one is in danger of falling. The two lads, Guiderius and Arviragus, are restive. They have known nothing of court life, and cannot say if the peaceful life they lead is better than anything else. However, Belarius tells them that if they only knew the treacherous life at court, they would agree with him that the life they lead now is the best. He recounts his tenure in Cymbeline's court, when the King loved and respected him as a brave and valiant soldier. However, the King had readily listened to the false testimony of two villains who alleged that Belarius was consorting with the Romans. Cymbeline had not even given Belarius the chance to explain, and had banished him. It is only when the boys leave that Belarius reveals in a soliloquy, that Guiderius, known as Polydore, and Arviragus, called Cadwal, are actually the sons of Cymbeline. Angered at his unjust banishment, he had stolen the infant sons of the King in order to bar the line of succession to the throne. Yet, as Belarius observes, blood will tell: the lads who had known nothing of court, have the bearing and thoughts of princes.

Notes The scene now shifts to distant mountains in Wales and another part of the plot emerges as the reader is introduced to three new characters. This is a welcome relief from the oppressive atmosphere of the court. The whole scene is devoted to introduce Belarius, the banished lord who now lives as a "woodman" assuming the name of Morgan. The two princely youths, the abducted sons of Cymbeline, are seen here out of their natural setting. Their princely instinct is at variance with the crude conditions around them. Their restlessness reveals that they were not meant for the pastoral life and their ambitions are for something greater although their innocence is sharply contrasted to Cloten, who is product of the corruption of the courts. Cymbeline's sons, Guiderius and Arviragus, which are their original names, have been renamed Polydore and Cadwall by Belarius. It is their nurse, Euriphile, who had managed the kidnapping of the princes and as her reward, Belarius married her. The boys were too young to remember their real parentage and so they look upon Belarius and Euriphile as their parents. Their simple life, far from the madding crowds' ignoble strife, passes unmolested in their mountain cave for twenty years. During this period, Belarius trains and educates the princes so well as to render them worthy of a high station in life. Their separation from the royal family is another instance of the court being disrupted and that the sons will eventually reunite with their biological family hints at a resolution of the political and emotional conflicts that now disrupt the court.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_14_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline26.asp", "summary": "Pisanio and Imogen are nearing the coastal town of Milford-Haven on the coast of Pembrokeshire in South Wales. They have been traveling for a considerable time and Imogen asks Pisanio how much longer it will take to reach their destination. She notices that Pisanio looks troubled and unhappy, and insists on knowing the reason why he looks so despondent. Pisanio, unable to reply, hands over the letter written to him by Posthumus. Imogen reads, and to her horror, finds herself accused of being a strumpet, along with her husband's instructions to Pisanio to kill her on the way to Milford-Haven. As Pisanio observes, there is no need to draw his sword, for \"the paper / Hath cut her throat already. \" She cannot believe that her beloved lord has called her \"false\" and a \"strumpet.\" Instinctively, she feels that Iachimo, with his villainous looks and bearing has something to do with the matter although she is not sure. But she also feels that Posthumus, infatuated with some Italian woman of easy virtue, must have grown weary of her and therefore wished to get her out of the way. Bitter and betrayed, she talks of Posthumus as a false Sinon , pretending to be true and honest while he falls to the depths of depravity. Unable to bear it any longer, she asks Pisanio to fulfill his master's wishes and kill her; but the faithful retainer is unable to do so. He finally succeeds in calming her down and puts forward a plan that he has. Since Imogen has left her father's court and her absence must have been discovered by now, she cannot return there and face persecution from Cloten and the Queen. Posthumus only required some proof of the deed, so Pisanio suggests that he could send a bloodied cloth as sufficient proof. Imogen could then dress in men's clothes and try to take up service with the Roman general Lucius who is known to be a fair man. Once in Rome, she could try to find a place near Posthumus's lodgings, so that she could see for herself if her lord had been led astray. Pisanio is convinced that Posthumus has been tricked by someone into believing that his wife was false, and he begs Imogen to agree to this plan in order to work things out. He promises to send money as and when she needs it. He then hands over the set of men's clothes he has brought along, and with a blessing, he prepares to return to the court before he is missed. In parting, he gives her the box that the Queen had given him that contains medicines to revive and restore.", "analysis": "Notes Life at court, with the boorish Cloten and his wicked mother had become quite unbearable for Imogen. It is therefore with a sense of relief and joy that she responds to her husband's letter, asking her to meet him at Milford-Haven in South Wales. However, her sense of betrayal and loss when being informed of Posthumus' letter is profound; for a while she is unable to even listen to Pisanio's plans. She can only think of the word \"false,\" and Posthumus' accusation. She feels sure that maybe he has been swayed by the lust of an Italian woman and that Iachimo is in some way connected with the matter. She also states that men are the cause of much of women's pain. At first she pronounces that Pisanio must go through with Posthumus' wishes and kill her. This act of courage is fortified by her moral courage that refuses to yield to suicide as an option. Yet, unlike Posthumus, she does not rage and rant, vowing vengeance \"like a woman scorn'd,\" but instead she listens to Pisanio's suggestions, and like many Shakespearean heroines before her, to don men's clothes to seek a solution to the problem she faces. Thus, she dresses up as a man and makes her way to Milford- Haven, seeking to find employment with Caius Lucius, the Roman general. She is also not ready to disavow her love for Posthumus just yet and finds reasonable doubt that he may be mistaken and all may turn out for the best. Like a detective, Imogen goes underground to discover the mystery of her husband's wrath. In disguising herself as a man, she is donning a more masculine position of power that will allow her access to a world that normally shuts her out as a woman."}

SCENE IV. Wales, near Milford Haven Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN IMOGEN. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th' inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter? Why tender'st thou that paper to me with A look untender! If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand? That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me. PISANIO. Please you read, And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.' PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam? IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed, Is it? PISANIO. Alas, good lady! IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him. Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls I must be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies. PISANIO. Good madam, hear me. IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon's weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men: Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur'd From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master's bidding; when thou seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look! I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike. Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, But now thou seem'st a coward. PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my hand. IMOGEN. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart- Something's afore't. Soft, soft! we'll no defence!- Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn'd to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers; though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, That didst set up my disobedience 'gainst the King My father, and make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage but A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee dispatch. The lamp entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, When I desire it too. PISANIO. O gracious lady, Since I receiv'd command to do this busines I have not slept one wink. IMOGEN. Do't, and to bed then. PISANIO. I'll wake mine eyeballs first. IMOGEN. Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus'd So many miles with a pretence? This place? Mine action and thine own? our horses' labour? The time inviting thee? the perturb'd court, For my being absent?- whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand, Th' elected deer before thee? PISANIO. But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider'd of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience. IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary- speak. I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. PISANIO. Then, madam, I thought you would not back again. IMOGEN. Most like- Bringing me here to kill me. PISANIO. Not so, neither; But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus'd. Some villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury. IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan! PISANIO. No, on my life! I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for 'tis commanded I should do so. You shall be miss'd at court, And that will well confirm it. IMOGEN. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? where bide? how live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband? PISANIO. If you'll back to th' court- IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing- That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege. PISANIO. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide. IMOGEN. Where then? Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they not but in Britain? I' th' world's volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in't; In a great pool a swan's nest. Prithee think There's livers out of Britain. PISANIO. I am most glad You think of other place. Th' ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which t' appear itself must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least, That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves. IMOGEN. O! for such means, Though peril to my modesty, not death on't, I would adventure. PISANIO. Well then, here's the point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness- The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman it pretty self- into a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it- but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy!- to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein You made great Juno angry. IMOGEN. Nay, be brief; I see into thy end, and am almost A man already. PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one. Fore-thinking this, I have already fit- 'Tis in my cloak-bag- doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them. Would you, in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him Wherein you're happy- which will make him know If that his head have ear in music; doubtless With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable, And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad- You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment. IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Prithee away! There's more to be consider'd; but we'll even All that good time will give us. This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince's courage. Away, I prithee. PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box; I had it from the Queen. What's in't is precious. If you are sick at sea Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best! IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee. Exeunt severally

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline26.asp

Pisanio and Imogen are nearing the coastal town of Milford-Haven on the coast of Pembrokeshire in South Wales. They have been traveling for a considerable time and Imogen asks Pisanio how much longer it will take to reach their destination. She notices that Pisanio looks troubled and unhappy, and insists on knowing the reason why he looks so despondent. Pisanio, unable to reply, hands over the letter written to him by Posthumus. Imogen reads, and to her horror, finds herself accused of being a strumpet, along with her husband's instructions to Pisanio to kill her on the way to Milford-Haven. As Pisanio observes, there is no need to draw his sword, for "the paper / Hath cut her throat already. " She cannot believe that her beloved lord has called her "false" and a "strumpet." Instinctively, she feels that Iachimo, with his villainous looks and bearing has something to do with the matter although she is not sure. But she also feels that Posthumus, infatuated with some Italian woman of easy virtue, must have grown weary of her and therefore wished to get her out of the way. Bitter and betrayed, she talks of Posthumus as a false Sinon , pretending to be true and honest while he falls to the depths of depravity. Unable to bear it any longer, she asks Pisanio to fulfill his master's wishes and kill her; but the faithful retainer is unable to do so. He finally succeeds in calming her down and puts forward a plan that he has. Since Imogen has left her father's court and her absence must have been discovered by now, she cannot return there and face persecution from Cloten and the Queen. Posthumus only required some proof of the deed, so Pisanio suggests that he could send a bloodied cloth as sufficient proof. Imogen could then dress in men's clothes and try to take up service with the Roman general Lucius who is known to be a fair man. Once in Rome, she could try to find a place near Posthumus's lodgings, so that she could see for herself if her lord had been led astray. Pisanio is convinced that Posthumus has been tricked by someone into believing that his wife was false, and he begs Imogen to agree to this plan in order to work things out. He promises to send money as and when she needs it. He then hands over the set of men's clothes he has brought along, and with a blessing, he prepares to return to the court before he is missed. In parting, he gives her the box that the Queen had given him that contains medicines to revive and restore.

Notes Life at court, with the boorish Cloten and his wicked mother had become quite unbearable for Imogen. It is therefore with a sense of relief and joy that she responds to her husband's letter, asking her to meet him at Milford-Haven in South Wales. However, her sense of betrayal and loss when being informed of Posthumus' letter is profound; for a while she is unable to even listen to Pisanio's plans. She can only think of the word "false," and Posthumus' accusation. She feels sure that maybe he has been swayed by the lust of an Italian woman and that Iachimo is in some way connected with the matter. She also states that men are the cause of much of women's pain. At first she pronounces that Pisanio must go through with Posthumus' wishes and kill her. This act of courage is fortified by her moral courage that refuses to yield to suicide as an option. Yet, unlike Posthumus, she does not rage and rant, vowing vengeance "like a woman scorn'd," but instead she listens to Pisanio's suggestions, and like many Shakespearean heroines before her, to don men's clothes to seek a solution to the problem she faces. Thus, she dresses up as a man and makes her way to Milford- Haven, seeking to find employment with Caius Lucius, the Roman general. She is also not ready to disavow her love for Posthumus just yet and finds reasonable doubt that he may be mistaken and all may turn out for the best. Like a detective, Imogen goes underground to discover the mystery of her husband's wrath. In disguising herself as a man, she is donning a more masculine position of power that will allow her access to a world that normally shuts her out as a woman.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_15_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 5

scene 5

{"name": "Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline27.asp", "summary": "The scene shifts once again to the palace of Cymbeline where King Cymbeline, the Queen, Cloten, and attendants enter along with Lucius, the Roman messenger. Cymbeline treats Lucius with great courtesy and warmth even as he reiterates his decision not to pay the tribute to Caesar. He vouchsafes a safe journey to Milford- Haven for Lucius who has to cross the River Severn before proceeding to Italy. As usual, Cloten behaves in an insolent manner and refuses to shake Lucius' hand as he takes his leave. Cymbeline is aware of the political consequences of refusing to pay the tribute but he is prepared to face war. He also knows that there is no time to lose, for the Roman forces stationed in Gallia will be landing in Britain soon and he orders that his soldiers be kept in readiness. It suddenly occurs to Cymbeline that he has not seen Imogen for two days and he sends an attendant to summon her. The Queen, meanwhile, advises caution in speaking to Imogen. The attendant rushes back to report that Imogen's chambers are locked. The Queen then remembers that she had been informed that Imogen was ill but had forgotten to inform the King. Cymbeline immediately fears that his daughter has fled, and rushes to out to see for himself. Cloten observes that he has not seen Pisanio for two days either; the Queen sends him after the King to make sure he is all right. In an informative aside, she reveals her joy at the turn of events, for with Imogen gone, she could claim the throne for herself. Cloten returns with the news that Imogen has indeed fled. He asks the Queen to go and take care of Cymbeline who is in a fit of rage. The Queen, in an aside, hopes that the sorrow of losing Imogen will kill Cymbeline, but she goes to console him. Cloten, in a soliloquy, reveals his feeling for Imogen whom he loves dearly for her beauty and her fine qualities, but hates for spurning him and favoring Posthumus. He vows to revenge himself on her. Just then Pisanio enters and Cloten threatens to kill him if he does not reveal Imogen's whereabouts. Pressed by Cloten, Pisanio hands over a letter supposedly written by Posthumus, asking Imogen to meet him at Milford-Haven. Cloten is agitated and bids Pisanio to get him some garments of Posthumus, thinking of the comment Imogen made about Posthumus' clothing. With this in mind, he plans to kill Posthumus, and then wearing his clothes, contrives to ravage Imogen. Pisanio, who is under the impression that Imogen will soon be on her way to Italy, is not unduly worried at Cloten's plans, for he thinks she will be gone before the foolish suitor reaches her.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS CYMBELINE. Thus far; and so farewell. LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence, And am right sorry that I must report ye My master's enemy. CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike. LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct overland to Milford Haven. Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you! CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit. So farewell, noble Lucius. LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord. CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy. LUCIUS. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well. CYMBELINE. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness! Exeunt LUCIUS and LORDS QUEEN. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause. CLOTEN. 'Tis all the better; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. CYMBELINE. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness. The pow'rs that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain. QUEEN. 'Tis not sleepy business, But must be look'd to speedily and strongly. CYMBELINE. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd The duty of the day. She looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty; We have noted it. Call her before us, for We have been too slight in sufferance. Exit a MESSENGER QUEEN. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her; she's a lady So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, And strokes death to her. Re-enter MESSENGER CYMBELINE. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? MESSENGER. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be given to th' loud of noise we make. QUEEN. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close; Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity She should that duty leave unpaid to you Which daily she was bound to proffer. This She wish'd me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in memory. CYMBELINE. Her doors lock'd? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Prove false! Exit QUEEN. Son, I say, follow the King. CLOTEN. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days. QUEEN. Go, look after. Exit CLOTEN Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz'd her; Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she's flown To her desir'd Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonour, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British crown. Re-enter CLOTEN How now, my son? CLOTEN. 'Tis certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none Dare come about him. QUEEN. All the better. May This night forestall him of the coming day! Exit CLOTEN. I love and hate her; for she's fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment That what's else rare is chok'd; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng'd upon her. For when fools Shall- Enter PISANIO Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither. Ah, you precious pander! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the fiends. PISANIO. O good my lord! CLOTEN. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter- I will not ask again. Close villain, I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn. PISANIO. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss'd? He is in Rome. CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer. No farther halting! Satisfy me home What is become of her. PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord! CLOTEN. All-worthy villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word. No more of 'worthy lord'! Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death. PISANIO. Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight. [Presenting a letter] CLOTEN. Let's see't. I will pursue her Even to Augustus' throne. PISANIO. [Aside] Or this or perish. She's far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger. CLOTEN. Humh! PISANIO. [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter true? PISANIO. Sir, as I think. CLOTEN. It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry- that is, what villainy soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly- I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment. PISANIO. Well, my good lord. CLOTEN. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me? PISANIO. Sir, I will. CLOTEN. Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy late master's garments in thy possession? PISANIO. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress. CLOTEN. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy first service; go. PISANIO. I shall, my lord. Exit CLOTEN. Meet thee at Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one thing; I'll remember't anon. Even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time- the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart- that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined- which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so prais'd- to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis'd me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge. Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes Be those the garments? PISANIO. Ay, my noble lord. CLOTEN. How long is't since she went to Milford Haven? PISANIO. She can scarce be there yet. CLOTEN. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous and true, preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true. Exit PISANIO. Thou bid'st me to my loss; for true to thee Were to prove false, which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed Be cross'd with slowness! Labour be his meed! Exit

Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline27.asp

The scene shifts once again to the palace of Cymbeline where King Cymbeline, the Queen, Cloten, and attendants enter along with Lucius, the Roman messenger. Cymbeline treats Lucius with great courtesy and warmth even as he reiterates his decision not to pay the tribute to Caesar. He vouchsafes a safe journey to Milford- Haven for Lucius who has to cross the River Severn before proceeding to Italy. As usual, Cloten behaves in an insolent manner and refuses to shake Lucius' hand as he takes his leave. Cymbeline is aware of the political consequences of refusing to pay the tribute but he is prepared to face war. He also knows that there is no time to lose, for the Roman forces stationed in Gallia will be landing in Britain soon and he orders that his soldiers be kept in readiness. It suddenly occurs to Cymbeline that he has not seen Imogen for two days and he sends an attendant to summon her. The Queen, meanwhile, advises caution in speaking to Imogen. The attendant rushes back to report that Imogen's chambers are locked. The Queen then remembers that she had been informed that Imogen was ill but had forgotten to inform the King. Cymbeline immediately fears that his daughter has fled, and rushes to out to see for himself. Cloten observes that he has not seen Pisanio for two days either; the Queen sends him after the King to make sure he is all right. In an informative aside, she reveals her joy at the turn of events, for with Imogen gone, she could claim the throne for herself. Cloten returns with the news that Imogen has indeed fled. He asks the Queen to go and take care of Cymbeline who is in a fit of rage. The Queen, in an aside, hopes that the sorrow of losing Imogen will kill Cymbeline, but she goes to console him. Cloten, in a soliloquy, reveals his feeling for Imogen whom he loves dearly for her beauty and her fine qualities, but hates for spurning him and favoring Posthumus. He vows to revenge himself on her. Just then Pisanio enters and Cloten threatens to kill him if he does not reveal Imogen's whereabouts. Pressed by Cloten, Pisanio hands over a letter supposedly written by Posthumus, asking Imogen to meet him at Milford-Haven. Cloten is agitated and bids Pisanio to get him some garments of Posthumus, thinking of the comment Imogen made about Posthumus' clothing. With this in mind, he plans to kill Posthumus, and then wearing his clothes, contrives to ravage Imogen. Pisanio, who is under the impression that Imogen will soon be on her way to Italy, is not unduly worried at Cloten's plans, for he thinks she will be gone before the foolish suitor reaches her.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_16_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 6

scene 6

{"name": "Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline29.asp", "summary": "Enroute to Milford-Haven, Imogen loses her way and arrives before the cave of Belarius. She is hungry and tired but also frightened of what she might find in the cave. So she draws her sword and enters but finds the cave empty. A little later Belarius and the brothers Guiderius and Arviragus enter, with the day's hunt. They are surprised to find Imogen dressed in boy's clothes inside the cave. She gives her name as Fidele. Although Imogen and her brothers do not recognize each other, they feel great love for each other quite spontaneously. She wishes they were her brothers, then her plight would have been different. She tells them that she is bound for Italy to meet a relative, and they make her welcome with their warmth and hospitality.", "analysis": "Notes In this scene, although unknown to each other, the children of Cymbeline meet: his heir and elder son, Guiderius, the younger Arviragus, and their little sister Imogen, who is disguised as a man. While the sins of the father are visited upon the sons who have suffered privation and a hard life in the mountains, Imogen has had to pay very dearly with the exile of her beloved husband, and later, his misguided accusations. But it is important that they should meet, for it is through them that the theme of reconciliation will be effected. The purity of the brothers is seen in their scorn of money that Imogen offers to them for the food. This is in dire contrast to Cloten who interprets everyone's worth in terms of economic value. This short scene with its idyllic simplicity and charm conveys fine sentiments and emotions, subdued though they are. Imogen's disguise as a boy adds particular interest to the action. The dramatist crowns his descriptive power when he makes world- weary Belaruis describe Imogen, ecstatically. He unexpectedly sees her feasting upon the stored victuals in their cave and is so struck by her appearance that he wonders whether she is an earthly angel. It is ironic that they all wish that they were brothers and the distressed Imogen is somewhat alleviated in her pain by her brothers' good will. They help steer the delicate course between comedy and tragedy that the story of the play demands."}

SCENE VI. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one. I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here? If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword, like me, he'll scarcely look on't. Such a foe, good heavens! Exit into the cave Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what's homely savoury; weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep'st thyself! GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary. ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy. GUIDERIUS. What's the matter, sir? BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy! Re-enter IMOGEN IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol'n nought; nor would not though I had found Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and parted With pray'rs for the provider. GUIDERIUS. Money, youth? ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those Who worship dirty gods. IMOGEN. I see you're angry. Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Have died had I not made it. BELARIUS. Whither bound? IMOGEN. To Milford Haven. BELARIUS. What's your name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall'n in this offence. BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd! 'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty I bid for you as I'd buy. ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort He is a man. I'll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I'd give to him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends, If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so that they Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize Been less, and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus. BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress. GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't! ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be, What pain it cost, what danger! Gods! BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys. IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal'd them, laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! I'd change my sex to be companion with them, Since Leonatus' false. BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd, We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it. GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near. ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less welcome. IMOGEN. Thanks, sir. ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near. Exeunt

Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline29.asp

Enroute to Milford-Haven, Imogen loses her way and arrives before the cave of Belarius. She is hungry and tired but also frightened of what she might find in the cave. So she draws her sword and enters but finds the cave empty. A little later Belarius and the brothers Guiderius and Arviragus enter, with the day's hunt. They are surprised to find Imogen dressed in boy's clothes inside the cave. She gives her name as Fidele. Although Imogen and her brothers do not recognize each other, they feel great love for each other quite spontaneously. She wishes they were her brothers, then her plight would have been different. She tells them that she is bound for Italy to meet a relative, and they make her welcome with their warmth and hospitality.

Notes In this scene, although unknown to each other, the children of Cymbeline meet: his heir and elder son, Guiderius, the younger Arviragus, and their little sister Imogen, who is disguised as a man. While the sins of the father are visited upon the sons who have suffered privation and a hard life in the mountains, Imogen has had to pay very dearly with the exile of her beloved husband, and later, his misguided accusations. But it is important that they should meet, for it is through them that the theme of reconciliation will be effected. The purity of the brothers is seen in their scorn of money that Imogen offers to them for the food. This is in dire contrast to Cloten who interprets everyone's worth in terms of economic value. This short scene with its idyllic simplicity and charm conveys fine sentiments and emotions, subdued though they are. Imogen's disguise as a boy adds particular interest to the action. The dramatist crowns his descriptive power when he makes world- weary Belaruis describe Imogen, ecstatically. He unexpectedly sees her feasting upon the stored victuals in their cave and is so struck by her appearance that he wonders whether she is an earthly angel. It is ironic that they all wish that they were brothers and the distressed Imogen is somewhat alleviated in her pain by her brothers' good will. They help steer the delicate course between comedy and tragedy that the story of the play demands.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_17_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 7

scene 7

{"name": "Scene 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline30.asp", "summary": "This short scene, set in Rome, shows the preparations being taken for the war against Britain. Two Senators and two Tribunes discuss the declaration of war and their roles in it. Since the commoners or volunteers were away fighting wars of rebellion elsewhere, and since the forces in Gallia were too weak to take Britain, Caesar has appealed to the gentry to rise to the occasion under Lucius, who is the new general of the forces.", "analysis": "Notes This brief scene only serves to show the preparations for war, as Caesar prepares to fight the British insolence. There are indications that Rome, under Augustus Caesar, was facing rebellion not only in Britain, but elsewhere too, among the Pannonians and the Dalmatians. It, therefore, helps the audience to understand the political situation that forms the background of the play. This short scene is introduced here only with a view to make the Roman invasion a greater reality and to remind the audience that a threat to Britain is not only internal with the disappearance of first Posthumus and now Imogen but also external."}

SCENE VII. Rome. A public place Enter two ROMAN SENATORS and TRIBUNES FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor's writ: That since the common men are now in action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission. Long live Caesar! TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces? SECOND SENATOR. Ay. TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia? FIRST SENATOR. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch. TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty. Exeunt

Scene 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline30.asp

This short scene, set in Rome, shows the preparations being taken for the war against Britain. Two Senators and two Tribunes discuss the declaration of war and their roles in it. Since the commoners or volunteers were away fighting wars of rebellion elsewhere, and since the forces in Gallia were too weak to take Britain, Caesar has appealed to the gentry to rise to the occasion under Lucius, who is the new general of the forces.

Notes This brief scene only serves to show the preparations for war, as Caesar prepares to fight the British insolence. There are indications that Rome, under Augustus Caesar, was facing rebellion not only in Britain, but elsewhere too, among the Pannonians and the Dalmatians. It, therefore, helps the audience to understand the political situation that forms the background of the play. This short scene is introduced here only with a view to make the Roman invasion a greater reality and to remind the audience that a threat to Britain is not only internal with the disappearance of first Posthumus and now Imogen but also external.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_18_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline31.asp", "summary": "Dressed in a garment belonging to Posthumus, Cloten arrives near the cave of Belarius, thinking it is the place where Imogen is to meet Posthumus. He thinks that since Posthumus's clothes fit him well, so Imogen would suit him, also. He cannot comprehend how she could reject him and choose Posthumus when all the advantages of birth, position, and wealth are on his side. He vows to behead Posthumus, molest Imogen and then send her back to her father's home. He knows Cymbeline will be angry with him, but he can depend on his mother to sort out the problems. His horse tied safely, he draws his sword and enters the cave.", "analysis": "Notes Cloten, driven mad with rage at Imogen's refusal to accept his love, now plans revenge. His love has turned sour, as it were, and he reveals himself to be wicked enough to plan to murder Posthumus and to assault Imogen. The love he claims to have for Imogen is actually his pride that is hurt, and he is willing to go to any lengths to acquire his object of desire, including violence. This soliloquy reveals Cloten at his most driven and perverse. He displaces responsibility for his actions on his mother who will placate the King if Cloten rough-handles his daughter."}

ACT IV. SCENE I. Wales. Near the cave of BELARIUS Enter CLOTEN alone CLOTEN. I am near to th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp'd it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather- saving reverence of the word- for 'tis said a woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber- I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me. Exit

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline31.asp

Dressed in a garment belonging to Posthumus, Cloten arrives near the cave of Belarius, thinking it is the place where Imogen is to meet Posthumus. He thinks that since Posthumus's clothes fit him well, so Imogen would suit him, also. He cannot comprehend how she could reject him and choose Posthumus when all the advantages of birth, position, and wealth are on his side. He vows to behead Posthumus, molest Imogen and then send her back to her father's home. He knows Cymbeline will be angry with him, but he can depend on his mother to sort out the problems. His horse tied safely, he draws his sword and enters the cave.

Notes Cloten, driven mad with rage at Imogen's refusal to accept his love, now plans revenge. His love has turned sour, as it were, and he reveals himself to be wicked enough to plan to murder Posthumus and to assault Imogen. The love he claims to have for Imogen is actually his pride that is hurt, and he is willing to go to any lengths to acquire his object of desire, including violence. This soliloquy reveals Cloten at his most driven and perverse. He displaces responsibility for his actions on his mother who will placate the King if Cloten rough-handles his daughter.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_19_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline32.asp", "summary": "Belarius and his sons Guiderius and Arviragus emerge from the cave, followed by Imogen in her boy's clothes. She is ill, and the others tell her to rest while they go hunting. When one of the brothers offers to stay with her, she refuses to let him do so, as that would upset his routine. They are loath to leave Fidele alone, and profess their bond of love, which they claim is as strong as their love for their father. Belarius is amazed to hear this, and considers it nothing short of a miracle that they feel this love for some strange boy. Imogen is touched by their simple nature, and thinks of them as being more noble and genuine than the people at court. She decides to take some of the medicine that Pisanio had given her, as she feels quite sick. When Imogen goes back into the cave, Belarius and his sons set off, discussing her neatness, her talent at cooking, and her beautiful voice when she sings. They have all noticed the mingling of grief and patience in her, although they do not know the reason for it. While they are thus engaged in conversation, Cloten enters with his sword drawn. Belarius recognizes him and is afraid that the King might have planned an ambush. Guiderius sends Belarius and Arviragus to search for any troops stationed nearby while he faces Cloten. Cloten mistakes them to be vile mountain men and is very rude when he addresses Guiderius. The proud young man is enraged at the way Cloten speaks to him and is not impressed at Cloten's revelation that he is the son of the Queen, nor does he feel terror on hearing his name. They exit, fighting. Meanwhile, Belarius and Arviragus re-enter. They have not seen any troops or soldiers, so Arviragus feels that the older man must have mistaken the identity of the intruder. But Belarius is sure that nothing has changed in the manner of Cloten although he has grown to manhood since Belarius last saw him. They are worried at Guiderius's absence since Cloten is a fierce man. Just then, Guiderius re-enters, holding Cloten's severed head. Belarius is aghast; but as Guiderius tells him, it was either Cloten or himself, one of them had to die. Belarius tries to warn them of the possible consequences of such an action. Although they had found no troops nearby, he is convinced that Cloten would not have traveled without attendants, and it is only a matter of time before they will arrive. The brothers, however, do not share this view, and Guiderius carelessly remarks that he will float Cloten's head out to sea, where the fishes devouring him will learn of his identity. Guiderius and Arviragus leave; the former with Cloten's head and the latter with the day's hunt to find Fidele, leaving Belarius alone to ruminate. He is once again amazed at the way in which these two boys, brought up in the wild and normally gentle, are now displaying a rough, valiant, excitable side to their nature, exactly like two princes. Belarius is worried at what awaits them once Cloten's absence will be perceived at court. Guiderius re-enters, triumphant at having sent Cloten's head downstream. All of a sudden they hear Arviragus play a dirge and he soon enters, with Imogen, lifeless in his arms. They are shocked and vent their sorrow in a eulogy as they prepare to bury her near their mother. Belarius tells them that they should also bury Cloten, for even though he was an enemy, he is now dead and should be given a decent burial. While Belarius goes to find the headless body of Cloten, the brothers sing an elegy to Imogen. Belarius appears with the body of Cloten, which they place near Imogen's. They strew flowers and herbs on the bodies and leave in sorrow. As soon as they leave, Imogen awaken as the power of the potion has declined. She does not remember very clearly what has happened and feels that she has dreamt the stay in Belarius's cave with the kindly and loving brothers. Suddenly, she notices the headless body beside her, and recognizes Posthumus's clothes. With heart-rending grief, she curses Pisanio for joining hands with Cloten in murdering her lord. She is convinced that Pisanio had tried to kill her too, with the deadly potion, and rains curses on him. She weeps over the body, thinking it to be Posthumus. The Roman general, Lucius, enters accompanied by a Captain, other Officers, and a Soothsayer. They talk of the readiness of the legion in Gallia and of the reinforcements from Rome, which are led by Iachimo, brother of the Prince of Syenna. They notice a headless body lying on the ground, and a page-boy weeping over it. Caius Lucius is intrigued, and the boy, who gives his name as Fidele, says that his master has been killed by wild mountain people. Lucius, impressed by the boy's loyalty, offers him employment and helps him to bury his master. Thus, Imogen achieves what she and Pisanio had planned, employment with the Roman general, even though she believes she has lost everything in the process.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE II. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter, from the cave, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, and IMOGEN BELARIUS. [To IMOGEN] You are not well. Remain here in the cave; We'll come to you after hunting. ARVIRAGUS. [To IMOGEN] Brother, stay here. Are we not brothers? IMOGEN. So man and man should be; But clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick. GUIDERIUS. Go you to hunting; I'll abide with him. IMOGEN. So sick I am not, yet I am not well; But not so citizen a wanton as To seem to die ere sick. So please you, leave me; Stick to your journal course. The breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me; society is no comfort To one not sociable. I am not very sick, Since I can reason of it. Pray you trust me here. I'll rob none but myself; and let me die, Stealing so poorly. GUIDERIUS. I love thee; I have spoke it. How much the quantity, the weight as much As I do love my father. BELARIUS. What? how? how? ARVIRAGUS. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me In my good brother's fault. I know not why I love this youth, and I have heard you say Love's reason's without reason. The bier at door, And a demand who is't shall die, I'd say 'My father, not this youth.' BELARIUS. [Aside] O noble strain! O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! Cowards father cowards and base things sire base. Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. I'm not their father; yet who this should be Doth miracle itself, lov'd before me.- 'Tis the ninth hour o' th' morn. ARVIRAGUS. Brother, farewell. IMOGEN. I wish ye sport. ARVIRAGUS. Your health. [To BELARIUS] So please you, sir. IMOGEN. [Aside] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard! Our courtiers say all's savage but at court. Experience, O, thou disprov'st report! Th' imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish, Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio, I'll now taste of thy drug. [Swallows some] GUIDERIUS. I could not stir him. He said he was gentle, but unfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. ARVIRAGUS. Thus did he answer me; yet said hereafter I might know more. BELARIUS. To th' field, to th' field! We'll leave you for this time. Go in and rest. ARVIRAGUS. We'll not be long away. BELARIUS. Pray be not sick, For you must be our huswife. IMOGEN. Well, or ill, I am bound to you. BELARIUS. And shalt be ever. Exit IMOGEN into the cave This youth, howe'er distress'd, appears he hath had Good ancestors. ARVIRAGUS. How angel-like he sings! GUIDERIUS. But his neat cookery! He cut our roots in characters, And sauc'd our broths as Juno had been sick, And he her dieter. ARVIRAGUS. Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh Was that it was for not being such a smile; The smile mocking the sigh that it would fly From so divine a temple to commix With winds that sailors rail at. GUIDERIUS. I do note That grief and patience, rooted in him both, Mingle their spurs together. ARVIRAGUS. Grow patience! And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine His perishing root with the increasing vine! BELARIUS. It is great morning. Come, away! Who's there? Enter CLOTEN CLOTEN. I cannot find those runagates; that villain Hath mock'd me. I am faint. BELARIUS. Those runagates? Means he not us? I partly know him; 'tis Cloten, the son o' th' Queen. I fear some ambush. I saw him not these many years, and yet I know 'tis he. We are held as outlaws. Hence! GUIDERIUS. He is but one; you and my brother search What companies are near. Pray you away; Let me alone with him. Exeunt BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS CLOTEN. Soft! What are you That fly me thus? Some villain mountaineers? I have heard of such. What slave art thou? GUIDERIUS. A thing More slavish did I ne'er than answering 'A slave' without a knock. CLOTEN. Thou art a robber, A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief. GUIDERIUS. To who? To thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine, a heart as big? Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art; Why I should yield to thee. CLOTEN. Thou villain base, Know'st me not by my clothes? GUIDERIUS. No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather; he made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee. CLOTEN. Thou precious varlet, My tailor made them not. GUIDERIUS. Hence, then, and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool; I am loath to beat thee. CLOTEN. Thou injurious thief, Hear but my name, and tremble. GUIDERIUS. What's thy name? CLOTEN. Cloten, thou villain. GUIDERIUS. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it. Were it toad, or adder, spider, 'Twould move me sooner. CLOTEN. To thy further fear, Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know I am son to th' Queen. GUIDERIUS. I'm sorry for't; not seeming So worthy as thy birth. CLOTEN. Art not afeard? GUIDERIUS. Those that I reverence, those I fear- the wise: At fools I laugh, not fear them. CLOTEN. Die the death. When I have slain thee with my proper hand, I'll follow those that even now fled hence, And on the gates of Lud's Town set your heads. Yield, rustic mountaineer. Exeunt, fighting Re-enter BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. No company's abroad. ARVIRAGUS. None in the world; you did mistake him, sure. BELARIUS. I cannot tell; long is it since I saw him, But time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of favour Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute 'Twas very Cloten. ARVIRAGUS. In this place we left them. I wish my brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell. BELARIUS. Being scarce made up, I mean to man, he had not apprehension Or roaring terrors; for defect of judgment Is oft the cease of fear. Re-enter GUIDERIUS with CLOTEN'S head But, see, thy brother. GUIDERIUS. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; There was no money in't. Not Hercules Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had none; Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne My head as I do his. BELARIUS. What hast thou done? GUIDERIUS. I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten's head, Son to the Queen, after his own report; Who call'd me traitor, mountaineer, and swore With his own single hand he'd take us in, Displace our heads where- thank the gods!- they grow, And set them on Lud's Town. BELARIUS. We are all undone. GUIDERIUS. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose But that he swore to take, our lives? The law Protects not us; then why should we be tender To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us, Play judge and executioner all himself, For we do fear the law? What company Discover you abroad? BELARIUS. No single soul Can we set eye on, but in all safe reason He must have some attendants. Though his humour Was nothing but mutation- ay, and that From one bad thing to worse- not frenzy, not Absolute madness could so far have rav'd, To bring him here alone. Although perhaps It may be heard at court that such as we Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head- the which he hearing, As it is like him, might break out and swear He'd fetch us in; yet is't not probable To come alone, either he so undertaking Or they so suffering. Then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this body hath a tail More perilous than the head. ARVIRAGUS. Let ordinance Come as the gods foresay it. Howsoe'er, My brother hath done well. BELARIUS. I had no mind To hunt this day; the boy Fidele's sickness Did make my way long forth. GUIDERIUS. With his own sword, Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en His head from him. I'll throw't into the creek Behind our rock, and let it to the sea And tell the fishes he's the Queen's son, Cloten. That's all I reck. Exit BELARIUS. I fear 'twill be reveng'd. Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done't! though valour Becomes thee well enough. ARVIRAGUS. Would I had done't, So the revenge alone pursu'd me! Polydore, I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou hast robb'd me of this deed. I would revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us through, And put us to our answer. BELARIUS. Well, 'tis done. We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger Where there's no profit. I prithee to our rock. You and Fidele play the cooks; I'll stay Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him To dinner presently. ARVIRAGUS. Poor sick Fidele! I'll willingly to him; to gain his colour I'd let a parish of such Cloten's blood, And praise myself for charity. Exit BELARIUS. O thou goddess, Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon'st In these two princely boys! They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind That by the top doth take the mountain pine And make him stoop to th' vale. 'Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn'd, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow'd. Yet still it's strange What Cloten's being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us. Re-enter GUIDERIUS GUIDERIUS. Where's my brother? I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream, In embassy to his mother; his body's hostage For his return. [Solemn music] BELARIUS. My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds. But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark! GUIDERIUS. Is he at home? BELARIUS. He went hence even now. GUIDERIUS. What does he mean? Since death of my dear'st mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Should answer solemn accidents. The matter? Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. Is Cadwal mad? Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, with IMOGEN as dead, bearing her in his arms BELARIUS. Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his arms Of what we blame him for! ARVIRAGUS. The bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch, Than have seen this. GUIDERIUS. O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears thee not the one half so well As when thou grew'st thyself. BELARIUS. O melancholy! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find The ooze to show what coast thy sluggish care Might'st easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing! Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. How found you him? ARVIRAGUS. Stark, as you see; Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at; his right cheek Reposing on a cushion. GUIDERIUS. Where? ARVIRAGUS. O' th' floor; His arms thus leagu'd. I thought he slept, and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud. GUIDERIUS. Why, he but sleeps. If he be gone he'll make his grave a bed; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee. ARVIRAGUS. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweet'ned not thy breath. The ruddock would, With charitable bill- O bill, sore shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie Without a monument!- bring thee all this; Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flow'rs are none, To winter-ground thy corse- GUIDERIUS. Prithee have done, And do not play in wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let us bury him, And not protract with admiration what Is now due debt. To th' grave. ARVIRAGUS. Say, where shall's lay him? GUIDERIUS. By good Euriphile, our mother. ARVIRAGUS. Be't so; And let us, Polydore, though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th' ground, As once to our mother; use like note and words, Save that Euriphile must be Fidele. GUIDERIUS. Cadwal, I cannot sing. I'll weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse Than priests and fanes that lie. ARVIRAGUS. We'll speak it, then. BELARIUS. Great griefs, I see, med'cine the less, for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys; And though he came our enemy, remember He was paid for that. Though mean and mighty rotting Together have one dust, yet reverence- That angel of the world- doth make distinction Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely; And though you took his life, as being our foe, Yet bury him as a prince. GUIDERIUS. Pray you fetch him hither. Thersites' body is as good as Ajax', When neither are alive. ARVIRAGUS. If you'll go fetch him, We'll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin. Exit BELARIUS GUIDERIUS. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th' East; My father hath a reason for't. ARVIRAGUS. 'Tis true. GUIDERIUS. Come on, then, and remove him. ARVIRAGUS. So. Begin. SONG GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. ARVIRAGUS. Fear no more the frown o' th' great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust. GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the lightning flash, ARVIRAGUS. Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone; GUIDERIUS. Fear not slander, censure rash; ARVIRAGUS. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan. BOTH. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust. GUIDERIUS. No exorciser harm thee! ARVIRAGUS. Nor no witchcraft charm thee! GUIDERIUS. Ghost unlaid forbear thee! ARVIRAGUS. Nothing ill come near thee! BOTH. Quiet consummation have, And renowned be thy grave! Re-enter BELARIUS with the body of CLOTEN GUIDERIUS. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down. BELARIUS. Here's a few flowers; but 'bout midnight, more. The herbs that have on them cold dew o' th' night Are strewings fit'st for graves. Upon their faces. You were as flow'rs, now wither'd. Even so These herblets shall which we upon you strew. Come on, away. Apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again. Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain. Exeunt all but IMOGEN IMOGEN. [Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way? I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither? 'Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet? I have gone all night. Faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow. O gods and goddesses! [Seeing the body] These flow'rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on't. I hope I dream; For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures. But 'tis not so; 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind. Good faith, I tremble still with fear; but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it! The dream's here still. Even when I wake it is Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt. A headless man? The garments of Posthumus? I know the shape of's leg; this is his hand, His foot Mercurial, his Martial thigh, The brawns of Hercules; but his Jovial face- Murder in heaven! How! 'Tis gone. Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, Conspir'd with that irregulous devil, Cloten, Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read Be henceforth treacherous! Damn'd Pisanio Hath with his forged letters- damn'd Pisanio- From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top. O Posthumus! alas, Where is thy head? Where's that? Ay me! where's that? Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio? 'Tis he and Cloten; malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. O, 'tis pregnant, pregnant! The drug he gave me, which he said was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murd'rous to th' senses? That confirms it home. This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten. O! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us. O, my lord, my lord! [Falls fainting on the body] Enter LUCIUS, CAPTAINS, and a SOOTHSAYER CAPTAIN. To them the legions garrison'd in Gallia, After your will, have cross'd the sea, attending You here at Milford Haven; with your ships, They are in readiness. LUCIUS. But what from Rome? CAPTAIN. The Senate hath stirr'd up the confiners And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits, That promise noble service; and they come Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, Sienna's brother. LUCIUS. When expect you them? CAPTAIN. With the next benefit o' th' wind. LUCIUS. This forwardness Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers Be muster'd; bid the captains look to't. Now, sir, What have you dream'd of late of this war's purpose? SOOTHSAYER. Last night the very gods show'd me a vision- I fast and pray'd for their intelligence- thus: I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing'd From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish'd in the sunbeams; which portends, Unless my sins abuse my divination, Success to th' Roman host. LUCIUS. Dream often so, And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime It was a worthy building. How? a page? Or dead or sleeping on him? But dead, rather; For nature doth abhor to make his bed With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. Let's see the boy's face. CAPTAIN. He's alive, my lord. LUCIUS. He'll then instruct us of this body. Young one, Inform us of thy fortunes; for it seems They crave to be demanded. Who is this Thou mak'st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest In this sad wreck? How came't? Who is't? What art thou? IMOGEN. I am nothing; or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton and a good, That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas! There is no more such masters. I may wander From east to occident; cry out for service; Try many, all good; serve truly; never Find such another master. LUCIUS. 'Lack, good youth! Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend. IMOGEN. Richard du Champ. [Aside] If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope They'll pardon it.- Say you, sir? LUCIUS. Thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. LUCIUS. Thou dost approve thyself the very same; Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say Thou shalt be so well master'd; but, be sure, No less belov'd. The Roman Emperor's letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me. IMOGEN. I'll follow, sir. But first, an't please the gods, I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his grave, And on it said a century of prayers, Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep and sigh; And leaving so his service, follow you, So please you entertain me. LUCIUS. Ay, good youth; And rather father thee than master thee. My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave. Come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr'd By thee to us; and he shall be interr'd As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes. Some falls are means the happier to arise. Exeunt

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline32.asp

Belarius and his sons Guiderius and Arviragus emerge from the cave, followed by Imogen in her boy's clothes. She is ill, and the others tell her to rest while they go hunting. When one of the brothers offers to stay with her, she refuses to let him do so, as that would upset his routine. They are loath to leave Fidele alone, and profess their bond of love, which they claim is as strong as their love for their father. Belarius is amazed to hear this, and considers it nothing short of a miracle that they feel this love for some strange boy. Imogen is touched by their simple nature, and thinks of them as being more noble and genuine than the people at court. She decides to take some of the medicine that Pisanio had given her, as she feels quite sick. When Imogen goes back into the cave, Belarius and his sons set off, discussing her neatness, her talent at cooking, and her beautiful voice when she sings. They have all noticed the mingling of grief and patience in her, although they do not know the reason for it. While they are thus engaged in conversation, Cloten enters with his sword drawn. Belarius recognizes him and is afraid that the King might have planned an ambush. Guiderius sends Belarius and Arviragus to search for any troops stationed nearby while he faces Cloten. Cloten mistakes them to be vile mountain men and is very rude when he addresses Guiderius. The proud young man is enraged at the way Cloten speaks to him and is not impressed at Cloten's revelation that he is the son of the Queen, nor does he feel terror on hearing his name. They exit, fighting. Meanwhile, Belarius and Arviragus re-enter. They have not seen any troops or soldiers, so Arviragus feels that the older man must have mistaken the identity of the intruder. But Belarius is sure that nothing has changed in the manner of Cloten although he has grown to manhood since Belarius last saw him. They are worried at Guiderius's absence since Cloten is a fierce man. Just then, Guiderius re-enters, holding Cloten's severed head. Belarius is aghast; but as Guiderius tells him, it was either Cloten or himself, one of them had to die. Belarius tries to warn them of the possible consequences of such an action. Although they had found no troops nearby, he is convinced that Cloten would not have traveled without attendants, and it is only a matter of time before they will arrive. The brothers, however, do not share this view, and Guiderius carelessly remarks that he will float Cloten's head out to sea, where the fishes devouring him will learn of his identity. Guiderius and Arviragus leave; the former with Cloten's head and the latter with the day's hunt to find Fidele, leaving Belarius alone to ruminate. He is once again amazed at the way in which these two boys, brought up in the wild and normally gentle, are now displaying a rough, valiant, excitable side to their nature, exactly like two princes. Belarius is worried at what awaits them once Cloten's absence will be perceived at court. Guiderius re-enters, triumphant at having sent Cloten's head downstream. All of a sudden they hear Arviragus play a dirge and he soon enters, with Imogen, lifeless in his arms. They are shocked and vent their sorrow in a eulogy as they prepare to bury her near their mother. Belarius tells them that they should also bury Cloten, for even though he was an enemy, he is now dead and should be given a decent burial. While Belarius goes to find the headless body of Cloten, the brothers sing an elegy to Imogen. Belarius appears with the body of Cloten, which they place near Imogen's. They strew flowers and herbs on the bodies and leave in sorrow. As soon as they leave, Imogen awaken as the power of the potion has declined. She does not remember very clearly what has happened and feels that she has dreamt the stay in Belarius's cave with the kindly and loving brothers. Suddenly, she notices the headless body beside her, and recognizes Posthumus's clothes. With heart-rending grief, she curses Pisanio for joining hands with Cloten in murdering her lord. She is convinced that Pisanio had tried to kill her too, with the deadly potion, and rains curses on him. She weeps over the body, thinking it to be Posthumus. The Roman general, Lucius, enters accompanied by a Captain, other Officers, and a Soothsayer. They talk of the readiness of the legion in Gallia and of the reinforcements from Rome, which are led by Iachimo, brother of the Prince of Syenna. They notice a headless body lying on the ground, and a page-boy weeping over it. Caius Lucius is intrigued, and the boy, who gives his name as Fidele, says that his master has been killed by wild mountain people. Lucius, impressed by the boy's loyalty, offers him employment and helps him to bury his master. Thus, Imogen achieves what she and Pisanio had planned, employment with the Roman general, even though she believes she has lost everything in the process.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_20_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline34.asp", "summary": "In Cymbeline's palace, the King is anxious over the growing war and his missing daughter. The Queen is pining over the disappearance of her son and has contracted a fever and is delirious. Cymbeline is overwhelmed by these events. His beloved daughter has fled, and there is still no word of her whereabouts. Cloten is missing, and the Queen is dangerously ill. He accuses Pisanio of conspiring and assisting in Imogen's flight, but Pisanio is saved by one of the courtiers who insists that Pisanio is blameless. The Roman troops from Gallia have landed in Britain as well as the reinforcements from Italy. Although the British troops are ready to face the enemy, Cymbeline feels lost, without the support of his Queen and Cloten and Pisanio, in a soliloquy, wonders what has happened to Imogen and Posthumus, who has sent no word about Imogen's supposed death. Cloten's absence also worries Pisanio, but he can do nothing until all his doubts are cleared by time.", "analysis": "Notes With the Queen's influence weakening, Cymbeline finds himself prey to many doubts even as he faces war. His troops are ready and he bravely awaits the war, but the support and courage that Cloten and the Queen had extended earlier are now sorely missed. He feels that misfortunes have come in swarms, with Imogen gone, Cloten missing and the Queen desperately ill. His first instinct is to punish Pisanio but he gives him another chance. There is a slow change in Cymbeline as he becomes independent of the Queen's overpowering influence. This scene has very little dramatic significance but acts to intensify the atmosphere of disorder and confusion that reigns in the royal court. Pisanio's loyalty is well tested already and needs no further evidence. His patriotism and bravery are additionally noted in this scene. However, one fact is particularly revealed in this scene: Cymbeline has a tender regard for his daughter. It becomes obvious when the old King admits that she was a great part of his comfort. The Lord's intervention on behalf of Pisanio reveals that when the Queen is not on the scene the courtiers are good enough to extend their support to the court. The political and familial turmoil is shown to be intertwined in this scene and one situation cannot improve without the other also."}

SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, LORDS, PISANIO, and attendants CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how 'tis with her. Exit an attendant A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life's in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant. LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he's true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found. CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [To PISANIO] We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent. CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz'd with matter. LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're ready. The want is but to put those pow'rs in motion That long to move. CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let's withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away! Exeunt all but PISANIO PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. 'Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex'd in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o' th' King, or I'll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. Exit

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline34.asp

In Cymbeline's palace, the King is anxious over the growing war and his missing daughter. The Queen is pining over the disappearance of her son and has contracted a fever and is delirious. Cymbeline is overwhelmed by these events. His beloved daughter has fled, and there is still no word of her whereabouts. Cloten is missing, and the Queen is dangerously ill. He accuses Pisanio of conspiring and assisting in Imogen's flight, but Pisanio is saved by one of the courtiers who insists that Pisanio is blameless. The Roman troops from Gallia have landed in Britain as well as the reinforcements from Italy. Although the British troops are ready to face the enemy, Cymbeline feels lost, without the support of his Queen and Cloten and Pisanio, in a soliloquy, wonders what has happened to Imogen and Posthumus, who has sent no word about Imogen's supposed death. Cloten's absence also worries Pisanio, but he can do nothing until all his doubts are cleared by time.

Notes With the Queen's influence weakening, Cymbeline finds himself prey to many doubts even as he faces war. His troops are ready and he bravely awaits the war, but the support and courage that Cloten and the Queen had extended earlier are now sorely missed. He feels that misfortunes have come in swarms, with Imogen gone, Cloten missing and the Queen desperately ill. His first instinct is to punish Pisanio but he gives him another chance. There is a slow change in Cymbeline as he becomes independent of the Queen's overpowering influence. This scene has very little dramatic significance but acts to intensify the atmosphere of disorder and confusion that reigns in the royal court. Pisanio's loyalty is well tested already and needs no further evidence. His patriotism and bravery are additionally noted in this scene. However, one fact is particularly revealed in this scene: Cymbeline has a tender regard for his daughter. It becomes obvious when the old King admits that she was a great part of his comfort. The Lord's intervention on behalf of Pisanio reveals that when the Queen is not on the scene the courtiers are good enough to extend their support to the court. The political and familial turmoil is shown to be intertwined in this scene and one situation cannot improve without the other also.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_21_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline35.asp", "summary": "Belarius, along with Guiderius and Arviragus, are standing in front of their cave. All around them, the sounds of British and Roman troops getting ready for battle can be heard. The two lads are all fired up, and tell their father that they wish to join the British troops. Belarius tries in vain to persuade them not to do so; he even suggests that they retreat higher up into the hills to safety, as the death of Cloten was too recent, and would bring disaster to them. He puts forward many arguments against them joining the army, but the brothers are determined, and Belarius can do nothing but submit to their demand.", "analysis": "Notes As Belarius had earlier pointed out, it is evident that blood will tell; the two young lads respond to the military sounds around them by asking their father's blessing to join the army. As Arviragus says, they have lived away from the world for so long that he now feels ashamed that he has never fought in a battle or even ridden a horse properly. Belarius is fearful that Cloten's death will be discovered and that they will be blamed. He also fears that they will finally learn who they are. Yet he cannot keep them separated from the world they have been born into but never experienced. Therefore, when Belarius finds that they will not listen to his arguments, he has no option but to give in."}

SCENE IV. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us. BELARIUS. Let us from it. ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure? GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after. BELARIUS. Sons, We'll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King's party there's no going. Newness Of Cloten's death- we being not known, not muster'd Among the bands-may drive us to a render Where we have liv'd, and so extort from's that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture. GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us. ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv'd my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis'd, But to be still hot summer's tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter. GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th' army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown, Cannot be questioned. ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I'll thither. What thing is't that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look'd on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham'd To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I'll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I'll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans! ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen. BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I'll lie. Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born. Exeunt

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline35.asp

Belarius, along with Guiderius and Arviragus, are standing in front of their cave. All around them, the sounds of British and Roman troops getting ready for battle can be heard. The two lads are all fired up, and tell their father that they wish to join the British troops. Belarius tries in vain to persuade them not to do so; he even suggests that they retreat higher up into the hills to safety, as the death of Cloten was too recent, and would bring disaster to them. He puts forward many arguments against them joining the army, but the brothers are determined, and Belarius can do nothing but submit to their demand.

Notes As Belarius had earlier pointed out, it is evident that blood will tell; the two young lads respond to the military sounds around them by asking their father's blessing to join the army. As Arviragus says, they have lived away from the world for so long that he now feels ashamed that he has never fought in a battle or even ridden a horse properly. Belarius is fearful that Cloten's death will be discovered and that they will be blamed. He also fears that they will finally learn who they are. Yet he cannot keep them separated from the world they have been born into but never experienced. Therefore, when Belarius finds that they will not listen to his arguments, he has no option but to give in.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_22_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 1

scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline36.asp", "summary": "In the Roman camp, Posthumus enters with a handkerchief soaked in blood. From his soliloquy, the reader gathers that after Pisanio's report of Imogen's death, Posthumus has been stricken by remorse and wishes that he had not been so hasty in seeking vengeance. He wonders how the gods take away people who have sinned but once, and mildly at that, while allowing sinners who go on sinning to live, feeling remorseful. He wishes he had let Imogen live so that she could repent, and also to give another her another chance at happiness. Posthumus has come with the Roman army, recruited by Lucius from among the gentry. However, he now feels that he cannot take up arms against Imogen's people, and plans to disguise himself as a British peasant and fight on the British side.", "analysis": "Notes This scene serves as a connecting link between the Posthumus' plan to kill Imogen and his new ability to forgive her for what she has supposedly done. Shakespeare uses the background of war between Roman and Britain to underscore the terrible effect that violence and irrational thinking have on human relations. Posthumus has undergone a great change since he last came on stage, denigrating all women. He is now repentant and full of self- loathing. This he has acquired during a period of isolation and quiet, heart-searching meditation. Posthumus blames Pisanio for the death of Imogen, noting that servants should not follow all commands but just those they think are just. Ironically, Pisanio has done just that but Posthumus will be ignorant of his correct action for some time. That Posthumus has forgiven Imogen is a big step and will eventually lead to the re-establishment of his relationship to her as well as to Britain as can be seen in the disrobing of his Italian clothes for peasant garb and commitment to fight for the British army."}

ACT V. SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody handkerchief POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom. 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I'll fight Against the part I come with; so I'll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' th' Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin The fashion- less without and more within. Exit

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline36.asp

In the Roman camp, Posthumus enters with a handkerchief soaked in blood. From his soliloquy, the reader gathers that after Pisanio's report of Imogen's death, Posthumus has been stricken by remorse and wishes that he had not been so hasty in seeking vengeance. He wonders how the gods take away people who have sinned but once, and mildly at that, while allowing sinners who go on sinning to live, feeling remorseful. He wishes he had let Imogen live so that she could repent, and also to give another her another chance at happiness. Posthumus has come with the Roman army, recruited by Lucius from among the gentry. However, he now feels that he cannot take up arms against Imogen's people, and plans to disguise himself as a British peasant and fight on the British side.

Notes This scene serves as a connecting link between the Posthumus' plan to kill Imogen and his new ability to forgive her for what she has supposedly done. Shakespeare uses the background of war between Roman and Britain to underscore the terrible effect that violence and irrational thinking have on human relations. Posthumus has undergone a great change since he last came on stage, denigrating all women. He is now repentant and full of self- loathing. This he has acquired during a period of isolation and quiet, heart-searching meditation. Posthumus blames Pisanio for the death of Imogen, noting that servants should not follow all commands but just those they think are just. Ironically, Pisanio has done just that but Posthumus will be ignorant of his correct action for some time. That Posthumus has forgiven Imogen is a big step and will eventually lead to the re-establishment of his relationship to her as well as to Britain as can be seen in the disrobing of his Italian clothes for peasant garb and commitment to fight for the British army.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_23_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 2

scene 2

{"name": "Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline37.asp", "summary": "On the battlefield, there is fierce fighting between the Romans and the British, with Posthumus in disguise. In a skirmish with Iachimo, Posthumus is able to defeat and disarm the former, but leaves him alive. Iachimo feels the burden of guilt and remorse at the way he has wronged a British princess and feels that his guilt has left him so weak that a peasant could overpower him. On the other hand, he also claims that if the rest of the British army were equal to, or better than this rough peasant, then \"the odds / Is that we scarce are men and you are gods.\" As the battle continues, the British army is almost routed, and Cymbeline is taken prisoner. All seems lost when suddenly Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Posthumus in disguise, enter. They fight bravely and rescue Cymbeline. After they leave, Lucius, attended by Imogen in boys' clothes, enters with Iachimo. Lucius advises Fidele to save herself, as she is known to run away from the battlefield. Lucius is surprised at the way the fortunes of the British have turned, and advises Iachimo to get reinforcements for a fresh attack, failing which they would have to flee.", "analysis": "Notes The scene begins with Iachimo expressing his dismay at having belied Imogen's reputation and creating such animosity between her and her husband. His expression of remorse follows on the heels of Posthumus' own confession of guilt and so it is not surprising that they end up in a skirmish, fighting it out. Although Iachimo is unaware of the peasant he is fighting against, he complains that fighting him is difficult and that it must be due to the weight of what he has done and his weakened state of mind. The combat ends in the defeat of Iachimo, but he is not killed since he is needed for the denouement. His soliloquy, however, prepares the audience to meet him later as a repentant villain. The next encounter reveals that the Romans have captured Cymbeline but that his sons and Posthumus have managed to free him. The scene ends with a short exchange between Lucius and Iachimo commenting on the strange turn of events. Most of this scene provides information that will forward the plot and allow for a reconciliation."}

SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS. He vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. Exit The battle continues; the BRITONS fly; CYMBELINE is taken. Then enter to his rescue BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th' advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears. GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight! Re-enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then re-enter LUCIUS and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hoodwink'd. IACHIMO. 'Tis their fresh supplies. LUCIUS. It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes Let's reinforce or fly. Exeunt

Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline37.asp

On the battlefield, there is fierce fighting between the Romans and the British, with Posthumus in disguise. In a skirmish with Iachimo, Posthumus is able to defeat and disarm the former, but leaves him alive. Iachimo feels the burden of guilt and remorse at the way he has wronged a British princess and feels that his guilt has left him so weak that a peasant could overpower him. On the other hand, he also claims that if the rest of the British army were equal to, or better than this rough peasant, then "the odds / Is that we scarce are men and you are gods." As the battle continues, the British army is almost routed, and Cymbeline is taken prisoner. All seems lost when suddenly Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Posthumus in disguise, enter. They fight bravely and rescue Cymbeline. After they leave, Lucius, attended by Imogen in boys' clothes, enters with Iachimo. Lucius advises Fidele to save herself, as she is known to run away from the battlefield. Lucius is surprised at the way the fortunes of the British have turned, and advises Iachimo to get reinforcements for a fresh attack, failing which they would have to flee.

Notes The scene begins with Iachimo expressing his dismay at having belied Imogen's reputation and creating such animosity between her and her husband. His expression of remorse follows on the heels of Posthumus' own confession of guilt and so it is not surprising that they end up in a skirmish, fighting it out. Although Iachimo is unaware of the peasant he is fighting against, he complains that fighting him is difficult and that it must be due to the weight of what he has done and his weakened state of mind. The combat ends in the defeat of Iachimo, but he is not killed since he is needed for the denouement. His soliloquy, however, prepares the audience to meet him later as a repentant villain. The next encounter reveals that the Romans have captured Cymbeline but that his sons and Posthumus have managed to free him. The scene ends with a short exchange between Lucius and Iachimo commenting on the strange turn of events. Most of this scene provides information that will forward the plot and allow for a reconciliation.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_24_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 3

scene 3

{"name": "Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline38.asp", "summary": "In another part of the field, Posthumus is accosted by a British lord who asks him about the progress of the battle. Posthumus recounts that at one stage, the British army was overcome and in disarray, and the soldiers were fleeing down a narrow path leaving the King to the mercy of the enemy. Yet out of nowhere an old man accompanied by two young lads had appeared, and with their words and deeds, instilled such courage in the fleeing Britons that they turned back and fought bravely as lions, freeing the King from the clutches of the enemy. As Posthumus relates the strange story, the listener is amazed at the way the two young men had wrought such a change in the hearts of the fleeing men. Posthumus does not relay his own act of courage in this decisive battle and infers that he only acted with such bravery because he sought death. Now that Britain is victorious, Posthumus decides to rejoin the Italian army so that he may find his end at the hands of his British captors. He is so full of remorse at Imogen's death and his role in it that he wishes to lay down his life. Just then, two British captains enter and find Posthumus who claims to be Roman. He is brought before Cymbeline who delivers him over to a jailer.", "analysis": "Notes The scene is devoted to the recounting of the last valiant phase of the battle and Posthumus' own humble version of his contribution to it. Belarius and the two princes distinguish themselves in stemming the rout that had set in the British army. Posthumus is modest enough to eliminate from his account the glorious part that he himself played in turning the defeat into a decisive victory. The applause and glory are nothing to him as his interest in life has all dried up. In fact so low has he fallen in spirit that he is willing to pretend he is a Roman soldier so that he may be imprisoned and even sentenced to death for his crime against the state: his supposed murder of Imogen and the dissolution of the royal family."}

SCENE III. Another part of the field Enter POSTHUMUS and a Britain LORD LORD. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. LORD. I did. POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying, Through a strait lane- the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length'ned shame. LORD. Where was this lane? POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier- An honest one, I warrant, who deserv'd So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for's country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings- lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas'd or shame- Made good the passage, cried to those that fled 'Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!' These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many- For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing- with this word 'Stand, stand!' Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some turn'd coward But by example- O, a sin in war Damn'd in the first beginners!- gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o' th' hunters. Then began A stop i' th' chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o' th' need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O'erborne i' th' former wave. Ten chas'd by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o' th' field. LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And vent it for a mock'ry? Here is one: 'Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.' LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir. POSTHUMUS. 'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I'll be his friend; For if he'll do as he is made to do, I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. LORD. Farewell; you're angry. Exit POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i' th' field and ask 'What news?' of me! To-day how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses! took heel to do't, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i' th' war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum'd again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom's death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I'll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two BRITISH CAPTAINS and soldiers FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken. 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th' affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN. So 'tis reported; But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there? POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer'd him. SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th' King. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman captives. The CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a gaoler. Exeunt omnes

Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline38.asp

In another part of the field, Posthumus is accosted by a British lord who asks him about the progress of the battle. Posthumus recounts that at one stage, the British army was overcome and in disarray, and the soldiers were fleeing down a narrow path leaving the King to the mercy of the enemy. Yet out of nowhere an old man accompanied by two young lads had appeared, and with their words and deeds, instilled such courage in the fleeing Britons that they turned back and fought bravely as lions, freeing the King from the clutches of the enemy. As Posthumus relates the strange story, the listener is amazed at the way the two young men had wrought such a change in the hearts of the fleeing men. Posthumus does not relay his own act of courage in this decisive battle and infers that he only acted with such bravery because he sought death. Now that Britain is victorious, Posthumus decides to rejoin the Italian army so that he may find his end at the hands of his British captors. He is so full of remorse at Imogen's death and his role in it that he wishes to lay down his life. Just then, two British captains enter and find Posthumus who claims to be Roman. He is brought before Cymbeline who delivers him over to a jailer.

Notes The scene is devoted to the recounting of the last valiant phase of the battle and Posthumus' own humble version of his contribution to it. Belarius and the two princes distinguish themselves in stemming the rout that had set in the British army. Posthumus is modest enough to eliminate from his account the glorious part that he himself played in turning the defeat into a decisive victory. The applause and glory are nothing to him as his interest in life has all dried up. In fact so low has he fallen in spirit that he is willing to pretend he is a Roman soldier so that he may be imprisoned and even sentenced to death for his crime against the state: his supposed murder of Imogen and the dissolution of the royal family.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_25_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 4

scene 4

{"name": "Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline39.asp", "summary": "Posthumus is led into a British prison and left there in chains. Strangely enough, he rejoices in the captivity because death will free him from both physical and spiritual bondage. Although his sorrow and contrition are enough to pardon him in God's eyes, he wishes to give up his life in return for Imogen's. Exhausted, he sleeps and in his sleep, he has a vision. To the accompaniment of solemn music, the ghosts of Posthumus's father, mother, and his two brothers who have died in battle, enter. They circle round the sleeping Posthumus and appeal to Jupiter to take pity on him. They recount the various unjust events in Posthumus's life, and ask Jupiter why he has allowed these to happen. Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, seated upon an eagle. The ghosts grow silent as Jupiter tells them that those he loved most, he puts to the test. He then lays on Posthumus' breast a written oracular, foretelling the end of his troubles. Jupiter and the ghosts vanish, and Posthumus awakens from his sleep. He finds a parchment on his chest that contains a riddle that promises when the riddle is solved and complete then Posthumus's miseries will end, and Britain shall flourish in peace and plenty. Posthumus, however, considers it all just a dream and refuses to hope for anything. The jailers enter, and Posthumus is quite enthusiastic when they ask him if he is ready to die. When one jailer mentions that death means no more worries nor bills, Posthumus declares that he is happy to die. Just then, a messenger arrives from Cymbeline, asking for the prisoners to be brought before him. The jailers are amazed at Posthumus' eagerness as he faces death.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE IV. Britain. A prison Enter POSTHUMUS and two GAOLERS FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol'n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture. SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach. Exeunt GAOLERS POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that's sick o' th' gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd By th' sure physician death, who is the key T' unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is't enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir'd more than constrain'd. To satisfy, If of my freedom 'tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that's not my desire. For Imogen's dear life take mine; and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it. 'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow'rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I'll speak to thee in silence. [Sleeps] Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, SICILIUS LEONATUS, father to POSTHUMUS, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his WIFE, and mother to POSTHUMUS, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young LEONATI, brothers to POSTHUMUS, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle POSTHUMUS round as he lies sleeping SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay'd Attending nature's law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans' father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp'd, Came crying 'mongst his foes, A thing of pity. SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv'd the praise o' th' world As great Sicilius' heir. FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity? MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exil'd and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen? SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O' th' other's villainy? SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our country's cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius' right With honour to maintain. FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform'd. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn'd The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn'd? SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries. MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries. SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th' shining synod of the rest Against thy deity. BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly. JUPITER descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The GHOSTS fall on their knees JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flow'rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay'd, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends] SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulpherous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop'd as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas'd. ALL. Thanks, Jupiter! SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest. [GHOSTS vanish] POSTHUMUS. [Waking] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness' favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' 'Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I'll keep, if but for sympathy. Re-enter GAOLER GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death? POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago. GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook'd. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes in's head, then; I have not seen him so pictur'd. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one. POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging's the way of winking. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS. Thou bring'st good news: I am call'd to be made free. GAOLER. I'll be hang'd then. POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and MESSENGER GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't. Exit

Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline39.asp

Posthumus is led into a British prison and left there in chains. Strangely enough, he rejoices in the captivity because death will free him from both physical and spiritual bondage. Although his sorrow and contrition are enough to pardon him in God's eyes, he wishes to give up his life in return for Imogen's. Exhausted, he sleeps and in his sleep, he has a vision. To the accompaniment of solemn music, the ghosts of Posthumus's father, mother, and his two brothers who have died in battle, enter. They circle round the sleeping Posthumus and appeal to Jupiter to take pity on him. They recount the various unjust events in Posthumus's life, and ask Jupiter why he has allowed these to happen. Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, seated upon an eagle. The ghosts grow silent as Jupiter tells them that those he loved most, he puts to the test. He then lays on Posthumus' breast a written oracular, foretelling the end of his troubles. Jupiter and the ghosts vanish, and Posthumus awakens from his sleep. He finds a parchment on his chest that contains a riddle that promises when the riddle is solved and complete then Posthumus's miseries will end, and Britain shall flourish in peace and plenty. Posthumus, however, considers it all just a dream and refuses to hope for anything. The jailers enter, and Posthumus is quite enthusiastic when they ask him if he is ready to die. When one jailer mentions that death means no more worries nor bills, Posthumus declares that he is happy to die. Just then, a messenger arrives from Cymbeline, asking for the prisoners to be brought before him. The jailers are amazed at Posthumus' eagerness as he faces death.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Cymbeline/section_26_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 5

scene 5

{"name": "Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline41.asp", "summary": "The scene is set in Cymbeline's tent. Cymbeline enters along with Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Pisanio. He knights Belarius and the two young men for their services in battle, and is upset that they are unable to trace the fourth man, who was Posthumus in disguise, to honour him him as well. The physician Cornelius enters with bad news: the Queen is dead. Although Cymbeline is aggrieved, he is astounded at what the physician reveals to him. On her death-bed, mad with grief at the loss of her son, she had confessed that she had never loved the King and in fact had planned to kill him; she also revealed her hatred of the noble Imogen and how she had contrived to kill her. Cymbeline is shocked beyond measure, and now feels regret for the harsh way he had treated his daughter under the Queen's influence. The Roman general, Lucius, enters with his page Fidele, Iachimo, and the Soothsayer, under heavy guard. Behind them is brought Posthumus with guards. Cymbeline is triumphant and is ready to seek retribution for the loss of British lives. Lucius tells Cymbeline that if the battle had gone their way, they would have been more gracious in victory and not put their prisoners to the sword. He also reminds Cymbeline that to do so would only serve to bring Caesar's wrath upon himself. Lucius then pleads for the life of Fidele, his page, who is a Briton. Cymbeline finds Fidele's face familiar, and takes a liking to the 'boy', not realizing that it is Imogen. Contrary to Lucius's expectations, Imogen does not request Cymbeline to spare her master's life, but requests a moment alone with him. While she is speaking to Cymbeline, Belarius and the brothers wonder if it is the same person whom they had buried. Imogen then publicly asks of Iachimo how he had obtained the ring on his finger. After initial reluctance, Iachimo reveals, with regret, the base way in which he had tricked Posthumus into believing that he had managed to seduce Imogen. On hearing this, Posthumus erupts in anger and attacks Iachimo while lamenting that by ordering her death, he was guilty of nothing short of murder. When Imogen, in disguise, tries to stop him, he knocks her to the ground, little realizing her identity. However, Pisanio, who has by now recognized them both, reveals everything. Imogen revives, and noticing Pisanio, curses him for trying to poison her. Cymbeline is astonished, Pisanio affirms his innocence, and it falls to Cornelius the physician to reveal the secret of the potion that he had supplied to the Queen, which brought a death-like sleep. Now the mystery of Fidele's 'death' is solved. Pisanio reveals that Cloten, whose absence had led to the Queen's death, had pursued Imogen to Milford-Haven, dressed in Posthumus's clothes and vowing to dishonor Imogen. Guiderius then reveals that he had killed Cloten. When Cymbeline angrily decides to sentence the young man to death, Belarius intervenes to reveal the truth about the boys: they are the sons of Cymbeline lost in infancy. He blames Cymbeline, whose banishment of Belarius led to this situation, but is glad to present such fine boys to the King whose joy knows no bounds. He had lost all his children, and now he has them back. When proof has been produced in the form of a mole on Guiderius's neck and a mantle that had been wrapped round Arviragus, Cymbeline expresses his utmost happiness. He is curious to know of the various events in Imogen's life since she had left the court, but he knows that this is neither the time nor the place for such questions. Posthumus then reveals that he is the unknown soldier who fought along with Belarius and the others. Filled with joy, and having regained his family, Cymbeline is in a mood of forgiveness and reconciliation. He decides to let the captives go, for \"pardon's the word to all.\" Iachimo, overcome by remorse, asks forgiveness of Posthumus who is gracious enough to do so. Now the old Soothsayer interprets the parchment, explaining that when Posthumus is reunited with Imogen whom he had believed to be lost, and when Cymbeline \"the lofty cedar\" was reunited with his long-lost sons, then peace and plenty would reign in Britain. Cymbeline, touched by the peace and joy of restoration, now agrees , to pay the Roman the tribute for which he had been dissuaded by the Queen. A great Roman-British pax is proclaimed, ratified with ceremonies and feasts in Lud's town .", "analysis": ""}

SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S tent Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, LORDS, OFFICERS, and attendants CYMBELINE. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp'd before targes of proof, cannot be found. He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so. BELARIUS. I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought But beggary and poor looks. CYMBELINE. No tidings of him? PISANIO. He hath been search'd among the dead and living, But no trace of him. CYMBELINE. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward; [To BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS] which I will add To you, the liver, heart, and brain, of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. 'Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it. BELARIUS. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen; Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add we are honest. CYMBELINE. Bow your knees. Arise my knights o' th' battle; I create you Companions to our person, and will fit you With dignities becoming your estates. Enter CORNELIUS and LADIES There's business in these faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory? You look like Romans, And not o' th' court of Britain. CORNELIUS. Hail, great King! To sour your happiness I must report The Queen is dead. CYMBELINE. Who worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she? CORNELIUS. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd I will report, so please you; these her women Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks Were present when she finish'd. CYMBELINE. Prithee say. CORNELIUS. First, she confess'd she never lov'd you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you; Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorr'd your person. CYMBELINE. She alone knew this; And but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed. CORNELIUS. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her flight prevented it, she had Ta'en off by poison. CYMBELINE. O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more? CORNELIUS. More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral, which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life, and ling'ring, By inches waste you. In which time she purpos'd, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O'ercome you with her show; and in time, When she had fitted you with her craft, to work Her son into th' adoption of the crown; But failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate, open'd, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented The evils she hatch'd were not effected; so, Despairing, died. CYMBELINE. Heard you all this, her women? LADY. We did, so please your Highness. CYMBELINE. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter! That it was folly in me thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the SOOTHSAYER, and other Roman prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind, and IMOGEN Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute; that The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So think of your estate. LUCIUS. Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten'd Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call'd ransom, let it come. Sufficeth A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer. Augustus lives to think on't; and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom'd. Never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join With my request, which I'll make bold your Highness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm Though he have serv'd a Roman. Save him, sir, And spare no blood beside. CYMBELINE. I have surely seen him; His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore To say 'Live, boy.' Ne'er thank thy master. Live; And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, I'll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta'en. IMOGEN. I humbly thank your Highness. LUCIUS. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt. IMOGEN. No, no! Alack, There's other work in hand. I see a thing Bitter to me as death; your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself. LUCIUS. The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why stands he so perplex'd? CYMBELINE. What wouldst thou, boy? I love thee more and more; think more and more What's best to ask. Know'st him thou look'st on? Speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend? IMOGEN. He is a Roman, no more kin to me Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer. CYMBELINE. Wherefore ey'st him so? IMOGEN. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. CYMBELINE. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. CYMBELINE. Thou'rt my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart] BELARIUS. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? ARVIRAGUS. One sand another Not more resembles- that sweet rosy lad Who died and was Fidele. What think you? GUIDERIUS. The same dead thing alive. BELARIUS. Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear. Creatures may be alike; were't he, I am sure He would have spoke to us. GUIDERIUS. But we saw him dead. BELARIUS. Be silent; let's see further. PISANIO. [Aside] It is my mistress. Since she is living, let the time run on To good or bad. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN advance] CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud. [To IACHIMO] Sir, step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely, Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, Which is our honour, bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him. IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring. POSTHUMUS. [Aside] What's that to him? CYMBELINE. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours? IACHIMO. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken that Which to be spoke would torture thee. CYMBELINE. How? me? IACHIMO. I am glad to be constrain'd to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villainy I got this ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel, Whom thou didst banish; and- which more may grieve thee, As it doth me- a nobler sir ne'er liv'd 'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord? CYMBELINE. All that belongs to this. IACHIMO. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits Quail to remember- Give me leave, I faint. CYMBELINE. My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength; I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak. IACHIMO. Upon a time- unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!- was in Rome- accurs'd The mansion where!- 'twas at a feast- O, would Our viands had been poison'd, or at least Those which I heav'd to head!- the good Posthumus- What should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Amongst the rar'st of good ones- sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty that made barren the swell'd boast Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the eye- CYMBELINE. I stand on fire. Come to the matter. IACHIMO. All too soon I shall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a noble lord in love and one That had a royal lover, took his hint; And not dispraising whom we prais'd- therein He was as calm as virtue- he began His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in't, either our brags Were crack'd of kitchen trulls, or his description Prov'd us unspeaking sots. CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th' purpose. IACHIMO. Your daughter's chastity- there it begins. He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch, Made scruple of his praise, and wager'd with him Pieces of gold 'gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour'd finger, to attain In suit the place of's bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of Phoebus' wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth of's car. Away to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference 'Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench'd Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain Gan in your duller Britain operate Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent; And, to be brief, my practice so prevail'd That I return'd with simular proof enough To make the noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his belief in her renown With tokens thus and thus; averring notes Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet- O cunning, how I got it!- nay, some marks Of secret on her person, that he could not But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd, I having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon- Methinks I see him now- POSTHUMUS. [Coming forward] Ay, so thou dost, Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool, Egregious murderer, thief, anything That's due to all the villains past, in being, To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison, Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out For torturers ingenious. It is I That all th' abhorred things o' th' earth amend By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, That kill'd thy daughter; villain-like, I lie- That caus'd a lesser villain than myself, A sacrilegious thief, to do't. The temple Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself. Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set The dogs o' th' street to bay me. Every villain Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villainy less than 'twas! O Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen! IMOGEN. Peace, my lord. Hear, hear! POSTHUMUS. Shall's have a play of this? Thou scornful page, There lies thy part. [Strikes her. She falls] PISANIO. O gentlemen, help! Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus! You ne'er kill'd Imogen till now. Help, help! Mine honour'd lady! CYMBELINE. Does the world go round? POSTHUMUS. How comes these staggers on me? PISANIO. Wake, my mistress! CYMBELINE. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy. PISANIO. How fares my mistress? IMOGEN. O, get thee from my sight; Thou gav'st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where princes are. CYMBELINE. The tune of Imogen! PISANIO. Lady, The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if That box I gave you was not thought by me A precious thing! I had it from the Queen. CYMBELINE. New matter still? IMOGEN. It poison'd me. CORNELIUS. O gods! I left out one thing which the Queen confess'd, Which must approve thee honest. 'If Pisanio Have' said she 'given his mistress that confection Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv'd As I would serve a rat.' CYMBELINE. What's this, Cornelius? CORNELIUS. The Queen, sir, very oft importun'd me To temper poisons for her; still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge only In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs, Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certain stuff, which, being ta'en would cease The present pow'r of life, but in short time All offices of nature should again Do their due functions. Have you ta'en of it? IMOGEN. Most like I did, for I was dead. BELARIUS. My boys, There was our error. GUIDERIUS. This is sure Fidele. IMOGEN. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a rock, and now Throw me again. [Embracing him] POSTHUMUS. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die! CYMBELINE. How now, my flesh? my child? What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me? IMOGEN. [Kneeling] Your blessing, sir. BELARIUS. [To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not; You had a motive for't. CYMBELINE. My tears that fall Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mother's dead. IMOGEN. I am sorry for't, my lord. CYMBELINE. O, she was naught, and long of her it was That we meet here so strangely; but her son Is gone, we know not how nor where. PISANIO. My lord, Now fear is from me, I'll speak troth. Lord Cloten, Upon my lady's missing, came to me With his sword drawn, foam'd at the mouth, and swore, If I discover'd not which way she was gone, It was my instant death. By accident I had a feigned letter of my master's Then in my pocket, which directed him To seek her on the mountains near to Milford; Where, in a frenzy, in my master's garments, Which he enforc'd from me, away he posts With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My lady's honour. What became of him I further know not. GUIDERIUS. Let me end the story: I slew him there. CYMBELINE. Marry, the gods forfend! I would not thy good deeds should from my lips Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth, Deny't again. GUIDERIUS. I have spoke it, and I did it. CYMBELINE. He was a prince. GUIDERIUS. A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me With language that would make me spurn the sea, If it could so roar to me. I cut off's head, And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale of mine. CYMBELINE. I am sorry for thee. By thine own tongue thou art condemn'd, and must Endure our law. Thou'rt dead. IMOGEN. That headless man I thought had been my lord. CYMBELINE. Bind the offender, And take him from our presence. BELARIUS. Stay, sir King. This man is better than the man he slew, As well descended as thyself, and hath More of thee merited than a band of Clotens Had ever scar for. [To the guard] Let his arms alone; They were not born for bondage. CYMBELINE. Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we? ARVIRAGUS. In that he spake too far. CYMBELINE. And thou shalt die for't. BELARIUS. We will die all three; But I will prove that two on's are as good As I have given out him. My sons, I must For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech, Though haply well for you. ARVIRAGUS. Your danger's ours. GUIDERIUS. And our good his. BELARIUS. Have at it then by leave! Thou hadst, great King, a subject who Was call'd Belarius. CYMBELINE. What of him? He is A banish'd traitor. BELARIUS. He it is that hath Assum'd this age; indeed a banish'd man; I know not how a traitor. CYMBELINE. Take him hence, The whole world shall not save him. BELARIUS. Not too hot. First pay me for the nursing of thy sons, And let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have receiv'd it. CYMBELINE. Nursing of my sons? BELARIUS. I am too blunt and saucy: here's my knee. Ere I arise I will prefer my sons; Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, These two young gentlemen that call me father, And think they are my sons, are none of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting. CYMBELINE. How? my issue? BELARIUS. So sure as you your father's. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd. Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer'd Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes- For such and so they are- these twenty years Have I train'd up; those arts they have as Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment; I mov'd her to't, Having receiv'd the punishment before For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shap'd Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, Here are your sons again, and I must lose Two of the sweet'st companions in the world. The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars. CYMBELINE. Thou weep'st and speak'st. The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tell'st. I lost my children. If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier sons. BELARIUS. Be pleas'd awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius; This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp'd In a most curious mantle, wrought by th' hand Of his queen mother, which for more probation I can with ease produce. CYMBELINE. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder. BELARIUS. This is he, Who hath upon him still that natural stamp. It was wise nature's end in the donation, To be his evidence now. CYMBELINE. O, what am I? A mother to the birth of three? Ne'er mother Rejoic'd deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now! O Imogen, Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. IMOGEN. No, my lord; I have got two worlds by't. O my gentle brothers, Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter But I am truest speaker! You call'd me brother, When I was but your sister: I you brothers, When we were so indeed. CYMBELINE. Did you e'er meet? ARVIRAGUS. Ay, my good lord. GUIDERIUS. And at first meeting lov'd, Continu'd so until we thought he died. CORNELIUS. By the Queen's dram she swallow'd. CYMBELINE. O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgment Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv'd you? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your brothers? how first met them? Why fled you from the court? and whither? These, And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be demanded, And all the other by-dependences, From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place Will serve our long interrogatories. See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen; And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting Each object with a joy; the counterchange Is severally in all. Let's quit this ground, And smoke the temple with our sacrifices. [To BELARIUS] Thou art my brother; so we'll hold thee ever. IMOGEN. You are my father too, and did relieve me To see this gracious season. CYMBELINE. All o'erjoy'd Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort. IMOGEN. My good master, I will yet do you service. LUCIUS. Happy be you! CYMBELINE. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He would have well becom'd this place and grac'd The thankings of a king. POSTHUMUS. I am, sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor beseeming; 'twas a fitment for The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he, Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might Have made you finish. IACHIMO. [Kneeling] I am down again; But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe; but your ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith. POSTHUMUS. Kneel not to me. The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, And deal with others better. CYMBELINE. Nobly doom'd! We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law; Pardon's the word to all. ARVIRAGUS. You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our brother; Joy'd are we that you are. POSTHUMUS. Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back'd, Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows Of mine own kindred. When I wak'd, I found This label on my bosom; whose containing Is so from sense in hardness that I can Make no collection of it. Let him show His skill in the construction. LUCIUS. Philarmonus! SOOTHSAYER. Here, my good lord. LUCIUS. Read, and declare the meaning. SOOTHSAYER. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name, Being Leo-natus, doth import so much. [To CYMBELINE] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which we call 'mollis aer,' and 'mollis aer' We term it 'mulier'; which 'mulier' I divine Is this most constant wife, who even now Answering the letter of the oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about With this most tender air. CYMBELINE. This hath some seeming. SOOTHSAYER. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee; and thy lopp'd branches point Thy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol'n, For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd, To the majestic cedar join'd, whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty. CYMBELINE. Well, My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, Although the victor, we submit to Caesar And to the Roman empire, promising To pay our wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen, Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers, Have laid most heavy hand. SOOTHSAYER. The fingers of the pow'rs above do tune The harmony of this peace. The vision Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke Of yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant Is full accomplish'd; for the Roman eagle, From south to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessen'd herself and in the beams o' th' sun So vanish'd; which foreshow'd our princely eagle, Th'imperial Caesar, should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines here in the west. CYMBELINE. Laud we the gods; And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our bless'd altars. Publish we this peace To all our subjects. Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud's Town march; And in the temple of great Jupiter Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace. Exeunt THE END

Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820053313/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmCymbeline41.asp

The scene is set in Cymbeline's tent. Cymbeline enters along with Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Pisanio. He knights Belarius and the two young men for their services in battle, and is upset that they are unable to trace the fourth man, who was Posthumus in disguise, to honour him him as well. The physician Cornelius enters with bad news: the Queen is dead. Although Cymbeline is aggrieved, he is astounded at what the physician reveals to him. On her death-bed, mad with grief at the loss of her son, she had confessed that she had never loved the King and in fact had planned to kill him; she also revealed her hatred of the noble Imogen and how she had contrived to kill her. Cymbeline is shocked beyond measure, and now feels regret for the harsh way he had treated his daughter under the Queen's influence. The Roman general, Lucius, enters with his page Fidele, Iachimo, and the Soothsayer, under heavy guard. Behind them is brought Posthumus with guards. Cymbeline is triumphant and is ready to seek retribution for the loss of British lives. Lucius tells Cymbeline that if the battle had gone their way, they would have been more gracious in victory and not put their prisoners to the sword. He also reminds Cymbeline that to do so would only serve to bring Caesar's wrath upon himself. Lucius then pleads for the life of Fidele, his page, who is a Briton. Cymbeline finds Fidele's face familiar, and takes a liking to the 'boy', not realizing that it is Imogen. Contrary to Lucius's expectations, Imogen does not request Cymbeline to spare her master's life, but requests a moment alone with him. While she is speaking to Cymbeline, Belarius and the brothers wonder if it is the same person whom they had buried. Imogen then publicly asks of Iachimo how he had obtained the ring on his finger. After initial reluctance, Iachimo reveals, with regret, the base way in which he had tricked Posthumus into believing that he had managed to seduce Imogen. On hearing this, Posthumus erupts in anger and attacks Iachimo while lamenting that by ordering her death, he was guilty of nothing short of murder. When Imogen, in disguise, tries to stop him, he knocks her to the ground, little realizing her identity. However, Pisanio, who has by now recognized them both, reveals everything. Imogen revives, and noticing Pisanio, curses him for trying to poison her. Cymbeline is astonished, Pisanio affirms his innocence, and it falls to Cornelius the physician to reveal the secret of the potion that he had supplied to the Queen, which brought a death-like sleep. Now the mystery of Fidele's 'death' is solved. Pisanio reveals that Cloten, whose absence had led to the Queen's death, had pursued Imogen to Milford-Haven, dressed in Posthumus's clothes and vowing to dishonor Imogen. Guiderius then reveals that he had killed Cloten. When Cymbeline angrily decides to sentence the young man to death, Belarius intervenes to reveal the truth about the boys: they are the sons of Cymbeline lost in infancy. He blames Cymbeline, whose banishment of Belarius led to this situation, but is glad to present such fine boys to the King whose joy knows no bounds. He had lost all his children, and now he has them back. When proof has been produced in the form of a mole on Guiderius's neck and a mantle that had been wrapped round Arviragus, Cymbeline expresses his utmost happiness. He is curious to know of the various events in Imogen's life since she had left the court, but he knows that this is neither the time nor the place for such questions. Posthumus then reveals that he is the unknown soldier who fought along with Belarius and the others. Filled with joy, and having regained his family, Cymbeline is in a mood of forgiveness and reconciliation. He decides to let the captives go, for "pardon's the word to all." Iachimo, overcome by remorse, asks forgiveness of Posthumus who is gracious enough to do so. Now the old Soothsayer interprets the parchment, explaining that when Posthumus is reunited with Imogen whom he had believed to be lost, and when Cymbeline "the lofty cedar" was reunited with his long-lost sons, then peace and plenty would reign in Britain. Cymbeline, touched by the peace and joy of restoration, now agrees , to pay the Roman the tribute for which he had been dissuaded by the Queen. A great Roman-British pax is proclaimed, ratified with ceremonies and feasts in Lud's town .

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_0_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 1

act 1 scene 1

{"name": "Act 1 Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene1", "summary": "Two gentlemen are talking in the palace of Cymbeline, King of Britain. The First Gentleman says that all the courtiers are frowning, reflecting the sorrowful mood of the King. He explains the reason: the King's daughter, Imogen, has married Posthumus Leonatus, a poor but worthy man, against the wishes of her father and his current wife, the Queen. The King has banished Posthumus and imprisoned Imogen. The King and Queen had wanted Imogen to marry Cloten, the Queen's son by a previous husband. . The First Gentleman says that despite their sad appearance, the courtiers are secretly glad about the marriage, as Cloten is \"too bad for bad report\" . In contrast, he says Imogen's chosen husband is both outwardly handsome and inwardly good. He is the son of Sicilius, who won military glory fighting for King Cymbeline's father, Tenantius, against the Romans. Sicilius earned the surname Leonatus for his bravery. Besides Posthumus, Sicilius also had two other sons, who died in battle, \"with their swords in hand\" , whereupon Sicilius died of grief. Sicilius' wife was pregnant and died giving birth to Posthumus. . Since Posthumus was now an orphan, the King took him under his care and brought him up. Posthumus grew to be loved and respected in the court. The First Gentleman says that his virtue is demonstrated by the fact that Imogen, the King's daughter and heir, has chosen him. Imogen is the King's only child. He once had two sons, but twenty years ago, both were stolen from the nursery when the eldest was three and the youngest a baby. The Second Gentleman is surprised that the King's children were so poorly guarded, and the search so slow that it could not trace them. . The gentlemen end their talk as the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen enter. .", "analysis": ". Little is known about the historical Cymbeline, son of Theomantius . He became King of Britain in 33 BC, when it was an outpost of the Roman empire. He reigned for 35 years, leaving two sons, Guiderius and Arvigarus. He was brought up in Rome and was absolved by Augustus Caesar of paying tribute. Subsequently, tribute was demanded and refused, but the chronicler Holinshed, one of Shakespeare's main sources, is unsure whether Cymbeline or some other King refused to pay. Caesar then invaded Britain. Holinshed wrote that British chroniclers claim the Romans were twice defeated in battle, but comments that Latin sources claimed ultimate victory for the Romans. Shakespeare, for the purposes of his play, has Cymbeline refuse to pay the tribute. . The play's first scene is an expository one in that it gives the background to the story and tells us something about the main characters. It sets up a stark contrast between Imogen's two suitors: the Queen's son Cloten, an unworthy man, and the King's ward, Posthumus, as virtuous as he is attractive. . It also introduces two major themes of the play. The first is outward appearance versus inward truth . At court, the two are at odds, leading to a hypocritical atmosphere. Related to this theme is outward nobility of birth , which is not earned and which can be superficial, versus inward nobility of character , which must be earned and runs deep. Imogen, who is both well-born and appreciates true goodness, unites both. However, in her decision to marry the poor but worthy Posthumus, she has initiated a conflict with her parents, who are unable to see beyond his undistinguished birth. . The disappearance of the King's sons carries intense symbolic importance. The Romance tradition of literature often featured a king who was wounded or disabled in some way. When the king, the symbolic head of a nation, was sick, his country was sick too: crops failed, disease and famine thrived. The hero of the story went on a quest to find the regenerative \"cure\" for the king's ailment and, by extension, his country. In this tradition, to which all Shakespeare's Romance plays belong, the cure is often found by someone from the younger generation, which represents regeneration, fertility, and vigorous new life. . In Cymbeline, the fact that the King has lost his sons leaves him cut off from this life-giving quality. Only Imogen is left of the younger generation, but the King has rejected her. Severed from the regenerative root, the King and his court are left to wither and decay in destructive emotions like resentment and revenge. Through reference to the Romance tradition, we expect that Cymbeline's cure will involve being reunited with his sons and reconciled with Imogen."}

ACT I. SCENE I. Britain. The garden of CYMBELINE'S palace FIRST GENTLEMAN. You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the King's. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what's the matter? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His daughter, and the heir of's kingdom, whom He purpos'd to his wife's sole son- a widow That late he married- hath referr'd herself Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She's wedded; Her husband banish'd; she imprison'd. All Is outward sorrow, though I think the King Be touch'd at very heart. SECOND GENTLEMAN. None but the King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath lost her too. So is the Queen, That most desir'd the match. But not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King's looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And why so? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath miss'd the Princess is a thing Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her- I mean that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish'd- is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You speak him far. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What's his name and birth? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I cannot delve him to the root; his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He serv'd with glory and admir'd success, So gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus; And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars o' th' time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being; and his gentle lady, Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas'd As he was born. The King he takes the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make him the receiver of; which he took, As we do air, fast as 'twas minist'red, And in's spring became a harvest, liv'd in court- Which rare it is to do- most prais'd, most lov'd, A sample to the youngest; to th' more mature A glass that feated them; and to the graver A child that guided dotards. To his mistress, For whom he now is banish'd- her own price Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I honour him Even out of your report. But pray you tell me, Is she sole child to th' King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His only child. He had two sons- if this be worth your hearing, Mark it- the eldest of them at three years old, I' th' swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. SECOND GENTLEMAN. How long is this ago? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That a king's children should be so convey'd, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow That could not trace them! FIRST GENTLEMAN. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do well believe you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. We must forbear; here comes the gentleman, The Queen, and Princess. Exeunt Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN QUEEN. No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey'd unto you. You're my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win th' offended King, I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you. POSTHUMUS. Please your Highness, I will from hence to-day. QUEEN. You know the peril. I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections, though the King Hath charg'd you should not speak together. Exit IMOGEN. O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing- Always reserv'd my holy duty- what His rage can do on me. You must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again. POSTHUMUS. My queen! my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth; My residence in Rome at one Philario's, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Re-enter QUEEN QUEEN. Be brief, I pray you. If the King come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I'll move him To walk this way. I never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for my offences. Exit POSTHUMUS. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! IMOGEN. Nay, stay a little. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love: This diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; But keep it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead. POSTHUMUS. How, how? Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here [Puts on the ring] While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles I still win of you. For my sake wear this; It is a manacle of love; I'll place it Upon this fairest prisoner. [Puts a bracelet on her arm] IMOGEN. O the gods! When shall we see again? Enter CYMBELINE and LORDS POSTHUMUS. Alack, the King! CYMBELINE. Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood. POSTHUMUS. The gods protect you, And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone. Exit IMOGEN. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. CYMBELINE. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st A year's age on me! IMOGEN. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation. I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. CYMBELINE. Past grace? obedience? IMOGEN. Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace. CYMBELINE. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen! IMOGEN. O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock. CYMBELINE. Thou took'st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness. IMOGEN. No; I rather added A lustre to it. CYMBELINE. O thou vile one! IMOGEN. Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus. You bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman; overbuys me Almost the sum he pays. CYMBELINE. What, art thou mad? IMOGEN. Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd's son! Re-enter QUEEN CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing! [To the QUEEN] They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up. QUEEN. Beseech your patience.- Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace!- Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort Out of your best advice. CYMBELINE. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day and, being aged, Die of this folly. Exit, with LORDS Enter PISANIO QUEEN. Fie! you must give way. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news? PISANIO. My lord your son drew on my master. QUEEN. Ha! No harm, I trust, is done? PISANIO. There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than fought, And had no help of anger; they were parted By gentlemen at hand. QUEEN. I am very glad on't. IMOGEN. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both together; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came you from your master? PISANIO. On his command. He would not suffer me To bring him to the haven; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to, When't pleas'd you to employ me. QUEEN. This hath been Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour He will remain so. PISANIO. I humbly thank your Highness. QUEEN. Pray walk awhile. IMOGEN. About some half-hour hence, Pray you speak with me. You shall at least Go see my lord aboard. For this time leave me. Exeunt

Act 1 Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene1

Two gentlemen are talking in the palace of Cymbeline, King of Britain. The First Gentleman says that all the courtiers are frowning, reflecting the sorrowful mood of the King. He explains the reason: the King's daughter, Imogen, has married Posthumus Leonatus, a poor but worthy man, against the wishes of her father and his current wife, the Queen. The King has banished Posthumus and imprisoned Imogen. The King and Queen had wanted Imogen to marry Cloten, the Queen's son by a previous husband. . The First Gentleman says that despite their sad appearance, the courtiers are secretly glad about the marriage, as Cloten is "too bad for bad report" . In contrast, he says Imogen's chosen husband is both outwardly handsome and inwardly good. He is the son of Sicilius, who won military glory fighting for King Cymbeline's father, Tenantius, against the Romans. Sicilius earned the surname Leonatus for his bravery. Besides Posthumus, Sicilius also had two other sons, who died in battle, "with their swords in hand" , whereupon Sicilius died of grief. Sicilius' wife was pregnant and died giving birth to Posthumus. . Since Posthumus was now an orphan, the King took him under his care and brought him up. Posthumus grew to be loved and respected in the court. The First Gentleman says that his virtue is demonstrated by the fact that Imogen, the King's daughter and heir, has chosen him. Imogen is the King's only child. He once had two sons, but twenty years ago, both were stolen from the nursery when the eldest was three and the youngest a baby. The Second Gentleman is surprised that the King's children were so poorly guarded, and the search so slow that it could not trace them. . The gentlemen end their talk as the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen enter. .

. Little is known about the historical Cymbeline, son of Theomantius . He became King of Britain in 33 BC, when it was an outpost of the Roman empire. He reigned for 35 years, leaving two sons, Guiderius and Arvigarus. He was brought up in Rome and was absolved by Augustus Caesar of paying tribute. Subsequently, tribute was demanded and refused, but the chronicler Holinshed, one of Shakespeare's main sources, is unsure whether Cymbeline or some other King refused to pay. Caesar then invaded Britain. Holinshed wrote that British chroniclers claim the Romans were twice defeated in battle, but comments that Latin sources claimed ultimate victory for the Romans. Shakespeare, for the purposes of his play, has Cymbeline refuse to pay the tribute. . The play's first scene is an expository one in that it gives the background to the story and tells us something about the main characters. It sets up a stark contrast between Imogen's two suitors: the Queen's son Cloten, an unworthy man, and the King's ward, Posthumus, as virtuous as he is attractive. . It also introduces two major themes of the play. The first is outward appearance versus inward truth . At court, the two are at odds, leading to a hypocritical atmosphere. Related to this theme is outward nobility of birth , which is not earned and which can be superficial, versus inward nobility of character , which must be earned and runs deep. Imogen, who is both well-born and appreciates true goodness, unites both. However, in her decision to marry the poor but worthy Posthumus, she has initiated a conflict with her parents, who are unable to see beyond his undistinguished birth. . The disappearance of the King's sons carries intense symbolic importance. The Romance tradition of literature often featured a king who was wounded or disabled in some way. When the king, the symbolic head of a nation, was sick, his country was sick too: crops failed, disease and famine thrived. The hero of the story went on a quest to find the regenerative "cure" for the king's ailment and, by extension, his country. In this tradition, to which all Shakespeare's Romance plays belong, the cure is often found by someone from the younger generation, which represents regeneration, fertility, and vigorous new life. . In Cymbeline, the fact that the King has lost his sons leaves him cut off from this life-giving quality. Only Imogen is left of the younger generation, but the King has rejected her. Severed from the regenerative root, the King and his court are left to wither and decay in destructive emotions like resentment and revenge. Through reference to the Romance tradition, we expect that Cymbeline's cure will involve being reunited with his sons and reconciled with Imogen.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_1_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 2

act 1 scene 2

{"name": "Act 1 Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene2", "summary": "The Queen tells Imogen that she is no wicked stepmother in that she supports her in her decision. She will have Imogen set free and speak in favor of Posthumus to the King. But she advises Posthumus to comply with the King's sentence of banishment. Posthumus agrees to leave today. The Queen leaves the newly-wed couple alone \"in pity\" of their state, in spite of the King's orders that they should not speak together. Imogen tells Posthumus that the Queen is only pretending to be on their side. She has braced herself to stay and face her father's anger, and sorrowfully urges Posthumus to leave. Posthumus, moved by Imogen's grief, pledges his loyalty to her. He will go to Rome and stay with his father's friend Philario. The Queen re-enters and advises the couple to be brief as she is at risk of angering the King. In a sinister aside to the audience, she reveals that she is sure of winning the King over to her way of thinking, since he always submits to the wrongs she does him in order to keep her friendship. Left alone with Posthumus, Imogen gives him a diamond ring, which belonged to her mother. She asks him to keep it until he woos another wife, after she herself is dead. He protests that he only wants one wife - Imogen - and that he would die sooner than take another. He puts the ring on her finger and also gives her a bracelet to wear for his sake. As Imogen wonders when they will meet again, Cymbeline comes in, furious to see Posthumus still there. Posthumus leaves with a blessing on \"the good remainders of the court\" . The King then charges Imogen with disloyalty, but Imogen advises him not to harm himself with his wrath; she is senseless of it, since parting from her husband is a greater pain. He accuses her of bringing \"baseness\" on his throne by taking a \"beggar\" for her husband; she insists that she has added \"lustre\" to it . She points out that it is Cymbeline's fault that she loves Posthumus, as Cymbeline brought them up together, and adds that Posthumus is \"a man worth any woman\" . As the Queen enters, Cymbeline scolds her for disobeying his command and allowing the couple to meet. The Queen asks the King to leave her with them, which he does. Pisanio, Posthumus's servant, comes in and tells the Queen that her son Cloten has drawn his sword on Posthumus. Posthumus was not incited to anger and did not try to hurt Cloten; others parted them. Imogen wishes they had been in some lonely place and that the fight had been concluded, presumably with the destruction of Cloten. Posthumus has sent Pisanio back to serve Imogen. Imogen asks him to come and see her in half an hour's time.", "analysis": ". The King is consumed by anger that his ambitions for his daughter have been thwarted, and the Queen is engaged in scheming for her own selfish ends. It is left to the young couple, Imogen and Posthumus, to act from a basis of love and selflessness. Our sympathies are with them, and this is reinforced by Posthumus's generous treatment of Cloten, whom he avoids harming in a fight even though Cloten was the aggressor. The theme of appearance versus reality is developed further. Imogen refers to the Queen's \"dissembling courtesy\" , as she sees that the Queen is really self-serving underneath her pretended support for the newly-wed couple. The Queen reveals her hypocritical nature in an aside which tells the audience that she plays upon the King's emotions for her own ends . The contrast between outward rank and inward worth is brought home in Cymbeline's accusation that Posthumus is a base \"beggar\" since he is low-born, whereas Imogen protests his true worth. It is worth noting in this scene that Imogen wishes that she were a goatherd's daughter, and Posthumus a shepherd's son. The theme of the innocence and purity of the countryside and its dwellers contrasted with the corruption of the court is a traditional one of Romance plays."}

SCENE II. Britain. A public place Enter CLOTEN and two LORDS FIRST LORD. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. CLOTEN. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him? SECOND LORD. [Aside] No, faith; not so much as his patience. FIRST LORD. Hurt him! His body's a passable carcass if he be not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt. SECOND LORD. [Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o' th' back side the town. CLOTEN. The villain would not stand me. SECOND LORD. [Aside] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face. FIRST LORD. Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground. SECOND LORD. [Aside] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies! CLOTEN. I would they had not come between us. SECOND LORD. [Aside] So would I, till you had measur'd how long a fool you were upon the ground. CLOTEN. And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me! SECOND LORD. [Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn'd. FIRST LORD. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she's a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit. SECOND LORD. [Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her. CLOTEN. Come, I'll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done! SECOND LORD. [Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt. CLOTEN. You'll go with us? FIRST LORD. I'll attend your lordship. CLOTEN. Nay, come, let's go together. SECOND LORD. Well, my lord. Exeunt

Act 1 Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene2

The Queen tells Imogen that she is no wicked stepmother in that she supports her in her decision. She will have Imogen set free and speak in favor of Posthumus to the King. But she advises Posthumus to comply with the King's sentence of banishment. Posthumus agrees to leave today. The Queen leaves the newly-wed couple alone "in pity" of their state, in spite of the King's orders that they should not speak together. Imogen tells Posthumus that the Queen is only pretending to be on their side. She has braced herself to stay and face her father's anger, and sorrowfully urges Posthumus to leave. Posthumus, moved by Imogen's grief, pledges his loyalty to her. He will go to Rome and stay with his father's friend Philario. The Queen re-enters and advises the couple to be brief as she is at risk of angering the King. In a sinister aside to the audience, she reveals that she is sure of winning the King over to her way of thinking, since he always submits to the wrongs she does him in order to keep her friendship. Left alone with Posthumus, Imogen gives him a diamond ring, which belonged to her mother. She asks him to keep it until he woos another wife, after she herself is dead. He protests that he only wants one wife - Imogen - and that he would die sooner than take another. He puts the ring on her finger and also gives her a bracelet to wear for his sake. As Imogen wonders when they will meet again, Cymbeline comes in, furious to see Posthumus still there. Posthumus leaves with a blessing on "the good remainders of the court" . The King then charges Imogen with disloyalty, but Imogen advises him not to harm himself with his wrath; she is senseless of it, since parting from her husband is a greater pain. He accuses her of bringing "baseness" on his throne by taking a "beggar" for her husband; she insists that she has added "lustre" to it . She points out that it is Cymbeline's fault that she loves Posthumus, as Cymbeline brought them up together, and adds that Posthumus is "a man worth any woman" . As the Queen enters, Cymbeline scolds her for disobeying his command and allowing the couple to meet. The Queen asks the King to leave her with them, which he does. Pisanio, Posthumus's servant, comes in and tells the Queen that her son Cloten has drawn his sword on Posthumus. Posthumus was not incited to anger and did not try to hurt Cloten; others parted them. Imogen wishes they had been in some lonely place and that the fight had been concluded, presumably with the destruction of Cloten. Posthumus has sent Pisanio back to serve Imogen. Imogen asks him to come and see her in half an hour's time.

. The King is consumed by anger that his ambitions for his daughter have been thwarted, and the Queen is engaged in scheming for her own selfish ends. It is left to the young couple, Imogen and Posthumus, to act from a basis of love and selflessness. Our sympathies are with them, and this is reinforced by Posthumus's generous treatment of Cloten, whom he avoids harming in a fight even though Cloten was the aggressor. The theme of appearance versus reality is developed further. Imogen refers to the Queen's "dissembling courtesy" , as she sees that the Queen is really self-serving underneath her pretended support for the newly-wed couple. The Queen reveals her hypocritical nature in an aside which tells the audience that she plays upon the King's emotions for her own ends . The contrast between outward rank and inward worth is brought home in Cymbeline's accusation that Posthumus is a base "beggar" since he is low-born, whereas Imogen protests his true worth. It is worth noting in this scene that Imogen wishes that she were a goatherd's daughter, and Posthumus a shepherd's son. The theme of the innocence and purity of the countryside and its dwellers contrasted with the corruption of the court is a traditional one of Romance plays.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_2_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 3

act 1 scene 3

{"name": "Act 1 Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene3", "summary": "The First Lord advises Cloten to change his shirt, which smells as a result of his fighting with Posthumus, though the Lord, in an attempt to flatter Cloten, tries unconvincingly to suggest that it is the air outside Cloten's shirt that is unwholesome. Cloten only sees the need to change his shirt if it were bloody, and asks if Posthumus is hurt. The Second Lord reveals in an aside to the audience that he is not, but the First Lord tries to flatter Cloten by saying it would be remarkable if Posthumus were not hurt. The Second Lord continues to address the audience in asides revealing Cloten's cowardice and Posthumus's bravery in the fight. Cloten claims he wishes the onlookers had not parted them, and the Second Lord says in an aside that he wishes Posthumus had killed Cloten. Cloten is astonished that Imogen could prefer Posthumus to himself. The First lord replies that her beauty exceeds her intelligence.", "analysis": ". The Second Lord echoes Imogen's wish in the previous scene that Posthumus had killed Cloten. This sets up an expectation that Cloten may indeed be disposed of. The contrast between the First Lord's flattering remarks to Cloten and the Second Lord's contempt for him, expressed in asides to the audience, reveal the hypocrisy and underlying discontent at court, where people say one thing but think another. Such disunity in Shakespeare indicates an unsustainable situation, since if truth is to prevail, that which is false must be destroyed. Cloten's vanity and lack of self-knowledge are plain in this, our first sight of him. Cloten speaks in prose, revealing his unrefined nature, whereas Imogen and Posthumus address each other in blank verse, as befits their more refined characters. Cloten also smells bad, which in Shakespeare is a sure sign of an uncivilized nature."}

SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter IMOGEN and PISANIO IMOGEN. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven, And questioned'st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost, As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee? PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen! IMOGEN. Then wav'd his handkerchief? PISANIO. And kiss'd it, madam. IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I! And that was all? PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with his eye, or care Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him. PISANIO. Madam, so I did. IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack'd them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him? PISANIO. Be assur'd, madam, With his next vantage. IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg'd him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, T' encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. Enter a LADY LADY. The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness' company. IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch'd. I will attend the Queen. PISANIO. Madam, I shall. Exeunt

Act 1 Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene3

The First Lord advises Cloten to change his shirt, which smells as a result of his fighting with Posthumus, though the Lord, in an attempt to flatter Cloten, tries unconvincingly to suggest that it is the air outside Cloten's shirt that is unwholesome. Cloten only sees the need to change his shirt if it were bloody, and asks if Posthumus is hurt. The Second Lord reveals in an aside to the audience that he is not, but the First Lord tries to flatter Cloten by saying it would be remarkable if Posthumus were not hurt. The Second Lord continues to address the audience in asides revealing Cloten's cowardice and Posthumus's bravery in the fight. Cloten claims he wishes the onlookers had not parted them, and the Second Lord says in an aside that he wishes Posthumus had killed Cloten. Cloten is astonished that Imogen could prefer Posthumus to himself. The First lord replies that her beauty exceeds her intelligence.

. The Second Lord echoes Imogen's wish in the previous scene that Posthumus had killed Cloten. This sets up an expectation that Cloten may indeed be disposed of. The contrast between the First Lord's flattering remarks to Cloten and the Second Lord's contempt for him, expressed in asides to the audience, reveal the hypocrisy and underlying discontent at court, where people say one thing but think another. Such disunity in Shakespeare indicates an unsustainable situation, since if truth is to prevail, that which is false must be destroyed. Cloten's vanity and lack of self-knowledge are plain in this, our first sight of him. Cloten speaks in prose, revealing his unrefined nature, whereas Imogen and Posthumus address each other in blank verse, as befits their more refined characters. Cloten also smells bad, which in Shakespeare is a sure sign of an uncivilized nature.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_3_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 4

act 1 scene 4

{"name": "Act 1 Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene4", "summary": "Imogen questions Pisanio about his last sight of Posthumus and hopes he will write. Posthumus's final words were about Imogen as he unwillingly sailed away from her. Imogen regrets that she did not have time to say all that she had wanted to her husband - her worries that Posthumus would be tempted away from her by Italian women, and her desire that he should think of her at certain pre-arranged time - before Cymbeline came in and interrupted them. A lady enters and tells Imogen that the Queen wishes to see her.", "analysis": ". The love between the young couple is reinforced by Pisanio's account of Posthumus's actions on leaving. The language of the seasons and nature's cycles runs through all the Romance plays. Here, Imogen likens her father's interruption of her meeting with Posthumus to the \"tyrannous breathing of the north\" that \"shakes all our buds from growing\" . The young lovers embody the regenerative and life-giving warm spring season , whereas Cymbeline represents the chill north wind that prevents the growth of their love."}

SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter PHILARIO, IACHIMO, a FRENCHMAN, a DUTCHMAN, and a SPANIARD IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look'd on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items. PHILARIO. You speak of him when he was less furnish'd than now he is with that which makes him both without and within. FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his king's daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter. FRENCHMAN. And then his banishment. IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance? PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Enter POSTHUMUS Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing. FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans. POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still. FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o'errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature. POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn'd to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others' experiences; but upon my mended judgment- if I offend not to say it is mended- my quarrel was not altogether slight. FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall'n both. IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference? FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. 'Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching- and upon warrant of bloody affirmation- his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France. IACHIMO. That lady is not now living, or this gentleman's opinion, by this, worn out. POSTHUMUS. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind. IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer her fore ours of Italy. POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok'd as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend. IACHIMO. As fair and as good- a kind of hand-in-hand comparison- had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. POSTHUMUS. I prais'd her as I rated her. So do I my stone. IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at? POSTHUMUS. More than the world enjoys. IACHIMO. Either your unparagon'd mistress is dead, or she's outpriz'd by a trifle. POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. IACHIMO. Which the gods have given you? POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep. IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol'n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish'd courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last. POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish'd a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring. PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen. POSTHUMUS. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first. IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend. POSTHUMUS. No, no. IACHIMO. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o'ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus'd in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y'are worthy of by your attempt. IACHIMO. What's that? POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more- a punishment too. PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted. IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour's on th' approbation of what I have spoke! POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to assail? IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv'd. POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; 'tis part of it. IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear. POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope. IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what's spoken, I swear. POSTHUMUS. Will you? I Shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between's. My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: here's my ring. PHILARIO. I will have it no lay. IACHIMO. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy'd the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours- provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment. POSTHUMUS. I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail'd, I am no further your enemy- she is not worth our debate; if she remain unseduc'd, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and th' assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword. IACHIMO. Your hand- a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. POSTHUMUS. Agreed. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and IACHIMO FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you? PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow 'em. Exeunt

Act 1 Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene4

Imogen questions Pisanio about his last sight of Posthumus and hopes he will write. Posthumus's final words were about Imogen as he unwillingly sailed away from her. Imogen regrets that she did not have time to say all that she had wanted to her husband - her worries that Posthumus would be tempted away from her by Italian women, and her desire that he should think of her at certain pre-arranged time - before Cymbeline came in and interrupted them. A lady enters and tells Imogen that the Queen wishes to see her.

. The love between the young couple is reinforced by Pisanio's account of Posthumus's actions on leaving. The language of the seasons and nature's cycles runs through all the Romance plays. Here, Imogen likens her father's interruption of her meeting with Posthumus to the "tyrannous breathing of the north" that "shakes all our buds from growing" . The young lovers embody the regenerative and life-giving warm spring season , whereas Cymbeline represents the chill north wind that prevents the growth of their love.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_4_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 5

act 1 scene 5

{"name": "Act 1 Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene5", "summary": "The scene is set in Rome at the house of Philario, where Posthumus intends to stay. Iachimo, a friend of Philario's, is speaking cynically about Posthumus, whom he has seen on a trip to Britain. He hints that he may not be as worthy as he is popularly believed to be. Philario replies that Posthumus has since grown in worth \"both without and within\" . Iachimo suggests that his marriage to the King's daughter gives him a reputation he does not deserve, and that people would rather exaggerate Posthumus's goodness than question Imogen's judgment for \"taking a beggar\" . He asks Philario why Posthumus is staying with him. Philario explains that he and Posthumus's father Sicilius were soldiers together, and that Sicilius saved his life. Posthumus arrives and Philario introduces him to the others present-Iachimo, a Frenchman and a Dutchman. The Frenchman reminds Posthumus that he has met him before, at Orleans, where he made peace between Posthumus and another Frenchman when they were about to fight over a trivial matter. Posthumus protests that the matter was not trivial. Iachimo inquires what it was, and the Frenchman explains that Posthumus had maintained that his lover, Imogen, was more beautiful, chaste and virtuous than any woman in France. Iachimo sneers that either the lady or Posthumus's opinion must not still exist. Posthumus protests that both her virtue and his opinion hold. Iachimo extends the quarrel, saying Posthumus cannot set her above Italian women. Posthumus will not give ground. Iachimo introduces a comparison between Posthumus's wife and his diamond. It may be, he says, that the diamond outshines many others that he has seen, but he has not seen the most precious diamond in existence, and neither has Posthumus seen the best woman in existence. When Posthumus says he values his diamond as more precious than any other, Iachimo wrongly implies that he prizes his diamond above Imogen. But Posthumus sets him right, pointing out that Imogen cannot be bought or sold, and is \"only the gift of the gods\" . Iachimo suggests that of Posthumus's two priceless things, the diamond ring and Imogen, the one could be stolen and the second is \"frail\" ; both are vulnerable to thieves. Posthumus replies that Italy contains no courtier accomplished enough to convince Imogen to betray him, and neither does he fear the loss of his ring. Iachimo issues a challenge to Posthumus: he says he could get the better of Imogen's-or any woman's-virtue \"even to the yielding,\" an expression that implies sexual as well as military surrender. He wagers half his estate against Posthumus's ring that he will prevail. Posthumus refuses, saying that Iachimo deserves punishment. Philario intervenes, asking them to forget their disagreement. Iachimo now wishes he had extended his wager to include his neighbor's estate. He suggests a bet of ten thousand ducats against Posthumus's ring that, given an introduction to the court where Imogen lives, he will defeat her honor and bring back proof. Posthumus agrees to the wager with the addition that if Iachimo prevails, he will not treat him as an enemy, since Imogen will not be worth the debate. But if Imogen refuses to be seduced, then for the insult Iachimo has offered to her chastity, Posthumus will fight him. Iachimo agrees and says they will have a legal agreement drawn up.", "analysis": ". Philario says he is happy to let Posthumus's true worth speak for itself, rather than praise him unnecessarily: such is his confidence in the reality of his goodness. In Posthumus's case, there is no difference between appearance and reality. Iachimo, in contrast, who cynically judges all men by his own debased standards, tries to suggest that Posthumus's reputation is not deserved and that he borrows any perceived worth from his marriage with the King's daughter. His attitude is a veiled warning that he will try to prove his mean estimation of Posthumus to be true-that he will attempt to bring him down to his own base level. Iachimo's military metaphors are worth noting. He says that popular praise of Posthumus is calculated to \"fortify\" Imogen's questionable judgment, which is so weak it would fall before an \"easy battery\" . He is confident that his conversation could \"get ground of\" Imogen and make her yield-military terms for driving an enemy into retreat and making them surrender. This says much about his world view: to him, good people are enemies to be vanquished. Iachimo's skill in making mischief is clearly portrayed in this scene. On hearing that Posthumus was previously willing to fight to defend his lady's virtue, he realizes that this is a sensitive area where Posthumus is vulnerable to attack. He quickly divines the things that are most precious to Posthumus , and attempts to equate the two by suggesting that Imogen can be stolen as easily as the diamond. This scene makes use of images of buying, selling, and worth, a major theme in the play. The cynical Iachimo implies that as a poor man, Posthumus's worth is only borrowed from the King's daughter, that he is \"weighed rather by her value than his own.\" Also, Posthumus and Iachimo discuss in detail what Imogen, and Posthumus's diamond, are worth."}

SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter QUEEN, LADIES, and CORNELIUS QUEEN. Whiles yet the dew's on ground, gather those flowers; Make haste; who has the note of them? LADY. I, madam. QUEEN. Dispatch. Exeunt LADIES Now, Master Doctor, have you brought those drugs? CORNELIUS. Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they are, madam. [Presenting a box] But I beseech your Grace, without offence- My conscience bids me ask- wherefore you have Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds Which are the movers of a languishing death, But, though slow, deadly? QUEEN. I wonder, Doctor, Thou ask'st me such a question. Have I not been Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn'd me how To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections? Having thus far proceeded- Unless thou think'st me devilish- is't not meet That I did amplify my judgment in Other conclusions? I will try the forces Of these thy compounds on such creatures as We count not worth the hanging- but none human- To try the vigour of them, and apply Allayments to their act, and by them gather Their several virtues and effects. CORNELIUS. Your Highness Shall from this practice but make hard your heart; Besides, the seeing these effects will be Both noisome and infectious. QUEEN. O, content thee. Enter PISANIO [Aside] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him Will I first work. He's for his master, An enemy to my son.- How now, Pisanio! Doctor, your service for this time is ended; Take your own way. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do suspect you, madam; But you shall do no harm. QUEEN. [To PISANIO] Hark thee, a word. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she has Strange ling'ring poisons. I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of her malice with A drug of such damn'd nature. Those she has Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile, Which first perchance she'll prove on cats and dogs, Then afterward up higher; but there is No danger in what show of death it makes, More than the locking up the spirits a time, To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool'd With a most false effect; and I the truer So to be false with her. QUEEN. No further service, Doctor, Until I send for thee. CORNELIUS. I humbly take my leave. Exit QUEEN. Weeps she still, say'st thou? Dost thou think in time She will not quench, and let instructions enter Where folly now possesses? Do thou work. When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, I'll tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master; greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name Is at last gasp. Return he cannot, nor Continue where he is. To shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes to A day's work in him. What shalt thou expect To be depender on a thing that leans, Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends So much as but to prop him? [The QUEEN drops the box. PISANIO takes it up] Thou tak'st up Thou know'st not what; but take it for thy labour. It is a thing I made, which hath the King Five times redeem'd from death. I do not know What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee take it; It is an earnest of a further good That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how The case stands with her; do't as from thyself. Think what a chance thou changest on; but think Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son, Who shall take notice of thee. I'll move the King To any shape of thy preferment, such As thou'lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this desert, am bound To load thy merit richly. Call my women. Think on my words. Exit PISANIO A sly and constant knave, Not to be shak'd; the agent for his master, And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of leigers for her sweet; and which she after, Except she bend her humour, shall be assur'd To taste of too. Re-enter PISANIO and LADIES So, so. Well done, well done. The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio; Think on my words. Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES PISANIO. And shall do. But when to my good lord I prove untrue I'll choke myself- there's all I'll do for you. Exit

Act 1 Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene5

The scene is set in Rome at the house of Philario, where Posthumus intends to stay. Iachimo, a friend of Philario's, is speaking cynically about Posthumus, whom he has seen on a trip to Britain. He hints that he may not be as worthy as he is popularly believed to be. Philario replies that Posthumus has since grown in worth "both without and within" . Iachimo suggests that his marriage to the King's daughter gives him a reputation he does not deserve, and that people would rather exaggerate Posthumus's goodness than question Imogen's judgment for "taking a beggar" . He asks Philario why Posthumus is staying with him. Philario explains that he and Posthumus's father Sicilius were soldiers together, and that Sicilius saved his life. Posthumus arrives and Philario introduces him to the others present-Iachimo, a Frenchman and a Dutchman. The Frenchman reminds Posthumus that he has met him before, at Orleans, where he made peace between Posthumus and another Frenchman when they were about to fight over a trivial matter. Posthumus protests that the matter was not trivial. Iachimo inquires what it was, and the Frenchman explains that Posthumus had maintained that his lover, Imogen, was more beautiful, chaste and virtuous than any woman in France. Iachimo sneers that either the lady or Posthumus's opinion must not still exist. Posthumus protests that both her virtue and his opinion hold. Iachimo extends the quarrel, saying Posthumus cannot set her above Italian women. Posthumus will not give ground. Iachimo introduces a comparison between Posthumus's wife and his diamond. It may be, he says, that the diamond outshines many others that he has seen, but he has not seen the most precious diamond in existence, and neither has Posthumus seen the best woman in existence. When Posthumus says he values his diamond as more precious than any other, Iachimo wrongly implies that he prizes his diamond above Imogen. But Posthumus sets him right, pointing out that Imogen cannot be bought or sold, and is "only the gift of the gods" . Iachimo suggests that of Posthumus's two priceless things, the diamond ring and Imogen, the one could be stolen and the second is "frail" ; both are vulnerable to thieves. Posthumus replies that Italy contains no courtier accomplished enough to convince Imogen to betray him, and neither does he fear the loss of his ring. Iachimo issues a challenge to Posthumus: he says he could get the better of Imogen's-or any woman's-virtue "even to the yielding," an expression that implies sexual as well as military surrender. He wagers half his estate against Posthumus's ring that he will prevail. Posthumus refuses, saying that Iachimo deserves punishment. Philario intervenes, asking them to forget their disagreement. Iachimo now wishes he had extended his wager to include his neighbor's estate. He suggests a bet of ten thousand ducats against Posthumus's ring that, given an introduction to the court where Imogen lives, he will defeat her honor and bring back proof. Posthumus agrees to the wager with the addition that if Iachimo prevails, he will not treat him as an enemy, since Imogen will not be worth the debate. But if Imogen refuses to be seduced, then for the insult Iachimo has offered to her chastity, Posthumus will fight him. Iachimo agrees and says they will have a legal agreement drawn up.

. Philario says he is happy to let Posthumus's true worth speak for itself, rather than praise him unnecessarily: such is his confidence in the reality of his goodness. In Posthumus's case, there is no difference between appearance and reality. Iachimo, in contrast, who cynically judges all men by his own debased standards, tries to suggest that Posthumus's reputation is not deserved and that he borrows any perceived worth from his marriage with the King's daughter. His attitude is a veiled warning that he will try to prove his mean estimation of Posthumus to be true-that he will attempt to bring him down to his own base level. Iachimo's military metaphors are worth noting. He says that popular praise of Posthumus is calculated to "fortify" Imogen's questionable judgment, which is so weak it would fall before an "easy battery" . He is confident that his conversation could "get ground of" Imogen and make her yield-military terms for driving an enemy into retreat and making them surrender. This says much about his world view: to him, good people are enemies to be vanquished. Iachimo's skill in making mischief is clearly portrayed in this scene. On hearing that Posthumus was previously willing to fight to defend his lady's virtue, he realizes that this is a sensitive area where Posthumus is vulnerable to attack. He quickly divines the things that are most precious to Posthumus , and attempts to equate the two by suggesting that Imogen can be stolen as easily as the diamond. This scene makes use of images of buying, selling, and worth, a major theme in the play. The cynical Iachimo implies that as a poor man, Posthumus's worth is only borrowed from the King's daughter, that he is "weighed rather by her value than his own." Also, Posthumus and Iachimo discuss in detail what Imogen, and Posthumus's diamond, are worth.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_5_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 6

act 1 scene 6

{"name": "Act 1 Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene6", "summary": "At Cymbeline's palace, the Queen is giving instructions to pick flowers while the dew is on the ground. Then she asks the doctor, Cornelius, whether he has brought the drugs. He presents a box to her, but his conscience prompts him to ask why she requires these slow but deadly poisons. Annoyed at being questioned, she replies that while the doctor has trained her in the herbal arts of distilling and making perfumes, she wants to extend her skill by testing these compounds on non-human subjects - by implication, animals. Cornelius is not impressed, and points out that she will only harden her heart. The Queen ends the conversation abruptly and Pisanio enters. In an aside, the Queen reveals her intention to try her poisons first on him, as he is on Posthumus's side and an \"enemy\" to her son in the question of Imogen. As she dismisses Cornelius, he remarks in an aside that he knows of her malice, and will ensure that she does no harm. The drugs he has given her are not the deadly poisons she requested, but potions to \"stupefy and dull the sense awhile. \" She will try them on cats and dogs, and later humans, but the effect will be merely to lock up the spirits temporarily, only for the subject to awaken refreshed. The Queen hopes Imogen's affections for Posthumus will cool. She promises Pisanio that when he brings her word that Imogen loves Cloten, she will make him as great as his master, Posthumus. In fact, he will be greater, as Posthumus cannot return; neither can Posthumus provide for Pisanio. The Queen then drops the box, and Pisanio picks it up. The Queen urges him to take it as a token of further favors she intends to him, claiming she has five times saved the King's life with its contents. She orders Pisanio to tell Imogen what she must do . She reminds him that if he brings about her desire, he will still have his mistress, Imogen, and Cloten also to give him preferment. In addition, she will persuade the King to grant whatever he wishes, and she herself will be obligated to reward him. Pisanio leaves without responding, and the Queen reveals that she mistrusts him, as she believes he is still loyal to Posthumus and Imogen. She says if he takes what she believes to be poison, Imogen will have no supporters. If Imogen continues to defy the Queen, she too will be given poison, leaving Cloten as heir to Cymbeline's throne. Pisanio re-enters to reveal to the audience that he would rather choke himself than prove untrue to Posthumus.", "analysis": ". The Queen's instructions to pick flowers while the dew is on the ground has sinister significance. Belarius, at Act 4, scene 2, lines 284-5, comments that \"The herbs that have on them cold dew o'th'night / Are strewings fitt'st for graves. \" Herbalists advised that medicinal herbs should be picked when dried by the sun, since dewy herbs would rot quickly and would therefore be less wholesome and unsuitable for healing. The Queen, obsessed with poisoning people who stand in her way, wants to put the flowers to an evil use, which stands in contrast to the life-affirming floral imagery surrounding the young lovers. This is part of the play's theme of the regenerative role of the younger generation contrasted with the destructive and decaying role of the older generation. The theme of appearance versus reality is presented with a twist in the doctor's determination to be true to mankind in general by being false with the Queen: by his lie about the effects of the herbs he has given her, he will save her intended victims from poison. The Queen's treachery and deceit is contrasted with the loyalty and integrity of Pisanio and Cornelius."}

SCENE VI. Britain. The palace Enter IMOGEN alone IMOGEN. A father cruel and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady That hath her husband banish'd. O, that husband! My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n, As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable Is the desire that's glorious. Blessed be those, How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie! Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO PISANIO. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome Comes from my lord with letters. IACHIMO. Change you, madam? The worthy Leonatus is in safety, And greets your Highness dearly. [Presents a letter] IMOGEN. Thanks, good sir. You're kindly welcome. IACHIMO. [Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich! If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare, She is alone th' Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; Rather, directly fly. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust. LEONATUS.' So far I read aloud; But even the very middle of my heart Is warm'd by th' rest and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you; and shall find it so In all that I can do. IACHIMO. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones Upon the number'd beach, and can we not Partition make with spectacles so precious 'Twixt fair and foul? IMOGEN. What makes your admiration? IACHIMO. It cannot be i' th' eye, for apes and monkeys, 'Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and Contemn with mows the other; nor i' th' judgment, For idiots in this case of favour would Be wisely definite; nor i' th' appetite; Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos'd, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur'd to feed. IMOGEN. What is the matter, trow? IACHIMO. The cloyed will- That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill'd and running- ravening first the lamb, Longs after for the garbage. IMOGEN. What, dear sir, Thus raps you? Are you well? IACHIMO. Thanks, madam; well.- Beseech you, sir, Desire my man's abode where I did leave him. He's strange and peevish. PISANIO. I was going, sir, To give him welcome. Exit IMOGEN. Continues well my lord? His health beseech you? IACHIMO. Well, madam. IMOGEN. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope he is. IACHIMO. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome. He is call'd The Britain reveller. IMOGEN. When he was here He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why. IACHIMO. I never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton- Your lord, I mean- laughs from's free lungs, cries 'O, Can my sides hold, to think that man- who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be- will's free hours languish for Assured bondage?' IMOGEN. Will my lord say so? IACHIMO. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. It is a recreation to be by And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know Some men are much to blame. IMOGEN. Not he, I hope. IACHIMO. Not he; but yet heaven's bounty towards him might Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much; In you, which I account his, beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound To pity too. IMOGEN. What do you pity, sir? IACHIMO. Two creatures heartily. IMOGEN. Am I one, sir? You look on me: what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity? IACHIMO. Lamentable! What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I' th' dungeon by a snuff? IMOGEN. I pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me? IACHIMO. That others do, I was about to say, enjoy your- But It is an office of the gods to venge it, Not mine to speak on't. IMOGEN. You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you- Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born- discover to me What both you spur and stop. IACHIMO. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul To th' oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; should I, damn'd then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood- falsehood as With labour; then by-peeping in an eye Base and illustrious as the smoky light That's fed with stinking tallow- it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt. IMOGEN. My lord, I fear, Has forgot Britain. IACHIMO. And himself. Not I Inclin'd to this intelligence pronounce The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out. IMOGEN. Let me hear no more. IACHIMO. O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart With pity that doth make me sick! A lady So fair, and fasten'd to an empery, Would make the great'st king double, to be partner'd With tomboys hir'd with that self exhibition Which your own coffers yield! with diseas'd ventures That play with all infirmities for gold Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff As well might poison poison! Be reveng'd; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil from your great stock. IMOGEN. Reveng'd? How should I be reveng'd? If this be true- As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse- if it be true, How should I be reveng'd? IACHIMO. Should he make me Live like Diana's priest betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection, Still close as sure. IMOGEN. What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. Let me my service tender on your lips. IMOGEN. Away! I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange. Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far From thy report as thou from honour; and Solicits here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike.- What ho, Pisanio!- The King my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew, and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for, and a daughter who He not respects at all.- What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. O happy Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assur'd credit. Blessed live you long, A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call'd his! and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. I have spoke this to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord That which he is new o'er; and he is one The truest manner'd, such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him, Half all men's hearts are his. IMOGEN. You make amends. IACHIMO. He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon. IMOGEN. All's well, sir; take my pow'r i' th' court for yours. IACHIMO. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot T' entreat your Grace but in a small request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other noble friends Are partners in the business. IMOGEN. Pray what is't? IACHIMO. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord- The best feather of our wing- have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor; Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France. 'Tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in safe stowage. May it please you To take them in protection? IMOGEN. Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber. IACHIMO. They are in a trunk, Attended by my men. I will make bold To send them to you only for this night; I must aboard to-morrow. IMOGEN. O, no, no. IACHIMO. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By length'ning my return. From Gallia I cross'd the seas on purpose and on promise To see your Grace. IMOGEN. I thank you for your pains. But not away to-morrow! IACHIMO. O, I must, madam. Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night. I have outstood my time, which is material 'To th' tender of our present. IMOGEN. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. Exeunt

Act 1 Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act1-scene6

At Cymbeline's palace, the Queen is giving instructions to pick flowers while the dew is on the ground. Then she asks the doctor, Cornelius, whether he has brought the drugs. He presents a box to her, but his conscience prompts him to ask why she requires these slow but deadly poisons. Annoyed at being questioned, she replies that while the doctor has trained her in the herbal arts of distilling and making perfumes, she wants to extend her skill by testing these compounds on non-human subjects - by implication, animals. Cornelius is not impressed, and points out that she will only harden her heart. The Queen ends the conversation abruptly and Pisanio enters. In an aside, the Queen reveals her intention to try her poisons first on him, as he is on Posthumus's side and an "enemy" to her son in the question of Imogen. As she dismisses Cornelius, he remarks in an aside that he knows of her malice, and will ensure that she does no harm. The drugs he has given her are not the deadly poisons she requested, but potions to "stupefy and dull the sense awhile. " She will try them on cats and dogs, and later humans, but the effect will be merely to lock up the spirits temporarily, only for the subject to awaken refreshed. The Queen hopes Imogen's affections for Posthumus will cool. She promises Pisanio that when he brings her word that Imogen loves Cloten, she will make him as great as his master, Posthumus. In fact, he will be greater, as Posthumus cannot return; neither can Posthumus provide for Pisanio. The Queen then drops the box, and Pisanio picks it up. The Queen urges him to take it as a token of further favors she intends to him, claiming she has five times saved the King's life with its contents. She orders Pisanio to tell Imogen what she must do . She reminds him that if he brings about her desire, he will still have his mistress, Imogen, and Cloten also to give him preferment. In addition, she will persuade the King to grant whatever he wishes, and she herself will be obligated to reward him. Pisanio leaves without responding, and the Queen reveals that she mistrusts him, as she believes he is still loyal to Posthumus and Imogen. She says if he takes what she believes to be poison, Imogen will have no supporters. If Imogen continues to defy the Queen, she too will be given poison, leaving Cloten as heir to Cymbeline's throne. Pisanio re-enters to reveal to the audience that he would rather choke himself than prove untrue to Posthumus.

. The Queen's instructions to pick flowers while the dew is on the ground has sinister significance. Belarius, at Act 4, scene 2, lines 284-5, comments that "The herbs that have on them cold dew o'th'night / Are strewings fitt'st for graves. " Herbalists advised that medicinal herbs should be picked when dried by the sun, since dewy herbs would rot quickly and would therefore be less wholesome and unsuitable for healing. The Queen, obsessed with poisoning people who stand in her way, wants to put the flowers to an evil use, which stands in contrast to the life-affirming floral imagery surrounding the young lovers. This is part of the play's theme of the regenerative role of the younger generation contrasted with the destructive and decaying role of the older generation. The theme of appearance versus reality is presented with a twist in the doctor's determination to be true to mankind in general by being false with the Queen: by his lie about the effects of the herbs he has given her, he will save her intended victims from poison. The Queen's treachery and deceit is contrasted with the loyalty and integrity of Pisanio and Cornelius.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_7_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 1

act 2 scene 1

{"name": "Act 2 Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene1", "summary": "Cloten is playing bowls with some Lords and losing. A Lord asks Cloten if he knows of the Italian visitor to court, Iachimo, a friend of Posthumus's. Cloten does not, and goes to seek him out. The Second Lord, left alone, marvels \"That such a crafty devil as is his mother / Should yield the world this ass!\" . She is a woman who \"Bears all down with her brain,\" whereas Cloten cannot take two from twenty. The Lord pities Imogen for her unhappy position between her father ruled by her stepmother, the stepmother \"hourly coining plots\" , and a hateful suitor who wants to divorce her from her husband. He prays that Imogen holds firm.", "analysis": ". This scene adds little to the action of the play, and much of the dialogue is of poor quality, leading some critics to suspect that it is not Shakespeare's but has been interpolated by an unknown hand. Its main function seems to be to further expose Cloten's unrefined nature, to compare his stupidity with his mother's cunning, and to establish that he did not know of Iachimo's presence at court."}

ACT II. SCENE I. Britain. Before CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss'd the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on't; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure. FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. SECOND LORD. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out. CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha? SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them. CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been one of my rank! SECOND LORD. [Aside] To have smell'd like a fool. CLOTEN. I am not vex'd more at anything in th' earth. A pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on. CLOTEN. Sayest thou? SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to. CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. CLOTEN. Why, so I say. FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night? CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on't? SECOND LORD. [Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. FIRST LORD. There's an Italian come, and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus' friends. CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish'd rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger? FIRST LORD. One of your lordship's pages. CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't? SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord. CLOTEN. Not easily, I think. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate. CLOTEN. Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go. SECOND LORD. I'll attend your lordship. Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak'd That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T' enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Exit

Act 2 Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene1

Cloten is playing bowls with some Lords and losing. A Lord asks Cloten if he knows of the Italian visitor to court, Iachimo, a friend of Posthumus's. Cloten does not, and goes to seek him out. The Second Lord, left alone, marvels "That such a crafty devil as is his mother / Should yield the world this ass!" . She is a woman who "Bears all down with her brain," whereas Cloten cannot take two from twenty. The Lord pities Imogen for her unhappy position between her father ruled by her stepmother, the stepmother "hourly coining plots" , and a hateful suitor who wants to divorce her from her husband. He prays that Imogen holds firm.

. This scene adds little to the action of the play, and much of the dialogue is of poor quality, leading some critics to suspect that it is not Shakespeare's but has been interpolated by an unknown hand. Its main function seems to be to further expose Cloten's unrefined nature, to compare his stupidity with his mother's cunning, and to establish that he did not know of Iachimo's presence at court.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_8_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 2

act 2 scene 2

{"name": "Act 2 Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene2", "summary": "The scene is set in Imogen's bedroom. Iachimo's trunk is placed in it. After she goes to sleep, Iachimo emerges from the trunk. He is tempted by her beauty, but resists the urge to touch and kiss her. His plan is to note details of the room and identifying marks on her body, in order to convince Posthumus that he has succeeded in seducing her. He removes her bracelet, the parting gift from her husband, which he says will help in the \"madding\" of Posthumus . He also notes a mole on her left breast. When he feels he has enough evidence, he gets back into the trunk.", "analysis": ". The atmosphere of sexual menace in this scene is palpable. Iachimo, leaning over the sleeping and defenseless Imogen and noting the intimate details of her body, is committing a kind of rape, a psychological violation of the marriage between her and Posthumus. This notion is reinforced by the book she has been reading , which tells of treason and rape. Iachimo appears to liken himself to a raven , a continuation of the predator and prey imagery that runs through the play. His line \" Though this is a heavenly angel, hell is here\" leaves no doubt as to the depraved state of Iachimo's soul as compared with that of Imogen."}

SCENE II. Britain. IMOGEN'S bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen? LADY. Please you, madam. IMOGEN. What hour is it? LADY. Almost midnight, madam. IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' th' clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. Exit LADY To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye! [Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk] IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that's riveted, Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes] One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk

Act 2 Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene2

The scene is set in Imogen's bedroom. Iachimo's trunk is placed in it. After she goes to sleep, Iachimo emerges from the trunk. He is tempted by her beauty, but resists the urge to touch and kiss her. His plan is to note details of the room and identifying marks on her body, in order to convince Posthumus that he has succeeded in seducing her. He removes her bracelet, the parting gift from her husband, which he says will help in the "madding" of Posthumus . He also notes a mole on her left breast. When he feels he has enough evidence, he gets back into the trunk.

. The atmosphere of sexual menace in this scene is palpable. Iachimo, leaning over the sleeping and defenseless Imogen and noting the intimate details of her body, is committing a kind of rape, a psychological violation of the marriage between her and Posthumus. This notion is reinforced by the book she has been reading , which tells of treason and rape. Iachimo appears to liken himself to a raven , a continuation of the predator and prey imagery that runs through the play. His line " Though this is a heavenly angel, hell is here" leaves no doubt as to the depraved state of Iachimo's soul as compared with that of Imogen.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_9_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 3

act 2 scene 3

{"name": "Act 2 Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene3", "summary": "Cloten is playing some Lords, either at dice or cards, and losing again. Some musicians enter; Cloten has employed them to serenade Imogen, which they do. The King and Queen enter. Cymbeline inquires whether Imogen has come out of her room. When Cloten says she has not, Cymbeline says that in time, Imogen will forget Posthumus and then she will be Cloten's. The Queen advises him to obey Imogen in everything except when she sends him away. A messenger announces that some ambassadors from Rome, including one called Lucius, have arrived. Cymbeline knows that Rome is angry with him, but he will receive Lucius, who is a worthy man, according to the honor of the Emperor. He asks Cloten to greet Imogen and then to follow him and the Queen to meet the Roman. Cloten, left alone, plans to bribe one of Imogen's ladies to buy access to her. Gold can do anything, he says, even have an honest man killed and save a thief. He knocks at Imogen's door. A Lady emerges, and Cloten offers her gold to speak for him. Imogen enters. She tells Cloten that she does not care for him, and indeed, she hates him. Cloten says she owes her father obedience. Because of her royal status, she does not have free choice and cannot marry a \"base slave.\" Imogen angrily defends her husband, saying that Cloten, even if he were the god Jupiter's son, would be \"too base / To be his groom\" . Imogen calls Pisanio and send him to ask one of her ladies to search for her bracelet. She is sure that she had it last night, because she kissed it. Cloten is offended by Imogen's statement that Posthumus's \"meanest garment\" is dearer to her than Cloten, and threatens to tell her father. Imogen suggests he tell the Queen too, and is in no doubt that she will think the worst of her. Cloten vows revenge.", "analysis": ". Cloten employs lewd imagery when talking of Imogen : \"penetrate,\" \"fingering\" and \"try with tongue too\" are ostensibly about music but have sexual double meanings. The delicate song that follows Cloten's lewd speech, \"Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings, / And Phoebus gins arise,\" reflects the split between the superficially civilized surface and the brutally vulgar. The inappropriateness of Cloten's attitude to Imogen is underscored by his own reference to her ladies as \"Diana's rangers\" , Diana being the goddess of chastity. Cloten's plan to use gold to bribe Imogen's ladies is significant, as Imogen has previously used the imagery of gold to convey the true worth of Posthumus. Gold is traditionally seen as the incorruptible metal, as it does not tarnish, but Cloten wants to use it to corrupt innocence. There is profound irony in Imogen's hope that her bracelet has not gone to tell Posthumus that she is kissing something or someone other than him, since we know, where Imogen does not, that Iachimo plans to use this bracelet as proof that she is unfaithful. Imogen's steadfastness comes across in this scene, as she fearlessly defends herself and Posthumus against Cloten's onslaught."}

SCENE III. CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments Enter CLOTEN and LORDS FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up ace. CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose. FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not? FIRST LORD. Day, my lord. CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate. Enter musicians Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it- and then let her consider. SONG Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flow'rs that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise! So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN SECOND LORD. Here comes the King. CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother. CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth? CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice. CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she's yours. QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless. CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. Exeunt all but CLOTEN CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks] I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold Which buys admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th' stand o' th' stealer; and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave. [Knocks] Enter a LADY LADY. Who's there that knocks? CLOTEN. A gentleman. LADY. No more? CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. LADY. That's more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure? CLOTEN. Your lady's person; is she ready? LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber. CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report. LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess! Enter IMOGEN CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand. Exit LADY IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you. IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. CLOTEN. This is no answer. IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin; I will not. IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks. CLOTEN. Do you call me fool? IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do; If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady's manners By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th' very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast. CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o' th' court- it is no contract, none. And though it be allowed in meaner parties- Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls- On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot, Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler- not so eminent! IMOGEN. Profane fellow! Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr'd so well. CLOTEN. The south fog rot him! IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment That ever hath but clipp'd his body is dearer In my respect than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio! Enter PISANIO CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil- IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently. CLOTEN. 'His garment'! IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe! I do think I saw't this morning; confident I am Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost. IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO CLOTEN. You have abus'd me. 'His meanest garment'! IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't. CLOTEN. I will inform your father. IMOGEN. Your mother too. She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th' worst of discontent. Exit CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd. 'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit

Act 2 Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene3

Cloten is playing some Lords, either at dice or cards, and losing again. Some musicians enter; Cloten has employed them to serenade Imogen, which they do. The King and Queen enter. Cymbeline inquires whether Imogen has come out of her room. When Cloten says she has not, Cymbeline says that in time, Imogen will forget Posthumus and then she will be Cloten's. The Queen advises him to obey Imogen in everything except when she sends him away. A messenger announces that some ambassadors from Rome, including one called Lucius, have arrived. Cymbeline knows that Rome is angry with him, but he will receive Lucius, who is a worthy man, according to the honor of the Emperor. He asks Cloten to greet Imogen and then to follow him and the Queen to meet the Roman. Cloten, left alone, plans to bribe one of Imogen's ladies to buy access to her. Gold can do anything, he says, even have an honest man killed and save a thief. He knocks at Imogen's door. A Lady emerges, and Cloten offers her gold to speak for him. Imogen enters. She tells Cloten that she does not care for him, and indeed, she hates him. Cloten says she owes her father obedience. Because of her royal status, she does not have free choice and cannot marry a "base slave." Imogen angrily defends her husband, saying that Cloten, even if he were the god Jupiter's son, would be "too base / To be his groom" . Imogen calls Pisanio and send him to ask one of her ladies to search for her bracelet. She is sure that she had it last night, because she kissed it. Cloten is offended by Imogen's statement that Posthumus's "meanest garment" is dearer to her than Cloten, and threatens to tell her father. Imogen suggests he tell the Queen too, and is in no doubt that she will think the worst of her. Cloten vows revenge.

. Cloten employs lewd imagery when talking of Imogen : "penetrate," "fingering" and "try with tongue too" are ostensibly about music but have sexual double meanings. The delicate song that follows Cloten's lewd speech, "Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings, / And Phoebus gins arise," reflects the split between the superficially civilized surface and the brutally vulgar. The inappropriateness of Cloten's attitude to Imogen is underscored by his own reference to her ladies as "Diana's rangers" , Diana being the goddess of chastity. Cloten's plan to use gold to bribe Imogen's ladies is significant, as Imogen has previously used the imagery of gold to convey the true worth of Posthumus. Gold is traditionally seen as the incorruptible metal, as it does not tarnish, but Cloten wants to use it to corrupt innocence. There is profound irony in Imogen's hope that her bracelet has not gone to tell Posthumus that she is kissing something or someone other than him, since we know, where Imogen does not, that Iachimo plans to use this bracelet as proof that she is unfaithful. Imogen's steadfastness comes across in this scene, as she fearlessly defends herself and Posthumus against Cloten's onslaught.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_10_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 4

act 2 scene 4

{"name": "Act 2 Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene4", "summary": "In Rome, Posthumus tells Philario he is sure of Imogen's honor, but has less confidence that he will win over the King. He is leaving it to time. In his exiled state, he regrets he cannot repay Philario for his generosity. But Philario says that Posthumus's goodness and company are payment enough. Besides, he is confident that Lucius, Augustus Caesar's ambassador, will by now have extracted the tribute arrears that he went to collect from Cymbeline. If Cymbeline does not pay up, he will face a Roman invasion. Posthumus believes that Cymbeline will not pay and that there will be war. He points out that the Britons are more skilled in war than they were in Julius Caesar's day, when the Roman invaders defeated them. Iachimo enters, commends Imogen's beauty to Posthumus, and gives him letters from her. Posthumus asks Iachimo whether his diamond still sparkles as brightly, or is dimmed by Imogen's betrayal. Iachimo replies that he has won the ring, for he enjoyed a night with the \"easy\" Imogen. Posthumus, reluctant to believe Iachimo, warns him not to joke about his losing the bet, and reminds him that they shall not remain friends. Iachimo answers that they will remain friends, since he has defeated Imogen's honor and not wronged her or Posthumus-both were willing participants. Posthumus asks for proof that he has \"tasted her in bed\" . Iachimo describes the furnishings of Imogen's bedroom, the carvings over the fireplace, and even the fire-irons, but Posthumus says he could have heard this from someone else. Finally, Iachimo shows Posthumus Imogen's bracelet that he stole from her as she slept. He says it matches the diamond, so both must be his. He claims that Imogen gave it to him, saying \"she priz'd it once\" . Posthumus suggests that maybe she took it off to send it to him, but Iachimo asks if she says that in her letter, which, of course, she does not. Posthumus now believes Iachimo. He takes off his ring, which he says has become a basilisk to his eye . He rails against the falseness of women underneath their outward beauty, and the worthlessness of their vows. Philario counsels him to be patient and take back his ring, as there is no proof that Imogen is unfaithful. It could be that she lost the bracelet, or that one of her ladies stole it. Posthumus agrees, and asks for his ring back from Iachimo. He now wants Iachimo to cite some distinguishing feature on Imogen's body as proof. Iachimo swears by Jupiter that he had it from her arm, which again convinces Posthumus that his wife is unfaithful. He is sure she would not lose it, and her ladies are honorable. Posthumus is once more convinced that she has been unfaithful, and gives the ring back to Iachimo. Philario warns him again that the evidence is not strong enough to convince. But Iachimo describes the mole under Imogen's breast, which he says he kissed. Posthumus says that this \"stain\" confirms another-on her character-\"as big as hell can hold\" . Posthumus erupts in fury and threatens to tear Imogen limb from limb in front of her father. Philario and Iachimo follow him out to prevent him from harming himself. Posthumus re-enters and delivers a soliloquy against women. He regrets that men need them at all, and says all men are bastards: even he does not know where his father was when he was conceived. His mother seemed chaste, but then so does his wife. He attributes all vices in men to the feminine aspect or \"woman's part\" : lying, deceiving, ambition, and so on. Even to vice, he says, they are not constant, but ever changing.", "analysis": ". Posthumus uses the imagery of the seasons in his hope that the King will be won over to his marriage. Now, he quakes in the wintry cold of the King's displeasure, but wishes for warmer days . Having failed to persuade Imogen to betray her marriage to Posthumus, Iachimo attempts to persuade Posthumus to betray Imogen, by believing that she is faithless. Once again, Iachimo chooses his words for maximum emotional impact. He describes the hangings in Imogen's room as telling the story of Antony and Cleopatra . Just as Antony was Cleopatra's Roman, hints Iachimo, so was he Imogen's. Posthumus's surrender to Iachimo's slanders is marked by his sudden inability to distinguish between appearance and reality. He believes that he is at last seeing the truth when he paints Imogen as being outwardly beautiful but inwardly deceitful. In fact, we know that she is beautiful both inside and out, as was Posthumus prior to his corruption by Iachimo. Posthumus's vision has become delusional. There is a contrast between Posthumus's delusion and Cymbeline's. Posthumus's wife is honest but he thinks her false; and Cymbeline's wife is deceitful but he chooses to assume that she is honest. Imogen is the only major character who sees everyone as they are. Yet she suffers cruelly as the victim of others' delusions and dishonesty. While Posthumus is undoubtedly a victim of Iachimo's evil, it is clear that he is also a flawed character whose one weakness-an insecurity over his wife's fidelity-is exploited. It is ironic that he is more ready to believe in the incorruptible honor of Imogen's ladies than in that of his wife. Posthumus takes on board Iachimo's imagery of hell when he refers to Imogen's mole being a stain \"as big as hell can hold\" . His final soliloquy against women is as shocking as it is unjust, and must strain the audience's sympathy with him."}

SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure To win the King as I am bold her honour Will remain hers. PHILARIO. What means do you make to him? POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter's state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear'd hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor. PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O'erpays all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius Will do's commission throughly; and I think He'll grant the tribute, send th' arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief. POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world. Enter IACHIMO PHILARIO. See! Iachimo! POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land, And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble. PHILARIO. Welcome, sir. POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return. IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon. POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them. IACHIMO. Here are letters for you. POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust. IACHIMO. 'Tis very like. PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there? IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach'd. POSTHUMUS. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not Too dull for your good wearing? IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I'll make a journey twice as far t' enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won. POSTHUMUS. The stone's too hard to come by. IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy. POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must not continue friends. IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills. POSTHUMUS. If you can make't apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them. IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe- whose strength I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not You'll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not. POSTHUMUS. Proceed. IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber, Where I confess I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching-it was hang'd With tapestry of silk and silver; the story, Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride. A piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on't was- POSTHUMUS. This is true; And this you might have heard of here, by me Or by some other. IACHIMO. More particulars Must justify my knowledge. POSTHUMUS. So they must, Or do your honour injury. IACHIMO. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures So likely to report themselves. The cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out. POSTHUMUS. This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of. IACHIMO. The roof o' th' chamber With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons- I had forgot them- were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands. POSTHUMUS. This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise Be given to your remembrance; the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid. IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [Shows the bracelet] Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See! And now 'tis up again. It must be married To that your diamond; I'll keep them. POSTHUMUS. Jove! Once more let me behold it. Is it that Which I left with her? IACHIMO. Sir- I thank her- that. She stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me, and said She priz'd it once. POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck'd it off To send it me. IACHIMO. She writes so to you, doth she? POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too; [Gives the ring] It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love Where there's another man. The vows of women Of no more bondage be to where they are made Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. O, above measure false! PHILARIO. Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won. It may be probable she lost it, or Who knows if one her women, being corrupted Hath stol'n it from her? POSTHUMUS. Very true; And so I hope he came by't. Back my ring. Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than this; for this was stol'n. IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm! POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true- nay, keep the ring, 'tis true. I am sure She would not lose it. Her attendants are All sworn and honourable- they induc'd to steal it! And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy'd her. The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you! PHILARIO. Sir, be patient; This is not strong enough to be believ'd Of one persuaded well of. POSTHUMUS. Never talk on't; She hath been colted by him. IACHIMO. If you seek For further satisfying, under her breast- Worthy the pressing- lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodging. By my life, I kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger To feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her? POSTHUMUS. Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it. IACHIMO. Will you hear more? POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns. Once, and a million! IACHIMO. I'll be sworn- POSTHUMUS. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done't, you lie; And I will kill thee if thou dost deny Thou'st made me cuckold. IACHIMO. I'll deny nothing. POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! I will go there and do't, i' th' court, before Her father. I'll do something- Exit PHILARIO. Quite besides The government of patience! You have won. Let's follow him and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself. IACHIMO. With all my heart. Exeunt

Act 2 Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act2-scene4

In Rome, Posthumus tells Philario he is sure of Imogen's honor, but has less confidence that he will win over the King. He is leaving it to time. In his exiled state, he regrets he cannot repay Philario for his generosity. But Philario says that Posthumus's goodness and company are payment enough. Besides, he is confident that Lucius, Augustus Caesar's ambassador, will by now have extracted the tribute arrears that he went to collect from Cymbeline. If Cymbeline does not pay up, he will face a Roman invasion. Posthumus believes that Cymbeline will not pay and that there will be war. He points out that the Britons are more skilled in war than they were in Julius Caesar's day, when the Roman invaders defeated them. Iachimo enters, commends Imogen's beauty to Posthumus, and gives him letters from her. Posthumus asks Iachimo whether his diamond still sparkles as brightly, or is dimmed by Imogen's betrayal. Iachimo replies that he has won the ring, for he enjoyed a night with the "easy" Imogen. Posthumus, reluctant to believe Iachimo, warns him not to joke about his losing the bet, and reminds him that they shall not remain friends. Iachimo answers that they will remain friends, since he has defeated Imogen's honor and not wronged her or Posthumus-both were willing participants. Posthumus asks for proof that he has "tasted her in bed" . Iachimo describes the furnishings of Imogen's bedroom, the carvings over the fireplace, and even the fire-irons, but Posthumus says he could have heard this from someone else. Finally, Iachimo shows Posthumus Imogen's bracelet that he stole from her as she slept. He says it matches the diamond, so both must be his. He claims that Imogen gave it to him, saying "she priz'd it once" . Posthumus suggests that maybe she took it off to send it to him, but Iachimo asks if she says that in her letter, which, of course, she does not. Posthumus now believes Iachimo. He takes off his ring, which he says has become a basilisk to his eye . He rails against the falseness of women underneath their outward beauty, and the worthlessness of their vows. Philario counsels him to be patient and take back his ring, as there is no proof that Imogen is unfaithful. It could be that she lost the bracelet, or that one of her ladies stole it. Posthumus agrees, and asks for his ring back from Iachimo. He now wants Iachimo to cite some distinguishing feature on Imogen's body as proof. Iachimo swears by Jupiter that he had it from her arm, which again convinces Posthumus that his wife is unfaithful. He is sure she would not lose it, and her ladies are honorable. Posthumus is once more convinced that she has been unfaithful, and gives the ring back to Iachimo. Philario warns him again that the evidence is not strong enough to convince. But Iachimo describes the mole under Imogen's breast, which he says he kissed. Posthumus says that this "stain" confirms another-on her character-"as big as hell can hold" . Posthumus erupts in fury and threatens to tear Imogen limb from limb in front of her father. Philario and Iachimo follow him out to prevent him from harming himself. Posthumus re-enters and delivers a soliloquy against women. He regrets that men need them at all, and says all men are bastards: even he does not know where his father was when he was conceived. His mother seemed chaste, but then so does his wife. He attributes all vices in men to the feminine aspect or "woman's part" : lying, deceiving, ambition, and so on. Even to vice, he says, they are not constant, but ever changing.

. Posthumus uses the imagery of the seasons in his hope that the King will be won over to his marriage. Now, he quakes in the wintry cold of the King's displeasure, but wishes for warmer days . Having failed to persuade Imogen to betray her marriage to Posthumus, Iachimo attempts to persuade Posthumus to betray Imogen, by believing that she is faithless. Once again, Iachimo chooses his words for maximum emotional impact. He describes the hangings in Imogen's room as telling the story of Antony and Cleopatra . Just as Antony was Cleopatra's Roman, hints Iachimo, so was he Imogen's. Posthumus's surrender to Iachimo's slanders is marked by his sudden inability to distinguish between appearance and reality. He believes that he is at last seeing the truth when he paints Imogen as being outwardly beautiful but inwardly deceitful. In fact, we know that she is beautiful both inside and out, as was Posthumus prior to his corruption by Iachimo. Posthumus's vision has become delusional. There is a contrast between Posthumus's delusion and Cymbeline's. Posthumus's wife is honest but he thinks her false; and Cymbeline's wife is deceitful but he chooses to assume that she is honest. Imogen is the only major character who sees everyone as they are. Yet she suffers cruelly as the victim of others' delusions and dishonesty. While Posthumus is undoubtedly a victim of Iachimo's evil, it is clear that he is also a flawed character whose one weakness-an insecurity over his wife's fidelity-is exploited. It is ironic that he is more ready to believe in the incorruptible honor of Imogen's ladies than in that of his wife. Posthumus takes on board Iachimo's imagery of hell when he refers to Imogen's mole being a stain "as big as hell can hold" . His final soliloquy against women is as shocking as it is unjust, and must strain the audience's sympathy with him.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_12_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 2

act 3 scene 2

{"name": "Act 3 Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene2", "summary": "Pisanio is reading a letter from Posthumus revealing that he accuses Imogen of adultery. A liar has prevailed over Posthumus's \"too ready hearing,\" and Imogen is \"punish'd for her truth\" . Pisanio observes that Posthumus's mind, compared with Imogen, has sunk to the level of his fortune. Posthumus asks Pisanio to murder Imogen. He shall have the opportunity when he delivers a letter to her. If to do so is to do good service, says Pisanio, then he shall not be counted a good servant; he will disobey the order and not tell Imogen of it. Imogen enters and Pisanio gives her a letter from Posthumus, which she reads. He writes that he will brave her father's wrath in order to be restored by seeing her. He is at Milford Haven, and hints that she must follow her heart's prompting . Imogen is immediately excited by the thought of going to see Posthumus, and asks how long it will take to ride there. Pisanio is less enthusiastic, because he fears that she is riding to her destruction. But she insists that the only way forward for her is to go to Milford Haven and Posthumus.", "analysis": ". Pisanio uses the imagery of disease and poison to express Posthumus's unwarranted jealousy . But he makes clear that Posthumus's being a victim of such onslaughts does not absolve him of responsibility: Iachimo has simply \" prevail'd / On thy too ready hearing\" . Pisanio has followed Cornelius in disobeying his master for a virtuous purpose. Both Posthumus and the Queen have divorced themselves from truth, and in such cases, the true servant must prevent them from doing evil, if necessary by disobeying orders."}

SCENE II. Britain. Another room in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter PISANIO reading of a letter PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange infection Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian- As poisonous-tongu'd as handed- hath prevail'd On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] 'Do't. The letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.' O damn'd paper, Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a fedary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. Enter IMOGEN I am ignorant in what I am commanded. IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio! PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord- Leonatus? O, learn'd indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters- He'd lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content; yet not That we two are asunder- let that grieve him! Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love- of his content, All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods! [Reads] 'Justice and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.' O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio- Who long'st like me to see thy lord, who long'st- O, let me 'bate!- but not like me, yet long'st, But in a fainter kind- O, not like me, For mine's beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick- Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th' smothering of the sense- how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as T' inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour? PISANIO. One score 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too. IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's huswife. PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider. IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt

Act 3 Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene2

Pisanio is reading a letter from Posthumus revealing that he accuses Imogen of adultery. A liar has prevailed over Posthumus's "too ready hearing," and Imogen is "punish'd for her truth" . Pisanio observes that Posthumus's mind, compared with Imogen, has sunk to the level of his fortune. Posthumus asks Pisanio to murder Imogen. He shall have the opportunity when he delivers a letter to her. If to do so is to do good service, says Pisanio, then he shall not be counted a good servant; he will disobey the order and not tell Imogen of it. Imogen enters and Pisanio gives her a letter from Posthumus, which she reads. He writes that he will brave her father's wrath in order to be restored by seeing her. He is at Milford Haven, and hints that she must follow her heart's prompting . Imogen is immediately excited by the thought of going to see Posthumus, and asks how long it will take to ride there. Pisanio is less enthusiastic, because he fears that she is riding to her destruction. But she insists that the only way forward for her is to go to Milford Haven and Posthumus.

. Pisanio uses the imagery of disease and poison to express Posthumus's unwarranted jealousy . But he makes clear that Posthumus's being a victim of such onslaughts does not absolve him of responsibility: Iachimo has simply " prevail'd / On thy too ready hearing" . Pisanio has followed Cornelius in disobeying his master for a virtuous purpose. Both Posthumus and the Queen have divorced themselves from truth, and in such cases, the true servant must prevent them from doing evil, if necessary by disobeying orders.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_13_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 3

act 3 scene 3

{"name": "Act 3 Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene3", "summary": "The scene shifts to a cave in Wales, where Belarius, a banished Lord, is out hunting with his adopted sons. These are, in fact, Cymbeline's lost sons, Guiderius and Arviragus, though they are going under the names of Polydore and Cadwal. Belarius contrasts the pride and vanity of the court with the poorer but \"nobler\" life they have had to adopt. The humble beetle, he says, lives safer than the grand eagle. At the court, people are reliant on others for approval and live in debt to their tailors. Guiderius points out that while Belarius has the luxury of comparing the two lifestyles, he and his brother do not, since they have never been away from this place. To them, the cave is merely a \"cell of ignorance\" and a prison. Arviragus adds that unlike Belarius, they will have no tales to tell when they grow as old as him: they have seen nothing, and are like foxes or wolves, concerned only with hunting their next meal. The only courage they need is to \"chase what flies\" , a cowardly sort of valor. Belarius tells them that there is nothing to be desired in the life of the court, where a climb to the peak of favor will be followed by a fall into disgrace, and where the fear of falling is as bad as the fact. Honorable acts are often punished, and what is worse, you must bow in thanks for such treatment. He himself was once loved by Cymbeline, but overnight, he lost favor after being slandered by two false villains. They told Cymbeline he was collaborating with the Romans, and he was banished. He promises his adopted sons that the first to hit a deer shall be lord of the feast and that the others will serve him. And, he says, he will fear no poison, which is an occupational hazard at court. After the boys leave, Belarius muses how difficult it is to hide \"the sparks of Nature\" inherent in the sons of a king. This is in spite of the fact that they have not been told of their royal birth , and that Cymbeline is unaware that they are alive. When Belarius tells Guiderius, heir to Cymbeline, of his warlike feats, the boy acts out his words and \"The princely blood flows in his cheek\" . Belarius, who goes under the name of Morgan, says that Cymbeline banished him unjustly. In revenge, he stole the royal children in order to deprive the king of his heirs, just as he had been deprived of his lands. But now, \"the game is up,\" by which he probably means that the pretence cannot be kept up any longer.", "analysis": ". Belarius contrasts the low door of his cave, where his exiled family must bow their heads as if to worship the heavens, with the high gates of monarchs, where giants can strut through, keeping their turbans on. He is symbolically making the point that the court is a place of pride, whereas they have learned humility. But paradoxically, their life is nobler than a court life, which is marked by dependence, debt and vanity. However, this scene offers a twist on the conventional view of country life offered by Romance plays. It may be more innocent and less corrupt than court life, but to Guiderius and Arviragus, it is as limiting as a prison and as bestial as the existence of a wolf or a fox. In comparing himself and his brother to baby birds who have never flown the nest , Guiderius continues the imagery of birds that permeates the play. Posthumus is represented as an eagle in Act 1, scene 2; and Iachimo, in Act 1, scene 7, calls Imogen \"alone th' Arabian bird,\" a reference to the legendary Phoenix. The Phoenix is said to have risen from its own ashes, out of the fire which burned at the top of the sacred Persea Tree at Heliopolis. It was a symbol of the rising sun and of the dead Sun-god, Osiris, from whom it sprang, and to whom it was sacred. The image foreshadows Imogen's later 'rebirth' from her seeming death. Belarius's story of how he fell from favor as a result of slanders echoes Imogen's fall from Posthumus's favor as a result of Iachimo's lies, as well as Posthumus's fall from Cymbeline's favor after he married Imogen. The scene illustrates the belief, prevalent in Shakespeare's time, that royal blood cannot be hidden, but will show itself through an inherent nobility of thought and action. Though the roof of his cave is low, the boys' thoughts \"do hit / The roofs of palaces\" , and they enter into Belarius's war stories in \"princely\" fashion ."}

SCENE III. Wales. A mountainous country with a cave Enter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven! ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven! BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours! GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd, Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not What air's from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit. ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you but know the city's usuries, And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search, And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse- Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather. GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour! BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains! This is not hunters' language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys. Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd! O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit

Act 3 Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene3

The scene shifts to a cave in Wales, where Belarius, a banished Lord, is out hunting with his adopted sons. These are, in fact, Cymbeline's lost sons, Guiderius and Arviragus, though they are going under the names of Polydore and Cadwal. Belarius contrasts the pride and vanity of the court with the poorer but "nobler" life they have had to adopt. The humble beetle, he says, lives safer than the grand eagle. At the court, people are reliant on others for approval and live in debt to their tailors. Guiderius points out that while Belarius has the luxury of comparing the two lifestyles, he and his brother do not, since they have never been away from this place. To them, the cave is merely a "cell of ignorance" and a prison. Arviragus adds that unlike Belarius, they will have no tales to tell when they grow as old as him: they have seen nothing, and are like foxes or wolves, concerned only with hunting their next meal. The only courage they need is to "chase what flies" , a cowardly sort of valor. Belarius tells them that there is nothing to be desired in the life of the court, where a climb to the peak of favor will be followed by a fall into disgrace, and where the fear of falling is as bad as the fact. Honorable acts are often punished, and what is worse, you must bow in thanks for such treatment. He himself was once loved by Cymbeline, but overnight, he lost favor after being slandered by two false villains. They told Cymbeline he was collaborating with the Romans, and he was banished. He promises his adopted sons that the first to hit a deer shall be lord of the feast and that the others will serve him. And, he says, he will fear no poison, which is an occupational hazard at court. After the boys leave, Belarius muses how difficult it is to hide "the sparks of Nature" inherent in the sons of a king. This is in spite of the fact that they have not been told of their royal birth , and that Cymbeline is unaware that they are alive. When Belarius tells Guiderius, heir to Cymbeline, of his warlike feats, the boy acts out his words and "The princely blood flows in his cheek" . Belarius, who goes under the name of Morgan, says that Cymbeline banished him unjustly. In revenge, he stole the royal children in order to deprive the king of his heirs, just as he had been deprived of his lands. But now, "the game is up," by which he probably means that the pretence cannot be kept up any longer.

. Belarius contrasts the low door of his cave, where his exiled family must bow their heads as if to worship the heavens, with the high gates of monarchs, where giants can strut through, keeping their turbans on. He is symbolically making the point that the court is a place of pride, whereas they have learned humility. But paradoxically, their life is nobler than a court life, which is marked by dependence, debt and vanity. However, this scene offers a twist on the conventional view of country life offered by Romance plays. It may be more innocent and less corrupt than court life, but to Guiderius and Arviragus, it is as limiting as a prison and as bestial as the existence of a wolf or a fox. In comparing himself and his brother to baby birds who have never flown the nest , Guiderius continues the imagery of birds that permeates the play. Posthumus is represented as an eagle in Act 1, scene 2; and Iachimo, in Act 1, scene 7, calls Imogen "alone th' Arabian bird," a reference to the legendary Phoenix. The Phoenix is said to have risen from its own ashes, out of the fire which burned at the top of the sacred Persea Tree at Heliopolis. It was a symbol of the rising sun and of the dead Sun-god, Osiris, from whom it sprang, and to whom it was sacred. The image foreshadows Imogen's later 'rebirth' from her seeming death. Belarius's story of how he fell from favor as a result of slanders echoes Imogen's fall from Posthumus's favor as a result of Iachimo's lies, as well as Posthumus's fall from Cymbeline's favor after he married Imogen. The scene illustrates the belief, prevalent in Shakespeare's time, that royal blood cannot be hidden, but will show itself through an inherent nobility of thought and action. Though the roof of his cave is low, the boys' thoughts "do hit / The roofs of palaces" , and they enter into Belarius's war stories in "princely" fashion .

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_14_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 4

act 3 scene 4

{"name": "Act 3 Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene4", "summary": "Pisanio and Imogen are on their way to Milford Haven to meet Posthumus, as Imogen thinks. Pisanio is disturbed about leading Imogen to her death. When Imogen questions his obvious anxiety, he hands Posthumus's letter to her, in which Posthumus orders him to kill Imogen at Milford Haven for her proven adultery. Imogen asks what it means to be false to his bed: to think of him all the time, and be awakened by frightening dreams about the dangers he is in? She realizes that it is Iachimo who has been false; she suspects too that some loose Italian woman has led Posthumus astray. She herself is like a discarded garment, no longer in fashion, that must be ripped to pieces . Posthumus will bring all good seeming things into disrepute, as if they were pretended for evil purposes. She draws Pisanio's sword and orders him to take it and kill her in accordance with Posthumus's order; she asks him to tell Posthumus later of her obedience. Pisanio refuses and tosses the sword aside. She tells him he must obey his master, and she cannot kill herself as suicide is a sin. Imogen's insistence that Pisanio kill her, as suicide is a sin, triggers a series of religious images. She throws away Posthumus's letters as \"heresy\" ; he is one of the \"false teachers\" of heresy . She points out that her disobedience against her father in marrying Posthumus was very unusual; she is obedient to his order that she die. She feels sad to think how, when he is tired of his new woman, he will miss her. She asks Pisanio not to delay, since both she and Posthumus want her death. Pisanio refuses to kill Imogen, and she asks why he has therefore wasted so much time and trouble traveling all these miles. Pisanio answers that he only wanted to win time to find a way out of his situation. He is sure that \"some villain\" has abused Posthumus into thinking Imogen is unfaithful. Imogen asks whether this could be a Roman courtesan, but Pisanio says no. He plans to announce that Imogen is dead, and to send Posthumus proof of this. He wants Imogen to return to the court, but she is reluctant because Cloten is there. Pisanio says the alternative is to leave the country. Lucius will arrive in Milford Haven tomorrow. Imogen must disguise herself as a man-he has brought male clothing for her-and live near the house where Posthumus is staying, where she can receive reports on what he is doing. She will then present herself to Lucius and ask for a job as his servant. Pisanio will go back to court in case his absence arouses suspicion that he is involved in Imogen's disappearance. Pisanio gives Imogen the box that the Queen gave him, telling her it is medicine that will treat sea-sickness or nausea.", "analysis": ". This is a scene of great pathos in which we sympathize with both Imogen and Pisanio. Pisanio tortures himself with his unwillingness to obey Posthumus and kill Imogen. When he shows her the letter from Posthumus, he says he does not need to draw his sword against her, because the paper \"hath cut her throat already\" , an image that conveys her vulnerability. Imogen is too innocent even to conceive of being false to her husband, as her bitter speech reveals. However, Imogen's innocence does not mean she is insipid. She defends herself with great passion and fury against Posthumus's slanders. Her condemnation of Posthumus, that his \"revolt\" against his own apparently virtuous nature would make all good seem as if it were put on for villainous purposes, strikes us as a terrifying curse on mankind. Her rapid-fire command to Pisanio, in reply to his admission that he has not slept since he received Posthumus's order to kill her, to \"Do't, and to bed then,\" is extraordinarily ruthless. Imogen uses the imagery of the seasons when questioning Pisanio, asking him whether the contents of the letter he hands her are summer or winter news . Pisanio compares the slander against Imogen with snake venom . Reprising the play's bird imagery, Imogen believes that a \"jay of Italy\" has seduced Posthumus. A jay has brightly colored plumage, and Imogen imagines this loose woman as being painted with make-up . In another reference to Iachimo's symbolic link with hell, Pisanio rejects Imogen's request that he kill her, protesting that his sword shall not \"damn\" his hand . It is difficult to understand why Pisanio is ready to believe the claim of the Queen, whom he does not trust, that the box she gave him contains healing medicines. But the plot requires that Imogen take these potions, so we are expected to gloss over Pisanio's convenient sudden trust in the Queen."}

SCENE IV. Wales, near Milford Haven Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN IMOGEN. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th' inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter? Why tender'st thou that paper to me with A look untender! If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand? That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me. PISANIO. Please you read, And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.' PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam? IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed, Is it? PISANIO. Alas, good lady! IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him. Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls I must be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies. PISANIO. Good madam, hear me. IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon's weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men: Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur'd From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master's bidding; when thou seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look! I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike. Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, But now thou seem'st a coward. PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my hand. IMOGEN. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart- Something's afore't. Soft, soft! we'll no defence!- Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn'd to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers; though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, That didst set up my disobedience 'gainst the King My father, and make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage but A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee dispatch. The lamp entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, When I desire it too. PISANIO. O gracious lady, Since I receiv'd command to do this busines I have not slept one wink. IMOGEN. Do't, and to bed then. PISANIO. I'll wake mine eyeballs first. IMOGEN. Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus'd So many miles with a pretence? This place? Mine action and thine own? our horses' labour? The time inviting thee? the perturb'd court, For my being absent?- whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand, Th' elected deer before thee? PISANIO. But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider'd of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience. IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary- speak. I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. PISANIO. Then, madam, I thought you would not back again. IMOGEN. Most like- Bringing me here to kill me. PISANIO. Not so, neither; But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus'd. Some villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury. IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan! PISANIO. No, on my life! I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for 'tis commanded I should do so. You shall be miss'd at court, And that will well confirm it. IMOGEN. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? where bide? how live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband? PISANIO. If you'll back to th' court- IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing- That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege. PISANIO. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide. IMOGEN. Where then? Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they not but in Britain? I' th' world's volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in't; In a great pool a swan's nest. Prithee think There's livers out of Britain. PISANIO. I am most glad You think of other place. Th' ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which t' appear itself must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least, That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves. IMOGEN. O! for such means, Though peril to my modesty, not death on't, I would adventure. PISANIO. Well then, here's the point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness- The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman it pretty self- into a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it- but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy!- to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein You made great Juno angry. IMOGEN. Nay, be brief; I see into thy end, and am almost A man already. PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one. Fore-thinking this, I have already fit- 'Tis in my cloak-bag- doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them. Would you, in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him Wherein you're happy- which will make him know If that his head have ear in music; doubtless With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable, And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad- You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment. IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Prithee away! There's more to be consider'd; but we'll even All that good time will give us. This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince's courage. Away, I prithee. PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box; I had it from the Queen. What's in't is precious. If you are sick at sea Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best! IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee. Exeunt severally

Act 3 Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene4

Pisanio and Imogen are on their way to Milford Haven to meet Posthumus, as Imogen thinks. Pisanio is disturbed about leading Imogen to her death. When Imogen questions his obvious anxiety, he hands Posthumus's letter to her, in which Posthumus orders him to kill Imogen at Milford Haven for her proven adultery. Imogen asks what it means to be false to his bed: to think of him all the time, and be awakened by frightening dreams about the dangers he is in? She realizes that it is Iachimo who has been false; she suspects too that some loose Italian woman has led Posthumus astray. She herself is like a discarded garment, no longer in fashion, that must be ripped to pieces . Posthumus will bring all good seeming things into disrepute, as if they were pretended for evil purposes. She draws Pisanio's sword and orders him to take it and kill her in accordance with Posthumus's order; she asks him to tell Posthumus later of her obedience. Pisanio refuses and tosses the sword aside. She tells him he must obey his master, and she cannot kill herself as suicide is a sin. Imogen's insistence that Pisanio kill her, as suicide is a sin, triggers a series of religious images. She throws away Posthumus's letters as "heresy" ; he is one of the "false teachers" of heresy . She points out that her disobedience against her father in marrying Posthumus was very unusual; she is obedient to his order that she die. She feels sad to think how, when he is tired of his new woman, he will miss her. She asks Pisanio not to delay, since both she and Posthumus want her death. Pisanio refuses to kill Imogen, and she asks why he has therefore wasted so much time and trouble traveling all these miles. Pisanio answers that he only wanted to win time to find a way out of his situation. He is sure that "some villain" has abused Posthumus into thinking Imogen is unfaithful. Imogen asks whether this could be a Roman courtesan, but Pisanio says no. He plans to announce that Imogen is dead, and to send Posthumus proof of this. He wants Imogen to return to the court, but she is reluctant because Cloten is there. Pisanio says the alternative is to leave the country. Lucius will arrive in Milford Haven tomorrow. Imogen must disguise herself as a man-he has brought male clothing for her-and live near the house where Posthumus is staying, where she can receive reports on what he is doing. She will then present herself to Lucius and ask for a job as his servant. Pisanio will go back to court in case his absence arouses suspicion that he is involved in Imogen's disappearance. Pisanio gives Imogen the box that the Queen gave him, telling her it is medicine that will treat sea-sickness or nausea.

. This is a scene of great pathos in which we sympathize with both Imogen and Pisanio. Pisanio tortures himself with his unwillingness to obey Posthumus and kill Imogen. When he shows her the letter from Posthumus, he says he does not need to draw his sword against her, because the paper "hath cut her throat already" , an image that conveys her vulnerability. Imogen is too innocent even to conceive of being false to her husband, as her bitter speech reveals. However, Imogen's innocence does not mean she is insipid. She defends herself with great passion and fury against Posthumus's slanders. Her condemnation of Posthumus, that his "revolt" against his own apparently virtuous nature would make all good seem as if it were put on for villainous purposes, strikes us as a terrifying curse on mankind. Her rapid-fire command to Pisanio, in reply to his admission that he has not slept since he received Posthumus's order to kill her, to "Do't, and to bed then," is extraordinarily ruthless. Imogen uses the imagery of the seasons when questioning Pisanio, asking him whether the contents of the letter he hands her are summer or winter news . Pisanio compares the slander against Imogen with snake venom . Reprising the play's bird imagery, Imogen believes that a "jay of Italy" has seduced Posthumus. A jay has brightly colored plumage, and Imogen imagines this loose woman as being painted with make-up . In another reference to Iachimo's symbolic link with hell, Pisanio rejects Imogen's request that he kill her, protesting that his sword shall not "damn" his hand . It is difficult to understand why Pisanio is ready to believe the claim of the Queen, whom he does not trust, that the box she gave him contains healing medicines. But the plot requires that Imogen take these potions, so we are expected to gloss over Pisanio's convenient sudden trust in the Queen.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_15_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 5

act 3 scene 5

{"name": "Act 3 Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene5", "summary": "Cymbeline is bidding farewell to Lucius. Lucius says he is sorry that he has to report to his master that Cymbeline is his enemy. Cymbeline explains that the Britons will not endure Caesar's domination, and for the King to show less desire for independence than his subjects would appear \"unkinglike\" . Cymbeline gives Lucius safe conduct to Milford Haven. Cymbeline says that he must prepare the army to fight the Roman forces, which are in Gallia and ready to invade. Cymbeline asks the Queen where Imogen is: she has lately had more of a look of malice than of duty towards him. The Queen urges him to treat her gently, and says time will heal. An attendant reveals that the doors to her rooms are locked and their knocks have gone unanswered. The Queen tries to reassure him by explaining that Imogen has asked her to excuse her staying in; she has not been feeling well. The Queen says she forgot to tell him this. The King is alarmed, and leaves. Cloten remarks that he has not seen Pisanio either for two days. He follows the King. The Queen, left alone, prays that Pisanio's absence is explained by the fact that he has swallowed her poison. She wonders if Imogen has either killed herself or run after Posthumus; either outcome would suit the Queen, since then her son Cloten would be heir to the throne. Cloten re-enters and confirms that Imogen has fled. The King is in a rage. The Queen is secretly pleased, as she hopes that Cymbeline's wrath will prove fatal to him. She exits. Cloten speaks about his feelings for Imogen, saying he loves her for her unrivalled qualities, but hates her for disdaining him and favoring Posthumus. He wants revenge on her. Pisanio enters and Cloten aggressively interrogates him as to Imogen's whereabouts. He asks if she is with Posthumus. Pisanio feigns ignorance, saying Posthumus is in Rome so she cannot be with him. Cloten threatens to kill him unless he tells all. Pisanio presents him with a letter , seemingly from Posthumus, saying that this is all he knows of her flight. Pisanio is confident that the letter will not put Imogen in danger as she is far away, and hopes it may disconcert Cloten, as it is an apparently loving letter. Aside to the audience, Pisanio says he will write to Posthumus saying that Imogen is dead. He prays for her safe return. Having read the letter, Cloten offers Pisanio preferment if he will serve him, and do whatever \"villainy\" Cloten asks of him . Cloten observes that since Pisanio has loyally served the \"beggar\" Posthumus , he will surely be loyal to him also. Pisanio agrees. Cloten asks Pisanio if he has any of Posthumus's clothes, and Pisanio says he has the suit Posthumus wore when he took leave of Imogen. Cloten asks him to fetch the suit. When Pisanio has left, Cloten reveals that he intends to travel to Milford Haven. Because Imogen once said he revered Posthumus's garment more than Cloten, he will put on the suit and \"ravish her\" , and kill Posthumus in front of her. That way, Imogen will see his \"valour\" to pay her back for her contempt. He wants both to sate his lust and to get revenge on her. Pisanio apparently overhears some of Cloten's speech, though we are not yet told this. He returns with Posthumus's clothes. Cloten asks him to take them to his room. He then asks Pisanio to be true to him. Pisanio replies that to be true to him would mean being false to that \"true\" man, Posthumus.", "analysis": ". The imagery of buying and selling continues, with Cloten saying Imogen \"outsells\" all other women and that Posthumus's base \"weights\" -pieces of cheap metal-are worthless. But Cloten reveals once more his bestial nature, threatening to rip Pisanio's heart out , a wolf-like and predatory image. There is irony in Cloten's ordering Pisanio to perform \"villainy\" in his service, which he says will prove him \"honest\" . This is indicative of the perverted values of the corrupt court that Belarius warned his adopted sons about: the good man is punished, the bad rewarded. Pisanio expands this theme in lines 162-7, where he says that to be true to Cloten would mean being false to Posthumus, whom Pisanio believes is \"true,\" that is, good. This interpretation has been questioned by critics who view Posthumus, after his fall into jealousy, as being far from true. However, it is clear that Pisanio believes Posthumus to be an essentially true man who was abused by a villain. In a chilling twist on the outward appearance versus inward reality theme, Cloten will wear Posthumus's garment in an attempt to wreak revenge on Imogen for saying that she valued it above him. He is also attempting to steal some of Posthumus's perceived worth by adopting his garment-a typically superficial act on his part. There is a parallel plot theme in Cloten's plan to clothe himself in Posthumus's suit while in the next scene, Imogen appears dressed as a boy. This throws into relief the difference in their motivations: Cloten wishes revenge on Imogen, who he feels has wronged him, whereas Imogen feels only love for Posthumus, who has certainly wronged her. This leads us into one of the grand themes of the Romance plays, forgiveness and reconciliation. A character's redemption or otherwise largely depends upon their ability to forgive and be forgiven."}

SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS CYMBELINE. Thus far; and so farewell. LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence, And am right sorry that I must report ye My master's enemy. CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike. LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct overland to Milford Haven. Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you! CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit. So farewell, noble Lucius. LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord. CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy. LUCIUS. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well. CYMBELINE. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness! Exeunt LUCIUS and LORDS QUEEN. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause. CLOTEN. 'Tis all the better; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. CYMBELINE. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness. The pow'rs that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain. QUEEN. 'Tis not sleepy business, But must be look'd to speedily and strongly. CYMBELINE. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd The duty of the day. She looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty; We have noted it. Call her before us, for We have been too slight in sufferance. Exit a MESSENGER QUEEN. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her; she's a lady So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, And strokes death to her. Re-enter MESSENGER CYMBELINE. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? MESSENGER. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be given to th' loud of noise we make. QUEEN. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close; Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity She should that duty leave unpaid to you Which daily she was bound to proffer. This She wish'd me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in memory. CYMBELINE. Her doors lock'd? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Prove false! Exit QUEEN. Son, I say, follow the King. CLOTEN. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days. QUEEN. Go, look after. Exit CLOTEN Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz'd her; Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she's flown To her desir'd Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonour, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British crown. Re-enter CLOTEN How now, my son? CLOTEN. 'Tis certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none Dare come about him. QUEEN. All the better. May This night forestall him of the coming day! Exit CLOTEN. I love and hate her; for she's fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment That what's else rare is chok'd; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng'd upon her. For when fools Shall- Enter PISANIO Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither. Ah, you precious pander! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the fiends. PISANIO. O good my lord! CLOTEN. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter- I will not ask again. Close villain, I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn. PISANIO. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss'd? He is in Rome. CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer. No farther halting! Satisfy me home What is become of her. PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord! CLOTEN. All-worthy villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word. No more of 'worthy lord'! Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death. PISANIO. Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight. [Presenting a letter] CLOTEN. Let's see't. I will pursue her Even to Augustus' throne. PISANIO. [Aside] Or this or perish. She's far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger. CLOTEN. Humh! PISANIO. [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter true? PISANIO. Sir, as I think. CLOTEN. It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry- that is, what villainy soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly- I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment. PISANIO. Well, my good lord. CLOTEN. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me? PISANIO. Sir, I will. CLOTEN. Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy late master's garments in thy possession? PISANIO. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress. CLOTEN. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy first service; go. PISANIO. I shall, my lord. Exit CLOTEN. Meet thee at Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one thing; I'll remember't anon. Even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time- the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart- that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined- which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so prais'd- to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis'd me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge. Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes Be those the garments? PISANIO. Ay, my noble lord. CLOTEN. How long is't since she went to Milford Haven? PISANIO. She can scarce be there yet. CLOTEN. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous and true, preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true. Exit PISANIO. Thou bid'st me to my loss; for true to thee Were to prove false, which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed Be cross'd with slowness! Labour be his meed! Exit

Act 3 Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene5

Cymbeline is bidding farewell to Lucius. Lucius says he is sorry that he has to report to his master that Cymbeline is his enemy. Cymbeline explains that the Britons will not endure Caesar's domination, and for the King to show less desire for independence than his subjects would appear "unkinglike" . Cymbeline gives Lucius safe conduct to Milford Haven. Cymbeline says that he must prepare the army to fight the Roman forces, which are in Gallia and ready to invade. Cymbeline asks the Queen where Imogen is: she has lately had more of a look of malice than of duty towards him. The Queen urges him to treat her gently, and says time will heal. An attendant reveals that the doors to her rooms are locked and their knocks have gone unanswered. The Queen tries to reassure him by explaining that Imogen has asked her to excuse her staying in; she has not been feeling well. The Queen says she forgot to tell him this. The King is alarmed, and leaves. Cloten remarks that he has not seen Pisanio either for two days. He follows the King. The Queen, left alone, prays that Pisanio's absence is explained by the fact that he has swallowed her poison. She wonders if Imogen has either killed herself or run after Posthumus; either outcome would suit the Queen, since then her son Cloten would be heir to the throne. Cloten re-enters and confirms that Imogen has fled. The King is in a rage. The Queen is secretly pleased, as she hopes that Cymbeline's wrath will prove fatal to him. She exits. Cloten speaks about his feelings for Imogen, saying he loves her for her unrivalled qualities, but hates her for disdaining him and favoring Posthumus. He wants revenge on her. Pisanio enters and Cloten aggressively interrogates him as to Imogen's whereabouts. He asks if she is with Posthumus. Pisanio feigns ignorance, saying Posthumus is in Rome so she cannot be with him. Cloten threatens to kill him unless he tells all. Pisanio presents him with a letter , seemingly from Posthumus, saying that this is all he knows of her flight. Pisanio is confident that the letter will not put Imogen in danger as she is far away, and hopes it may disconcert Cloten, as it is an apparently loving letter. Aside to the audience, Pisanio says he will write to Posthumus saying that Imogen is dead. He prays for her safe return. Having read the letter, Cloten offers Pisanio preferment if he will serve him, and do whatever "villainy" Cloten asks of him . Cloten observes that since Pisanio has loyally served the "beggar" Posthumus , he will surely be loyal to him also. Pisanio agrees. Cloten asks Pisanio if he has any of Posthumus's clothes, and Pisanio says he has the suit Posthumus wore when he took leave of Imogen. Cloten asks him to fetch the suit. When Pisanio has left, Cloten reveals that he intends to travel to Milford Haven. Because Imogen once said he revered Posthumus's garment more than Cloten, he will put on the suit and "ravish her" , and kill Posthumus in front of her. That way, Imogen will see his "valour" to pay her back for her contempt. He wants both to sate his lust and to get revenge on her. Pisanio apparently overhears some of Cloten's speech, though we are not yet told this. He returns with Posthumus's clothes. Cloten asks him to take them to his room. He then asks Pisanio to be true to him. Pisanio replies that to be true to him would mean being false to that "true" man, Posthumus.

. The imagery of buying and selling continues, with Cloten saying Imogen "outsells" all other women and that Posthumus's base "weights" -pieces of cheap metal-are worthless. But Cloten reveals once more his bestial nature, threatening to rip Pisanio's heart out , a wolf-like and predatory image. There is irony in Cloten's ordering Pisanio to perform "villainy" in his service, which he says will prove him "honest" . This is indicative of the perverted values of the corrupt court that Belarius warned his adopted sons about: the good man is punished, the bad rewarded. Pisanio expands this theme in lines 162-7, where he says that to be true to Cloten would mean being false to Posthumus, whom Pisanio believes is "true," that is, good. This interpretation has been questioned by critics who view Posthumus, after his fall into jealousy, as being far from true. However, it is clear that Pisanio believes Posthumus to be an essentially true man who was abused by a villain. In a chilling twist on the outward appearance versus inward reality theme, Cloten will wear Posthumus's garment in an attempt to wreak revenge on Imogen for saying that she valued it above him. He is also attempting to steal some of Posthumus's perceived worth by adopting his garment-a typically superficial act on his part. There is a parallel plot theme in Cloten's plan to clothe himself in Posthumus's suit while in the next scene, Imogen appears dressed as a boy. This throws into relief the difference in their motivations: Cloten wishes revenge on Imogen, who he feels has wronged him, whereas Imogen feels only love for Posthumus, who has certainly wronged her. This leads us into one of the grand themes of the Romance plays, forgiveness and reconciliation. A character's redemption or otherwise largely depends upon their ability to forgive and be forgiven.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_16_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 6

act 3 scene 6

{"name": "Act 3 Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene6", "summary": "In Wales, near Belarius's cave, Imogen enters disguised as a boy. She is lost, has slept rough for two nights, and is on the point of collapse from lack of food. She reflects that to lie when prosperous is a greater crime than to lie out of need, and so falsehood is \"worse in kings than beggars\" . On this basis, Posthumus is among the false ones. She notices Belarius's cave. She fears to make herself known, but starvation gives her courage. She calls out, but receives no answer, so draws her sword and enters the cave.", "analysis": ". Imogen's clear-sightedness is evident in this scene. She does not try to attenuate Posthumus's guilt but recognizes that he is false even as she states her love for him. The chance that Imogen should come across the cave where her lost brothers live can strike modern audiences as coincidental to the point of absurdity. But such remarkable happenings, particularly involving lost royal children, are part of the Romance tradition. Some modern critics have embraced the magic elements of Romance and placed them within the framework of Jungian psychology, which sees events and characters as different aspects of the Self. In this framework, the aim is to bring to conscious awareness all the 'lost' aspects of the Self, resulting in unity of life and purpose. Thus, the lost royal children can be seen as representing the youthfulness and energy that the court has lost. They can also represent parts of Imogen's scattered self. She has been rejected or abused by the major male figures in her life, and to be embraced by her brothers must come as a healing experience."}

SCENE VI. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one. I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here? If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword, like me, he'll scarcely look on't. Such a foe, good heavens! Exit into the cave Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what's homely savoury; weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep'st thyself! GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary. ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy. GUIDERIUS. What's the matter, sir? BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy! Re-enter IMOGEN IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol'n nought; nor would not though I had found Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and parted With pray'rs for the provider. GUIDERIUS. Money, youth? ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those Who worship dirty gods. IMOGEN. I see you're angry. Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Have died had I not made it. BELARIUS. Whither bound? IMOGEN. To Milford Haven. BELARIUS. What's your name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall'n in this offence. BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd! 'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty I bid for you as I'd buy. ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort He is a man. I'll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I'd give to him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends, If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so that they Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize Been less, and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus. BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress. GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't! ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be, What pain it cost, what danger! Gods! BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys. IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal'd them, laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! I'd change my sex to be companion with them, Since Leonatus' false. BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd, We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it. GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near. ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less welcome. IMOGEN. Thanks, sir. ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near. Exeunt

Act 3 Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene6

In Wales, near Belarius's cave, Imogen enters disguised as a boy. She is lost, has slept rough for two nights, and is on the point of collapse from lack of food. She reflects that to lie when prosperous is a greater crime than to lie out of need, and so falsehood is "worse in kings than beggars" . On this basis, Posthumus is among the false ones. She notices Belarius's cave. She fears to make herself known, but starvation gives her courage. She calls out, but receives no answer, so draws her sword and enters the cave.

. Imogen's clear-sightedness is evident in this scene. She does not try to attenuate Posthumus's guilt but recognizes that he is false even as she states her love for him. The chance that Imogen should come across the cave where her lost brothers live can strike modern audiences as coincidental to the point of absurdity. But such remarkable happenings, particularly involving lost royal children, are part of the Romance tradition. Some modern critics have embraced the magic elements of Romance and placed them within the framework of Jungian psychology, which sees events and characters as different aspects of the Self. In this framework, the aim is to bring to conscious awareness all the 'lost' aspects of the Self, resulting in unity of life and purpose. Thus, the lost royal children can be seen as representing the youthfulness and energy that the court has lost. They can also represent parts of Imogen's scattered self. She has been rejected or abused by the major male figures in her life, and to be embraced by her brothers must come as a healing experience.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_17_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 7

act 3 scene 7

{"name": "Act 3 Scene 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene7", "summary": "Belarius congratulates Guiderius for being most successful in the hunt, and names him as master of the feast. Arviragus and he will play cook and servant. The boys are both weary. Belarius notices Imogen in the cave, and remarks that if she were not eating their food, he would think her a fairy. He next thinks that she is an angel. Imogen explains that she has stolen nothing and was going to leave them money for what she has eaten. Guiderius is not impressed, as gold and silver \"turn to dirt\" , and is only admired by those \"who worship dirty gods\" . Imogen tells him that had she not helped herself to the food, she would have died of starvation. She tells them she is going to Milford Haven and gives her name as Fidele, which means 'faithful' in French. She says a relative of hers has just embarked at Milford for Italy. Belarius bids her welcome, asking her not to measure their minds by the \"rude\" place they live in . Guiderius seems to feel an attraction towards her, saying her would court her if she were a woman. Arviragus welcomes her as a friend. Aside to the audience, she wishes they had been her brothers, for then she would not have been Cymbeline's sole heir, and Posthumus would have been more her financial equal. The boys notice her distress and sympathize with her. Imogen reflects that great men could not surpass the two boys. She would change her sex to be their companion, since Posthumus has proved false. Belarius invites her to tell as much of her story as she wishes, after they have eaten.", "analysis": ". ' Magic sleep' is one of the themes of the Romance plays. It generally marks some transformative change in the characters' lives. It is significant that both Imogen and the lost royal sons arrive at the cave very tired. The mood is heightened by Belarius's first impression of Imogen, that she is a fairy, and his second, that she is an angel. Imogen wishes that she had been poorer and offered \"more equal ballasting\" with Posthumus uses another image of weight and worth, this time to express the balance of power in her relationship ."}

SCENE VII. Rome. A public place Enter two ROMAN SENATORS and TRIBUNES FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor's writ: That since the common men are now in action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission. Long live Caesar! TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces? SECOND SENATOR. Ay. TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia? FIRST SENATOR. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch. TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty. Exeunt

Act 3 Scene 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act3-scene7

Belarius congratulates Guiderius for being most successful in the hunt, and names him as master of the feast. Arviragus and he will play cook and servant. The boys are both weary. Belarius notices Imogen in the cave, and remarks that if she were not eating their food, he would think her a fairy. He next thinks that she is an angel. Imogen explains that she has stolen nothing and was going to leave them money for what she has eaten. Guiderius is not impressed, as gold and silver "turn to dirt" , and is only admired by those "who worship dirty gods" . Imogen tells him that had she not helped herself to the food, she would have died of starvation. She tells them she is going to Milford Haven and gives her name as Fidele, which means 'faithful' in French. She says a relative of hers has just embarked at Milford for Italy. Belarius bids her welcome, asking her not to measure their minds by the "rude" place they live in . Guiderius seems to feel an attraction towards her, saying her would court her if she were a woman. Arviragus welcomes her as a friend. Aside to the audience, she wishes they had been her brothers, for then she would not have been Cymbeline's sole heir, and Posthumus would have been more her financial equal. The boys notice her distress and sympathize with her. Imogen reflects that great men could not surpass the two boys. She would change her sex to be their companion, since Posthumus has proved false. Belarius invites her to tell as much of her story as she wishes, after they have eaten.

. ' Magic sleep' is one of the themes of the Romance plays. It generally marks some transformative change in the characters' lives. It is significant that both Imogen and the lost royal sons arrive at the cave very tired. The mood is heightened by Belarius's first impression of Imogen, that she is a fairy, and his second, that she is an angel. Imogen wishes that she had been poorer and offered "more equal ballasting" with Posthumus uses another image of weight and worth, this time to express the balance of power in her relationship .

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_19_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 1

act 4 scene 1

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene1", "summary": "Cloten, dressed in Posthumus's clothes, is in Wales, near the place where Imogen is supposed to meet Posthumus. He says the clothes fit him well, and thus why should Imogen not prove \"fit\" for him, too ? He feels that he compares well to Posthumus in youth, looks and strength, and surpasses him in birth and advantages. He predicts that soon he shall have raped Imogen, cut Posthumus's clothes to pieces in front of him, and cut off Posthumus's head. The he plans to send Imogen home to face her father. Cymbeline may be angry with Cloten for treating Imogen roughly, but the Queen will take Cloten's part and make him appear worthy of praise.", "analysis": ". Cloten's superficial awareness is again highlighted in his naeve faith that wearing Posthumus's clothes will play some part in allowing him to steal his wife. Bound up on the level of outward appearance, Cloten has no concept of true worth."}

ACT IV. SCENE I. Wales. Near the cave of BELARIUS Enter CLOTEN alone CLOTEN. I am near to th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp'd it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather- saving reverence of the word- for 'tis said a woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber- I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me. Exit

Act 4 Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene1

Cloten, dressed in Posthumus's clothes, is in Wales, near the place where Imogen is supposed to meet Posthumus. He says the clothes fit him well, and thus why should Imogen not prove "fit" for him, too ? He feels that he compares well to Posthumus in youth, looks and strength, and surpasses him in birth and advantages. He predicts that soon he shall have raped Imogen, cut Posthumus's clothes to pieces in front of him, and cut off Posthumus's head. The he plans to send Imogen home to face her father. Cymbeline may be angry with Cloten for treating Imogen roughly, but the Queen will take Cloten's part and make him appear worthy of praise.

. Cloten's superficial awareness is again highlighted in his naeve faith that wearing Posthumus's clothes will play some part in allowing him to steal his wife. Bound up on the level of outward appearance, Cloten has no concept of true worth.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_20_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 2

act 4 scene 2

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene2", "summary": "Imogen is still disguised as a boy. Belarius notices that Imogen/Fidele is not well and asks her to stay in the cave while he and the boys go hunting. Arviragus addresses her as \"brother\". This has an ironic ring for the audience, which knows that he is Imogen's brother, but not for the characters themselves, who do not know they are related and think it a mere expression of friendship. Guiderius offers to stay with her, but she insists that he go, since she does not want to socialize and he cannot cure her by staying. Guiderius tells Imogen/Fidele that he loves her as he does his father, though he does not know why. Arviragus says he also loves Imogen, to the extent that, if one among them had to die, he would choose Belarius rather than her. Belarius is not offended by this, taking it as a sign of the youth's inherent nobility that he has noticed something special about Imogen. Aside to the audience, Imogen/Fidele reflects on the kindness of her hosts, and says that she has been lied to at court, where it is said that everyone outside that place is a savage. Her sickness, she says, is a heart-sickness . She takes the drug that Pisanio has given her. Guiderius tells his brother that he could not persuade the youth to tell 'his' story. All 'he' would say was that he was well-born, but unfortunate, the victim of dishonesty, but honest. He told Arviragus that he might learn more in future. Imogen retires into the cave. Belarius comments that the youth evidently has \"good ancestors\" . Arviragus is struck by his \"angel-like\" singing voice , and Guiderius by his exquisite cooking skills. Cloten enters. He is upset that he has not found Imogen and Posthumus, and suspects that Pisanio has tricked him by giving him wrong directions. He too feels faint. Belarius recognizes Cloten as the son of the Queen. Belarius and the boys are viewed as outlaws, and Belarius thinks they should escape. Guiderius decides to stay with Cloten and suggests that Belarius and Arviragus go to search for any followers. Cloten challenges them as they flee and Guiderius is left to answer Cloten, whom he calls a \"slave\"-a term of abuse. Cloten calls Guiderius a law-breaker and demands that he yield. Guiderius asks why he should. Cloten replies, by his clothes-he may mean that they show he is from the court. Cloten tries to provoke Guiderius with insults, but Guiderius does not rise to the bait because he sees that Cloten is a fool. Cloten tells Guiderius his name, thinking that will make him tremble in awe. But Guiderius says he would be more fearful of something with the name of toad, adder or spider, that is, something that can harm him . Cloten tries again, saying he is the Queen's son, but Guiderius says he only regrets that he does not seem worthy of this high position. Cloten wants Guiderius to fear him, but Guiderius is unmoved, saying that he fears only those whom he reverences; he laughs at fools. They leave, fighting. Belarius and Arviragus return, without having found any followers of Cloten. Guiderius comes in carrying Cloten's head. He says that had he not killed Cloten, Cloten would have killed him. Belarius is horrified, but Guiderius is unrepentant. He says the law does not protect them, so why should they allow \"an arrogant piece of flesh\" , who usurps the role of judge and executioner, threaten them just because they fear the law? . Belarius says that though he saw no one else, Cloten must have some attendants, whom Belarius fears. He may have come on a dare, to bring the runaway outlaws back, but it is still unlikely that he would come alone. Arviragus is philosophical, saying that they must accept their fate and that his brother has done well. Guiderius says he killed Cloten with his own sword and plans to throw his head into the river, whence it will be carried out to sea. He will tell the fishes that this is the Queen's son: this is the extent of his care for Cloten. Belarius fears the deed will be revenged, and wishes Guiderius had not done it. Arviragus wishes that he himself had done it, so that the revenge would pursue him. Belarius warns them not to seek danger where there is no profit. Belarius reflects that the boys' behavior shows an inherent royal-ness, which they did not need to be taught. He wonders what Cloten's visit will bring in its wake. Guiderius enters to report that he has thrown Cloten's head into the stream. They are interrupted by the sound of solemn music played on Belarius's instrument. Arviragus is the one who generally plays this instrument, but he has not played it since their mother's death. Guiderius wonders what solemn occasion merits its use. Arviragus enters with Imogen, seemingly dead, in his arms. He makes an elaborate speech, noting all the different flowers he will plant on her grave. The more practical Guiderius cuts him short, saying that they should bury Imogen near to their mother. Arviragus wants to sing the same dirge that they sang to their mother, but Guiderius says he will not be able to sing for weeping. Belarius reminds them that they must also bury Cloten, and with royal honors, since he was the son of a queen. Guiderius asks him to fetch the body, though he comments that when dead, a poor person's body is as good as a powerful person's. Guiderius sings the dirge, \"Fear no more the heat o' th' sun\" , which deals with the mutability of all things, which must \"come to dust\". After Belarius and the boys leave, Imogen awakes from her drugged sleep in a delirious state. She is shocked into clarity by the sight of Cloten's headless body next to her, dressed in Posthumus's clothes. She hopes that she is dreaming. But when it becomes clear that she is not, she is convinced that Pisanio has conspired with Cloten to murder Posthumus. The fact that Pisanio gave her a drug that proved \"murd'rous to the senses\" confirms his malice. Imogen falls on the body of Cloten. Lucius enters with some of his captains and a Soothsayer. A Captain reports that the troops that were stationed in Gallia are now at Milford Haven and ready to fight. The \"gentlemen\" of Italy, commanded by Iachimo, are also sailing for Britain at the next favorable wind. Lucius gives the order to muster the existing troops, then asks the Soothsayer what he has dreamed regarding the war. He replies that he saw Jove's sacred bird, the eagle, winging its way westwards and disappearing into the beams of the sun, which means Rome will be victorious. Lucius finds the bodies of Imogen and Cloten. The Captain says Imogen is alive. Lucius asks Imogen to explain what has happened, the identity of the headless man, and her interest in him. Imogen, still adopting the persona of Fidele, describes the body as her master, killed by brigands. She laments that she will never find another to equal him. She says his name is Richard du Champ and that her name is Fidele. Lucius says her name fits her faith, and invites her to enter his service. Imogen agrees, and Lucius bids her be cheerful, as \"Some falls are means the happier to arise\" . Lucius and his men go to dig Cloten a grave.", "analysis": ". Imogen's taking of the drug is another hint, along with the previous references to sleepiness, that a transformation in awareness is about to happen. The regenerative theme is invoked in Arviragus' description of patience and grief as two plants which have taken root in Imogen, and his prayer that the first thrives while the second withers. Cloten's insistence that Guiderius should know who he is by his clothes shows the excessive importance Cloten gives to appearance over inner identity. Guiderius recognizes Cloten's foolishness for thinking that the borrowed clothes \"make\" him . It should be the other way around: men make clothes. The contrast between the true world of the Welsh countryside and the false world of the court is clear in the fact that in the country, Cloten's and the Queen's names and high rank fail to strike awe into anyone's heart; venomous beasts, on the other hand, can do harm and are feared. The appearance versus reality theme is picked up again in Guiderius' comment that Cloten does not seem worthy of such high birth. Note the deliberate contrast between Cloten, who constantly expected respect on the basis of his superficial rank, but inwardly did not deserve it, and Guiderius, who is outwardly a poor outlaw but who exemplifies princely and noble behavior. This appearance versus reality theme plays into that of worth. Guiderius, after killing Cloten, calls him a worthless \"empty purse\" with no money in it . After Guiderius has cut off Cloten's head, Belarius fears that \"the body hath a tail / More perilous than the head. \" This grotesque image brings home Cloten's bestial nature and is an outward expression of his inward state-all animal appetite with little of the higher reason that in Renaissance thought separated men from beasts. Guiderius' quip that he will tell the fishes that the head he has thrown into the sea is that of the Queen's son represents Cloten stripped of his much-vaunted nobility and reduced to the base level of food for beasts. This image strips away the sophisticated but false veneer behind which the court has hidden its moral decay. The headless corpse is symbolic too of the kingdom under Cymbeline: he is a weak king ruled by his wife. The entire episode of Guiderius's killing of Cloten has an oddly fable-like quality. It is presented more as a story of a noble knight killing a monster than how it would be seen in a more realistic play-the murder of the heir to the throne on what appears to be trivial provocation. Belarius likens the two boys to nature herself. He compares their gentleness to a breeze that leaves the violet unmoved, and their roughness to the strongest wind that can bend a tree. He says that though they have never been taught royal behavior and valor, it grows in them as a wild crop. This is another example of the theme of inherent royalty or nobility. The dirge, \"Fear no more the heat o' th' sun\" , is perhaps the best known part of the play. It draws upon the theme of gold and worth, and sets them in the context of the mutability of all things: even \"golden lads and girls,\" those most valued in life, must eventually come to dust, as surely as do chimney sweeps. Death is the great leveler, and makes the \"frown o' th' great,\" \"slander\" and the \"tyrant's stoke,\" as well as mankind's great achievements in the field of learning and lovers' passion, irrelevant. Coming so soon after Arviragus' lyrical speech about the flowers he will plant on Imogen's grave, this song has the effect of measuring the world that man constructs for himself and identifies so strongly with, but which all ends in dust, against the great creative force of nature, which endlessly generates new life. Belarius's comment about dewy herbs being fittest for graves recalls the Queen's sinister words in Act 1, scene 6. Imogen's invocation of a drop of pity as small as \"a wren's eye\" represents another bird image, part of the theme of regenerative nature. Another example of the bird theme is the soothsayer's dream of Rome's victory in battle as Jove's sacred bird, the eagle, winging its way westwards ."}

SCENE II. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter, from the cave, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, and IMOGEN BELARIUS. [To IMOGEN] You are not well. Remain here in the cave; We'll come to you after hunting. ARVIRAGUS. [To IMOGEN] Brother, stay here. Are we not brothers? IMOGEN. So man and man should be; But clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick. GUIDERIUS. Go you to hunting; I'll abide with him. IMOGEN. So sick I am not, yet I am not well; But not so citizen a wanton as To seem to die ere sick. So please you, leave me; Stick to your journal course. The breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me; society is no comfort To one not sociable. I am not very sick, Since I can reason of it. Pray you trust me here. I'll rob none but myself; and let me die, Stealing so poorly. GUIDERIUS. I love thee; I have spoke it. How much the quantity, the weight as much As I do love my father. BELARIUS. What? how? how? ARVIRAGUS. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me In my good brother's fault. I know not why I love this youth, and I have heard you say Love's reason's without reason. The bier at door, And a demand who is't shall die, I'd say 'My father, not this youth.' BELARIUS. [Aside] O noble strain! O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! Cowards father cowards and base things sire base. Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. I'm not their father; yet who this should be Doth miracle itself, lov'd before me.- 'Tis the ninth hour o' th' morn. ARVIRAGUS. Brother, farewell. IMOGEN. I wish ye sport. ARVIRAGUS. Your health. [To BELARIUS] So please you, sir. IMOGEN. [Aside] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard! Our courtiers say all's savage but at court. Experience, O, thou disprov'st report! Th' imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish, Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio, I'll now taste of thy drug. [Swallows some] GUIDERIUS. I could not stir him. He said he was gentle, but unfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. ARVIRAGUS. Thus did he answer me; yet said hereafter I might know more. BELARIUS. To th' field, to th' field! We'll leave you for this time. Go in and rest. ARVIRAGUS. We'll not be long away. BELARIUS. Pray be not sick, For you must be our huswife. IMOGEN. Well, or ill, I am bound to you. BELARIUS. And shalt be ever. Exit IMOGEN into the cave This youth, howe'er distress'd, appears he hath had Good ancestors. ARVIRAGUS. How angel-like he sings! GUIDERIUS. But his neat cookery! He cut our roots in characters, And sauc'd our broths as Juno had been sick, And he her dieter. ARVIRAGUS. Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh Was that it was for not being such a smile; The smile mocking the sigh that it would fly From so divine a temple to commix With winds that sailors rail at. GUIDERIUS. I do note That grief and patience, rooted in him both, Mingle their spurs together. ARVIRAGUS. Grow patience! And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine His perishing root with the increasing vine! BELARIUS. It is great morning. Come, away! Who's there? Enter CLOTEN CLOTEN. I cannot find those runagates; that villain Hath mock'd me. I am faint. BELARIUS. Those runagates? Means he not us? I partly know him; 'tis Cloten, the son o' th' Queen. I fear some ambush. I saw him not these many years, and yet I know 'tis he. We are held as outlaws. Hence! GUIDERIUS. He is but one; you and my brother search What companies are near. Pray you away; Let me alone with him. Exeunt BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS CLOTEN. Soft! What are you That fly me thus? Some villain mountaineers? I have heard of such. What slave art thou? GUIDERIUS. A thing More slavish did I ne'er than answering 'A slave' without a knock. CLOTEN. Thou art a robber, A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief. GUIDERIUS. To who? To thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine, a heart as big? Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art; Why I should yield to thee. CLOTEN. Thou villain base, Know'st me not by my clothes? GUIDERIUS. No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather; he made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee. CLOTEN. Thou precious varlet, My tailor made them not. GUIDERIUS. Hence, then, and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool; I am loath to beat thee. CLOTEN. Thou injurious thief, Hear but my name, and tremble. GUIDERIUS. What's thy name? CLOTEN. Cloten, thou villain. GUIDERIUS. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it. Were it toad, or adder, spider, 'Twould move me sooner. CLOTEN. To thy further fear, Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know I am son to th' Queen. GUIDERIUS. I'm sorry for't; not seeming So worthy as thy birth. CLOTEN. Art not afeard? GUIDERIUS. Those that I reverence, those I fear- the wise: At fools I laugh, not fear them. CLOTEN. Die the death. When I have slain thee with my proper hand, I'll follow those that even now fled hence, And on the gates of Lud's Town set your heads. Yield, rustic mountaineer. Exeunt, fighting Re-enter BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. No company's abroad. ARVIRAGUS. None in the world; you did mistake him, sure. BELARIUS. I cannot tell; long is it since I saw him, But time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of favour Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute 'Twas very Cloten. ARVIRAGUS. In this place we left them. I wish my brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell. BELARIUS. Being scarce made up, I mean to man, he had not apprehension Or roaring terrors; for defect of judgment Is oft the cease of fear. Re-enter GUIDERIUS with CLOTEN'S head But, see, thy brother. GUIDERIUS. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; There was no money in't. Not Hercules Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had none; Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne My head as I do his. BELARIUS. What hast thou done? GUIDERIUS. I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten's head, Son to the Queen, after his own report; Who call'd me traitor, mountaineer, and swore With his own single hand he'd take us in, Displace our heads where- thank the gods!- they grow, And set them on Lud's Town. BELARIUS. We are all undone. GUIDERIUS. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose But that he swore to take, our lives? The law Protects not us; then why should we be tender To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us, Play judge and executioner all himself, For we do fear the law? What company Discover you abroad? BELARIUS. No single soul Can we set eye on, but in all safe reason He must have some attendants. Though his humour Was nothing but mutation- ay, and that From one bad thing to worse- not frenzy, not Absolute madness could so far have rav'd, To bring him here alone. Although perhaps It may be heard at court that such as we Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head- the which he hearing, As it is like him, might break out and swear He'd fetch us in; yet is't not probable To come alone, either he so undertaking Or they so suffering. Then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this body hath a tail More perilous than the head. ARVIRAGUS. Let ordinance Come as the gods foresay it. Howsoe'er, My brother hath done well. BELARIUS. I had no mind To hunt this day; the boy Fidele's sickness Did make my way long forth. GUIDERIUS. With his own sword, Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en His head from him. I'll throw't into the creek Behind our rock, and let it to the sea And tell the fishes he's the Queen's son, Cloten. That's all I reck. Exit BELARIUS. I fear 'twill be reveng'd. Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done't! though valour Becomes thee well enough. ARVIRAGUS. Would I had done't, So the revenge alone pursu'd me! Polydore, I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou hast robb'd me of this deed. I would revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us through, And put us to our answer. BELARIUS. Well, 'tis done. We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger Where there's no profit. I prithee to our rock. You and Fidele play the cooks; I'll stay Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him To dinner presently. ARVIRAGUS. Poor sick Fidele! I'll willingly to him; to gain his colour I'd let a parish of such Cloten's blood, And praise myself for charity. Exit BELARIUS. O thou goddess, Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon'st In these two princely boys! They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind That by the top doth take the mountain pine And make him stoop to th' vale. 'Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn'd, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow'd. Yet still it's strange What Cloten's being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us. Re-enter GUIDERIUS GUIDERIUS. Where's my brother? I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream, In embassy to his mother; his body's hostage For his return. [Solemn music] BELARIUS. My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds. But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark! GUIDERIUS. Is he at home? BELARIUS. He went hence even now. GUIDERIUS. What does he mean? Since death of my dear'st mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Should answer solemn accidents. The matter? Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. Is Cadwal mad? Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, with IMOGEN as dead, bearing her in his arms BELARIUS. Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his arms Of what we blame him for! ARVIRAGUS. The bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch, Than have seen this. GUIDERIUS. O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears thee not the one half so well As when thou grew'st thyself. BELARIUS. O melancholy! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find The ooze to show what coast thy sluggish care Might'st easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing! Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. How found you him? ARVIRAGUS. Stark, as you see; Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at; his right cheek Reposing on a cushion. GUIDERIUS. Where? ARVIRAGUS. O' th' floor; His arms thus leagu'd. I thought he slept, and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud. GUIDERIUS. Why, he but sleeps. If he be gone he'll make his grave a bed; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee. ARVIRAGUS. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweet'ned not thy breath. The ruddock would, With charitable bill- O bill, sore shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie Without a monument!- bring thee all this; Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flow'rs are none, To winter-ground thy corse- GUIDERIUS. Prithee have done, And do not play in wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let us bury him, And not protract with admiration what Is now due debt. To th' grave. ARVIRAGUS. Say, where shall's lay him? GUIDERIUS. By good Euriphile, our mother. ARVIRAGUS. Be't so; And let us, Polydore, though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th' ground, As once to our mother; use like note and words, Save that Euriphile must be Fidele. GUIDERIUS. Cadwal, I cannot sing. I'll weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse Than priests and fanes that lie. ARVIRAGUS. We'll speak it, then. BELARIUS. Great griefs, I see, med'cine the less, for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys; And though he came our enemy, remember He was paid for that. Though mean and mighty rotting Together have one dust, yet reverence- That angel of the world- doth make distinction Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely; And though you took his life, as being our foe, Yet bury him as a prince. GUIDERIUS. Pray you fetch him hither. Thersites' body is as good as Ajax', When neither are alive. ARVIRAGUS. If you'll go fetch him, We'll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin. Exit BELARIUS GUIDERIUS. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th' East; My father hath a reason for't. ARVIRAGUS. 'Tis true. GUIDERIUS. Come on, then, and remove him. ARVIRAGUS. So. Begin. SONG GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. ARVIRAGUS. Fear no more the frown o' th' great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust. GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the lightning flash, ARVIRAGUS. Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone; GUIDERIUS. Fear not slander, censure rash; ARVIRAGUS. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan. BOTH. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust. GUIDERIUS. No exorciser harm thee! ARVIRAGUS. Nor no witchcraft charm thee! GUIDERIUS. Ghost unlaid forbear thee! ARVIRAGUS. Nothing ill come near thee! BOTH. Quiet consummation have, And renowned be thy grave! Re-enter BELARIUS with the body of CLOTEN GUIDERIUS. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down. BELARIUS. Here's a few flowers; but 'bout midnight, more. The herbs that have on them cold dew o' th' night Are strewings fit'st for graves. Upon their faces. You were as flow'rs, now wither'd. Even so These herblets shall which we upon you strew. Come on, away. Apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again. Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain. Exeunt all but IMOGEN IMOGEN. [Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way? I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither? 'Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet? I have gone all night. Faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow. O gods and goddesses! [Seeing the body] These flow'rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on't. I hope I dream; For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures. But 'tis not so; 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind. Good faith, I tremble still with fear; but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it! The dream's here still. Even when I wake it is Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt. A headless man? The garments of Posthumus? I know the shape of's leg; this is his hand, His foot Mercurial, his Martial thigh, The brawns of Hercules; but his Jovial face- Murder in heaven! How! 'Tis gone. Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, Conspir'd with that irregulous devil, Cloten, Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read Be henceforth treacherous! Damn'd Pisanio Hath with his forged letters- damn'd Pisanio- From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top. O Posthumus! alas, Where is thy head? Where's that? Ay me! where's that? Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio? 'Tis he and Cloten; malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. O, 'tis pregnant, pregnant! The drug he gave me, which he said was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murd'rous to th' senses? That confirms it home. This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten. O! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us. O, my lord, my lord! [Falls fainting on the body] Enter LUCIUS, CAPTAINS, and a SOOTHSAYER CAPTAIN. To them the legions garrison'd in Gallia, After your will, have cross'd the sea, attending You here at Milford Haven; with your ships, They are in readiness. LUCIUS. But what from Rome? CAPTAIN. The Senate hath stirr'd up the confiners And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits, That promise noble service; and they come Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, Sienna's brother. LUCIUS. When expect you them? CAPTAIN. With the next benefit o' th' wind. LUCIUS. This forwardness Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers Be muster'd; bid the captains look to't. Now, sir, What have you dream'd of late of this war's purpose? SOOTHSAYER. Last night the very gods show'd me a vision- I fast and pray'd for their intelligence- thus: I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing'd From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish'd in the sunbeams; which portends, Unless my sins abuse my divination, Success to th' Roman host. LUCIUS. Dream often so, And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime It was a worthy building. How? a page? Or dead or sleeping on him? But dead, rather; For nature doth abhor to make his bed With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. Let's see the boy's face. CAPTAIN. He's alive, my lord. LUCIUS. He'll then instruct us of this body. Young one, Inform us of thy fortunes; for it seems They crave to be demanded. Who is this Thou mak'st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest In this sad wreck? How came't? Who is't? What art thou? IMOGEN. I am nothing; or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton and a good, That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas! There is no more such masters. I may wander From east to occident; cry out for service; Try many, all good; serve truly; never Find such another master. LUCIUS. 'Lack, good youth! Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend. IMOGEN. Richard du Champ. [Aside] If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope They'll pardon it.- Say you, sir? LUCIUS. Thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. LUCIUS. Thou dost approve thyself the very same; Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say Thou shalt be so well master'd; but, be sure, No less belov'd. The Roman Emperor's letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me. IMOGEN. I'll follow, sir. But first, an't please the gods, I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his grave, And on it said a century of prayers, Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep and sigh; And leaving so his service, follow you, So please you entertain me. LUCIUS. Ay, good youth; And rather father thee than master thee. My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave. Come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr'd By thee to us; and he shall be interr'd As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes. Some falls are means the happier to arise. Exeunt

Act 4 Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene2

Imogen is still disguised as a boy. Belarius notices that Imogen/Fidele is not well and asks her to stay in the cave while he and the boys go hunting. Arviragus addresses her as "brother". This has an ironic ring for the audience, which knows that he is Imogen's brother, but not for the characters themselves, who do not know they are related and think it a mere expression of friendship. Guiderius offers to stay with her, but she insists that he go, since she does not want to socialize and he cannot cure her by staying. Guiderius tells Imogen/Fidele that he loves her as he does his father, though he does not know why. Arviragus says he also loves Imogen, to the extent that, if one among them had to die, he would choose Belarius rather than her. Belarius is not offended by this, taking it as a sign of the youth's inherent nobility that he has noticed something special about Imogen. Aside to the audience, Imogen/Fidele reflects on the kindness of her hosts, and says that she has been lied to at court, where it is said that everyone outside that place is a savage. Her sickness, she says, is a heart-sickness . She takes the drug that Pisanio has given her. Guiderius tells his brother that he could not persuade the youth to tell 'his' story. All 'he' would say was that he was well-born, but unfortunate, the victim of dishonesty, but honest. He told Arviragus that he might learn more in future. Imogen retires into the cave. Belarius comments that the youth evidently has "good ancestors" . Arviragus is struck by his "angel-like" singing voice , and Guiderius by his exquisite cooking skills. Cloten enters. He is upset that he has not found Imogen and Posthumus, and suspects that Pisanio has tricked him by giving him wrong directions. He too feels faint. Belarius recognizes Cloten as the son of the Queen. Belarius and the boys are viewed as outlaws, and Belarius thinks they should escape. Guiderius decides to stay with Cloten and suggests that Belarius and Arviragus go to search for any followers. Cloten challenges them as they flee and Guiderius is left to answer Cloten, whom he calls a "slave"-a term of abuse. Cloten calls Guiderius a law-breaker and demands that he yield. Guiderius asks why he should. Cloten replies, by his clothes-he may mean that they show he is from the court. Cloten tries to provoke Guiderius with insults, but Guiderius does not rise to the bait because he sees that Cloten is a fool. Cloten tells Guiderius his name, thinking that will make him tremble in awe. But Guiderius says he would be more fearful of something with the name of toad, adder or spider, that is, something that can harm him . Cloten tries again, saying he is the Queen's son, but Guiderius says he only regrets that he does not seem worthy of this high position. Cloten wants Guiderius to fear him, but Guiderius is unmoved, saying that he fears only those whom he reverences; he laughs at fools. They leave, fighting. Belarius and Arviragus return, without having found any followers of Cloten. Guiderius comes in carrying Cloten's head. He says that had he not killed Cloten, Cloten would have killed him. Belarius is horrified, but Guiderius is unrepentant. He says the law does not protect them, so why should they allow "an arrogant piece of flesh" , who usurps the role of judge and executioner, threaten them just because they fear the law? . Belarius says that though he saw no one else, Cloten must have some attendants, whom Belarius fears. He may have come on a dare, to bring the runaway outlaws back, but it is still unlikely that he would come alone. Arviragus is philosophical, saying that they must accept their fate and that his brother has done well. Guiderius says he killed Cloten with his own sword and plans to throw his head into the river, whence it will be carried out to sea. He will tell the fishes that this is the Queen's son: this is the extent of his care for Cloten. Belarius fears the deed will be revenged, and wishes Guiderius had not done it. Arviragus wishes that he himself had done it, so that the revenge would pursue him. Belarius warns them not to seek danger where there is no profit. Belarius reflects that the boys' behavior shows an inherent royal-ness, which they did not need to be taught. He wonders what Cloten's visit will bring in its wake. Guiderius enters to report that he has thrown Cloten's head into the stream. They are interrupted by the sound of solemn music played on Belarius's instrument. Arviragus is the one who generally plays this instrument, but he has not played it since their mother's death. Guiderius wonders what solemn occasion merits its use. Arviragus enters with Imogen, seemingly dead, in his arms. He makes an elaborate speech, noting all the different flowers he will plant on her grave. The more practical Guiderius cuts him short, saying that they should bury Imogen near to their mother. Arviragus wants to sing the same dirge that they sang to their mother, but Guiderius says he will not be able to sing for weeping. Belarius reminds them that they must also bury Cloten, and with royal honors, since he was the son of a queen. Guiderius asks him to fetch the body, though he comments that when dead, a poor person's body is as good as a powerful person's. Guiderius sings the dirge, "Fear no more the heat o' th' sun" , which deals with the mutability of all things, which must "come to dust". After Belarius and the boys leave, Imogen awakes from her drugged sleep in a delirious state. She is shocked into clarity by the sight of Cloten's headless body next to her, dressed in Posthumus's clothes. She hopes that she is dreaming. But when it becomes clear that she is not, she is convinced that Pisanio has conspired with Cloten to murder Posthumus. The fact that Pisanio gave her a drug that proved "murd'rous to the senses" confirms his malice. Imogen falls on the body of Cloten. Lucius enters with some of his captains and a Soothsayer. A Captain reports that the troops that were stationed in Gallia are now at Milford Haven and ready to fight. The "gentlemen" of Italy, commanded by Iachimo, are also sailing for Britain at the next favorable wind. Lucius gives the order to muster the existing troops, then asks the Soothsayer what he has dreamed regarding the war. He replies that he saw Jove's sacred bird, the eagle, winging its way westwards and disappearing into the beams of the sun, which means Rome will be victorious. Lucius finds the bodies of Imogen and Cloten. The Captain says Imogen is alive. Lucius asks Imogen to explain what has happened, the identity of the headless man, and her interest in him. Imogen, still adopting the persona of Fidele, describes the body as her master, killed by brigands. She laments that she will never find another to equal him. She says his name is Richard du Champ and that her name is Fidele. Lucius says her name fits her faith, and invites her to enter his service. Imogen agrees, and Lucius bids her be cheerful, as "Some falls are means the happier to arise" . Lucius and his men go to dig Cloten a grave.

. Imogen's taking of the drug is another hint, along with the previous references to sleepiness, that a transformation in awareness is about to happen. The regenerative theme is invoked in Arviragus' description of patience and grief as two plants which have taken root in Imogen, and his prayer that the first thrives while the second withers. Cloten's insistence that Guiderius should know who he is by his clothes shows the excessive importance Cloten gives to appearance over inner identity. Guiderius recognizes Cloten's foolishness for thinking that the borrowed clothes "make" him . It should be the other way around: men make clothes. The contrast between the true world of the Welsh countryside and the false world of the court is clear in the fact that in the country, Cloten's and the Queen's names and high rank fail to strike awe into anyone's heart; venomous beasts, on the other hand, can do harm and are feared. The appearance versus reality theme is picked up again in Guiderius' comment that Cloten does not seem worthy of such high birth. Note the deliberate contrast between Cloten, who constantly expected respect on the basis of his superficial rank, but inwardly did not deserve it, and Guiderius, who is outwardly a poor outlaw but who exemplifies princely and noble behavior. This appearance versus reality theme plays into that of worth. Guiderius, after killing Cloten, calls him a worthless "empty purse" with no money in it . After Guiderius has cut off Cloten's head, Belarius fears that "the body hath a tail / More perilous than the head. " This grotesque image brings home Cloten's bestial nature and is an outward expression of his inward state-all animal appetite with little of the higher reason that in Renaissance thought separated men from beasts. Guiderius' quip that he will tell the fishes that the head he has thrown into the sea is that of the Queen's son represents Cloten stripped of his much-vaunted nobility and reduced to the base level of food for beasts. This image strips away the sophisticated but false veneer behind which the court has hidden its moral decay. The headless corpse is symbolic too of the kingdom under Cymbeline: he is a weak king ruled by his wife. The entire episode of Guiderius's killing of Cloten has an oddly fable-like quality. It is presented more as a story of a noble knight killing a monster than how it would be seen in a more realistic play-the murder of the heir to the throne on what appears to be trivial provocation. Belarius likens the two boys to nature herself. He compares their gentleness to a breeze that leaves the violet unmoved, and their roughness to the strongest wind that can bend a tree. He says that though they have never been taught royal behavior and valor, it grows in them as a wild crop. This is another example of the theme of inherent royalty or nobility. The dirge, "Fear no more the heat o' th' sun" , is perhaps the best known part of the play. It draws upon the theme of gold and worth, and sets them in the context of the mutability of all things: even "golden lads and girls," those most valued in life, must eventually come to dust, as surely as do chimney sweeps. Death is the great leveler, and makes the "frown o' th' great," "slander" and the "tyrant's stoke," as well as mankind's great achievements in the field of learning and lovers' passion, irrelevant. Coming so soon after Arviragus' lyrical speech about the flowers he will plant on Imogen's grave, this song has the effect of measuring the world that man constructs for himself and identifies so strongly with, but which all ends in dust, against the great creative force of nature, which endlessly generates new life. Belarius's comment about dewy herbs being fittest for graves recalls the Queen's sinister words in Act 1, scene 6. Imogen's invocation of a drop of pity as small as "a wren's eye" represents another bird image, part of the theme of regenerative nature. Another example of the bird theme is the soothsayer's dream of Rome's victory in battle as Jove's sacred bird, the eagle, winging its way westwards .

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_21_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 3

act 4 scene 3

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene3", "summary": "Cymbeline asks how his wife is. She has run mad with a fever at Cloten's absence, and her life is in danger. The King is forlorn at the loss of Imogen and the possible loss of the Queen, as well as the absence of Cloten at a time when a frightening war looms. He believes Pisanio knows something about Imogen's departure, and threatens to torture him until he reveals it. Pisanio counters that he knows nothing, but asserts his loyalty to the King. The First Lord backs up Pisanio, saying that the day she went missing, he was at court. There is a search party looking for Cloten. The King lets Pisanio off the hook for now. The First Lord tells the King that the Roman forces have landed, together with the Roman gentlemen sent by the Senate. He reassures the King that the British forces are ready. Cymbeline longs for the advice of Cloten and the Queen. The King and courtiers leave Pisanio alone. Pisanio worries that he has not heard from Posthumus since he wrote telling him that Imogen had been killed. Nor has he heard from Imogen or anything of Cloten. Pisanio repeats that he is only false in order to be honest; and the wars shall prove he loves his country.", "analysis": ". This scene is unique in that it pushes Cymbeline into the foreground. But he only emphasizes his unkingly nature by lamenting his comfortless state, with his daughter, wife and Cloten all unavailable to him at a time when he is nervous about the war. Cymbeline's uncertain nature compares unfavorably with the youthful bravery of his lost sons, which features prominently in the next scene."}

SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, LORDS, PISANIO, and attendants CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how 'tis with her. Exit an attendant A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life's in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant. LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he's true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found. CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [To PISANIO] We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent. CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz'd with matter. LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're ready. The want is but to put those pow'rs in motion That long to move. CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let's withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away! Exeunt all but PISANIO PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. 'Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex'd in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o' th' King, or I'll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. Exit

Act 4 Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene3

Cymbeline asks how his wife is. She has run mad with a fever at Cloten's absence, and her life is in danger. The King is forlorn at the loss of Imogen and the possible loss of the Queen, as well as the absence of Cloten at a time when a frightening war looms. He believes Pisanio knows something about Imogen's departure, and threatens to torture him until he reveals it. Pisanio counters that he knows nothing, but asserts his loyalty to the King. The First Lord backs up Pisanio, saying that the day she went missing, he was at court. There is a search party looking for Cloten. The King lets Pisanio off the hook for now. The First Lord tells the King that the Roman forces have landed, together with the Roman gentlemen sent by the Senate. He reassures the King that the British forces are ready. Cymbeline longs for the advice of Cloten and the Queen. The King and courtiers leave Pisanio alone. Pisanio worries that he has not heard from Posthumus since he wrote telling him that Imogen had been killed. Nor has he heard from Imogen or anything of Cloten. Pisanio repeats that he is only false in order to be honest; and the wars shall prove he loves his country.

. This scene is unique in that it pushes Cymbeline into the foreground. But he only emphasizes his unkingly nature by lamenting his comfortless state, with his daughter, wife and Cloten all unavailable to him at a time when he is nervous about the war. Cymbeline's uncertain nature compares unfavorably with the youthful bravery of his lost sons, which features prominently in the next scene.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_22_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 4.scene 4

act 4 scene 4

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene4", "summary": "Guiderius notes that he, his brother, and Belarius are in danger from the Romans. Belarius suggests they retreat higher into the mountains. He says that because of Cloten's killing, they cannot go for protection to the King. If they are caught, they will be tortured and killed. Arviragus thinks that the King will be too busy with the war to look into their origins, but Belarius points out that he is well known in the army, and besides, the King has not deserved their service or love. But Guiderius and Arviragus believe that they should all go to fight in the wars. Guiderius says he and his brother are not known by anyone at court, and Belarius is forgotten and \"o'ergrown\" , possibly meaning bearded and unrecognizable, or simply grown out of their thoughts. Guiderius and Arviragus ask for Belarius's blessing to go to war. Belarius replies that since they value their young lives so slightly, there is no reason why he should set more value on his old one. He joins them as they go off to fight.", "analysis": ". The courage of Guiderius and Arviragus, contrasted with Cymbeline's lack of kingly valor in the previous scene, leaves no doubt that it is time for a regime change. Shakespeare's plays uphold the divinely ordained nature of kingship; thus, those who kill, depose or usurp a rightful king must always pay a price. But running alongside this is the idea that kingship is part of the great cycle of nature, in which old, sick and decaying branches wither and die, to be replaced by young, vigorous growth. Cymbeline is the decayed king, while his lost sons, nurtured in the womb of the wild Welsh countryside, are now ripe to assume royal roles."}

SCENE IV. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us. BELARIUS. Let us from it. ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure? GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after. BELARIUS. Sons, We'll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King's party there's no going. Newness Of Cloten's death- we being not known, not muster'd Among the bands-may drive us to a render Where we have liv'd, and so extort from's that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture. GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us. ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv'd my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis'd, But to be still hot summer's tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter. GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th' army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown, Cannot be questioned. ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I'll thither. What thing is't that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look'd on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham'd To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I'll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I'll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans! ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen. BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I'll lie. Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born. Exeunt

Act 4 Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act4-scene4

Guiderius notes that he, his brother, and Belarius are in danger from the Romans. Belarius suggests they retreat higher into the mountains. He says that because of Cloten's killing, they cannot go for protection to the King. If they are caught, they will be tortured and killed. Arviragus thinks that the King will be too busy with the war to look into their origins, but Belarius points out that he is well known in the army, and besides, the King has not deserved their service or love. But Guiderius and Arviragus believe that they should all go to fight in the wars. Guiderius says he and his brother are not known by anyone at court, and Belarius is forgotten and "o'ergrown" , possibly meaning bearded and unrecognizable, or simply grown out of their thoughts. Guiderius and Arviragus ask for Belarius's blessing to go to war. Belarius replies that since they value their young lives so slightly, there is no reason why he should set more value on his old one. He joins them as they go off to fight.

. The courage of Guiderius and Arviragus, contrasted with Cymbeline's lack of kingly valor in the previous scene, leaves no doubt that it is time for a regime change. Shakespeare's plays uphold the divinely ordained nature of kingship; thus, those who kill, depose or usurp a rightful king must always pay a price. But running alongside this is the idea that kingship is part of the great cycle of nature, in which old, sick and decaying branches wither and die, to be replaced by young, vigorous growth. Cymbeline is the decayed king, while his lost sons, nurtured in the womb of the wild Welsh countryside, are now ripe to assume royal roles.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_23_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 1

act 5 scene 1

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene1", "summary": "Posthumus is now at the Roman camp in Britain, having joined the Roman forces. He carries with him a bloodstained cloth, sent to him by Pisanio as proof of Imogen's murder. He repents that he had Imogen killed , a wife better than himself, for straying just a little. In an example of dramatic irony , he wishes that Pisanio had obeyed only his just commands, and that the gods had saved Imogen and struck him with more vengeance. Though he has come to Britain to fight against his wife's kingdom, he feels this to be wrong-he has done enough by killing Imogen and will give no wound to her country. He plans to replace his Roman clothes with those of a British peasant, and fight with the Britons against the Romans.", "analysis": ". Posthumus's penitence is somewhat unsatisfying and fails to command much sympathy. He regrets ordering Imogen's killing, but still believes she is guilty. Thus, though he has recovered some sense of perspective regarding her alleged sin, he fails to give her the trust she deserves. As we have seen with Imogen, the shedding and adoption of clothing can carry symbolic weight. Posthumus's decision to shed his Roman soldier's clothes and adopt a British peasant's clothing carries many meanings: his attempt to make amends to Imogen and Britain; his abandonment of attempts to control and punish others and willingness to surrender to his fate; and his penitent attempt to replace impressive clothing with inward worth. He will show more valor than his garments suggest, fight as an unknown soldier without the benefit of his martial reputation, and \"begin / To fashion less without, and more within\" . Note the confusion of roles adopted by Posthumus and Imogen. Imogen, a Briton, has disguised herself as a boy and is serving the commander of the Roman army. Posthumus, another Briton, has been exiled to Rome, is supposed to be serving in the Roman army, and arrived in Britain dressed as a Roman, but has secretly defected to the British cause and is now dressed as a poor Briton. Both characters will, in their disguised roles, find a deeper inner truth than they previously knew."}

ACT V. SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody handkerchief POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom. 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I'll fight Against the part I come with; so I'll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' th' Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin The fashion- less without and more within. Exit

Act 5 Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene1

Posthumus is now at the Roman camp in Britain, having joined the Roman forces. He carries with him a bloodstained cloth, sent to him by Pisanio as proof of Imogen's murder. He repents that he had Imogen killed , a wife better than himself, for straying just a little. In an example of dramatic irony , he wishes that Pisanio had obeyed only his just commands, and that the gods had saved Imogen and struck him with more vengeance. Though he has come to Britain to fight against his wife's kingdom, he feels this to be wrong-he has done enough by killing Imogen and will give no wound to her country. He plans to replace his Roman clothes with those of a British peasant, and fight with the Britons against the Romans.

. Posthumus's penitence is somewhat unsatisfying and fails to command much sympathy. He regrets ordering Imogen's killing, but still believes she is guilty. Thus, though he has recovered some sense of perspective regarding her alleged sin, he fails to give her the trust she deserves. As we have seen with Imogen, the shedding and adoption of clothing can carry symbolic weight. Posthumus's decision to shed his Roman soldier's clothes and adopt a British peasant's clothing carries many meanings: his attempt to make amends to Imogen and Britain; his abandonment of attempts to control and punish others and willingness to surrender to his fate; and his penitent attempt to replace impressive clothing with inward worth. He will show more valor than his garments suggest, fight as an unknown soldier without the benefit of his martial reputation, and "begin / To fashion less without, and more within" . Note the confusion of roles adopted by Posthumus and Imogen. Imogen, a Briton, has disguised herself as a boy and is serving the commander of the Roman army. Posthumus, another Briton, has been exiled to Rome, is supposed to be serving in the Roman army, and arrived in Britain dressed as a Roman, but has secretly defected to the British cause and is now dressed as a poor Briton. Both characters will, in their disguised roles, find a deeper inner truth than they previously knew.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_24_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 2

act 5 scene 2

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene2", "summary": "Lucius, Iachimo and the Roman army enter at one side of the stage, and the British army at another, with Posthumus following, dressed as a poor soldier. There is a skirmish between Iachimo and Posthumus, who disarms Iachimo and leaves. Iachimo, left alone, is penitent that he slandered Imogen, the princess of Britain, and says that his guilt is robbing him of his courage. Otherwise, how could this poor soldier have subdued him, a professional soldier? . The battle continues. The Britons retreat in disarray and panic, and Cymbeline is taken prisoner. Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus enter and, helped by Posthumus, rescue Cymbeline. Then Lucius, Iachimo and Imogen enter. Lucius sends Imogen away from the fighting, for her safety. Iachimo warns Lucius that the British are bringing in reinforcements. Lucius says they too must bring in more troops, or retreat. .", "analysis": ". Coming fast on the heels of Posthumus' penitence is Iachimo's. Both are perhaps less rewarding and dramatic than they should be, since we do not see the journey that led them to this point. . The decay into which Cymbeline's kingdom has fallen is clear from the shameful disorder into which his army descends. The fact that his lost sons become his rescuer emphasizes the regenerative theme of the new world redeeming the old. The cure for the court's and the nation's sickness lies in the sons' hands. Belarius's involvement is satisfying, since it expiates his sin of stealing the royal children: he heals where once he wounded."}

SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS. He vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. Exit The battle continues; the BRITONS fly; CYMBELINE is taken. Then enter to his rescue BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th' advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears. GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight! Re-enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then re-enter LUCIUS and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hoodwink'd. IACHIMO. 'Tis their fresh supplies. LUCIUS. It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes Let's reinforce or fly. Exeunt

Act 5 Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene2

Lucius, Iachimo and the Roman army enter at one side of the stage, and the British army at another, with Posthumus following, dressed as a poor soldier. There is a skirmish between Iachimo and Posthumus, who disarms Iachimo and leaves. Iachimo, left alone, is penitent that he slandered Imogen, the princess of Britain, and says that his guilt is robbing him of his courage. Otherwise, how could this poor soldier have subdued him, a professional soldier? . The battle continues. The Britons retreat in disarray and panic, and Cymbeline is taken prisoner. Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus enter and, helped by Posthumus, rescue Cymbeline. Then Lucius, Iachimo and Imogen enter. Lucius sends Imogen away from the fighting, for her safety. Iachimo warns Lucius that the British are bringing in reinforcements. Lucius says they too must bring in more troops, or retreat. .

. Coming fast on the heels of Posthumus' penitence is Iachimo's. Both are perhaps less rewarding and dramatic than they should be, since we do not see the journey that led them to this point. . The decay into which Cymbeline's kingdom has fallen is clear from the shameful disorder into which his army descends. The fact that his lost sons become his rescuer emphasizes the regenerative theme of the new world redeeming the old. The cure for the court's and the nation's sickness lies in the sons' hands. Belarius's involvement is satisfying, since it expiates his sin of stealing the royal children: he heals where once he wounded.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_25_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 3

act 5 scene 3

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene3", "summary": "Posthumus is talking to a British Lord, who fled the battle. Posthumus says there is no shame in this, since all seemed lost for the Britons, until the gods intervened. He tells the Lord how an old man and two boys-obviously Belarius, Arviragus and Guiderius-turned the battle around by stopping the Britons from fleeing and making them fight the Romans. The Romans are defeated, and Lucius has been taken prisoner. Posthumus, disappointed that he did not die in battle, has dressed again in Roman clothing. He comes forward and gives himself up to the Britons, wishing to be taken prisoner and put to death. They capture him and plan to take him to the King.", "analysis": ". Posthumus commands more sympathy in this scene than previously. Giving himself up to the Britons to be put to death is arguably a just punishment for his actions. Cymbeline, in another bird image, is compared to a bird without wings ; the Romans are like a predatory animal, \"Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring\" . However, the Britons win because the gods help them . This is one of the play's most notable instances of supernatural intervention-though it is dramatically unconvincing, as is confirmed by the Lord's reaction to Posthumus's account of it-and gives a foretaste of the elements that will follow in the next scene."}

SCENE III. Another part of the field Enter POSTHUMUS and a Britain LORD LORD. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. LORD. I did. POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying, Through a strait lane- the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length'ned shame. LORD. Where was this lane? POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier- An honest one, I warrant, who deserv'd So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for's country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings- lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas'd or shame- Made good the passage, cried to those that fled 'Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!' These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many- For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing- with this word 'Stand, stand!' Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some turn'd coward But by example- O, a sin in war Damn'd in the first beginners!- gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o' th' hunters. Then began A stop i' th' chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o' th' need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O'erborne i' th' former wave. Ten chas'd by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o' th' field. LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And vent it for a mock'ry? Here is one: 'Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.' LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir. POSTHUMUS. 'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I'll be his friend; For if he'll do as he is made to do, I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. LORD. Farewell; you're angry. Exit POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i' th' field and ask 'What news?' of me! To-day how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses! took heel to do't, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i' th' war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum'd again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom's death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I'll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two BRITISH CAPTAINS and soldiers FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken. 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th' affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN. So 'tis reported; But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there? POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer'd him. SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th' King. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman captives. The CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a gaoler. Exeunt omnes

Act 5 Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene3

Posthumus is talking to a British Lord, who fled the battle. Posthumus says there is no shame in this, since all seemed lost for the Britons, until the gods intervened. He tells the Lord how an old man and two boys-obviously Belarius, Arviragus and Guiderius-turned the battle around by stopping the Britons from fleeing and making them fight the Romans. The Romans are defeated, and Lucius has been taken prisoner. Posthumus, disappointed that he did not die in battle, has dressed again in Roman clothing. He comes forward and gives himself up to the Britons, wishing to be taken prisoner and put to death. They capture him and plan to take him to the King.

. Posthumus commands more sympathy in this scene than previously. Giving himself up to the Britons to be put to death is arguably a just punishment for his actions. Cymbeline, in another bird image, is compared to a bird without wings ; the Romans are like a predatory animal, "Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring" . However, the Britons win because the gods help them . This is one of the play's most notable instances of supernatural intervention-though it is dramatically unconvincing, as is confirmed by the Lord's reaction to Posthumus's account of it-and gives a foretaste of the elements that will follow in the next scene.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_26_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 4

act 5 scene 4

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene4", "summary": "Posthumus enters in chains, with his jailers. They leave him alone, whereupon he explains that he welcomes his bondage, as it is for him the way to freedom . He says his conscience is more of a prisoner than his body, and asks the gods to give him the \"penitent instrument\" to pick this lock, setting him free forever. He feels that volunteering to be put into chains is the best way. He asks the gods to take his life for Imogen's, though \"'Tis not so dear\" . He falls asleep. Solemn music sounds to signal the scene of Posthumus's dream. A group of spirits, Posthumus's ancestors and dead brothers, gather round him. They beg Jupiter, king of the gods, to intervene and help Posthumus. Jupiter descends on an eagle, and throws a thunderbolt. The spirits fall upon their knees. Jupiter is annoyed with them, but promises that he will uplift Posthumus's fortunes and that Posthumus will be reunited with Imogen. Posthumus awakens, bitterly disappointed that his relatives have vanished. He finds a book on the ground, and hopes that the contents are worthy of the cover. He opens the book and reads a cryptic prophecy. It predicts that when a lion's whelp shall be embraced by \"a piece of tender air\" , and when branches shall be lopped from a dead cedar , but which shall later revive , then Posthumus shall be happy and Britain shall flourish. Posthumus does not fully understand the prophecy, but feels it bears some likeness to his life, and so keeps it. The jailers return and tell Posthumus that he shall be hanged. He says he is more than ready. The First Gaoler, with mordant humor, comforts him with the news that he needs fear no more tavern bills: he who dies pays all debts. The Gaoler reflects that he has never seen a person who is so eager to be hanged as Posthumus. He wishes that everyone were good, so that there would be no more gaolers or gallows. Though this would deprive him of his present job, he would hope for a better one.", "analysis": ". Posthumus's opening lines carry an emotional power that is lacking in his earlier speeches. His request to the gods that they take him in payment for Imogen's death, coupled with his certainty that he is worth less than she, is full of pathos. The dream scene has perhaps attracted more criticism than anything else by Shakespeare. It is written in poor quality doggerel verse, serves no dramatic purpose, and its style and language bear little relation to Shakespeare's other work, leading to doubts that it is his. The character Jupiter has been called \"preposterous\" and indeed, it is difficult to play this scene without arousing laughter of the wrong sort. It is possible that it was later interpolated-by Shakespeare or another writer - for a performance at the court of King James I, where elaborate masques involving gods, painted scenery and 'flying' persons supported by wires were popular. But equally, it may be that it was written by Shakespeare in one of his less inspired moments. The scene is an example of a type of stage device which leant a new phrase to the English language: deus ex machina, Latin for, literally, the god from the machine. It originated with Greek and Roman theater, when a machine would lower a god or gods onto the stage to resolve a hopeless situation. The phrase deus ex machina has been extended to refer to any resolution to a story which does not pay regard to the story's internal logic and is so unlikely that it challenges the audience's suspension of disbelief. Its advantage is that it allows authors to end the story in the way they want. Posthumus's hope that the book that the spirits leave behind is not merely \"a garment / Nobler than that it covers\" recalls the theme of appearance versus reality. Symbolically, the book is important, as it marks the crossing-over of the supernatural world into the natural world. It is inevitable that Posthumus's life will be transformed as a result."}

SCENE IV. Britain. A prison Enter POSTHUMUS and two GAOLERS FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol'n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture. SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach. Exeunt GAOLERS POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that's sick o' th' gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd By th' sure physician death, who is the key T' unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is't enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir'd more than constrain'd. To satisfy, If of my freedom 'tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that's not my desire. For Imogen's dear life take mine; and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it. 'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow'rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I'll speak to thee in silence. [Sleeps] Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, SICILIUS LEONATUS, father to POSTHUMUS, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his WIFE, and mother to POSTHUMUS, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young LEONATI, brothers to POSTHUMUS, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle POSTHUMUS round as he lies sleeping SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay'd Attending nature's law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans' father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp'd, Came crying 'mongst his foes, A thing of pity. SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv'd the praise o' th' world As great Sicilius' heir. FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity? MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exil'd and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen? SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O' th' other's villainy? SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our country's cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius' right With honour to maintain. FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform'd. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn'd The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn'd? SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries. MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries. SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th' shining synod of the rest Against thy deity. BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly. JUPITER descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The GHOSTS fall on their knees JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flow'rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay'd, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends] SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulpherous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop'd as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas'd. ALL. Thanks, Jupiter! SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest. [GHOSTS vanish] POSTHUMUS. [Waking] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness' favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' 'Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I'll keep, if but for sympathy. Re-enter GAOLER GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death? POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago. GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook'd. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes in's head, then; I have not seen him so pictur'd. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one. POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging's the way of winking. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS. Thou bring'st good news: I am call'd to be made free. GAOLER. I'll be hang'd then. POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and MESSENGER GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't. Exit

Act 5 Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene4

Posthumus enters in chains, with his jailers. They leave him alone, whereupon he explains that he welcomes his bondage, as it is for him the way to freedom . He says his conscience is more of a prisoner than his body, and asks the gods to give him the "penitent instrument" to pick this lock, setting him free forever. He feels that volunteering to be put into chains is the best way. He asks the gods to take his life for Imogen's, though "'Tis not so dear" . He falls asleep. Solemn music sounds to signal the scene of Posthumus's dream. A group of spirits, Posthumus's ancestors and dead brothers, gather round him. They beg Jupiter, king of the gods, to intervene and help Posthumus. Jupiter descends on an eagle, and throws a thunderbolt. The spirits fall upon their knees. Jupiter is annoyed with them, but promises that he will uplift Posthumus's fortunes and that Posthumus will be reunited with Imogen. Posthumus awakens, bitterly disappointed that his relatives have vanished. He finds a book on the ground, and hopes that the contents are worthy of the cover. He opens the book and reads a cryptic prophecy. It predicts that when a lion's whelp shall be embraced by "a piece of tender air" , and when branches shall be lopped from a dead cedar , but which shall later revive , then Posthumus shall be happy and Britain shall flourish. Posthumus does not fully understand the prophecy, but feels it bears some likeness to his life, and so keeps it. The jailers return and tell Posthumus that he shall be hanged. He says he is more than ready. The First Gaoler, with mordant humor, comforts him with the news that he needs fear no more tavern bills: he who dies pays all debts. The Gaoler reflects that he has never seen a person who is so eager to be hanged as Posthumus. He wishes that everyone were good, so that there would be no more gaolers or gallows. Though this would deprive him of his present job, he would hope for a better one.

. Posthumus's opening lines carry an emotional power that is lacking in his earlier speeches. His request to the gods that they take him in payment for Imogen's death, coupled with his certainty that he is worth less than she, is full of pathos. The dream scene has perhaps attracted more criticism than anything else by Shakespeare. It is written in poor quality doggerel verse, serves no dramatic purpose, and its style and language bear little relation to Shakespeare's other work, leading to doubts that it is his. The character Jupiter has been called "preposterous" and indeed, it is difficult to play this scene without arousing laughter of the wrong sort. It is possible that it was later interpolated-by Shakespeare or another writer - for a performance at the court of King James I, where elaborate masques involving gods, painted scenery and 'flying' persons supported by wires were popular. But equally, it may be that it was written by Shakespeare in one of his less inspired moments. The scene is an example of a type of stage device which leant a new phrase to the English language: deus ex machina, Latin for, literally, the god from the machine. It originated with Greek and Roman theater, when a machine would lower a god or gods onto the stage to resolve a hopeless situation. The phrase deus ex machina has been extended to refer to any resolution to a story which does not pay regard to the story's internal logic and is so unlikely that it challenges the audience's suspension of disbelief. Its advantage is that it allows authors to end the story in the way they want. Posthumus's hope that the book that the spirits leave behind is not merely "a garment / Nobler than that it covers" recalls the theme of appearance versus reality. Symbolically, the book is important, as it marks the crossing-over of the supernatural world into the natural world. It is inevitable that Posthumus's life will be transformed as a result.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/1799-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Cymbeline/section_27_part_0.txt

Cymbeline.act 5.scene 5

act 5 scene 5

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene5", "summary": "Cymbeline is in his tent, surrounded by Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Pisanio. He calls Belarius and the two sons the \"preservers of my throne\" and regrets that the \"poor soldier\" who fought so well cannot be found. Pisanio says that a thorough search has been done but in vain. In response to Cymbeline's question, Belarius says that they were born in Cambria , that they are gentlemen, and that they are honest. Cymbeline creates them knights and promises other rewards. Cornelius enters and announces that the Queen has died in madness. Before she died, she confessed that she never loved Cymbeline, but married him for his royal position; that she killed Imogen with poison; and that she had intended to poison Cymbeline slowly with a mineral, winning him over to the idea of naming Cloten as his heir. But when Cloten vanished, she grew desperate and died. Cymbeline says that his senses were not at fault, since she was beautiful and flattered him well, and neither was his heart, which \"thought her like her seeming\" , but he repents his folly in choosing her. Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer, and other Roman prisoners are brought in. Posthumus and the still-disguised Imogen/Fidele follow. Cymbeline tells Lucius that the relatives of the British soldiers who died in battle have asked him to kill the Roman prisoners. Lucius says that the Britons only won the battle by accident, and that if the Romans had won, they would not have threatened British prisoners with the sword. But if they are to die, they will bear it \"with a Roman's heart\" . He asks only that his page be ransomed, as he is a Briton who has done no Briton harm. Cymbeline says the boy's face looks familiar, and grants his life and any favor he might ask - even the life of the noblest prisoner. Lucius tells Imogen/Fidele that he need not beg for his life. Imogen tells him that she did not intend to: Lucius's life \"must shuffle for itself\" as she has seen something \"Bitter to me as death\" . She is, of course, looking at Posthumus. Lucius is hurt. Cymbeline asks Imogen/Fidele again what he would like, as he loves him more and more. Imogen offers to tell him in private. While they talk aside, Belarius and the sons remark on the resemblance between this lad and Fidele. Pisanio, in an aside, is certain that he is Imogen. Cymbeline calls Iachimo forward and asks Imogen/Fidele to speak his demand to him; he also orders Iachimo to answer honestly, on pain of torture. Imogen asks as her promised favor that Iachimo tell from whom he got the ring. Iachimo admits that he got it \"by villainy\" ; it had belonged to the noble Posthumus, whom Cymbeline banished. As Iachimo begins to tell that part of his story involving Imogen, he almost faints, saying his heart \"drops blood.\" Iachimo describes how Posthumus praised Cymbeline's daughter above all other women for her chastity, how Posthumus agreed on the wager, and how by trickery he gathered his 'evidence' of Imogen's adultery. Posthumus is anguished that he fell for Iachimo's lies. He comes forward, identifying himself to Cymbeline as the one who had Imogen killed and ranting about his guilt. Imogen interrupts him, and he, thinking that she scorns his feelings, hits her. She falls to the ground. Pisanio is shocked, telling Posthumus that he never killed Imogen until now. As Pisanio tends to Imogen, Imogen casts him off, saying that he gave her poison. Pisanio protests that he believed the potion to be a precious medicine. Cornelius points out that the Queen confessed to him that she gave the potion to Pisanio for Imogen believing it to be poison, whereas it was only a medicine to temporarily shut down the signs of life. Imogen reveals that she took it, and Belarius realizes that Imogen was never really dead. Imogen asks Posthumus why he threw her from him, and embraces him. Cymbeline now recognizes his daughter, and she kneels for his blessing. Belarius tells his sons that he does not blame them for loving Imogen, since they are her brothers. Cymbeline tells Imogen that the Queen is dead and Cloten gone. Pisanio explains that he gave Cloten a forged letter, seemingly from Posthumus, which guided him to the mountains near Milford to seek Imogen. He planned to violate Imogen's honor, though Pisanio knows nothing more. Guiderius explains that he killed Cloten. Cymbeline is stunned. He hopes Guiderius can tell him this is not so, since is reluctant to punish Guiderius, in view of his good deeds in the battle. Guiderius refuses to deny it, and justifies his action on the grounds of Cloten's unprincely behavior. Cymbeline regretfully says that Guiderius must die, by law. Belarius intervenes, saying that the boys have merited more from Cymbeline than ever Cloten did. He warns the boys that he must tell a story that will be dangerous to him, though helpful to them. Belarius reveals that he is the man who was banished as a traitor by Cymbeline. Cymbeline orders Belarius to be taken away, but Belarius regains control of the situation with a cheeky joke, asking the King first to pay him for bringing up his sons. Belarius explains that he is not the boys' father, as they believe; they are Cymbeline's sons. He was wrongfully banished; he had the boys' nurse, Euriphile, steal them for him, and married her in payment. Now, he gives them back to Cymbeline, saying that he received his punishment before he stole them, in the form of his banishment. He offers as proof a mantle in which Arviragus was wrapped, and which was made by their mother. Cymbeline recalls that Guiderius had a mole on his neck, and Belarius shows that the older boy still has it. Cymbeline rejoices that he has as if given birth to three . He tells Imogen that she has unluckily lost a kingdom, as she is no longer the heir. But Imogen protests that she has gained two worlds, meaning her brothers. Imogen and her brothers reveal to Cymbeline that they have met before and loved each other at first sight. Cymbeline, in wonder, wants to hear the rest of the story, but first intends that they will go to the temple to give thanks. He greets Belarius as his brother and gives the order for the prisoners to be allowed to share the celebrations. Imogen promises Lucius that she will yet do him service. Cymbeline's thoughts turn to the poor soldier who fought so well alongside Belarius and the boys, at which Posthumus identifies himself as this soldier. He asks Iachimo to confirm that it was he who, dressed as the poor soldier, disarmed Iachimo. Iachimo kneels before Posthumus and begs him to take his life. He gives Posthumus the ring and bracelet of \"the truest princess\" . Posthumus spares Iachimo's life, saying that he does not do him a favor in so doing , and tells him to \"deal with others better\" . Inspired by Posthumus, Cymbeline gives a blanket pardon to all. Grateful to Posthumus's help in the battle, the sons welcome him as their brother. Posthumus calls for the Soothsayer to explain the cryptic prophecy he found after his sleep. The prophecy ends with a prediction of peace and prosperity for Britain through the descendants of the royal sons. In an afterthought, Cymbeline tells Lucius that though the Britons won the battle, he will resume the tribute to Rome, from which he was dissuaded by the wicked Queen. The Soothsayer claims his prophecy about the eagle soaring from south to west, vanishing in the beams of the sun, was accurate, since it meant that Caesar would unite with Cymbeline . Cymbeline declares peace and orders the Roman and British flags to be carried through London together. They all go to the temple of Jupiter to celebrate.", "analysis": ". This is a scene of revelations, each of which resolves one of the plotlines of the play. As such, it is a scene in which truth triumphs over falsehood and appearance is stripped away, leaving reality visible. Iachimo chooses to reveal his story, which resolves the main plotline of Posthumus's false accusation of Imogen, very slowly, heightening the tension and confirming his ascendancy as the most dramatically painted character of the play. After Iachimo's confession, the revelations come hot on each others' heels, creating an atmosphere of wonder and magic. Though the resolutions of the intellect happen through these revelations, the resolutions of the heart come with forgiveness. Everyone who has been wronged forgives his or her wronger. The most touching example is Imogen's unquestioning forgiveness of her husband Posthumus. The fact that Posthumus strikes her even as they are reunited makes him seem unworthy of her forgiveness, but this has the effect of exalting her love to the status of divine grace . The least convincing act of forgiveness is, ironically, Posthumus's to Iachimo. Posthumus says that he is only leaving Iachimo alive because that way he will suffer more. Once again, Posthumus compares poorly to his wife. Posthumus' words as Imogen embraces him, \"Hang there like fruit, my soul, / Till the tree die,\" are moving, though whether they are moving enough to regain the audience's sympathy after all he has done, is a question worthy of debate. Especially difficult to stomach is his striking Imogen when she tries to declare her true identity. Granted, he does not know it is her at the time, but given that he is supposedly penitent about his past treatment of her, it seems an ill omen that leads us to wonder how deep his reformation runs. Cymbeline's comment that he thought the Queen to be \"like her seeming\" reveals his characteristic lack of emotional instinct and inability to distinguish outer appearance from reality-the same quality that led him to banish honest men and put his trust in wicked and stupid people. Cymbeline's promise to resume the tribute to Rome after the Britons won a bloody victory fighting for this very cause is an anti-climax which has caused some critics to wonder if Shakespeare was laughing at his characters or at his audience. However, it may be a patriotic attempt to save face for the British in spite of the chronicler Holinshed's citation of Latin sources claiming that Rome was ultimately victorious, and the fact that the Roman occupation of Britain persisted for many decades after Cymbeline's reign. Shakespeare shows a battle in which the Britons prevailed, rather than the entire war, which the Romans won; then he shows Cymbeline choosing to resume the tribute to Rome out of generosity rather than through subjugation. It's one way of making out that the Britons won, when they actually lost."}

SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S tent Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, LORDS, OFFICERS, and attendants CYMBELINE. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp'd before targes of proof, cannot be found. He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so. BELARIUS. I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought But beggary and poor looks. CYMBELINE. No tidings of him? PISANIO. He hath been search'd among the dead and living, But no trace of him. CYMBELINE. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward; [To BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS] which I will add To you, the liver, heart, and brain, of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. 'Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it. BELARIUS. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen; Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add we are honest. CYMBELINE. Bow your knees. Arise my knights o' th' battle; I create you Companions to our person, and will fit you With dignities becoming your estates. Enter CORNELIUS and LADIES There's business in these faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory? You look like Romans, And not o' th' court of Britain. CORNELIUS. Hail, great King! To sour your happiness I must report The Queen is dead. CYMBELINE. Who worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she? CORNELIUS. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd I will report, so please you; these her women Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks Were present when she finish'd. CYMBELINE. Prithee say. CORNELIUS. First, she confess'd she never lov'd you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you; Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorr'd your person. CYMBELINE. She alone knew this; And but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed. CORNELIUS. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her flight prevented it, she had Ta'en off by poison. CYMBELINE. O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more? CORNELIUS. More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral, which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life, and ling'ring, By inches waste you. In which time she purpos'd, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O'ercome you with her show; and in time, When she had fitted you with her craft, to work Her son into th' adoption of the crown; But failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate, open'd, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented The evils she hatch'd were not effected; so, Despairing, died. CYMBELINE. Heard you all this, her women? LADY. We did, so please your Highness. CYMBELINE. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter! That it was folly in me thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the SOOTHSAYER, and other Roman prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind, and IMOGEN Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute; that The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So think of your estate. LUCIUS. Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten'd Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call'd ransom, let it come. Sufficeth A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer. Augustus lives to think on't; and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom'd. Never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join With my request, which I'll make bold your Highness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm Though he have serv'd a Roman. Save him, sir, And spare no blood beside. CYMBELINE. I have surely seen him; His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore To say 'Live, boy.' Ne'er thank thy master. Live; And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, I'll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta'en. IMOGEN. I humbly thank your Highness. LUCIUS. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt. IMOGEN. No, no! Alack, There's other work in hand. I see a thing Bitter to me as death; your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself. LUCIUS. The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why stands he so perplex'd? CYMBELINE. What wouldst thou, boy? I love thee more and more; think more and more What's best to ask. Know'st him thou look'st on? Speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend? IMOGEN. He is a Roman, no more kin to me Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer. CYMBELINE. Wherefore ey'st him so? IMOGEN. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. CYMBELINE. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. CYMBELINE. Thou'rt my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart] BELARIUS. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? ARVIRAGUS. One sand another Not more resembles- that sweet rosy lad Who died and was Fidele. What think you? GUIDERIUS. The same dead thing alive. BELARIUS. Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear. Creatures may be alike; were't he, I am sure He would have spoke to us. GUIDERIUS. But we saw him dead. BELARIUS. Be silent; let's see further. PISANIO. [Aside] It is my mistress. Since she is living, let the time run on To good or bad. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN advance] CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud. [To IACHIMO] Sir, step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely, Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, Which is our honour, bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him. IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring. POSTHUMUS. [Aside] What's that to him? CYMBELINE. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours? IACHIMO. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken that Which to be spoke would torture thee. CYMBELINE. How? me? IACHIMO. I am glad to be constrain'd to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villainy I got this ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel, Whom thou didst banish; and- which more may grieve thee, As it doth me- a nobler sir ne'er liv'd 'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord? CYMBELINE. All that belongs to this. IACHIMO. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits Quail to remember- Give me leave, I faint. CYMBELINE. My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength; I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak. IACHIMO. Upon a time- unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!- was in Rome- accurs'd The mansion where!- 'twas at a feast- O, would Our viands had been poison'd, or at least Those which I heav'd to head!- the good Posthumus- What should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Amongst the rar'st of good ones- sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty that made barren the swell'd boast Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the eye- CYMBELINE. I stand on fire. Come to the matter. IACHIMO. All too soon I shall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a noble lord in love and one That had a royal lover, took his hint; And not dispraising whom we prais'd- therein He was as calm as virtue- he began His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in't, either our brags Were crack'd of kitchen trulls, or his description Prov'd us unspeaking sots. CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th' purpose. IACHIMO. Your daughter's chastity- there it begins. He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch, Made scruple of his praise, and wager'd with him Pieces of gold 'gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour'd finger, to attain In suit the place of's bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of Phoebus' wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth of's car. Away to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference 'Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench'd Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain Gan in your duller Britain operate Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent; And, to be brief, my practice so prevail'd That I return'd with simular proof enough To make the noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his belief in her renown With tokens thus and thus; averring notes Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet- O cunning, how I got it!- nay, some marks Of secret on her person, that he could not But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd, I having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon- Methinks I see him now- POSTHUMUS. [Coming forward] Ay, so thou dost, Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool, Egregious murderer, thief, anything That's due to all the villains past, in being, To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison, Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out For torturers ingenious. It is I That all th' abhorred things o' th' earth amend By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, That kill'd thy daughter; villain-like, I lie- That caus'd a lesser villain than myself, A sacrilegious thief, to do't. The temple Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself. Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set The dogs o' th' street to bay me. Every villain Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villainy less than 'twas! O Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen! IMOGEN. Peace, my lord. Hear, hear! POSTHUMUS. Shall's have a play of this? Thou scornful page, There lies thy part. [Strikes her. She falls] PISANIO. O gentlemen, help! Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus! You ne'er kill'd Imogen till now. Help, help! Mine honour'd lady! CYMBELINE. Does the world go round? POSTHUMUS. How comes these staggers on me? PISANIO. Wake, my mistress! CYMBELINE. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy. PISANIO. How fares my mistress? IMOGEN. O, get thee from my sight; Thou gav'st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where princes are. CYMBELINE. The tune of Imogen! PISANIO. Lady, The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if That box I gave you was not thought by me A precious thing! I had it from the Queen. CYMBELINE. New matter still? IMOGEN. It poison'd me. CORNELIUS. O gods! I left out one thing which the Queen confess'd, Which must approve thee honest. 'If Pisanio Have' said she 'given his mistress that confection Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv'd As I would serve a rat.' CYMBELINE. What's this, Cornelius? CORNELIUS. The Queen, sir, very oft importun'd me To temper poisons for her; still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge only In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs, Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certain stuff, which, being ta'en would cease The present pow'r of life, but in short time All offices of nature should again Do their due functions. Have you ta'en of it? IMOGEN. Most like I did, for I was dead. BELARIUS. My boys, There was our error. GUIDERIUS. This is sure Fidele. IMOGEN. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a rock, and now Throw me again. [Embracing him] POSTHUMUS. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die! CYMBELINE. How now, my flesh? my child? What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me? IMOGEN. [Kneeling] Your blessing, sir. BELARIUS. [To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not; You had a motive for't. CYMBELINE. My tears that fall Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mother's dead. IMOGEN. I am sorry for't, my lord. CYMBELINE. O, she was naught, and long of her it was That we meet here so strangely; but her son Is gone, we know not how nor where. PISANIO. My lord, Now fear is from me, I'll speak troth. Lord Cloten, Upon my lady's missing, came to me With his sword drawn, foam'd at the mouth, and swore, If I discover'd not which way she was gone, It was my instant death. By accident I had a feigned letter of my master's Then in my pocket, which directed him To seek her on the mountains near to Milford; Where, in a frenzy, in my master's garments, Which he enforc'd from me, away he posts With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My lady's honour. What became of him I further know not. GUIDERIUS. Let me end the story: I slew him there. CYMBELINE. Marry, the gods forfend! I would not thy good deeds should from my lips Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth, Deny't again. GUIDERIUS. I have spoke it, and I did it. CYMBELINE. He was a prince. GUIDERIUS. A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me With language that would make me spurn the sea, If it could so roar to me. I cut off's head, And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale of mine. CYMBELINE. I am sorry for thee. By thine own tongue thou art condemn'd, and must Endure our law. Thou'rt dead. IMOGEN. That headless man I thought had been my lord. CYMBELINE. Bind the offender, And take him from our presence. BELARIUS. Stay, sir King. This man is better than the man he slew, As well descended as thyself, and hath More of thee merited than a band of Clotens Had ever scar for. [To the guard] Let his arms alone; They were not born for bondage. CYMBELINE. Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we? ARVIRAGUS. In that he spake too far. CYMBELINE. And thou shalt die for't. BELARIUS. We will die all three; But I will prove that two on's are as good As I have given out him. My sons, I must For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech, Though haply well for you. ARVIRAGUS. Your danger's ours. GUIDERIUS. And our good his. BELARIUS. Have at it then by leave! Thou hadst, great King, a subject who Was call'd Belarius. CYMBELINE. What of him? He is A banish'd traitor. BELARIUS. He it is that hath Assum'd this age; indeed a banish'd man; I know not how a traitor. CYMBELINE. Take him hence, The whole world shall not save him. BELARIUS. Not too hot. First pay me for the nursing of thy sons, And let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have receiv'd it. CYMBELINE. Nursing of my sons? BELARIUS. I am too blunt and saucy: here's my knee. Ere I arise I will prefer my sons; Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, These two young gentlemen that call me father, And think they are my sons, are none of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting. CYMBELINE. How? my issue? BELARIUS. So sure as you your father's. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd. Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer'd Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes- For such and so they are- these twenty years Have I train'd up; those arts they have as Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment; I mov'd her to't, Having receiv'd the punishment before For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shap'd Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, Here are your sons again, and I must lose Two of the sweet'st companions in the world. The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars. CYMBELINE. Thou weep'st and speak'st. The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tell'st. I lost my children. If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier sons. BELARIUS. Be pleas'd awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius; This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp'd In a most curious mantle, wrought by th' hand Of his queen mother, which for more probation I can with ease produce. CYMBELINE. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder. BELARIUS. This is he, Who hath upon him still that natural stamp. It was wise nature's end in the donation, To be his evidence now. CYMBELINE. O, what am I? A mother to the birth of three? Ne'er mother Rejoic'd deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now! O Imogen, Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. IMOGEN. No, my lord; I have got two worlds by't. O my gentle brothers, Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter But I am truest speaker! You call'd me brother, When I was but your sister: I you brothers, When we were so indeed. CYMBELINE. Did you e'er meet? ARVIRAGUS. Ay, my good lord. GUIDERIUS. And at first meeting lov'd, Continu'd so until we thought he died. CORNELIUS. By the Queen's dram she swallow'd. CYMBELINE. O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgment Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv'd you? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your brothers? how first met them? Why fled you from the court? and whither? These, And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be demanded, And all the other by-dependences, From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place Will serve our long interrogatories. See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen; And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting Each object with a joy; the counterchange Is severally in all. Let's quit this ground, And smoke the temple with our sacrifices. [To BELARIUS] Thou art my brother; so we'll hold thee ever. IMOGEN. You are my father too, and did relieve me To see this gracious season. CYMBELINE. All o'erjoy'd Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort. IMOGEN. My good master, I will yet do you service. LUCIUS. Happy be you! CYMBELINE. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He would have well becom'd this place and grac'd The thankings of a king. POSTHUMUS. I am, sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor beseeming; 'twas a fitment for The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he, Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might Have made you finish. IACHIMO. [Kneeling] I am down again; But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe; but your ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith. POSTHUMUS. Kneel not to me. The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, And deal with others better. CYMBELINE. Nobly doom'd! We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law; Pardon's the word to all. ARVIRAGUS. You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our brother; Joy'd are we that you are. POSTHUMUS. Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back'd, Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows Of mine own kindred. When I wak'd, I found This label on my bosom; whose containing Is so from sense in hardness that I can Make no collection of it. Let him show His skill in the construction. LUCIUS. Philarmonus! SOOTHSAYER. Here, my good lord. LUCIUS. Read, and declare the meaning. SOOTHSAYER. [Reads] 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name, Being Leo-natus, doth import so much. [To CYMBELINE] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which we call 'mollis aer,' and 'mollis aer' We term it 'mulier'; which 'mulier' I divine Is this most constant wife, who even now Answering the letter of the oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about With this most tender air. CYMBELINE. This hath some seeming. SOOTHSAYER. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee; and thy lopp'd branches point Thy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol'n, For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd, To the majestic cedar join'd, whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty. CYMBELINE. Well, My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, Although the victor, we submit to Caesar And to the Roman empire, promising To pay our wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen, Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers, Have laid most heavy hand. SOOTHSAYER. The fingers of the pow'rs above do tune The harmony of this peace. The vision Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke Of yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant Is full accomplish'd; for the Roman eagle, From south to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessen'd herself and in the beams o' th' sun So vanish'd; which foreshow'd our princely eagle, Th'imperial Caesar, should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines here in the west. CYMBELINE. Laud we the gods; And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our bless'd altars. Publish we this peace To all our subjects. Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud's Town march; And in the temple of great Jupiter Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace. Exeunt THE END

Act 5 Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022031807/https://www.novelguide.com/cymbeline/summaries/act5-scene5

Cymbeline is in his tent, surrounded by Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Pisanio. He calls Belarius and the two sons the "preservers of my throne" and regrets that the "poor soldier" who fought so well cannot be found. Pisanio says that a thorough search has been done but in vain. In response to Cymbeline's question, Belarius says that they were born in Cambria , that they are gentlemen, and that they are honest. Cymbeline creates them knights and promises other rewards. Cornelius enters and announces that the Queen has died in madness. Before she died, she confessed that she never loved Cymbeline, but married him for his royal position; that she killed Imogen with poison; and that she had intended to poison Cymbeline slowly with a mineral, winning him over to the idea of naming Cloten as his heir. But when Cloten vanished, she grew desperate and died. Cymbeline says that his senses were not at fault, since she was beautiful and flattered him well, and neither was his heart, which "thought her like her seeming" , but he repents his folly in choosing her. Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer, and other Roman prisoners are brought in. Posthumus and the still-disguised Imogen/Fidele follow. Cymbeline tells Lucius that the relatives of the British soldiers who died in battle have asked him to kill the Roman prisoners. Lucius says that the Britons only won the battle by accident, and that if the Romans had won, they would not have threatened British prisoners with the sword. But if they are to die, they will bear it "with a Roman's heart" . He asks only that his page be ransomed, as he is a Briton who has done no Briton harm. Cymbeline says the boy's face looks familiar, and grants his life and any favor he might ask - even the life of the noblest prisoner. Lucius tells Imogen/Fidele that he need not beg for his life. Imogen tells him that she did not intend to: Lucius's life "must shuffle for itself" as she has seen something "Bitter to me as death" . She is, of course, looking at Posthumus. Lucius is hurt. Cymbeline asks Imogen/Fidele again what he would like, as he loves him more and more. Imogen offers to tell him in private. While they talk aside, Belarius and the sons remark on the resemblance between this lad and Fidele. Pisanio, in an aside, is certain that he is Imogen. Cymbeline calls Iachimo forward and asks Imogen/Fidele to speak his demand to him; he also orders Iachimo to answer honestly, on pain of torture. Imogen asks as her promised favor that Iachimo tell from whom he got the ring. Iachimo admits that he got it "by villainy" ; it had belonged to the noble Posthumus, whom Cymbeline banished. As Iachimo begins to tell that part of his story involving Imogen, he almost faints, saying his heart "drops blood." Iachimo describes how Posthumus praised Cymbeline's daughter above all other women for her chastity, how Posthumus agreed on the wager, and how by trickery he gathered his 'evidence' of Imogen's adultery. Posthumus is anguished that he fell for Iachimo's lies. He comes forward, identifying himself to Cymbeline as the one who had Imogen killed and ranting about his guilt. Imogen interrupts him, and he, thinking that she scorns his feelings, hits her. She falls to the ground. Pisanio is shocked, telling Posthumus that he never killed Imogen until now. As Pisanio tends to Imogen, Imogen casts him off, saying that he gave her poison. Pisanio protests that he believed the potion to be a precious medicine. Cornelius points out that the Queen confessed to him that she gave the potion to Pisanio for Imogen believing it to be poison, whereas it was only a medicine to temporarily shut down the signs of life. Imogen reveals that she took it, and Belarius realizes that Imogen was never really dead. Imogen asks Posthumus why he threw her from him, and embraces him. Cymbeline now recognizes his daughter, and she kneels for his blessing. Belarius tells his sons that he does not blame them for loving Imogen, since they are her brothers. Cymbeline tells Imogen that the Queen is dead and Cloten gone. Pisanio explains that he gave Cloten a forged letter, seemingly from Posthumus, which guided him to the mountains near Milford to seek Imogen. He planned to violate Imogen's honor, though Pisanio knows nothing more. Guiderius explains that he killed Cloten. Cymbeline is stunned. He hopes Guiderius can tell him this is not so, since is reluctant to punish Guiderius, in view of his good deeds in the battle. Guiderius refuses to deny it, and justifies his action on the grounds of Cloten's unprincely behavior. Cymbeline regretfully says that Guiderius must die, by law. Belarius intervenes, saying that the boys have merited more from Cymbeline than ever Cloten did. He warns the boys that he must tell a story that will be dangerous to him, though helpful to them. Belarius reveals that he is the man who was banished as a traitor by Cymbeline. Cymbeline orders Belarius to be taken away, but Belarius regains control of the situation with a cheeky joke, asking the King first to pay him for bringing up his sons. Belarius explains that he is not the boys' father, as they believe; they are Cymbeline's sons. He was wrongfully banished; he had the boys' nurse, Euriphile, steal them for him, and married her in payment. Now, he gives them back to Cymbeline, saying that he received his punishment before he stole them, in the form of his banishment. He offers as proof a mantle in which Arviragus was wrapped, and which was made by their mother. Cymbeline recalls that Guiderius had a mole on his neck, and Belarius shows that the older boy still has it. Cymbeline rejoices that he has as if given birth to three . He tells Imogen that she has unluckily lost a kingdom, as she is no longer the heir. But Imogen protests that she has gained two worlds, meaning her brothers. Imogen and her brothers reveal to Cymbeline that they have met before and loved each other at first sight. Cymbeline, in wonder, wants to hear the rest of the story, but first intends that they will go to the temple to give thanks. He greets Belarius as his brother and gives the order for the prisoners to be allowed to share the celebrations. Imogen promises Lucius that she will yet do him service. Cymbeline's thoughts turn to the poor soldier who fought so well alongside Belarius and the boys, at which Posthumus identifies himself as this soldier. He asks Iachimo to confirm that it was he who, dressed as the poor soldier, disarmed Iachimo. Iachimo kneels before Posthumus and begs him to take his life. He gives Posthumus the ring and bracelet of "the truest princess" . Posthumus spares Iachimo's life, saying that he does not do him a favor in so doing , and tells him to "deal with others better" . Inspired by Posthumus, Cymbeline gives a blanket pardon to all. Grateful to Posthumus's help in the battle, the sons welcome him as their brother. Posthumus calls for the Soothsayer to explain the cryptic prophecy he found after his sleep. The prophecy ends with a prediction of peace and prosperity for Britain through the descendants of the royal sons. In an afterthought, Cymbeline tells Lucius that though the Britons won the battle, he will resume the tribute to Rome, from which he was dissuaded by the wicked Queen. The Soothsayer claims his prophecy about the eagle soaring from south to west, vanishing in the beams of the sun, was accurate, since it meant that Caesar would unite with Cymbeline . Cymbeline declares peace and orders the Roman and British flags to be carried through London together. They all go to the temple of Jupiter to celebrate.

. This is a scene of revelations, each of which resolves one of the plotlines of the play. As such, it is a scene in which truth triumphs over falsehood and appearance is stripped away, leaving reality visible. Iachimo chooses to reveal his story, which resolves the main plotline of Posthumus's false accusation of Imogen, very slowly, heightening the tension and confirming his ascendancy as the most dramatically painted character of the play. After Iachimo's confession, the revelations come hot on each others' heels, creating an atmosphere of wonder and magic. Though the resolutions of the intellect happen through these revelations, the resolutions of the heart come with forgiveness. Everyone who has been wronged forgives his or her wronger. The most touching example is Imogen's unquestioning forgiveness of her husband Posthumus. The fact that Posthumus strikes her even as they are reunited makes him seem unworthy of her forgiveness, but this has the effect of exalting her love to the status of divine grace . The least convincing act of forgiveness is, ironically, Posthumus's to Iachimo. Posthumus says that he is only leaving Iachimo alive because that way he will suffer more. Once again, Posthumus compares poorly to his wife. Posthumus' words as Imogen embraces him, "Hang there like fruit, my soul, / Till the tree die," are moving, though whether they are moving enough to regain the audience's sympathy after all he has done, is a question worthy of debate. Especially difficult to stomach is his striking Imogen when she tries to declare her true identity. Granted, he does not know it is her at the time, but given that he is supposedly penitent about his past treatment of her, it seems an ill omen that leads us to wonder how deep his reformation runs. Cymbeline's comment that he thought the Queen to be "like her seeming" reveals his characteristic lack of emotional instinct and inability to distinguish outer appearance from reality-the same quality that led him to banish honest men and put his trust in wicked and stupid people. Cymbeline's promise to resume the tribute to Rome after the Britons won a bloody victory fighting for this very cause is an anti-climax which has caused some critics to wonder if Shakespeare was laughing at his characters or at his audience. However, it may be a patriotic attempt to save face for the British in spite of the chronicler Holinshed's citation of Latin sources claiming that Rome was ultimately victorious, and the fact that the Roman occupation of Britain persisted for many decades after Cymbeline's reign. Shakespeare shows a battle in which the Britons prevailed, rather than the entire war, which the Romans won; then he shows Cymbeline choosing to resume the tribute to Rome out of generosity rather than through subjugation. It's one way of making out that the Britons won, when they actually lost.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/All's Well That Ends Well/section_0_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 1.scene 1

act 1, scene 1

{"name": "Act 1, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-1-scene-1", "summary": "Bertram's bags are all packed and he's ready to leave his childhood home in Roussillon to travel to the king of France's court in Paris. It's a sad day for Bertram's mom, the countess of Roussillon, who is completely bummed out that her baby is leaving the nest. She says she hasn't been this sad since the day Bertram's dad died. Bertram is bummed, too, and tells his mom that leaving home reminds him of how much he misses his father. But there's nothing he can do about it since the king of France is now his legal guardian. An old guy named Lafeu chimes in, saying that maybe the king can be Bertram's substitute daddy. The countess then randomly asks about the king's health. It's not great, according to Lafeu. Apparently, he's been pretty sick. Plus, he just fired all his doctors and has pretty much given up hope of recovery. The countess says it's too bad that Helen's dad is dead, because he was a brilliant doctor and he probably could have cured the king. Lafeu says he's heard of him because the king talks about him all the time. Finally, Bertram asks the question we're all wondering - what kind of illness does the king have? Lafeu answers: a fistula. Bertram has never heard of this disease. Yeah, says Lafeu, that's probably a good thing. Brain Snack: a fistula is a nasty, pus-filled boil. Some literary critics think the king has a fistula on his, um, butt By the way, Shakespeare had an ancestor, Doctor John Arderne, who invented a surgery to treat anal fistulas. We're not kidding. The conversation turns from painful and unpleasant skin conditions to Helen, who's been standing in the corner bawling her eyes out. The countess informs everyone that, since Helen's dad is dead, the countess is her legal guardian. It's the countess's job to make sure Helen gets a good upbringing and doesn't develop an unclean mind. The countess then politely tells Helen to quit her blubbering because it makes the skin on her face look puffy and all washed out. Plus, people are going to think she's a drama queen if she keeps it up. Helen finally opens her mouth and says she's not a faker; she really is sad about her dad. Lafeu advises Helen not to grieve too much. Her sadness needs to be kept under control. Bertram interrupts and tells his mom that he really does need to hit the road. Can he please have her blessing so he can be on his way to the king's court already? \"Be thou blessed,\" says the Countess . Then she rattles off a bunch of advice about how Bertram should act when he's away from home: Don't forget to have good manners . Always act like a nobleman and not a lowly commoner. Be nice to everyone , but don't trust everyone you meet. Be super-loyal to your friends, . And finally, nobody likes a loud mouth, especially at the royal court. Bertram says adios to everyone and asks Helen to take good care of his mom while he's away. Everyone exits except Helen, who sniffles her way through a big soliloquy . Helen confesses that she's not actually crying for her dead father, even though she is sad that he's dead. In fact, she hasn't really thought about him lately because she can't stop obsessing about Bertram, the dreamiest boy she's ever set her eyes on. Unfortunately, Bertram is richer than she is, which means he's totally out of her league. Brain Snack: Helen's not exactly a peasant, but she's not exactly the daughter of a rich count, either, which is why she's always telling us she's not good enough for Bertram. Also, it was sort of a big no-no to hook up with people outside your social class. Helen gushes, comparing Bertram to a star and saying that she's not even in the same galaxy. No, wait, she says. Bertram is more like a lion and she's just a hind , which could be a big problem since lions don't hook up with deer - they kill them and eat them. Shoot. Oh well, she thinks. She might as well die for love. Helen tells us how agonizing it's been for her to live under the same roof as Bertram. Now that he's gone, she'll have to worship him from afar. Helen's big, gushing speech is interrupted when a guy named Paroles enters. Helen mutters under her breath that Paroles is the biggest liar/coward she's ever met, but she has to be nice to him because he's Bertram's BFF. After Paroles greets Helen, he asks, \"Are you meditating on your virginity?\" This is when the dirty talk begins. Instead of calling Paroles a perv like most other Shakespearean heroines would have , Helen plays along. She points out that it's really hard to remain a virgin these days when there are so many guys out there trying to take away her V-card. Helen and Paroles proceed to use the language of warfare to talk about having sex, as if a girl who loses her virginity is like a city that gets penetrated and then blown up by enemy soldiers. Brain Snack: This metaphor is pretty typical in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century literature. Shakespeare uses it in Henry V and even the poet/priest John Donne does something similar in his famous poem, \"Batter My Heart\" . Paroles says that men can get blown up, too , which is the whole reason why women get blown up . This is getting interesting. Then Paroles lists all the reasons why he thinks it's not natural for girls to remain virgins. First, he says, if girls refuse to have sex, then mankind would go extinct. Second, when girls insist on being virgins, it's as if they're dissing their mothers' lifestyle choices . This, says Paroles, is disobedient since everyone should honor their mothers. Paroles goes on and on about this, but you get the idea. The guy has a way with words. Not a good way, but a way. Helen asks what the best way is for a girl to go about losing her virginity. Paroles answers that a girl should lose her virginity sooner rather than later since old virginity is like an old, withered pear that's unattractive, dry, and not as sweet. Helen says she's not ready to lose her V-Card... not yet anyway. Then she changes the topic to her favorite subject in the world: Bertram. Helen spends the next twelve lines gushing about how amazing he is. A page shows up and says that Paroles is being called away. With that, Paroles heads off to the king's court with Bertram. Alone on stage, Helen delivers another big soliloquy. She complains about how unfair it is that she loves Bertram but can't ever have him because she comes from a lower social class. Helen wonders aloud what she can possibly do to prove that she's worthy of Bertram's love. Ah ha! She tells us she's got a brilliant plan that involves the king's disease.", "analysis": ""}

Actus primus. Scoena Prima. Enter yong Bertram Count of Rossillion, his Mother, and Helena, Lord Lafew, all in blacke. Mother. In deliuering my sonne from me, I burie a second husband Ros. And I in going Madam, weep ore my fathers death anew; but I must attend his maiesties command, to whom I am now in Ward, euermore in subiection Laf. You shall find of the King a husband Madame, you sir a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessitie hold his vertue to you, whose worthinesse would stirre it vp where it wanted rather then lack it where there is such abundance Mo. What hope is there of his Maiesties amendment? Laf. He hath abandon'd his Phisitions Madam, vnder whose practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other aduantage in the processe, but onely the loosing of hope by time Mo. This yong Gentlewoman had a father, O that had, how sad a passage tis, whose skill was almost as great as his honestie, had it stretch'd so far, would haue made nature immortall, and death should haue play for lacke of worke. Would for the Kings sake hee were liuing, I thinke it would be the death of the Kings disease Laf. How call'd you the man you speake of Madam? Mo. He was famous sir in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon Laf. He was excellent indeed Madam, the King very latelie spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly: hee was skilfull enough to haue liu'd stil, if knowledge could be set vp against mortallitie Ros. What is it (my good Lord) the King languishes of? Laf. A Fistula my Lord Ros. I heard not of it before Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this Gentlewoman the Daughter of Gerard de Narbon? Mo. His sole childe my Lord, and bequeathed to my ouer looking. I haue those hopes of her good, that her education promises her dispositions shee inherits, which makes faire gifts fairer: for where an vncleane mind carries vertuous qualities, there commendations go with pitty, they are vertues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simplenesse; she deriues her honestie, and atcheeues her goodnesse Lafew. Your commendations Madam get from her teares Mo. 'Tis the best brine a Maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father neuer approches her heart, but the tirrany of her sorrowes takes all liuelihood from her cheeke. No more of this Helena, go too, no more least it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, then to haue- Hell. I doe affect a sorrow indeed, but I haue it too Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessiue greefe the enemie to the liuing Mo. If the liuing be enemie to the greefe, the excesse makes it soone mortall Ros. Maddam I desire your holie wishes Laf. How vnderstand we that? Mo. Be thou blest Bertrame, and succeed thy father In manners as in shape: thy blood and vertue Contend for Empire in thee, and thy goodnesse Share with thy birth-right. Loue all, trust a few, Doe wrong to none: be able for thine enemie Rather in power then vse: and keepe thy friend Vnder thy owne lifes key. Be checkt for silence, But neuer tax'd for speech. What heauen more wil, That thee may furnish, and my prayers plucke downe, Fall on thy head. Farwell my Lord, 'Tis an vnseason'd Courtier, good my Lord Aduise him Laf. He cannot want the best That shall attend his loue Mo. Heauen blesse him: Farwell Bertram Ro. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoghts be seruants to you: be comfortable to my mother, your Mistris, and make much of her Laf. Farewell prettie Lady, you must hold the credit of your father Hell. O were that all, I thinke not on my father, And these great teares grace his remembrance more Then those I shed for him. What was he like? I haue forgott him. My imagination Carries no fauour in't but Bertrams. I am vndone, there is no liuing, none, If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one, That I should loue a bright particuler starre, And think to wed it, he is so aboue me In his bright radience and colaterall light, Must I be comforted, not in his sphere; Th' ambition in my loue thus plagues it selfe: The hind that would be mated by the Lion Must die for loue. 'Twas prettie, though a plague To see him euerie houre to sit and draw His arched browes, his hawking eie, his curles In our hearts table: heart too capeable Of euerie line and tricke of his sweet fauour. But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancie Must sanctifie his Reliques. Who comes heere? Enter Parrolles. One that goes with him: I loue him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious Liar, Thinke him a great way foole, solie a coward, Yet these fixt euils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when Vertues steely bones Lookes bleake i'th cold wind: withall, full ofte we see Cold wisedome waighting on superfluous follie Par. Saue you faire Queene Hel. And you Monarch Par. No Hel. And no Par. Are you meditating on virginitie? Hel. I: you haue some staine of souldier in you: Let mee aske you a question. Man is enemie to virginitie, how may we barracado it against him? Par. Keepe him out Hel. But he assailes, and our virginitie though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: vnfold to vs some war-like resistance Par. There is none: Man setting downe before you, will vndermine you, and blow you vp Hel. Blesse our poore Virginity from vnderminers and blowers vp. Is there no Military policy how Virgins might blow vp men? Par. Virginity beeing blowne downe, Man will quicklier be blowne vp: marry in blowing him downe againe, with the breach your selues made, you lose your Citty. It is not politicke, in the Common-wealth of Nature, to preserue virginity. Losse of Virginitie, is rationall encrease, and there was neuer Virgin goe, till virginitie was first lost. That you were made of, is mettall to make Virgins. Virginitie, by beeing once lost, may be ten times found: by being euer kept, it is euer lost: 'tis too cold a companion: Away with't Hel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a Virgin Par. There's little can bee saide in't, 'tis against the rule of Nature. To speake on the part of virginitie, is to accuse your Mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himselfe is a Virgin: Virginitie murthers it selfe, and should be buried in highwayes out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate Offendresse against Nature. Virginitie breedes mites, much like a Cheese, consumes it selfe to the very payring, and so dies with feeding his owne stomacke. Besides, Virginitie is peeuish, proud, ydle, made of selfe-loue, which is the most inhibited sinne in the Cannon. Keepe it not, you cannot choose but loose by't. Out with't: within ten yeare it will make it selfe two, which is a goodly increase, and the principall it selfe not much the worse. Away with't Hel. How might one do sir, to loose it to her owne liking? Par. Let mee see. Marry ill, to like him that ne're it likes. 'Tis a commodity wil lose the glosse with lying: The longer kept, the lesse worth: Off with't while 'tis vendible. Answer the time of request, Virginitie like an olde Courtier, weares her cap out of fashion, richly suted, but vnsuteable, iust like the brooch & the tooth-pick, which were not now: your Date is better in your Pye and your Porredge, then in your cheeke: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd peares, it lookes ill, it eates drily, marry 'tis a wither'd peare: it was formerly better, marry yet 'tis a wither'd peare: Will you any thing with it? Hel. Not my virginity yet: There shall your Master haue a thousand loues, A Mother, and a Mistresse, and a friend, A Phenix, Captaine, and an enemy, A guide, a Goddesse, and a Soueraigne, A Counsellor, a Traitoresse, and a Deare: His humble ambition, proud humility: His iarring, concord: and his discord, dulcet: His faith, his sweet disaster: with a world Of pretty fond adoptious christendomes That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he: I know not what he shall, God send him well, The Courts a learning place, and he is one Par. What one ifaith? Hel. That I wish well, 'tis pitty Par. What's pitty? Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt, that we the poorer borne, Whose baser starres do shut vs vp in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And shew what we alone must thinke, which neuer Returnes vs thankes. Enter Page. Pag. Monsieur Parrolles, My Lord cals for you Par. Little Hellen farewell, if I can remember thee, I will thinke of thee at Court Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were borne vnder a charitable starre Par. Vnder Mars I Hel. I especially thinke, vnder Mars Par. Why vnder Mars? Hel. The warres hath so kept you vnder, that you must needes be borne vnder Mars Par. When he was predominant Hel. When he was retrograde I thinke rather Par. Why thinke you so? Hel. You go so much backward when you fight Par. That's for aduantage Hel. So is running away, When feare proposes the safetie: But the composition that your valour and feare makes in you, is a vertue of a good wing, and I like the weare well Paroll. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answere thee acutely: I will returne perfect Courtier, in the which my instruction shall serue to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capeable of a Courtiers councell, and vnderstand what aduice shall thrust vppon thee, else thou diest in thine vnthankfulnes, and thine ignorance makes thee away, farewell: When thou hast leysure, say thy praiers: when thou hast none, remember thy Friends: Get thee a good husband, and vse him as he vses thee: So farewell Hel. Our remedies oft in our selues do lye, Which we ascribe to heauen: the fated skye Giues vs free scope, onely doth backward pull Our slow designes, when we our selues are dull. What power is it, which mounts my loue so hye, That makes me see, and cannot feede mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune, Nature brings To ioyne like, likes; and kisse like natiue things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their paines in sence, and do suppose What hath beene, cannot be. Who euer stroue To shew her merit, that did misse her loue? (The Kings disease) my proiect may deceiue me, But my intents are fixt, and will not leaue me. Exit Flourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with Letters, and diuers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' eares, Haue fought with equall fortune, and continue A brauing warre 1.Lo.G. So tis reported sir King. Nay tis most credible, we heere receiue it, A certaintie vouch'd from our Cosin Austria, With caution, that the Florentine will moue vs For speedie ayde: wherein our deerest friend Preiudicates the businesse, and would seeme To haue vs make deniall 1.Lo.G. His loue and wisedome Approu'd so to your Maiesty, may pleade For amplest credence King. He hath arm'd our answer, And Florence is deni'de before he comes: Yet for our Gentlemen that meane to see The Tuscan seruice, freely haue they leaue To stand on either part 2.Lo.E. It well may serue A nursserie to our Gentrie, who are sicke For breathing, and exploit King. What's he comes heere. Enter Bertram, Lafew, and Parolles. 1.Lor.G. It is the Count Rosignoll my good Lord, Yong Bertram King. Youth, thou bear'st thy Fathers face, Franke Nature rather curious then in hast Hath well compos'd thee: Thy Fathers morall parts Maist thou inherit too: Welcome to Paris Ber. My thankes and dutie are your Maiesties Kin. I would I had that corporall soundnesse now, As when thy father, and my selfe, in friendship First tride our souldiership: he did looke farre Into the seruice of the time, and was Discipled of the brauest. He lasted long, But on vs both did haggish Age steale on, And wore vs out of act: It much repaires me To talke of your good father; in his youth He had the wit, which I can well obserue To day in our yong Lords: but they may iest Till their owne scorne returne to them vnnoted Ere they can hide their leuitie in honour: So like a Courtier, contempt nor bitternesse Were in his pride, or sharpnesse; if they were, His equall had awak'd them, and his honour Clocke to it selfe, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speake: and at this time His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him, He vs'd as creatures of another place, And bow'd his eminent top to their low rankes, Making them proud of his humilitie, In their poore praise he humbled: Such a man Might be a copie to these yonger times; Which followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward Ber. His good remembrance sir Lies richer in your thoughts, then on his tombe: So in approofe liues not his Epitaph, As in your royall speech King. Would I were with him he would alwaies say, (Me thinkes I heare him now) his plausiue words He scatter'd not in eares, but grafted them To grow there and to beare: Let me not liue, This his good melancholly oft began On the Catastrophe and heele of pastime When it was out: Let me not liue (quoth hee) After my flame lackes oyle, to be the snuffe Of yonger spirits, whose apprehensiue senses All but new things disdaine; whose iudgements are Meere fathers of their garments: whose constancies Expire before their fashions: this he wish'd. I after him, do after him wish too: Since I nor wax nor honie can bring home, I quickly were dissolued from my hiue To giue some Labourers roome 2.L.E. You'r loued Sir, They that least lend it you, shall lacke you first Kin. I fill a place I know't: how long ist Count Since the Physitian at your fathers died? He was much fam'd Ber. Some six moneths since my Lord Kin. If he were liuing, I would try him yet. Lend me an arme: the rest haue worne me out With seuerall applications: Nature and sicknesse Debate it at their leisure. Welcome Count, My sonne's no deerer Ber. Thanke your Maiesty. Exit Flourish. Enter Countesse, Steward, and Clowne. Coun. I will now heare, what say you of this gentlewoman Ste. Maddam the care I haue had to euen your content, I wish might be found in the Kalender of my past endeuours, for then we wound our Modestie, and make foule the clearnesse of our deseruings, when of our selues we publish them Coun. What doe's this knaue heere? Get you gone sirra: the complaints I haue heard of you I do not all beleeue, 'tis my slownesse that I doe not: For I know you lacke not folly to commit them, & haue abilitie enough to make such knaueries yours Clo. 'Tis not vnknown to you Madam, I am a poore fellow Coun. Well sir Clo. No maddam, 'Tis not so well that I am poore, though manie of the rich are damn'd, but if I may haue your Ladiships good will to goe to the world, Isbell the woman and I will doe as we may Coun. Wilt thou needes be a begger? Clo. I doe beg your good will in this case Cou. In what case? Clo. In Isbels case and mine owne: seruice is no heritage, and I thinke I shall neuer haue the blessing of God, till I haue issue a my bodie: for they say barnes are blessings Cou. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marrie? Clo. My poore bodie Madam requires it, I am driuen on by the flesh, and hee must needes goe that the diuell driues Cou. Is this all your worships reason? Clo. Faith Madam I haue other holie reasons, such as they are Cou. May the world know them? Clo. I haue beene Madam a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are, and indeede I doe marrie that I may repent Cou. Thy marriage sooner then thy wickednesse Clo. I am out a friends Madam, and I hope to haue friends for my wiues sake Cou. Such friends are thine enemies knaue Clo. Y'are shallow Madam in great friends, for the knaues come to doe that for me which I am a wearie of: he that eres my Land, spares my teame, and giues mee leaue to Inne the crop: if I be his cuckold hee's my drudge; he that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; hee that cherishes my flesh and blood, loues my flesh and blood; he that loues my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend: if men could be contented to be what they are, there were no feare in marriage, for yong Charbon the Puritan, and old Poysam the Papist, how somere their hearts are seuer'd in Religion, their heads are both one, they may ioule horns together like any Deare i'th Herd Cou. Wilt thou euer be a foule mouth'd and calumnious knaue? Clo. A Prophet I Madam, and I speake the truth the next waie, for I the Ballad will repeate, which men full true shall finde, your marriage comes by destinie, your Cuckow sings by kinde Cou. Get you gone sir, Ile talke with you more anon Stew. May it please you Madam, that hee bid Hellen come to you, of her I am to speake Cou. Sirra tell my gentlewoman I would speake with her, Hellen I meane Clo. Was this faire face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy, Fond done, done, fond was this King Priams ioy, With that she sighed as she stood, bis And gaue this sentence then, among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten Cou. What, one good in tenne? you corrupt the song sirra Clo. One good woman in ten Madam, which is a purifying ath' song: would God would serue the world so all the yeere, weed finde no fault with the tithe woman if I were the Parson, one in ten quoth a? and wee might haue a good woman borne but ore euerie blazing starre, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the Lotterie well, a man may draw his heart out ere a plucke one Cou. Youle begone sir knaue, and doe as I command you? Clo. That man should be at womans command, and yet no hurt done, though honestie be no Puritan, yet it will doe no hurt, it will weare the Surplis of humilitie ouer the blacke-Gowne of a bigge heart: I am going forsooth, the businesse is for Helen to come hither. Enter. Cou. Well now Stew. I know Madam you loue your Gentlewoman intirely Cou. Faith I doe: her Father bequeath'd her to mee, and she her selfe without other aduantage, may lawfullie make title to as much loue as shee findes, there is more owing her then is paid, and more shall be paid her then sheele demand Stew. Madam, I was verie late more neere her then I thinke shee wisht mee, alone shee was, and did communicate to her selfe her owne words to her owne eares, shee thought, I dare vowe for her, they toucht not anie stranger sence, her matter was, shee loued your Sonne; Fortune shee said was no goddesse, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates: Loue no god, that would not extend his might onelie, where qualities were leuell, Queene of Virgins, that would suffer her poore Knight surpris'd without rescue in the first assault or ransome afterward: This shee deliuer'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow that ere I heard Virgin exclaime in, which I held my dutie speedily to acquaint you withall, sithence in the losse that may happen, it concernes you something to know it Cou. You haue discharg'd this honestlie, keepe it to your selfe, manie likelihoods inform'd mee of this before, which hung so tottring in the ballance, that I could neither beleeue nor misdoubt: praie you leaue mee, stall this in your bosome, and I thanke you for your honest care: I will speake with you further anon. Exit Steward. Enter Hellen. Old.Cou. Euen so it was with me when I was yong: If euer we are natures, these are ours, this thorne Doth to our Rose of youth rightlie belong Our bloud to vs, this to our blood is borne, It is the show, and seale of natures truth, Where loues strong passion is imprest in youth, By our remembrances of daies forgon, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none, Her eie is sicke on't, I obserue her now Hell. What is your pleasure Madam? Ol.Cou. You know Hellen I am a mother to you Hell. Mine honorable Mistris Ol.Cou. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I sed a mother Me thought you saw a serpent, what's in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the Catalogue of those That were enwombed mine, 'tis often seene Adoption striues with nature, and choise breedes A natiue slip to vs from forraine seedes: You nere opprest me with a mothers groane, Yet I expresse to you a mothers care, (Gods mercie maiden) dos it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? what's the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet? The manie colour'd Iris rounds thine eye? - Why, that you are my daughter? Hell. That I am not Old.Cou. I say I am your Mother Hell. Pardon Madam. The Count Rosillion cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honored name: No note vpon my Parents, his all noble, My Master, my deere Lord he is, and I His seruant liue, and will his vassall die: He must not be my brother Ol.Cou. Nor I your Mother Hell. You are my mother Madam, would you were So that my Lord your sonne were not my brother, Indeede my mother, or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, then I doe for heauen, So I were not his sister, cant no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother Old.Cou. Yes Hellen, you might be my daughter in law, God shield you meane it not, daughter and mother So striue vpon your pulse; what pale agen? My feare hath catcht your fondnesse! now I see The mistrie of your louelinesse, and finde Your salt teares head, now to all sence 'tis grosse: You loue my sonne, inuention is asham'd Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou doost not: therefore tell me true, But tell me then 'tis so, for looke, thy cheekes Confesse it 'ton tooth to th' other, and thine eies See it so grosely showne in thy behauiours, That in their kinde they speake it, onely sinne And hellish obstinacie tye thy tongue That truth should be suspected, speake, ist so? If it be so, you haue wound a goodly clewe: If it be not, forsweare't how ere I charge thee, As heauen shall worke in me for thine auaile To tell me truelie Hell. Good Madam pardon me Cou. Do you loue my Sonne? Hell. Your pardon noble Mistris Cou. Loue you my Sonne? Hell. Doe not you loue him Madam? Cou. Goe not about; my loue hath in't a bond Whereof the world takes note: Come, come, disclose: The state of your affection, for your passions Haue to the full appeach'd Hell. Then I confesse Here on my knee, before high heauen and you, That before you, and next vnto high heauen, I loue your Sonne: My friends were poore but honest, so's my loue: Be not offended, for it hurts not him That he is lou'd of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suite, Nor would I haue him, till I doe deserue him, Yet neuer know how that desert should be: I know I loue in vaine, striue against hope: Yet in this captious, and intemible Siue. I still poure in the waters of my loue And lacke not to loose still; thus Indian like Religious in mine error, I adore The Sunne that lookes vpon his worshipper, But knowes of him no more. My deerest Madam, Let not your hate incounter with my loue, For louing where you doe; but if your selfe, Whose aged honor cites a vertuous youth, Did euer, in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastly, and loue dearely, that your Dian Was both her selfe and loue, O then giue pittie To her whose state is such, that cannot choose But lend and giue where she is sure to loose; That seekes not to finde that, her search implies, But riddle like, liues sweetely where she dies Cou. Had you not lately an intent, speake truely, To goe to Paris? Hell. Madam I had Cou. Wherefore? tell true Hell. I will tell truth, by grace it selfe I sweare: You know my Father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prou'd effects, such as his reading And manifest experience, had collected For generall soueraigntie: and that he wil'd me In heedefull'st reseruation to bestow them, As notes, whose faculties inclusiue were, More then they were in note: Amongst the rest, There is a remedie, approu'd, set downe, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The King is render'd lost Cou. This was your motiue for Paris, was it, speake? Hell. My Lord, your sonne, made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King, Had from the conuersation of my thoughts, Happily beene absent then Cou. But thinke you Hellen, If you should tender your supposed aide, He would receiue it? He and his Phisitions Are of a minde, he, that they cannot helpe him: They, that they cannot helpe, how shall they credit A poore vnlearned Virgin, when the Schooles Embowel'd of their doctrine, haue left off The danger to it selfe Hell. There's something in't More then my Fathers skill, which was the great'st Of his profession, that his good receipt, Shall for my legacie be sanctified Byth' luckiest stars in heauen, and would your honor But giue me leaue to trie successe, I'de venture The well lost life of mine, on his Graces cure, By such a day, an houre Cou. Doo'st thou beleeue't? Hell. I Madam knowingly Cou. Why Hellen thou shalt haue my leaue and loue, Meanes and attendants, and my louing greetings To those of mine in Court, Ile staie at home And praie Gods blessing into thy attempt: Begon to morrow, and be sure of this, What I can helpe thee to, thou shalt not misse. Exeunt.

Act 1, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-1-scene-1

Bertram's bags are all packed and he's ready to leave his childhood home in Roussillon to travel to the king of France's court in Paris. It's a sad day for Bertram's mom, the countess of Roussillon, who is completely bummed out that her baby is leaving the nest. She says she hasn't been this sad since the day Bertram's dad died. Bertram is bummed, too, and tells his mom that leaving home reminds him of how much he misses his father. But there's nothing he can do about it since the king of France is now his legal guardian. An old guy named Lafeu chimes in, saying that maybe the king can be Bertram's substitute daddy. The countess then randomly asks about the king's health. It's not great, according to Lafeu. Apparently, he's been pretty sick. Plus, he just fired all his doctors and has pretty much given up hope of recovery. The countess says it's too bad that Helen's dad is dead, because he was a brilliant doctor and he probably could have cured the king. Lafeu says he's heard of him because the king talks about him all the time. Finally, Bertram asks the question we're all wondering - what kind of illness does the king have? Lafeu answers: a fistula. Bertram has never heard of this disease. Yeah, says Lafeu, that's probably a good thing. Brain Snack: a fistula is a nasty, pus-filled boil. Some literary critics think the king has a fistula on his, um, butt By the way, Shakespeare had an ancestor, Doctor John Arderne, who invented a surgery to treat anal fistulas. We're not kidding. The conversation turns from painful and unpleasant skin conditions to Helen, who's been standing in the corner bawling her eyes out. The countess informs everyone that, since Helen's dad is dead, the countess is her legal guardian. It's the countess's job to make sure Helen gets a good upbringing and doesn't develop an unclean mind. The countess then politely tells Helen to quit her blubbering because it makes the skin on her face look puffy and all washed out. Plus, people are going to think she's a drama queen if she keeps it up. Helen finally opens her mouth and says she's not a faker; she really is sad about her dad. Lafeu advises Helen not to grieve too much. Her sadness needs to be kept under control. Bertram interrupts and tells his mom that he really does need to hit the road. Can he please have her blessing so he can be on his way to the king's court already? "Be thou blessed," says the Countess . Then she rattles off a bunch of advice about how Bertram should act when he's away from home: Don't forget to have good manners . Always act like a nobleman and not a lowly commoner. Be nice to everyone , but don't trust everyone you meet. Be super-loyal to your friends, . And finally, nobody likes a loud mouth, especially at the royal court. Bertram says adios to everyone and asks Helen to take good care of his mom while he's away. Everyone exits except Helen, who sniffles her way through a big soliloquy . Helen confesses that she's not actually crying for her dead father, even though she is sad that he's dead. In fact, she hasn't really thought about him lately because she can't stop obsessing about Bertram, the dreamiest boy she's ever set her eyes on. Unfortunately, Bertram is richer than she is, which means he's totally out of her league. Brain Snack: Helen's not exactly a peasant, but she's not exactly the daughter of a rich count, either, which is why she's always telling us she's not good enough for Bertram. Also, it was sort of a big no-no to hook up with people outside your social class. Helen gushes, comparing Bertram to a star and saying that she's not even in the same galaxy. No, wait, she says. Bertram is more like a lion and she's just a hind , which could be a big problem since lions don't hook up with deer - they kill them and eat them. Shoot. Oh well, she thinks. She might as well die for love. Helen tells us how agonizing it's been for her to live under the same roof as Bertram. Now that he's gone, she'll have to worship him from afar. Helen's big, gushing speech is interrupted when a guy named Paroles enters. Helen mutters under her breath that Paroles is the biggest liar/coward she's ever met, but she has to be nice to him because he's Bertram's BFF. After Paroles greets Helen, he asks, "Are you meditating on your virginity?" This is when the dirty talk begins. Instead of calling Paroles a perv like most other Shakespearean heroines would have , Helen plays along. She points out that it's really hard to remain a virgin these days when there are so many guys out there trying to take away her V-card. Helen and Paroles proceed to use the language of warfare to talk about having sex, as if a girl who loses her virginity is like a city that gets penetrated and then blown up by enemy soldiers. Brain Snack: This metaphor is pretty typical in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century literature. Shakespeare uses it in Henry V and even the poet/priest John Donne does something similar in his famous poem, "Batter My Heart" . Paroles says that men can get blown up, too , which is the whole reason why women get blown up . This is getting interesting. Then Paroles lists all the reasons why he thinks it's not natural for girls to remain virgins. First, he says, if girls refuse to have sex, then mankind would go extinct. Second, when girls insist on being virgins, it's as if they're dissing their mothers' lifestyle choices . This, says Paroles, is disobedient since everyone should honor their mothers. Paroles goes on and on about this, but you get the idea. The guy has a way with words. Not a good way, but a way. Helen asks what the best way is for a girl to go about losing her virginity. Paroles answers that a girl should lose her virginity sooner rather than later since old virginity is like an old, withered pear that's unattractive, dry, and not as sweet. Helen says she's not ready to lose her V-Card... not yet anyway. Then she changes the topic to her favorite subject in the world: Bertram. Helen spends the next twelve lines gushing about how amazing he is. A page shows up and says that Paroles is being called away. With that, Paroles heads off to the king's court with Bertram. Alone on stage, Helen delivers another big soliloquy. She complains about how unfair it is that she loves Bertram but can't ever have him because she comes from a lower social class. Helen wonders aloud what she can possibly do to prove that she's worthy of Bertram's love. Ah ha! She tells us she's got a brilliant plan that involves the king's disease.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/All's Well That Ends Well/section_3_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 2.scene 1

act 2, scene 1

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-2-scene-1", "summary": "The second act opens at the king of France's swanky palace, where a bunch of young noblemen are getting ready to run off to Italy to fight in that foreign war we mentioned earlier. The king of France is so old and sickly that he has to be carried into the room on a chair. He wishes everyone good luck getting their battle on and cheers for them to make France proud. Bertram is moping because the King thinks he's too young to go to war. Instead, he has to stay in France and go to a bunch of lame dances at court while all the other young guys get to slit the throats of enemy soldiers. Paroles and some of the Lords thinks he should run away to Italy and fight anyway. Then Paroles starts to brag about himself. He tells a big, made-up story about how he once whipped out his sword and sliced up some guy's cheek. He tells the French soldiers to be on the lookout for a guy with a giant scar on his face. When the lords leave, Paroles tries to give Bertram some advice about how to fit in with the other guys at court. They run off so that Bertram can practice being cool and fitting in. Lafeu enters and kneels down in front of the king . The king asks him to get off his knees and stand up, which leads to a snappy discussion about how Lafeu wishes the king was well enough to stand up himself. Lafeu says he knows a really great female doctor. She's so skillful that she could \"araise King Pepin\" . The king should give her a chance to cure his dreaded illness. Lafeu trots out Helen. He says he's going to leave Helen alone with the king and adds that he feels a little like \"Cressid's uncle\" . Gross. What does he think is going to happen here, exactly? Helen declares that she's the daughter of the famous doctor, Gerard de Narbonne, who, on his deathbed, left her a bunch of precious medicines and instructions on how to use them. She's here to cure the King of his illness. The king doesn't buy it. He says he's not about to let some maiden play doctor. The best physicians in the world haven't been able to cure him, so why should he think Helen can? After some back and forth bickering, Helen finally manages to change the king's mind. She argues that the king has nothing to lose; if she can't cure him, then hey, he's going to die anyway, right? She then promises that she can cure the king in 48 hours. The King notes that Helen seems pretty confident. What's she willing to stake on this? Helen says herreputation. After all, if she tries to cure the king's fistula and doesn't succeed, she'll be accused of being a strumpet . Sounds like a leap, but it makes sense. She knows what people will say when they find out she was alone with the king and had such intimate contact with his body. Lafeu is already cracking dirty jokes, and he knows why she's there. Fair enough, says the King. Then Helen gets the king to promise that she can marry anyone in his kingdom if she cures him. She makes a big deal about being the lowly daughter of a dead doctor and promises not to choose a member of the royal family.", "analysis": ""}

Actus Secundus. Enter the King with diuers yong Lords, taking leaue for the Florentine warre: Count, Rosse, and Parrolles. Florish Cornets. King. Farewell yong Lords, these warlike principles Doe not throw from you, and you my Lords farewell: Share the aduice betwixt you, if both gaine, all The guift doth stretch it selfe as 'tis receiu'd, And is enough for both Lord.G. 'Tis our hope sir, After well entred souldiers, to returne And finde your grace in health King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confesse he owes the mallady That doth my life besiege: farwell yong Lords, Whether I liue or die, be you the sonnes Of worthy French men: let higher Italy (Those bated that inherit but the fall Of the last Monarchy) see that you come Not to wooe honour, but to wed it, when The brauest questant shrinkes: finde what you seeke, That fame may cry you loud: I say farewell L.G. Health at your bidding serue your Maiesty King. Those girles of Italy, take heed of them, They say our French, lacke language to deny If they demand: beware of being Captiues Before you serue Bo. Our hearts receiue your warnings King. Farewell, come hether to me 1.Lo.G. Oh my sweet Lord y you wil stay behind vs Parr. 'Tis not his fault the spark 2.Lo.E. Oh 'tis braue warres Parr. Most admirable, I haue seene those warres Rossill. I am commanded here, and kept a coyle with, Too young, and the next yeere, and 'tis too early Parr. And thy minde stand too't boy, Steale away brauely Rossill. I shal stay here the for-horse to a smocke, Creeking my shooes on the plaine Masonry, Till honour be bought vp, and no sword worne But one to dance with: by heauen, Ile steale away 1.Lo.G. There's honour in the theft Parr. Commit it Count 2.Lo.E. I am your accessary, and so farewell Ros. I grow to you, & our parting is a tortur'd body 1.Lo.G. Farewell Captaine 2.Lo.E. Sweet Mounsier Parolles Parr. Noble Heroes; my sword and yours are kinne, good sparkes and lustrous, a word good mettals. You shall finde in the Regiment of the Spinij, one Captaine Spurio his sicatrice, with an Embleme of warre heere on his sinister cheeke; it was this very sword entrench'd it: say to him I liue, and obserue his reports for me Lo.G. We shall noble Captaine Parr. Mars doate on you for his nouices, what will ye doe? Ross. Stay the King Parr. Vse a more spacious ceremonie to the Noble Lords, you haue restrain'd your selfe within the List of too cold an adieu: be more expressiue to them; for they weare themselues in the cap of the time, there do muster true gate; eat, speake, and moue vnder the influence of the most receiu'd starre, and though the deuill leade the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell Ross. And I will doe so Parr. Worthy fellowes, and like to prooue most sinewie sword-men. Exeunt. Enter Lafew. L.Laf. Pardon my Lord for mee and for my tidings King. Ile see thee to stand vp L.Laf. Then heres a man stands that has brought his pardon, I would you had kneel'd my Lord to aske me mercy, And that at my bidding you could so stand vp King. I would I had, so I had broke thy pate And askt thee mercy for't Laf. Goodfaith a-crosse, but my good Lord 'tis thus, Will you be cur'd of your infirmitie? King. No Laf. O will you eat no grapes my royall foxe? Yes but you will, my noble grapes, and if My royall foxe could reach them: I haue seen a medicine That's able to breath life into a stone, Quicken a rocke, and make you dance Canari With sprightly fire and motion, whose simple touch Is powerfull to arayse King Pippen, nay To giue great Charlemaine a pen in's hand And write to her a loue-line King. What her is this? Laf. Why doctor she: my Lord, there's one arriu'd, If you will see her: now by my faith and honour, If seriously I may conuay my thoughts In this my light deliuerance, I haue spoke With one, that in her sexe, her yeeres, profession, Wisedome and constancy, hath amaz'd mee more Then I dare blame my weakenesse: will you see her? For that is her demand, and know her businesse? That done, laugh well at me King. Now good Lafew, Bring in the admiration, that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wondring how thou tookst it Laf. Nay, Ile fit you, And not be all day neither King. Thus he his speciall nothing euer prologues Laf. Nay, come your waies. Enter Hellen. King. This haste hath wings indeed Laf. Nay, come your waies, This is his Maiestie, say your minde to him, A Traitor you doe looke like, but such traitors His Maiesty seldome feares, I am Cresseds Vncle, That dare leaue two together, far you well. Enter. King. Now faire one, do's your busines follow vs? Hel. I my good Lord, Gerard de Narbon was my father, In what he did professe, well found King. I knew him Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards him, Knowing him is enough: on's bed of death, Many receits he gaue me, chieflie one, Which as the dearest issue of his practice And of his olde experience, th' onlie darling, He bad me store vp, as a triple eye, Safer then mine owne two: more deare I haue so, And hearing your high Maiestie is toucht With that malignant cause, wherein the honour Of my deare fathers gift, stands cheefe in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humblenesse King. We thanke you maiden, But may not be so credulous of cure, When our most learned Doctors leaue vs, and The congregated Colledge haue concluded, That labouring Art can neuer ransome nature From her inaydible estate: I say we must not So staine our iudgement, or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malladie To empericks, or to disseuer so Our great selfe and our credit, to esteeme A sencelesse helpe, when helpe past sence we deeme Hell. My dutie then shall pay me for my paines: I will no more enforce mine office on you, Humbly intreating from your royall thoughts, A modest one to beare me backe againe King. I cannot giue thee lesse to be cal'd gratefull: Thou thoughtst to helpe me, and such thankes I giue, As one neere death to those that wish him liue: But what at full I know, thou knowst no part, I knowing all my perill, thou no Art Hell. What I can doe, can doe no hurt to try, Since you set vp your rest 'gainst remedie: He that of greatest workes is finisher, Oft does them by the weakest minister: So holy Writ, in babes hath iudgement showne, When Iudges haue bin babes; great flouds haue flowne From simple sources: and great Seas haue dried When Miracles haue by the great'st beene denied. Oft expectation failes, and most oft there Where most it promises: and oft it hits, Where hope is coldest, and despaire most shifts King. I must not heare thee, fare thee wel kind maide, Thy paines not vs'd, must by thy selfe be paid, Proffers not tooke, reape thanks for their reward Hel. Inspired Merit so by breath is bard, It is not so with him that all things knowes As 'tis with vs, that square our guesse by showes: But most it is presumption in vs, when The help of heauen we count the act of men. Deare sir, to my endeauors giue consent, Of heauen, not me, make an experiment. I am not an Imposture, that proclaime My selfe against the leuill of mine aime, But know I thinke, and thinke I know most sure, My Art is not past power, nor you past cure King. Art thou so confident? Within what space Hop'st thou my cure? Hel. The greatest grace lending grace, Ere twice the horses of the sunne shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnall ring, Ere twice in murke and occidentall dampe Moist Hesperus hath quench'd her sleepy Lampe: Or foure and twenty times the Pylots glasse Hath told the theeuish minutes, how they passe: What is infirme, from your sound parts shall flie, Health shall liue free, and sickenesse freely dye King. Vpon thy certainty and confidence, What dar'st thou venter? Hell. Taxe of impudence, A strumpets boldnesse, a divulged shame Traduc'd by odious ballads: my maidens name Seard otherwise, ne worse of worst extended With vildest torture, let my life be ended Kin. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak His powerfull sound, within an organ weake: And what impossibility would slay In common sence, sence saues another way: Thy life is deere, for all that life can rate Worth name of life, in thee hath estimate: Youth, beauty, wisedome, courage, all That happines and prime, can happy call: Thou this to hazard, needs must intimate Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate, Sweet practiser, thy Physicke I will try, That ministers thine owne death if I die Hel. If I breake time, or flinch in property Of what I spoke, vnpittied let me die, And well deseru'd: not helping, death's my fee, But if I helpe, what doe you promise me Kin. Make thy demand Hel. But will you make it euen? Kin. I by my Scepter, and my hopes of helpe Hel. Then shalt thou giue me with thy kingly hand What husband in thy power I will command: Exempted be from me the arrogance To choose from forth the royall bloud of France, My low and humble name to propagate With any branch or image of thy state: But such a one thy vassall, whom I know Is free for me to aske, thee to bestow Kin. Heere is my hand, the premises obseru'd, Thy will by my performance shall be seru'd: So make the choice of thy owne time, for I Thy resolv'd Patient, on thee still relye: More should I question thee, and more I must, Though more to know, could not be more to trust: From whence thou cam'st, how tended on, but rest Vnquestion'd welcome, and vndoubted blest. Giue me some helpe heere hoa, if thou proceed, As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed. Florish. Exit. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Lady. Come on sir, I shall now put you to the height of your breeding Clown. I will shew my selfe highly fed, and lowly taught, I know my businesse is but to the Court Lady. To the Court, why what place make you speciall, when you put off that with such contempt, but to the Court? Clo. Truly Madam, if God haue lent a man any manners, hee may easilie put it off at Court: hee that cannot make a legge, put off's cap, kisse his hand, and say nothing, has neither legge, hands, lippe, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the Court, but for me, I haue an answere will serue all men Lady. Marry that's a bountifull answere that fits all questions Clo. It is like a Barbers chaire that fits all buttockes, the pin buttocke, the quatch-buttocke, the brawn buttocke, or any buttocke Lady. Will your answere serue fit to all questions? Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an Atturney, as your French Crowne for your taffety punke, as Tibs rush for Toms fore-finger, as a pancake for Shroue-tuesday, a Morris for May-day, as the naile to his hole, the Cuckold to his horne, as a scolding queane to a wrangling knaue, as the Nuns lip to the Friers mouth, nay as the pudding to his skin Lady. Haue you, I say, an answere of such fitnesse for all questions? Clo. From below your Duke, to beneath your Constable, it will fit any question Lady. It must be an answere of most monstrous size, that must fit all demands Clo. But a triflle neither in good faith, if the learned should speake truth of it: heere it is, and all that belongs to't. Aske mee if I am a Courtier, it shall doe you no harme to learne Lady. To be young againe if we could: I will bee a foole in question, hoping to bee the wiser by your answer La. I pray you sir, are you a Courtier? Clo. O Lord sir theres a simple putting off: more, more, a hundred of them La. Sir I am a poore freind of yours, that loues you Clo. O Lord sir, thicke, thicke, spare not me La. I thinke sir, you can eate none of this homely meate Clo. O Lord sir; nay put me too't, I warrant you La. You were lately whipt sir as I thinke Clo. O Lord sir, spare not me La. Doe you crie O Lord sir at your whipping, and spare not me? Indeed your O Lord sir, is very sequent to your whipping: you would answere very well to a whipping if you were but bound too't Clo. I nere had worse lucke in my life in my O Lord sir: I see things may serue long, but not serue euer La. I play the noble huswife with the time, to entertaine it so merrily with a foole Clo. O Lord sir, why there't serues well agen La. And end sir to your businesse: giue Hellen this, And vrge her to a present answer backe, Commend me to my kinsmen, and my sonne, This is not much Clo. Not much commendation to them La. Not much imployement for you, you vnderstand me Clo. Most fruitfully, I am there, before my legges La. Hast you agen. Exeunt. Enter Count, Lafew, and Parolles. Ol.Laf. They say miracles are past, and we haue our Philosophicall persons, to make moderne and familiar things supernaturall and causelesse. Hence is it, that we make trifles of terrours, ensconcing our selues into seeming knowledge, when we should submit our selues to an vnknowne feare Par. Why 'tis the rarest argument of wonder, that hath shot out in our latter times Ros. And so 'tis Ol.Laf. To be relinquisht of the Artists Par. So I say both of Galen and Paracelsus Ol.Laf. Of all the learned and authenticke fellowes Par. Right so I say Ol.Laf. That gaue him out incureable Par. Why there 'tis, so say I too Ol.Laf. Not to be help'd Par. Right, as 'twere a man assur'd of a- Ol.Laf. Vncertaine life, and sure death Par. Iust, you say well: so would I haue said Ol.Laf. I may truly say, it is a noueltie to the world Par. It is indeede if you will haue it in shewing, you shall reade it in what do ye call there Ol.Laf. A shewing of a heauenly effect in an earthly Actor Par. That's it, I would haue said, the verie same Ol.Laf. Why your Dolphin is not lustier: fore mee I speake in respect- Par. Nay 'tis strange, 'tis very straunge, that is the breefe and the tedious of it, and he's of a most facinerious spirit, that will not acknowledge it to be the- Ol.Laf. Very hand of heauen Par. I, so I say Ol.Laf. In a most weake- Par. And debile minister great power, great trancendence, which should indeede giue vs a further vse to be made, then alone the recou'ry of the king, as to bee Old Laf. Generally thankfull. Enter King, Hellen, and attendants. Par. I would haue said it, you say well: heere comes the King Ol.Laf. Lustique, as the Dutchman saies: Ile like a maide the Better whil'st I haue a tooth in my head: why he's able to leade her a Carranto Par. Mor du vinager, is not this Helen? Ol.Laf. Fore God I thinke so King. Goe call before mee all the Lords in Court, Sit my preseruer by thy patients side, And with this healthfull hand whose banisht sence Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receyue The confirmation of my promis'd guift, Which but attends thy naming. Enter 3 or 4 Lords. Faire Maide send forth thine eye, this youthfull parcell Of Noble Batchellors, stand at my bestowing, Ore whom both Soueraigne power, and fathers voice I haue to vse; thy franke election make, Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake Hel. To each of you, one faire and vertuous Mistris; Fall when loue please, marry to each but one Old Laf. I'de giue bay curtall, and his furniture My mouth no more were broken then these boyes, And writ as little beard King. Peruse them well: Not one of those, but had a Noble father. She addresses her to a Lord. Hel. Gentlemen, heauen hath through me, restor'd the king to health All. We vnderstand it, and thanke heauen for you Hel. I am a simple Maide, and therein wealthiest That I protest, I simply am a Maide: Please it your Maiestie, I haue done already: The blushes in my cheekes thus whisper mee, We blush that thou shouldst choose, but be refused; Let the white death sit on thy cheeke for euer, Wee'l nere come there againe King. Make choise and see, Who shuns thy loue, shuns all his loue in mee Hel. Now Dian from thy Altar do I fly, And to imperiall loue, that God most high Do my sighes streame: Sir, wil you heare my suite? 1.Lo. And grant it Hel. Thankes sir, all the rest is mute Ol.Laf. I had rather be in this choise, then throw Ames-ace for my life Hel. The honor sir that flames in your faire eyes, Before I speake too threatningly replies: Loue make your fortunes twentie times aboue Her that so wishes, and her humble loue 2.Lo. No better if you please Hel. My wish receiue, Which great loue grant, and so I take my leaue Ol.Laf. Do all they denie her? And they were sons of mine, I'de haue them whip'd, or I would send them to'th Turke to make Eunuches of Hel. Be not afraid that I your hand should take, Ile neuer do you wrong for your owne sake: Blessing vpon your vowes, and in your bed Finde fairer fortune, if you euer wed Old Laf. These boyes are boyes of Ice, they'le none haue heere: sure they are bastards to the English, the French nere got em La. You are too young, too happie, and too good To make your selfe a sonne out of my blood 4.Lord. Faire one, I thinke not so Ol.Lord There's one grape yet, I am sure thy father drunke wine. But if thou be'st not an asse, I am a youth of fourteene: I haue knowne thee already Hel. I dare not say I take you, but I giue Me and my seruice, euer whilst I liue Into your guiding power: This is the man King. Why then young Bertram take her shee's thy wife Ber. My wife my Leige? I shal beseech your highnes In such a busines, giue me leaue to vse The helpe of mine owne eies King. Know'st thou not Bertram what shee ha's done for mee? Ber. Yes my good Lord, but neuer hope to know why I should marrie her King. Thou know'st shee ha's rais'd me from my sickly bed Ber. But followes it my Lord, to bring me downe Must answer for your raising? I knowe her well: Shee had her breeding at my fathers charge: A poore Physitians daughter my wife? Disdaine Rather corrupt me euer King. Tis onely title thou disdainst in her, the which I can build vp: strange is it that our bloods Of colour, waight, and heat, pour'd all together, Would quite confound distinction: yet stands off In differences so mightie. If she bee All that is vertuous (saue what thou dislik'st) A poore Phisitians daughter, thou dislik'st Of vertue for the name: but doe not so: From lowest place, whence vertuous things proceed, The place is dignified by th' doers deede. Where great additions swell's, and vertue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone, Is good without a name? Vilenesse is so: The propertie by what is is, should go, Not by the title. Shee is young, wise, faire, In these, to Nature shee's immediate heire: And these breed honour: that is honours scorne, Which challenges it selfe as honours borne, And is not like the sire: Honours thriue, When rather from our acts we them deriue Then our fore-goers: the meere words, a slaue Debosh'd on euerie tombe, on euerie graue: A lying Trophee, and as oft is dumbe, Where dust, and damn'd obliuion is the Tombe. Of honour'd bones indeed, what should be saide? If thou canst like this creature, as a maide, I can create the rest: Vertue, and shee Is her owne dower: Honour and wealth, from mee Ber. I cannot loue her, nor will striue to doo't King. Thou wrong'st thy selfe, if thou shold'st striue to choose Hel. That you are well restor'd my Lord, I'me glad: Let the rest go King. My Honor's at the stake, which to defeate I must produce my power. Heere, take her hand, Proud scornfull boy, vnworthie this good gift, That dost in vile misprision shackle vp My loue, and her desert: that canst not dreame, We poizing vs in her defectiue scale, Shall weigh thee to the beame: That wilt not know, It is in Vs to plant thine Honour, where We please to haue it grow. Checke thy contempt: Obey Our will, which trauailes in thy good: Beleeue not thy disdaine, but presentlie Do thine owne fortunes that obedient right Which both thy dutie owes, and Our power claimes, Or I will throw thee from my care for euer Into the staggers, and the carelesse lapse Of youth and ignorance: both my reuenge and hate Loosing vpon thee, in the name of iustice, Without all termes of pittie. Speake, thine answer Ber. Pardon my gracious Lord: for I submit My fancie to your eies, when I consider What great creation, and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it: I finde that she which late Was in my Nobler thoughts, most base: is now The praised of the King, who so ennobled, Is as 'twere borne so King. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise A counterpoize: If not to thy estate, A ballance more repleat Ber. I take her hand Kin. Good fortune, and the fauour of the King Smile vpon this Contract: whose Ceremonie Shall seeme expedient on the now borne briefe, And be perform'd to night: the solemne Feast Shall more attend vpon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lou'st her, Thy loue's to me Religious: else, do's erre. Exeunt. Parolles and Lafew stay behind, commenting of this wedding. Laf. Do you heare Monsieur? A word with you Par. Your pleasure sir Laf. Your Lord and Master did well to make his recantation Par. Recantation? My Lord? my Master? Laf. I: Is it not a Language I speake? Par. A most harsh one, and not to bee vnderstoode without bloudie succeeding. My Master? Laf. Are you Companion to the Count Rosillion? Par. To any Count, to all Counts: to what is man Laf. To what is Counts man: Counts maister is of another stile Par. You are too old sir: Let it satisfie you, you are too old Laf. I must tell thee sirrah, I write Man: to which title age cannot bring thee Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do Laf. I did thinke thee for two ordinaries: to bee a prettie wise fellow, thou didst make tollerable vent of thy trauell, it might passe: yet the scarffes and the bannerets about thee, did manifoldlie disswade me from beleeuing thee a vessell of too great a burthen. I haue now found thee, when I loose thee againe, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking vp, and that th'ourt scarce worth Par. Hadst thou not the priuiledge of Antiquity vpon thee Laf. Do not plundge thy selfe to farre in anger, least thou hasten thy triall: which if, Lord haue mercie on thee for a hen, so my good window of Lettice fare thee well, thy casement I neede not open, for I look through thee. Giue me thy hand Par. My Lord, you giue me most egregious indignity Laf. I with all my heart, and thou art worthy of it Par. I haue not my Lord deseru'd it Laf. Yes good faith, eu'ry dramme of it, and I will not bate thee a scruple Par. Well, I shall be wiser Laf. Eu'n as soone as thou can'st, for thou hast to pull at a smacke a'th contrarie. If euer thou bee'st bound in thy skarfe and beaten, thou shall finde what it is to be proud of thy bondage, I haue a desire to holde my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know Par. My Lord you do me most insupportable vexation Laf. I would it were hell paines for thy sake, and my poore doing eternall: for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will giue me leaue. Enter. Par. Well, thou hast a sonne shall take this disgrace off me; scuruy, old, filthy, scuruy Lord: Well, I must be patient, there is no fettering of authority. Ile beate him (by my life) if I can meete him with any conuenience, and he were double and double a Lord. Ile haue no more pittie of his age then I would haue of- Ile beate him, and if I could but meet him agen. Enter Lafew. Laf. Sirra, your Lord and masters married, there's newes for you: you haue a new Mistris Par. I most vnfainedly beseech your Lordshippe to make some reseruation of your wrongs. He is my good Lord, whom I serue aboue is my master Laf. Who? God Par. I sir Laf. The deuill it is, that's thy master. Why dooest thou garter vp thy armes a this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeues? Do other seruants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine Honor, if I were but two houres yonger, I'de beate thee: mee-think'st thou art a generall offence, and euery man shold beate thee: I thinke thou wast created for men to breath themselues vpon thee Par. This is hard and vndeserued measure my Lord Laf. Go too sir, you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernell out of a Pomgranat, you are a vagabond, and no true traueller: you are more sawcie with Lordes and honourable personages, then the Commission of your birth and vertue giues you Heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I'de call you knaue. I leaue you. Exit Enter Count Rossillion. Par. Good, very good, it is so then: good, very good, let it be conceal'd awhile Ros. Vndone, and forfeited to cares for euer Par. What's the matter sweet-heart? Rossill. Although before the solemne Priest I haue sworne, I will not bed her Par. What? what sweet heart? Ros. O my Parrolles, they haue married me: Ile to the Tuscan warres, and neuer bed her Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits, The tread of a mans foot: too'th warres Ros. There's letters from my mother: What th' import is, I know not yet Par. I that would be knowne: too'th warrs my boy, too'th warres: He weares his honor in a boxe vnseene, That hugges his kickie wickie heare at home, Spending his manlie marrow in her armes Which should sustaine the bound and high curuet Of Marses fierie steed: to other Regions, France is a stable, wee that dwell in't Iades, Therefore too'th warre Ros. It shall be so, Ile send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled: Write to the King That which I durst not speake. His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields Where noble fellowes strike: Warres is no strife To the darke house, and the detected wife Par. Will this Caprichio hold in thee, art sure? Ros. Go with me to my chamber, and aduice me. Ile send her straight away: To morrow, Ile to the warres, she to her single sorrow Par. Why these bals bound, ther's noise in it. Tis hard A yong man maried, is a man that's mard: Therefore away, and leaue her brauely: go, The King ha's done you wrong: but hush 'tis so. Exit Enter Helena and Clowne. Hel. My mother greets me kindly, is she well? Clo. She is not well, but yet she has her health, she's very merrie, but yet she is not well: but thankes be giuen she's very well, and wants nothing i'th world: but yet she is not well Hel. If she be verie wel, what do's she ayle, that she's not verie well? Clo. Truly she's very well indeed, but for two things Hel. What two things? Clo. One, that she's not in heauen, whether God send her quickly: the other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly. Enter Parolles. Par. Blesse you my fortunate Ladie Hel. I hope sir I haue your good will to haue mine owne good fortune Par. You had my prayers to leade them on, and to keepe them on, haue them still. O my knaue, how do's my old Ladie? Clo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her money, I would she did as you say Par. Why I say nothing Clo. Marry you are the wiser man: for many a mans tongue shakes out his masters vndoing: to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to haue nothing, is to be a great part of your title, which is within a verie little of nothing Par. Away, th'art a knaue Clo. You should haue said sir before a knaue, th'art a knaue, that's before me th'art a knaue: this had beene truth sir Par. Go too, thou art a wittie foole, I haue found thee Clo. Did you finde me in your selfe sir, or were you taught to finde me? Clo. The search sir was profitable, and much Foole may you find in you, euen to the worlds pleasure, and the encrease of laughter Par. A good knaue ifaith, and well fed. Madam, my Lord will go awaie to night, A verie serrious businesse call's on him: The great prerogatiue and rite of loue, Which as your due time claimes, he do's acknowledge, But puts it off to a compell'd restraint: Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets Which they distill now in the curbed time, To make the comming houre oreflow with ioy, And pleasure drowne the brim Hel. What's his will else? Par. That you will take your instant leaue a'th king, And make this hast as your owne good proceeding, Strengthned with what Apologie you thinke May make it probable neede Hel. What more commands hee? Par. That hauing this obtain'd, you presentlie Attend his further pleasure Hel. In euery thing I waite vpon his will Par. I shall report it so. Exit Par. Hell. I pray you come sirrah. Exit Enter Lafew and Bertram. Laf. But I hope your Lordshippe thinkes not him a souldier Ber. Yes my Lord and of verie valiant approofe Laf. You haue it from his owne deliuerance Ber. And by other warranted testimonie Laf. Then my Diall goes not true, I tooke this Larke for a bunting Ber. I do assure you my Lord he is very great in knowledge, and accordinglie valiant Laf. I haue then sinn'd against his experience, and transgrest against his valour, and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent: Heere he comes, I pray you make vs freinds, I will pursue the amitie. Enter Parolles. Par. These things shall be done sir Laf. Pray you sir whose his Tailor? Par. Sir? Laf. O I know him well, I sir, hee sirs a good workeman, a verie good Tailor Ber. Is shee gone to the king? Par. Shee is Ber. Will shee away to night? Par. As you'le haue her Ber. I haue writ my letters, casketted my treasure, Giuen order for our horses, and to night, When I should take possession of the Bride, And ere I doe begin Laf. A good Trauailer is something at the latter end of a dinner, but on that lies three thirds, and vses a known truth to passe a thousand nothings with, should bee once hard, and thrice beaten. God saue you Captaine Ber. Is there any vnkindnes betweene my Lord and you Monsieur? Par. I know not how I haue deserued to run into my Lords displeasure Laf. You haue made shift to run into't, bootes and spurres and all: like him that leapt into the Custard, and out of it you'le runne againe, rather then suffer question for your residence Ber. It may bee you haue mistaken him my Lord Laf. And shall doe so euer, though I tooke him at's prayers. Fare you well my Lord, and beleeue this of me, there can be no kernell in this light Nut: the soule of this man is his cloathes: Trust him not in matter of heauie consequence: I haue kept of them tame, & know their natures. Farewell Monsieur, I haue spoken better of you, then you haue or will to deserue at my hand, but we must do good against euill Par. An idle Lord, I sweare Ber. I thinke so Par. Why do you not know him? Ber. Yes, I do know him well, and common speech Giues him a worthy passe. Heere comes my clog. Enter Helena. Hel. I haue sir as I was commanded from you Spoke with the King, and haue procur'd his leaue For present parting, onely he desires Some priuate speech with you Ber. I shall obey his will. You must not meruaile Helen at my course, Which holds not colour with the time, nor does The ministration, and required office On my particular. Prepar'd I was not For such a businesse, therefore am I found So much vnsetled: This driues me to intreate you, That presently you take your way for home, And rather muse then aske why I intreate you, For my respects are better then they seeme, And my appointments haue in them a neede Greater then shewes it selfe at the first view, To you that know them not. This to my mother, 'Twill be two daies ere I shall see you, so I leaue you to your wisedome Hel. Sir, I can nothing say, But that I am your most obedient seruant Ber. Come, come, no more of that Hel. And euer shall With true obseruance seeke to eeke out that Wherein toward me my homely starres haue faild To equall my great fortune Ber. Let that goe: my hast is verie great. Farwell: Hie home Hel. Pray sir your pardon Ber. Well, what would you say? Hel. I am not worthie of the wealth I owe, Nor dare I say 'tis mine: and yet it is, But like a timorous theefe, most faine would steale What law does vouch mine owne Ber. What would you haue? Hel. Something, and scarse so much: nothing indeed, I would not tell you what I would my Lord: Faith yes, Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kisse Ber. I pray you stay not, but in hast to horse Hel. I shall not breake your bidding, good my Lord: Where are my other men? Monsieur, farwell. Exit Ber. Go thou toward home, where I wil neuer come, Whilst I can shake my sword, or heare the drumme: Away, and for our flight Par. Brauely, Coragio.

Act 2, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-2-scene-1

The second act opens at the king of France's swanky palace, where a bunch of young noblemen are getting ready to run off to Italy to fight in that foreign war we mentioned earlier. The king of France is so old and sickly that he has to be carried into the room on a chair. He wishes everyone good luck getting their battle on and cheers for them to make France proud. Bertram is moping because the King thinks he's too young to go to war. Instead, he has to stay in France and go to a bunch of lame dances at court while all the other young guys get to slit the throats of enemy soldiers. Paroles and some of the Lords thinks he should run away to Italy and fight anyway. Then Paroles starts to brag about himself. He tells a big, made-up story about how he once whipped out his sword and sliced up some guy's cheek. He tells the French soldiers to be on the lookout for a guy with a giant scar on his face. When the lords leave, Paroles tries to give Bertram some advice about how to fit in with the other guys at court. They run off so that Bertram can practice being cool and fitting in. Lafeu enters and kneels down in front of the king . The king asks him to get off his knees and stand up, which leads to a snappy discussion about how Lafeu wishes the king was well enough to stand up himself. Lafeu says he knows a really great female doctor. She's so skillful that she could "araise King Pepin" . The king should give her a chance to cure his dreaded illness. Lafeu trots out Helen. He says he's going to leave Helen alone with the king and adds that he feels a little like "Cressid's uncle" . Gross. What does he think is going to happen here, exactly? Helen declares that she's the daughter of the famous doctor, Gerard de Narbonne, who, on his deathbed, left her a bunch of precious medicines and instructions on how to use them. She's here to cure the King of his illness. The king doesn't buy it. He says he's not about to let some maiden play doctor. The best physicians in the world haven't been able to cure him, so why should he think Helen can? After some back and forth bickering, Helen finally manages to change the king's mind. She argues that the king has nothing to lose; if she can't cure him, then hey, he's going to die anyway, right? She then promises that she can cure the king in 48 hours. The King notes that Helen seems pretty confident. What's she willing to stake on this? Helen says herreputation. After all, if she tries to cure the king's fistula and doesn't succeed, she'll be accused of being a strumpet . Sounds like a leap, but it makes sense. She knows what people will say when they find out she was alone with the king and had such intimate contact with his body. Lafeu is already cracking dirty jokes, and he knows why she's there. Fair enough, says the King. Then Helen gets the king to promise that she can marry anyone in his kingdom if she cures him. She makes a big deal about being the lowly daughter of a dead doctor and promises not to choose a member of the royal family.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/All's Well That Ends Well/section_8_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 3.scene 1

act 3, scene 1

{"name": "Act 3, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-3-scene-1", "summary": "We drop in on the duke of Florence at his Italian court. The duke is leading the Florentine army against Siena, and he's a little miffed that the king of France has refused to join his war efforts. Two French lords Dumaine chime in, saying that they think their king has his reasons for wanting to stay out of it. The first lord Dumaine points out that a bunch of young French noblemen have volunteered to fight and suggests it will be a good way for them to blow off some steam. We learn that everyone is headed for the battlefield the next day.", "analysis": ""}

Actus Tertius. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a troope of Souldiers. Duke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard The fundamentall reasons of this warre, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth And more thirsts after 1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell Vpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull On the opposer Duke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France Would in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome Against our borrowing prayers French E. Good my Lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yeelde, But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a Counsaile frames, By selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not Say what I thinke of it, since I haue found My selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile As often as I guest Duke. Be it his pleasure Fren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature, That surfet on their ease, will day by day Come heere for Physicke Duke. Welcome shall they bee: And all the honors that can flye from vs, Shall on them settle: you know your places well, When better fall, for your auailes they fell, To morrow to'th the field. Flourish. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Count. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue that he comes not along with her Clo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie melancholly man Count. By what obseruance I pray you Clo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing: mend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke his teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of melancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song Lad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes to come Clow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court. Our old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing like your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an old man loues money, with no stomacke Lad. What haue we heere? Clo. In that you haue there. Exit A Letter. I haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the King, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her, and sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am runne away, know it before the report come. If there bee bredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne, Bertram. This is not well rash and vnbridled boy, To flye the fauours of so good a King, To plucke his indignation on thy head, By the misprising of a Maide too vertuous For the contempt of Empire. Enter Clowne. Clow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene two souldiers, and my yong Ladie La. What is the matter Clo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some comfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght he would La. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he does, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of men, though it be the getting of children. Heere they come will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your sonne was run away. Enter Hellen and two Gentlemen. French E. Saue you good Madam Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone French G. Do not say so La. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen, I haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe, That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you? Fren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence, We met him thitherward, for thence we came: And after some dispatch in hand at Court, Thither we bend againe Hel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport. When thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer shall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie, that I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then) I write a Neuer. This is a dreadfull sentence La. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen? 1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie for our paines Old La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere, If thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine, Thou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he? Fren.G. I Madam La. And to be a souldier Fren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't The Duke will lay vpon him all the honor That good conuenience claimes La. Returne you thither Fren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed Hel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France, 'Tis bitter La. Finde you that there? Hel. I Madame Fren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting too Lad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife: There's nothing heere that is too good for him But onely she, and she deserues a Lord That twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon, And call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him? Fren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I haue sometime knowne La. Parolles was it not? Fren.E. I my good Ladie, hee La. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse, My sonne corrupts a well deriued nature With his inducement Fren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of that, too much, which holds him much to haue La. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you when you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can neuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate you written to beare along Fren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your worthiest affaires La. Not so, but as we change our courtesies, Will you draw neere? Enter. Hel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France. Nothing in France vntill he has no wife: Thou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France, Then hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I That chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose Those tender limbes of thine, to the euent Of the none-sparing warre? And is it I, That driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou Was't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke Of smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride vpon the violent speede of fire, Fly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire That sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord: Who euer shoots at him, I set him there. Who euer charges on his forward brest I am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't, And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: Better 'twere I met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd With sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere, That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion, Whence honor but of danger winnes a scarre, As oft it looses all. I will be gone: My being heere it is, that holds thee hence, Shall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although The ayre of Paradise did fan the house, And Angels offic'd all: I will be gone, That pittifull rumour may report my flight To consolate thine eare. Come night, end day, For with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away. Enter. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and trumpets, soldiers, Parrolles. Duke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we Great in our hope, lay our best loue and credence Vpon thy promising fortune Ber. Sir it is A charge too heauy for my strength, but yet Wee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake, To th' extreme edge of hazard Duke. Then go thou forth, And fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme As thy auspicious mistris Ber. This very day Great Mars I put my selfe into thy file, Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue A louer of thy drumme, hater of loue. Exeunt. omnes Enter Countesse & Steward. La. Alas! and would you take the letter of her: Might you not know she would do, as she has done, By sending me a Letter. Reade it agen. Letter. I am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious loue hath so in me offended, That bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon With sainted vow my faults to haue amended Write, write, that from the bloodie course of warre, My deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie, Blesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre, His name with zealous feruour sanctifie: His taken labours bid him me forgiue: I his despightfull Iuno sent him forth, From Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue, Where death and danger dogges the heeles of worth. He is too good and faire for death, and mee, Whom I my selfe embrace, to set him free. Ah what sharpe stings are in her mildest words? Rynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much, As letting her passe so: had I spoke with her, I could haue well diuerted her intents, Which thus she hath preuented Ste. Pardon me Madam, If I had giuen you this at ouer-night, She might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes Pursuite would be but vaine La. What Angell shall Blesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue, Vnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare And loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath Of greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo, To this vnworthy husband of his wife, Let euerie word waigh heauie of her worth, That he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe, Though little he do feele it, set downe sharpely. Dispatch the most conuenient messenger, When haply he shall heare that she is gone, He will returne, and hope I may that shee Hearing so much, will speede her foote againe, Led hither by pure loue: which of them both Is deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence To make distinction: prouide this Messenger: My heart is heauie, and mine age is weake, Greefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake. Exeunt. A Tucket afarre off. Enter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and Mariana, with other Citizens. Widdow. Nay come, For if they do approach the Citty, We shall loose all the sight Diana. They say, the French Count has done Most honourable seruice Wid. It is reported, That he has taken their great'st Commander, And that with his owne hand he slew The Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour, They are gone a contrarie way: harke, you may know by their Trumpets Maria. Come lets returne againe, And suffice our selues with the report of it. Well Diana, take heed of this French Earle, The honor of a Maide is her name, And no Legacie is so rich As honestie Widdow. I haue told my neighbour How you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman His Companion Maria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles, a filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young Earle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements, oathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene seduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so terrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot for all that disswade succession, but that they are limed with the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede not to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace will keepe you where you are, though there were no further danger knowne, but the modestie which is so lost Dia. You shall not neede to feare me. Enter Hellen. Wid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know she will lye at my house, thither they send one another, Ile question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are bound? Hel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand. Where do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port Hel. Is this the way? A march afarre. Wid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way: If you will tarrie holy Pilgrime But till the troopes come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd, The rather for I thinke I know your hostesse As ample as my selfe Hel. Is it your selfe? Wid. If you shall please so Pilgrime Hel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure Wid. You came I thinke from France? Hel. I did so Wid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours That has done worthy seruice Hel. His name I pray you? Dia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one? Hel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him: His face I know not Dia. What somere he is He's brauely taken heere. He stole from France As 'tis reported: for the King had married him Against his liking. Thinke you it is so? Hel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady Dia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count, Reports but coursely of her Hel. What's his name? Dia. Monsieur Parrolles Hel. Oh I beleeue with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great Count himselfe, she is too meane To haue her name repeated, all her deseruing Is a reserued honestie, and that I haue not heard examin'd Dian. Alas poore Ladie, 'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting Lord Wid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is, Her hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her A shrewd turne if she pleas'd Hel. How do you meane? May be the amorous Count solicites her In the vnlawfull purpose Wid. He does indeede, And brokes with all that can in such a suite Corrupt the tender honour of a Maide: But she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard In honestest defence. Drumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the whole Armie. Mar. The goddes forbid else Wid. So, now they come: That is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne, That Escalus Hel. Which is the Frenchman? Dia. Hee, That with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow, I would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman Hel. I like him well Di. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue That leades him to these places: were I his Ladie, I would poison that vile Rascall Hel. Which is he? Dia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee melancholly? Hel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile Par. Loose our drum? Well Mar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he has spyed vs Wid. Marrie hang you Mar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier. Enter. Wid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring you, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents There's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound, Alreadie at my house Hel. I humbly thanke you: Please it this Matron, and this gentle Maide To eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me, and to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this Virgin, Worthy the note Both. Wee'l take your offer kindly. Exeunt. Enter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first. Cap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him haue his way Cap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding, hold me no more in your respect Cap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble Ber. Do you thinke I am so farre Deceiued in him Cap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him as my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite and endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the owner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships entertainment Cap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too farre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some great and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle you Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him Cap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his drumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake to do C.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize him; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes not from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring him to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present at his examination, if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to betray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his soule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie thing Cap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his drumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your Lordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to what mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted if you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement, your inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes. Enter Parrolles. Cap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor of his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any hand Ber. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely in your disposition Cap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme Par. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so lost. There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne souldiers Cap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C�sar him selfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to command Ber. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe: some dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum, but it is not to be recouered Par. It might haue beene recouered Ber. It might, but it is not now Par. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice is sildome attributed to the true and exact performer, I would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet Ber. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if you thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this instrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be magnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in it, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost syllable of your worthinesse Par. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it Ber. But you must not now slumber in it Par. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently pen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my certaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation: and by midnight looke to heare further from me Ber. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it Par. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord, but the attempt I vow Ber. I know th'art valiant, And to the possibility of thy souldiership, Will subscribe for thee: Farewell Par. I loue not many words. Exit Cap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this a strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to vndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be done, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd then to doo't Cap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe, certaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour, and for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries, but when you finde him out, you haue him euer after Ber. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at all of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe vnto? Cap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention, and clap vpon you two or three probable lies: but we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to night; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect Cap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord Lafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie night Cap.E. I must go looke my twigges, He shall be caught Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me Cap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you Ber. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you The Lasse I spoke of Cap.E. But you say she's honest Ber. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde Tokens and Letters, which she did resend, And this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature, Will you go see her? Cap.E. With all my heart my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hellen, and Widdow. Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon Wid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act Hel. Nor would I wish you. First giue me trust, the Count he is my husband, And what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken, Is so from word to word: and then you cannot By the good ayde that I of you shall borrow, Erre in bestowing it Wid. I should beleeue you, For you haue shew'd me that which well approues Y'are great in fortune Hel. Take this purse of Gold, And let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre, Which I will ouer-pay, and pay againe When I haue found it. The Count he woes your daughter, Layes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie, Resolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent As wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it: Now his important blood will naught denie, That shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares, That downward hath succeeded in his house From sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents, Since the first father wore it. This Ring he holds In most rich choice: yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seeme too deere, How ere repented after Wid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose Hel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more, But that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne, Desires this Ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, deliuers me to fill the time, Her selfe most chastly absent: after To marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes To what is past already Wid. I haue yeelded: Instruct my daughter how she shall perseuer, That time and place with this deceite so lawfull May proue coherent. Euery night he comes With Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd To her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs To chide him from our eeues, for he persists As if his life lay on't Hel. Why then to night Let vs assay our plot, which if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawfull deede; And lawfull meaning in a lawfull act, Where both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact. But let's about it.

Act 3, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-3-scene-1

We drop in on the duke of Florence at his Italian court. The duke is leading the Florentine army against Siena, and he's a little miffed that the king of France has refused to join his war efforts. Two French lords Dumaine chime in, saying that they think their king has his reasons for wanting to stay out of it. The first lord Dumaine points out that a bunch of young French noblemen have volunteered to fight and suggests it will be a good way for them to blow off some steam. We learn that everyone is headed for the battlefield the next day.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/All's Well That Ends Well/section_15_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 4.scene 1

act 4, scene 1

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-4-scene-1", "summary": "Outside the soldiers' camp in Florence, the first lord Dumaine and several soldiers hide in the bushes. They're waiting to ambush Paroles, who is supposed to be trying to retrieve the drum he lost on the battlefield. Paroles shows up and starts talking to himself. He admits that he has no intention of trying to get his drum back. That would be way too dangerous. Instead, he's just going to hang out here for three hours until it's time to go back to the camp. Paroles tries to come up with a story to convince his pals that he got hurt trying to recover the drum. Maybe he should give himself a black eye and a fat lip? Or maybe he should tear his clothes to shreds and break his sword to make it look like he got into a fight with some enemy soldiers? Will his friends even believe his story? The lords Dumaine and the interpreter leap out of the bushes with their swords. Ah ha! They start yelling and speaking in gibberish so Paroles will think they're Russian soldiers. Paroles begs for his life and offers to give them a bunch of information about his unit if they'll spare his life. They blindfold Paroles and a soldier runs off to get Bertram. The proof is in the pudding.", "analysis": ""}

Actus Quartus. Enter one of the Frenchmen, with fiue or sixe other souldiers in ambush. Lord E. He can come no other way but by this hedge corner: when you sallie vpon him, speake what terrible Language you will: though you vnderstand it not your selues, no matter: for we must not seeme to vnderstand him, vnlesse some one among vs, whom wee must produce for an Interpreter 1.Sol. Good Captaine, let me be th' Interpreter Lor.E. Art not acquainted with him? knowes he not thy voice? 1.Sol. No sir I warrant you Lo.E. But what linsie wolsy hast thou to speake to vs againe 1.Sol. E'n such as you speake to me Lo.E. He must thinke vs some band of strangers, i'th aduersaries entertainment. Now he hath a smacke of all neighbouring Languages: therefore we must euery one be a man of his owne fancie, not to know what we speak one to another: so we seeme to know, is to know straight our purpose: Choughs language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you interpreter, you must seeme very politicke. But couch hoa, heere hee comes, to beguile two houres in a sleepe, and then to returne & swear the lies he forges. Enter Parrolles. Par. Ten a clocke: Within these three houres 'twill be time enough to goe home. What shall I say I haue done? It must bee a very plausiue inuention that carries it. They beginne to smoake mee, and disgraces haue of late, knock'd too often at my doore: I finde my tongue is too foole-hardie, but my heart hath the feare of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue Lo.E. This is the first truth that ere thine own tongue was guiltie of Par. What the diuell should moue mee to vndertake the recouerie of this drumme, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must giue my selfe some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carrie it. They will say, came you off with so little? And great ones I dare not giue, wherefore what's the instance. Tongue, I must put you into a Butter-womans mouth, and buy my selfe another of Baiazeths Mule, if you prattle mee into these perilles Lo.E. Is it possible he should know what hee is, and be that he is Par. I would the cutting of my garments wold serue the turne, or the breaking of my Spanish sword Lo.E. We cannot affoord you so Par. Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem Lo.E. 'Twould not do Par. Or to drowne my cloathes, and say I was stript Lo.E. Hardly serue Par. Though I swore I leapt from the window of the Citadell Lo.E. How deepe? Par. Thirty fadome Lo.E. Three great oathes would scarse make that be beleeued Par. I would I had any drumme of the enemies, I would sweare I recouer'd it Lo.E. You shall heare one anon Par. A drumme now of the enemies. Alarum within. Lo.E. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo Par. O ransome, ransome, Do not hide mine eyes Inter. Boskos thromuldo boskos Par. I know you are the Muskos Regiment, And I shall loose my life for want of language. If there be heere German or Dane, Low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speake to me, Ile discouer that, which shal vndo the Florentine Int. Boskos vauvado, I vnderstand thee, & can speake thy tongue: Kerelybonto sir, betake thee to thy faith, for seuenteene ponyards are at thy bosome Par. Oh Inter. Oh pray, pray, pray, Manka reuania dulche Lo.E. Oscorbidulchos voliuorco Int. The Generall is content to spare thee yet, And hoodwinkt as thou art, will leade thee on To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst informe Something to saue thy life Par. O let me liue, And all the secrets of our campe Ile shew, Their force, their purposes: Nay, Ile speake that, Which you will wonder at Inter. But wilt thou faithfully? Par. If I do not, damne me Inter. Acordo linta. Come on, thou are granted space. Exit A short Alarum within. L.E. Go tell the Count Rossillion and my brother, We haue caught the woodcocke, and will keepe him mufled Till we do heare from them Sol. Captaine I will L.E. A will betray vs all vnto our selues, Informe on that Sol. So I will sir L.E. Till then Ile keepe him darke and safely lockt. Exit Enter Bertram, and the Maide called Diana. Ber. They told me that your name was Fontybell Dia. No my good Lord, Diana Ber. Titled Goddesse, And worth it with addition: but faire soule, In your fine frame hath loue no qualitie? If the quicke fire of youth light not your minde, You are no Maiden but a monument When you are dead you should be such a one As you are now: for you are cold and sterne, And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet selfe was got Dia. She then was honest Ber. So should you be Dia. No: My mother did but dutie, such (my Lord) As you owe to your wife Ber. No more a'that: I prethee do not striue against my vowes: I was compell'd to her, but I loue thee By loues owne sweet constraint, and will for euer Do thee all rights of seruice Dia. I so you serue vs Till we serue you: But when you haue our Roses, You barely leaue our thornes to pricke our selues, And mocke vs with our barenesse Ber. How haue I sworne Dia. Tis not the many oathes that makes the truth, But the plaine single vow, that is vow'd true: What is not holie, that we sweare not by, But take the high'st to witnesse: then pray you tell me, If I should sweare by Ioues great attributes, I lou'd you deerely, would you beleeue my oathes, When I did loue you ill? This ha's no holding To sweare by him whom I protest to loue That I will worke against him. Therefore your oathes Are words and poore conditions, but vnseal'd At lest in my opinion Ber. Change it, change it: Be not so holy cruell: Loue is holie, And my integritie ne're knew the crafts That you do charge men with: Stand no more off, But giue thy selfe vnto my sicke desires, Who then recouers. Say thou art mine, and euer My loue as it beginnes, shall so perseuer Dia. I see that men make rope's in such a scarre, That wee'l forsake our selues. Giue me that Ring Ber. Ile lend it thee my deere; but haue no power To giue it from me Dia. Will you not my Lord? Ber. It is an honour longing to our house, Bequeathed downe from manie Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In me to loose Dian. Mine Honors such a Ring, My chastities the Iewell of our house, Bequeathed downe from many Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In mee to loose. Thus your owne proper wisedome Brings in the Champion honor on my part, Against your vaine assault Ber. Heere, take my Ring, My house, mine honor, yea my life be thine, And Ile be bid by thee Dia. When midnight comes, knocke at my chamber window: Ile order take, my mother shall not heare. Now will I charge you in the band of truth, When you haue conquer'd my yet maiden-bed, Remaine there but an houre, nor speake to mee: My reasons are most strong, and you shall know them, When backe againe this Ring shall be deliuer'd: And on your finger in the night, Ile put Another Ring, that what in time proceeds, May token to the future, our past deeds. Adieu till then, then faile not: you haue wonne A wife of me, though there my hope be done Ber. A heauen on earth I haue won by wooing thee Di. For which, liue long to thank both heauen & me, You may so in the end. My mother told me iust how he would woo, As if she sate in's heart. She sayes, all men Haue the like oathes: He had sworne to marrie me When his wife's dead: therfore Ile lye with him When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braide, Marry that will, I liue and die a Maid: Onely in this disguise, I think't no sinne, To cosen him that would vniustly winne. Exit Enter the two French Captaines, and some two or three Souldiours. Cap.G. You haue not giuen him his mothers letter Cap.E. I haue deliu'red it an houre since, there is som thing in't that stings his nature: for on the reading it, he chang'd almost into another man Cap.G. He has much worthy blame laid vpon him, for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a Lady Cap.E. Especially, hee hath incurred the euerlasting displeasure of the King, who had euen tun'd his bounty to sing happinesse to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you Cap.G. When you haue spoken it 'tis dead, and I am the graue of it Cap.E. Hee hath peruerted a young Gentlewoman heere in Florence, of a most chaste renown, & this night he fleshes his will in the spoyle of her honour: hee hath giuen her his monumentall Ring, and thinkes himselfe made in the vnchaste composition Cap.G. Now God delay our rebellion as we are our selues, what things are we Cap.E. Meerely our owne traitours. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reueale themselues, till they attaine to their abhorr'd ends: so he that in this action contriues against his owne Nobility in his proper streame, ore-flowes himselfe Cap.G. Is it not meant damnable in vs, to be Trumpeters of our vnlawfull intents? We shall not then haue his company to night? Cap.E. Not till after midnight: for hee is dieted to his houre Cap.G. That approaches apace: I would gladly haue him see his company anathomiz'd, that hee might take a measure of his owne iudgements, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit Cap.E. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other Cap.G. In the meane time, what heare you of these Warres? Cap.E. I heare there is an ouerture of peace Cap.G. Nay, I assure you a peace concluded Cap.E. What will Count Rossillion do then? Will he trauaile higher, or returne againe into France? Cap.G. I perceiue by this demand, you are not altogether of his councell Cap.E. Let it be forbid sir, so should I bee a great deale of his act Cap.G. Sir, his wife some two months since fledde from his house, her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Iaques le grand; which holy vndertaking, with most austere sanctimonie she accomplisht: and there residing, the tendernesse of her Nature, became as a prey to her greefe: in fine, made a groane of her last breath, & now she sings in heauen Cap.E. How is this iustified? Cap.G. The stronger part of it by her owne Letters, which makes her storie true, euen to the poynt of her death: her death it selfe, which could not be her office to say, is come: was faithfully confirm'd by the Rector of the place Cap.E. Hath the Count all this intelligence? Cap.G. I, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the veritie Cap.E. I am heartily sorrie that hee'l bee gladde of this Cap.G. How mightily sometimes, we make vs comforts of our losses Cap.E. And how mightily some other times, wee drowne our gaine in teares, the great dignitie that his valour hath here acquir'd for him, shall at home be encountred with a shame as ample Cap.G. The webbe of our life, is of a mingled yarne, good and ill together: our vertues would bee proud, if our faults whipt them not, and our crimes would dispaire if they were not cherish'd by our vertues. Enter a Messenger. How now? Where's your master? Ser. He met the Duke in the street sir, of whom hee hath taken a solemne leaue: his Lordshippe will next morning for France. The Duke hath offered him Letters of commendations to the King Cap.E. They shall bee no more then needfull there, if they were more then they can commend. Enter Count Rossillion. Ber. They cannot be too sweete for the Kings tartnesse, heere's his Lordship now. How now my Lord, i'st not after midnight? Ber. I haue to night dispatch'd sixteene businesses, a moneths length a peece, by an abstract of successe: I haue congied with the Duke, done my adieu with his neerest; buried a wife, mourn'd for her, writ to my Ladie mother, I am returning, entertain'd my Conuoy, & betweene these maine parcels of dispatch, affected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I haue not ended yet Cap.E. If the businesse bee of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires hast of your Lordship Ber. I meane the businesse is not ended, as fearing to heare of it hereafter: but shall we haue this dialogue betweene the Foole and the Soldiour. Come, bring forth this counterfet module, ha's deceiu'd mee, like a double-meaning Prophesier Cap.E. Bring him forth, ha's sate i'th stockes all night poore gallant knaue Ber. No matter, his heeles haue deseru'd it, in vsurping his spurres so long. How does he carry himselfe? Cap.E. I haue told your Lordship alreadie: The stockes carrie him. But to answer you as you would be vnderstood, hee weepes like a wench that had shed her milke, he hath confest himselfe to Morgan, whom hee supposes to be a Friar, fro[m] the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i'th stockes: and what thinke you he hath confest? Ber. Nothing of me, ha's a? Cap.E. His confession is taken, and it shall bee read to his face, if your Lordshippe be in't, as I beleeue you are, you must haue the patience to heare it. Enter Parolles with his Interpreter. Ber. A plague vpon him, muffeld; he can say nothing of me: hush, hush Cap.G. Hoodman comes: Portotartarossa Inter. He calles for the tortures, what will you say without em Par. I will confesse what I know without constraint, If ye pinch me like a Pasty, I can say no more Int. Bosko Chimurcho Cap. Boblibindo chicurmurco Int. You are a mercifull Generall: Our Generall bids you answer to what I shall aske you out of a Note Par. And truly, as I hope to liue Int. First demand of him, how many horse the Duke is strong. What say you to that? Par. Fiue or sixe thousand, but very weake and vnseruiceable: the troopes are all scattered, and the Commanders verie poore rogues, vpon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to liue Int. Shall I set downe your answer so? Par. Do, Ile take the Sacrament on't, how & which way you will: all's one to him Ber. What a past-sauing slaue is this? Cap.G. Y'are deceiu'd my Lord, this is Mounsieur Parrolles the gallant militarist, that was his owne phrase that had the whole theoricke of warre in the knot of his scarfe, and the practise in the chape of his dagger Cap.E. I will neuer trust a man againe, for keeping his sword cleane, nor beleeue he can haue euerie thing in him, by wearing his apparrell neatly Int. Well, that's set downe Par. Fiue or six thousand horse I sed, I will say true, or thereabouts set downe, for Ile speake truth Cap.G. He's very neere the truth in this Ber. But I con him no thankes for't in the nature he deliuers it Par. Poore rogues, I pray you say Int. Well, that's set downe Par. I humbly thanke you sir, a truth's a truth, the Rogues are maruailous poore Interp. Demaund of him of what strength they are a foot. What say you to that? Par. By my troth sir, if I were to liue this present houre, I will tell true. Let me see, Spurio a hundred & fiftie, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Iaques so many: Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowicke, and Gratij, two hundred fiftie each: Mine owne Company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentij, two hundred fiftie each: so that the muster file, rotten and sound, vppon my life amounts not to fifteene thousand pole, halfe of the which, dare not shake the snow from off their Cassockes, least they shake themselues to peeces Ber. What shall be done to him? Cap.G. Nothing, but let him haue thankes. Demand of him my condition: and what credite I haue with the Duke Int. Well that's set downe: you shall demaund of him, whether one Captaine Dumaine bee i'th Campe, a Frenchman: what his reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honestie, and expertnesse in warres: or whether he thinkes it were not possible with well-waighing summes of gold to corrupt him to a reuolt. What say you to this? What do you know of it? Par. I beseech you let me answer to the particular of the intergatories. Demand them singly Int. Do you know this Captaine Dumaine? Par. I know him, a was a Botchers Prentize in Paris, from whence he was whipt for getting the Shrieues fool with childe, a dumbe innocent that could not say him nay Ber. Nay, by your leaue hold your hands, though I know his braines are forfeite to the next tile that fals Int. Well, is this Captaine in the Duke of Florences campe? Par. Vpon my knowledge he is, and lowsie Cap.G. Nay looke not so vpon me: we shall heare of your Lord anon Int. What is his reputation with the Duke? Par. The Duke knowes him for no other, but a poore Officer of mine, and writ to mee this other day, to turne him out a'th band. I thinke I haue his Letter in my pocket Int. Marry we'll search Par. In good sadnesse I do not know, either it is there, or it is vpon a file with the Dukes other Letters, in my Tent Int. Heere 'tis, heere's a paper, shall I reade it to you? Par. I do not know if it be it or no Ber. Our Interpreter do's it well Cap.G. Excellently Int. Dian, the Counts a foole, and full of gold Par. That is not the Dukes letter sir: that is an aduertisement to a proper maide in Florence, one Diana, to take heede of the allurement of one Count Rossillion, a foolish idle boy: but for all that very ruttish. I pray you sir put it vp againe Int. Nay, Ile reade it first by your fauour Par. My meaning in't I protest was very honest in the behalfe of the maid: for I knew the young Count to be a dangerous and lasciuious boy, who is a whale to Virginity, and deuours vp all the fry it finds Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue Int. Let. When he sweares oathes, bid him drop gold, and take it: After he scores, he neuer payes the score: Halfe won is match well made, match and well make it, He nere payes after-debts, take it before, And say a souldier (Dian) told thee this: Men are to mell with, boyes are not to kis. For count of this, the Counts a Foole I know it, Who payes before, but not when he does owe it. Thine as he vow'd to thee in thine eare, Parolles Ber. He shall be whipt through the Armie with this rime in's forehead Cap.E. This is your deuoted friend sir, the manifold Linguist, and the army-potent souldier Ber. I could endure any thing before but a Cat, and now he's a Cat to me Int. I perceiue sir by your Generals lookes, wee shall be faine to hang you Par. My life sir in any case: Not that I am afraide to dye, but that my offences beeing many, I would repent out the remainder of Nature. Let me liue sir in a dungeon, i'th stockes, or any where, so I may liue Int. Wee'le see what may bee done, so you confesse freely: therefore once more to this Captaine Dumaine: you haue answer'd to his reputation with the Duke, and to his valour. What is his honestie? Par. He will steale sir an Egge out of a Cloister: for rapes and rauishments he paralels Nessus. Hee professes not keeping of oaths, in breaking em he is stronger then Hercules. He will lye sir, with such volubilitie, that you would thinke truth were a foole: drunkennesse is his best vertue, for he will be swine-drunke, and in his sleepe he does little harme, saue to his bed-cloathes about him: but they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I haue but little more to say sir of his honesty, he ha's euerie thing that an honest man should not haue; what an honest man should haue, he has nothing Cap.G. I begin to loue him for this Ber. For this description of thine honestie? A pox vpon him for me, he's more and more a Cat Int. What say you to his expertnesse in warre? Par. Faith sir, ha's led the drumme before the English Tragedians: to belye him I will not, and more of his souldiership I know not, except in that Country, he had the honour to be the Officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would doe the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certaine Cap.G. He hath out-villain'd villanie so farre, that the raritie redeemes him Ber. A pox on him, he's a Cat still Int. His qualities being at this poore price, I neede not to aske you, if Gold will corrupt him to reuolt Par. Sir, for a Cardceue he will sell the fee-simple of his saluation, the inheritance of it, and cut th' intaile from all remainders, and a perpetuall succession for it perpetually Int. What's his Brother, the other Captain Dumain? Cap.E. Why do's he aske him of me? Int. What's he? Par. E'ne a Crow a'th same nest: not altogether so great as the first in goodnesse, but greater a great deale in euill. He excels his Brother for a coward, yet his Brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreate hee outrunnes any Lackey; marrie in comming on, hee ha's the Crampe Int. If your life be saued, will you vndertake to betray the Florentine Par. I, and the Captaine of his horse, Count Rossillion Int. Ile whisper with the Generall, and knowe his pleasure Par. Ile no more drumming, a plague of all drummes, onely to seeme to deserue well, and to beguile the supposition of that lasciuious yong boy the Count, haue I run into this danger: yet who would haue suspected an ambush where I was taken? Int. There is no remedy sir, but you must dye: the Generall sayes, you that haue so traitorously discouerd the secrets of your army, and made such pestifferous reports of men very nobly held, can serue the world for no honest vse: therefore you must dye. Come headesman, off with his head Par. O Lord sir let me liue, or let me see my death Int. That shall you, and take your leaue of all your friends: So, looke about you, know you any heere? Count. Good morrow noble Captaine Lo.E. God blesse you Captaine Parolles Cap.G. God saue you noble Captaine Lo.E. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France Cap.G. Good Captaine will you giue me a Copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalfe of the Count Rossillion, and I were not a verie Coward, I'de compell it of you, but far you well. Exeunt. Int. You are vndone Captaine all but your scarfe, that has a knot on't yet Par. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot? Inter. If you could finde out a Countrie where but women were that had receiued so much shame, you might begin an impudent Nation. Fare yee well sir, I am for France too, we shall speake of you there. Exit Par. Yet am I thankfull: if my heart were great 'Twould burst at this: Captaine Ile be no more, But I will eate, and drinke, and sleepe as soft As Captaine shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me liue: who knowes himselfe a braggart Let him feare this; for it will come to passe, That euery braggart shall be found an Asse. Rust sword, coole blushes, and Parrolles liue Safest in shame: being fool'd, by fool'rie thriue; There's place and meanes for euery man aliue. Ile after them. Enter. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana. Hel. That you may well perceiue I haue not wrong'd you, One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my suretie: for whose throne 'tis needfull Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneele. Time was, I did him a desired office Deere almost as his life, which gratitude Through flintie Tartars bosome would peepe forth, And answer thankes. I duly am inform'd, His grace is at Marcellae, to which place We haue conuenient conuoy: you must know I am supposed dead, the Army breaking, My husband hies him home, where heauen ayding, And by the leaue of my good Lord the King, Wee'l be before our welcome Wid. Gentle Madam, You neuer had a seruant to whose trust Your busines was more welcome Hel. Nor your Mistris Euer a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour To recompence your loue: Doubt not but heauen Hath brought me vp to be your daughters dower, As it hath fated her to be my motiue And helper to a husband. But O strange men, That can such sweet vse make of what they hate, When sawcie trusting of the cosin'd thoughts Defiles the pitchy night, so lust doth play With what it loathes, for that which is away, But more of this heereafter: you Diana, Vnder my poore instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalfe Dia. Let death and honestie Go with your impositions, I am yours Vpon your will to suffer Hel. Yet I pray you: But with the word the time will bring on summer, When Briars shall haue leaues as well as thornes, And be as sweet as sharpe: we must away, Our Wagon is prepar'd, and time reuiues vs, All's well that ends well, still the fines the Crowne; What ere the course, the end is the renowne. Exeunt. Enter Clowne, old Lady, and Lafew. Laf. No, no, no, your sonne was misled with a snipt taffata fellow there, whose villanous saffron wold haue made all the vnbak'd and dowy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had beene aliue at this houre, and your sonne heere at home, more aduanc'd by the King, then by that red-tail'd humble Bee I speak of La. I would I had not knowne him, it was the death of the most vertuous gentlewoman, that euer Nature had praise for creating. If she had pertaken of my flesh and cost mee the deerest groanes of a mother, I could not haue owed her a more rooted loue Laf. Twas a good Lady, 'twas a good Lady. Wee may picke a thousand sallets ere wee light on such another hearbe Clo. Indeed sir she was the sweete Margerom of the sallet, or rather the hearbe of grace Laf. They are not hearbes you knaue, they are nose-hearbes Clowne. I am no great Nabuchadnezar sir, I haue not much skill in grace Laf. Whether doest thou professe thy selfe, a knaue or a foole? Clo. A foole sir at a womans seruice, and a knaue at a mans Laf. Your distinction Clo. I would cousen the man of his wife, and do his seruice Laf. So you were a knaue at his seruice indeed Clo. And I would giue his wife my bauble sir to doe her seruice Laf. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knaue and foole Clo. At your seruice Laf. No, no, no Clo. Why sir, if I cannot serue you, I can serue as great a prince as you are Laf. Whose that, a Frenchman? Clo. Faith sir a has an English maine, but his fisnomie is more hotter in France then there Laf. What prince is that? Clo. The blacke prince sir, alias the prince of darkenesse, alias the diuell Laf. Hold thee there's my purse, I giue thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talk'st off, serue him still Clo. I am a woodland fellow sir, that alwaies loued a great fire, and the master I speak of euer keeps a good fire, but sure he is the Prince of the world, let his Nobilitie remaine in's Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pompe to enter: some that humble themselues may, but the manie will be too chill and tender, and theyle bee for the flowrie way that leads to the broad gate, and the great fire Laf. Go thy waies, I begin to bee a wearie of thee, and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy wayes, let my horses be wel look'd too, without any trickes Clo. If I put any trickes vpon em sir, they shall bee Iades trickes, which are their owne right by the law of Nature. Exit Laf. A shrewd knaue and an vnhappie Lady. So a is. My Lord that's gone made himselfe much sport out of him, by his authoritie hee remaines heere, which he thinkes is a pattent for his sawcinesse, and indeede he has no pace, but runnes where he will Laf. I like him well, 'tis not amisse: and I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good Ladies death, and that my Lord your sonne was vpon his returne home. I moued the King my master to speake in the behalfe of my daughter, which in the minoritie of them both, his Maiestie out of a selfe gracious remembrance did first propose, his Highnesse hath promis'd me to doe it, and to stoppe vp the displeasure he hath conceiued against your sonne, there is no fitter matter. How do's your Ladyship like it? La. With verie much content my Lord, and I wish it happily effected Laf. His Highnesse comes post from Marcellus, of as able bodie as when he number'd thirty, a will be heere to morrow, or I am deceiu'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldome fail'd La. It reioyces me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I haue letters that my sonne will be heere to night: I shall beseech your Lordship to remaine with mee, till they meete together Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted Lad. You neede but pleade your honourable priuiledge Laf. Ladie, of that I haue made a bold charter, but I thanke my God, it holds yet. Enter Clowne. Clo. O Madam, yonders my Lord your sonne with a patch of veluet on's face, whether there bee a scar vnder't or no, the Veluet knowes, but 'tis a goodly patch of Veluet, his left cheeke is a cheeke of two pile and a halfe, but his right cheeke is worne bare Laf. A scarre nobly got, Or a noble scarre, is a good liu'rie of honor, So belike is that Clo. But it is your carbinado'd face Laf. Let vs go see your sonne I pray you, I long to talke With the yong noble souldier Clowne. 'Faith there's a dozen of em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head, and nod at euerie man. Exeunt.

Act 4, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-4-scene-1

Outside the soldiers' camp in Florence, the first lord Dumaine and several soldiers hide in the bushes. They're waiting to ambush Paroles, who is supposed to be trying to retrieve the drum he lost on the battlefield. Paroles shows up and starts talking to himself. He admits that he has no intention of trying to get his drum back. That would be way too dangerous. Instead, he's just going to hang out here for three hours until it's time to go back to the camp. Paroles tries to come up with a story to convince his pals that he got hurt trying to recover the drum. Maybe he should give himself a black eye and a fat lip? Or maybe he should tear his clothes to shreds and break his sword to make it look like he got into a fight with some enemy soldiers? Will his friends even believe his story? The lords Dumaine and the interpreter leap out of the bushes with their swords. Ah ha! They start yelling and speaking in gibberish so Paroles will think they're Russian soldiers. Paroles begs for his life and offers to give them a bunch of information about his unit if they'll spare his life. They blindfold Paroles and a soldier runs off to get Bertram. The proof is in the pudding.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/All's Well That Ends Well/section_20_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-5-scene-1", "summary": "Meanwhile, Helen, the widow, and Diana have arrived in Marseilles, France, in search of the King. As we know, the King isn't there. They bump into an austringer and find out that the King is actually in Roussillon, which means the women had traveled all this way for nothing. Helen is not about to give up. She laces up her riding shoes and says \"All's well that ends well yet, / Though time seem so adverse, and means unfit.\" Helen then passes the austringer a note and promises him a bunch of money if he gives it to the King for her. Helen and company saddle up for the trip to Roussillon.", "analysis": ""}

Actus Quintus. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana, with two Attendants. Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night, Must wear your spirits low, we cannot helpe it: But since you haue made the daies and nights as one, To weare your gentle limbes in my affayres, Be bold you do so grow in my requitall, As nothing can vnroote you. In happie time, Enter a gentle Astringer. This man may helpe me to his Maiesties eare, If he would spend his power. God saue you sir Gent. And you Hel. Sir, I haue seene you in the Court of France Gent. I haue beene sometimes there Hel. I do presume sir, that you are not falne From the report that goes vpon your goodnesse, And therefore goaded with most sharpe occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The vse of your owne vertues, for the which I shall continue thankefull Gent. What's your will? Hel. That it will please you To giue this poore petition to the King, And ayde me with that store of power you haue To come into his presence Gen. The Kings not heere Hel. Not heere sir? Gen. Not indeed, He hence remou'd last night, and with more hast Then is his vse Wid. Lord how we loose our paines Hel. All's well that ends well yet, Though time seeme so aduerse, and meanes vnfit: I do beseech you, whither is he gone? Gent. Marrie as I take it to Rossillion, Whither I am going Hel. I do beseech you sir, Since you are like to see the King before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thanke your paines for it, I will come after you with what good speede Our meanes will make vs meanes Gent. This Ile do for you Hel. And you shall finde your selfe to be well thankt what e're falles more. We must to horse againe, Go, go, prouide. Enter Clowne and Parrolles. Par. Good Mr Lauatch giue my Lord Lafew this letter, I haue ere now sir beene better knowne to you, when I haue held familiaritie with fresher cloathes: but I am now sir muddied in fortunes mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure Clo. Truely, Fortunes displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will hencefoorth eate no Fish of Fortunes butt'ring. Prethee alow the winde Par. Nay you neede not to stop your nose sir: I spake but by a Metaphor Clo. Indeed sir, if your Metaphor stinke, I will stop my nose, or against any mans Metaphor. Prethe get thee further Par. Pray you sir deliuer me this paper Clo. Foh, prethee stand away: a paper from fortunes close-stoole, to giue to a Nobleman. Looke heere he comes himselfe. Enter Lafew. Clo. Heere is a purre of Fortunes sir, or of Fortunes Cat, but not a Muscat, that ha's falne into the vncleane fish-pond of her displeasure, and as he sayes is muddied withall. Pray you sir, vse the Carpe as you may, for he lookes like a poore decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knaue. I doe pittie his distresse in my smiles of comfort, and leaue him to your Lordship Par. My Lord I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratch'd Laf. And what would you haue me to doe? 'Tis too late to paire her nailes now. Wherein haue you played the knaue with fortune that she should scratch you, who of her selfe is a good Lady, and would not haue knaues thriue long vnder? There's a Cardecue for you: Let the Iustices make you and fortune friends; I am for other businesse Par. I beseech your honour to heare mee one single word, Laf. you begge a single peny more: Come you shall ha't, saue your word Par. My name my good Lord is Parrolles Laf. You begge more then word then. Cox my passion, giue me your hand: How does your drumme? Par. O my good Lord, you were the first that found mee Laf. Was I insooth? And I was the first that lost thee Par. It lies in you my Lord to bring me in some grace for you did bring me out Laf. Out vpon thee knaue, doest thou put vpon mee at once both the office of God and the diuel: one brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. The Kings comming I know by his Trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me, I had talke of you last night, though you are a foole and a knaue, you shall eate, go too, follow Par. I praise God for you. Flourish. Enter King, old Lady, Lafew, the two French Lords, with attendants. Kin. We lost a Iewell of her, and our esteeme Was made much poorer by it: but your sonne, As mad in folly, lack'd the sence to know Her estimation home Old La. 'Tis past my Liege, And I beseech your Maiestie to make it Naturall rebellion, done i'th blade of youth, When oyle and fire, too strong for reasons force, Ore-beares it, and burnes on Kin. My honour'd Lady, I haue forgiuen and forgotten all, Though my reuenges were high bent vpon him, And watch'd the time to shoote Laf. This I must say, But first I begge my pardon: the yong Lord Did to his Maiesty, his Mother, and his Ladie, Offence of mighty note; but to himselfe The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife, Whose beauty did astonish the suruey Of richest eies: whose words all eares tooke captiue, Whose deere perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serue, Humbly call'd Mistris Kin. Praising what is lost, Makes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither, We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill All repetition: Let him not aske our pardon, The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper then obliuion, we do burie Th' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and informe him So 'tis our will he should Gent. I shall my Liege Kin. What sayes he to your daughter, Haue you spoke? Laf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes Kin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent me, that sets him high in fame. Enter Count Bertram. Laf. He lookes well on't Kin. I am not a day of season, For thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile In me at once: But to the brightest beames Distracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth, The time is faire againe Ber. My high repented blames Deere Soueraigne pardon to me Kin. All is whole, Not one word more of the consumed time, Let's take the instant by the forward top: For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees Th' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time Steales, ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this Lord? Ber. Admiringly my Liege, at first I stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herauld of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye enfixing, Contempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me, Which warpt the line, of euerie other fauour, Scorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous obiect. Thence it came, That she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe, Since I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye The dust that did offend it Kin. Well excus'd: That thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but loue that comes too late, Like a remorsefull pardon slowly carried To the great sender, turnes a sowre offence, Crying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults, Make triuiall price of serious things we haue, Not knowing them, vntill we know their graue. Oft our displeasures to our selues vniust, Destroy our friends, and after weepe their dust: Our owne loue waking, cries to see what's done, While shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone. Be this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin, The maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay To see our widdowers second marriage day: Which better then the first, O deere heauen blesse, Or, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse Laf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name Must be digested: giue a fauour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. By my old beard, And eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court, I saw vpon her finger Ber. Hers it was not King. Now pray you let me see it. For mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd too't: This Ring was mine, and when I gaue it Hellen, I bad her if her fortunes euer stoode Necessitied to helpe, that by this token I would releeue her. Had you that craft to reaue her Of what should stead her most? Ber. My gracious Soueraigne, How ere it pleases you to take it so, The ring was neuer hers Old La. Sonne, on my life I haue seene her weare it, and she reckon'd it At her liues rate Laf. I am sure I saw her weare it Ber. You are deceiu'd my Lord, she neuer saw it: In Florence was it from a casement throwne mee, Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name Of her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought I stood ingag'd, but when I had subscrib'd To mine owne fortune, and inform'd her fully, I could not answer in that course of Honour As she had made the ouerture, she ceast In heauie satisfaction, and would neuer Receiue the Ring againe Kin. Platus himselfe, That knowes the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in natures mysterie more science, Then I haue in this Ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helens, Who euer gaue it you: then if you know That you are well acquainted with your selfe, Confesse 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to suretie, That she would neuer put it from her finger, Vnlesse she gaue it to your selfe in bed, Where you haue neuer come: or sent it vs Vpon her great disaster Ber. She neuer saw it Kin. Thou speak'st it falsely: as I loue mine Honor, And mak'st connecturall feares to come into me, Which I would faine shut out, if it should proue That thou art so inhumane, 'twill not proue so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead, which nothing but to close Her eyes my selfe, could win me to beleeue, More then to see this Ring. Take him away, My fore-past proofes, how ere the matter fall Shall taze my feares of little vanitie, Hauing vainly fear'd too little. Away with him, Wee'l sift this matter further Ber. If you shall proue This Ring was euer hers, you shall as easie Proue that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where yet she neuer was. Enter a Gentleman. King. I am wrap'd in dismall thinkings Gen. Gracious Soueraigne. Whether I haue beene too blame or no, I know not, Here's a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for foure or fiue remoues come short, To tender it her selfe. I vndertooke it, Vanquish'd thereto by the faire grace and speech Of the poore suppliant, who by this I know Is heere attending: her businesse lookes in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verball breefe, it did concerne Your Highnesse with her selfe. A Letter. Vpon his many protestations to marrie mee when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he wonne me. Now is the Count Rossillion a Widdower, his vowes are forfeited to mee, and my honors payed to him. Hee stole from Florence, taking no leaue, and I follow him to his Countrey for Iustice: Grant it me, O King, in you it best lies, otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poore Maid is vndone. Diana Capilet Laf. I will buy me a sonne in Law in a faire, and toule for this. Ile none of him Kin. The heauens haue thought well on thee Lafew, To bring forth this discou'rie, seeke these sutors: Go speedily, and bring againe the Count. Enter Bertram. I am a-feard the life of Hellen (Ladie) Was fowly snatcht Old La. Now iustice on the doers King. I wonder sir, sir, wiues are monsters to you, And that you flye them as you sweare them Lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman's that? Enter Widdow, Diana, and Parrolles. Dia. I am my Lord a wretched Florentine, Deriued from the ancient Capilet, My suite as I do vnderstand you know, And therefore know how farre I may be pittied Wid. I am her Mother sir, whose age and honour Both suffer vnder this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedie King. Come hether Count, do you know these Women? Ber. My Lord, I neither can nor will denie, But that I know them, do they charge me further? Dia. Why do you looke so strange vpon your wife? Ber. She's none of mine my Lord Dia. If you shall marrie You giue away this hand, and that is mine, You giue away heauens vowes, and those are mine: You giue away my selfe, which is knowne mine: For I by vow am so embodied yours, That she which marries you, must marrie me, Either both or none Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter, you are no husband for her Ber. My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature, Whom sometime I haue laugh'd with: Let your highnes Lay a more noble thought vpon mine honour, Then for to thinke that I would sinke it heere Kin. Sir for my thoughts, you haue them il to friend, Till your deeds gaine them fairer: proue your honor, Then in my thought it lies Dian. Good my Lord, Aske him vpon his oath, if hee do's thinke He had not my virginity Kin. What saist thou to her? Ber. She's impudent my Lord, And was a common gamester to the Campe Dia. He do's me wrong my Lord: If I were so, He might haue bought me at a common price. Do not beleeue him. O behold this Ring, Whose high respect and rich validitie Did lacke a Paralell: yet for all that He gaue it to a Commoner a'th Campe If I be one Coun. He blushes, and 'tis hit: Of sixe preceding Ancestors that Iemme Confer'd by testament to'th sequent issue Hath it beene owed and worne. This is his wife, That Ring's a thousand proofes King. Me thought you saide You saw one heere in Court could witnesse it Dia. I did my Lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument, his names Parrolles Laf. I saw the man to day, if man he bee Kin. Finde him, and bring him hether Ros. What of him: He's quoted for a most perfidious slaue With all the spots a'th world, taxt and debosh'd, Whose nature sickens: but to speake a truth, Am I, or that or this for what he'l vtter, That will speake any thing Kin. She hath that Ring of yours Ros. I thinke she has; certaine it is I lyk'd her, And boorded her i'th wanton way of youth: She knew her distance, and did angle for mee, Madding my eagernesse with her restraint, As all impediments in fancies course Are motiues of more fancie, and in fine, Her insuite comming with her moderne grace, Subdu'd me to her rate, she got the Ring, And I had that which any inferiour might At Market price haue bought Dia. I must be patient: You that haue turn'd off a first so noble wife, May iustly dyet me. I pray you yet, (Since you lacke vertue, I will loose a husband) Send for your Ring, I will returne it home, And giue me mine againe Ros. I haue it not Kin. What Ring was yours I pray you? Dian. Sir much like the same vpon your finger Kin. Know you this Ring, this Ring was his of late Dia. And this was it I gaue him being a bed Kin. The story then goes false, you threw it him Out of a Casement Dia. I haue spoke the truth. Enter Parolles. Ros. My Lord, I do confesse the ring was hers Kin. You boggle shrewdly, euery feather starts you: Is this the man you speake of? Dia. I, my Lord Kin. Tell me sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master: Which on your iust proceeding, Ile keepe off, By him and by this woman heere, what know you? Par. So please your Maiesty, my master hath bin an honourable Gentleman. Trickes hee hath had in him, which Gentlemen haue Kin. Come, come, to'th' purpose: Did hee loue this woman? Par. Faith sir he did loue her, but how Kin. How I pray you? Par. He did loue her sir, as a Gent. loues a Woman Kin. How is that? Par. He lou'd her sir, and lou'd her not Kin. As thou art a knaue and no knaue, what an equiuocall Companion is this? Par. I am a poore man, and at your Maiesties command Laf. Hee's a good drumme my Lord, but a naughtie Orator Dian. Do you know he promist me marriage? Par. Faith I know more then Ile speake Kin. But wilt thou not speake all thou know'st? Par. Yes so please your Maiesty: I did goe betweene them as I said, but more then that he loued her, for indeede he was madde for her, and talkt of Sathan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that I knewe of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would deriue mee ill will to speake of, therefore I will not speake what I know Kin. Thou hast spoken all alreadie, vnlesse thou canst say they are maried, but thou art too fine in thy euidence, therefore stand aside. This Ring you say was yours Dia. I my good Lord Kin. Where did you buy it? Or who gaue it you? Dia. It was not giuen me, nor I did not buy it Kin. Who lent it you? Dia. It was not lent me neither Kin. Where did you finde it then? Dia. I found it not Kin. If it were yours by none of all these wayes, How could you giue it him? Dia. I neuer gaue it him Laf. This womans an easie gloue my Lord, she goes off and on at pleasure Kin. This Ring was mine, I gaue it his first wife Dia. It might be yours or hers for ought I know Kin. Take her away, I do not like her now, To prison with her: and away with him, Vnlesse thou telst me where thou hadst this Ring, Thou diest within this houre Dia. Ile neuer tell you Kin. Take her away Dia. Ile put in baile my liedge Kin. I thinke thee now some common Customer Dia. By Ioue if euer I knew man 'twas you King. Wherefore hast thou accusde him al this while Dia. Because he's guiltie, and he is not guilty: He knowes I am no Maid, and hee'l sweare too't: Ile sweare I am a Maid, and he knowes not. Great King I am no strumpet, by my life, I am either Maid, or else this old mans wife Kin. She does abuse our eares, to prison with her Dia. Good mother fetch my bayle. Stay Royall sir, The Ieweller that owes the Ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this Lord, Who hath abus'd me as he knowes himselfe, Though yet he neuer harm'd me, heere I quit him. He knowes himselfe my bed he hath defil'd, And at that time he got his wife with childe: Dead though she be, she feeles her yong one kicke: So there's my riddle, one that's dead is quicke, And now behold the meaning. Enter Hellen and Widdow. Kin. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer Office of mine eyes? Is't reall that I see? Hel. No my good Lord, 'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing Ros. Both, both, O pardon Hel. Oh my good Lord, when I was like this Maid, I found you wondrous kinde, there is your Ring, And looke you, heeres your letter: this it sayes, When from my finger you can get this Ring, And is by me with childe, &c. This is done, Will you be mine now you are doubly wonne? Ros. If she my Liege can make me know this clearly, Ile loue her dearely, euer, euer dearly Hel. If it appeare not plaine, and proue vntrue, Deadly diuorce step betweene me and you. O my deere mother do I see you liuing? Laf. Mine eyes smell Onions, I shall weepe anon: Good Tom Drumme lend me a handkercher. So I thanke thee, waite on me home, Ile make sport with thee: Let thy curtsies alone, they are scuruy ones King. Let vs from point to point this storie know, To make the euen truth in pleasure flow: If thou beest yet a fresh vncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and Ile pay thy dower. For I can guesse, that by thy honest ayde, Thou keptst a wife her selfe, thy selfe a Maide. Of that and all the progresse more and lesse, Resoluedly more leasure shall expresse: All yet seemes well, and if it end so meete, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. Flourish. The Kings a Begger, now the Play is done, All is well ended, if this suite be wonne, That you expresse Content: which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day: Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts, Your gentle hands lend vs, and take our hearts. Exeunt. omn. FINIS. ALL'S Well, that Ends Well.

Act 5, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201019152251/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary/act-5-scene-1

Meanwhile, Helen, the widow, and Diana have arrived in Marseilles, France, in search of the King. As we know, the King isn't there. They bump into an austringer and find out that the King is actually in Roussillon, which means the women had traveled all this way for nothing. Helen is not about to give up. She laces up her riding shoes and says "All's well that ends well yet, / Though time seem so adverse, and means unfit." Helen then passes the austringer a note and promises him a bunch of money if he gives it to the King for her. Helen and company saddle up for the trip to Roussillon.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_0_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 1.scene 1

act 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-1", "summary": "At the opening of this play, the main figures of the plot are weighed down with thoughts of two recent deaths. \"Young Bertram,\" the Count of Rousillon , has lost his father, as has Helena, the beautiful daughter of a famed physician, Gerard de Narbon, \"whose skill was almost as great as his honesty.\" Bertram's mother is further distressed that she must say farewell to her son, now a ward of the ailing king of France. Opening the play, she exclaims: \"In delivering my son from me , I bury a second husband.\" As an older lord and a close family friend, Lafeu assures the Countess that in the king she shall find someone as good as a second husband for herself and a second father for Bertram. Once mother and son have said their goodbyes and he has departed, Helena delivers a soliloquy in which she reveals a double reason for her sadness. \"I am undone; there is no living, none, if Bertram be away.\" A \"follower\" of Bertram, named Parolles, interrupts her and engages her in an extended dialogue on the subject of virginity. He pledges that he will \"return a perfect courtier\" from Paris, where he is about to go with Bertram. A second soliloquy, this time by Helena, reveals her to be resolute in her pledge to pursue her unlikely attempt at capturing Bertram's heart: \" . . . my project may deceive me, but my intents are fixed, and will not leave me.\"", "analysis": "A gloomy mood at the opening of the play is often customary for a Shakespearean comedy. But amidst the general lamentation over departures and deaths, there is some emotional ambiguity which sets a tone for this \"problem play,\" as All's Well has been called by some critics. Lafeu remarks on Helena's tears at the Countess' praise, whereupon the older woman kindly says that Helena must not cry lest people think that she is \"affecting\" or putting on her sad demeanor. Helena's answer -- \"I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too\" -- seems puzzling, until we learn in her soliloquy that she is crying for the sake of her unacknowledged lover, and not for her deceased father. Helena keeps to herself much of the time, partly because she may be embarrassed at the feelings she has for a person beyond her station, socially. In the first moments of the play, she is uneasy, aware that Bertram is \"so far above me.\" One wonders what Bertram's feelings in this first scene may be. Though some editors have disputed the placement of Lafeu's second line in the following exchange, it seems possible that the wise, older gentleman is reacting to Bertram's abruptness in cutting off his mother's speech. Lafeu: Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, Excessive grief the enemy to the living. Countess: If the living be enemy to the grief, The excess makes it soon mortal. Bertram: Madam, I desire your holy wishes. Lafeu: How understand we that? There is something of a gentle hand slap in the tone of Lafeu's last line. Bertram may be speaking rudely, overstepping the quite normal impatience of a young man about to leave home for a more adventuresome life in Paris. Consider for yourself if this line -- \"How understand we that?\" -- makes sense here, or if it might better fit in just before the words \"moderate lamentation,\" where some editors place it. There is an abrupt shift in tone at Parolles' entrance. Helena confides that he is a \"notorious liar\" whom she tolerates only because of his association with Bertram. The conversation between the two, saturated in polite obscenity, gives the audience a clear view of the play's heroine as someone who is not so romantic and frail that she cannot survive in the gritty world of court sexuality. Parolles argues conventionally that virginity is nonsensical since it goes against nature and since it condemns, as it were, its own mother, and furthermore, he says that it loses its value proportionately with age. Helena can bandy easily enough with this affected man of the world and can ask in her own private interest, \"How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?\" But her mind is fixed on Bertram, for he will soon appear at court in Paris. Notice the way that her lines are broken to indicate breathlessness and distraction as she imagines Bertram there amidst pretty mistresses: . . . with a world of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms that blinking Cupid gossips . Now shall he -- I know not what he shall. God send him well! The court's a learning place, and he is one -- Helena insults Parolles, calling him a coward and an overdressed fool, and he beats a hasty retreat. Her feistiness is evident. Helena's second soliloquy differs from the first in its view of fate. Now the focus is on individual determination. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven. The fated sky Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. The exchange between Helena and Parolles seems to have had the effect of bolstering her courage."}

Actus primus. Scoena Prima. Enter yong Bertram Count of Rossillion, his Mother, and Helena, Lord Lafew, all in blacke. Mother. In deliuering my sonne from me, I burie a second husband Ros. And I in going Madam, weep ore my fathers death anew; but I must attend his maiesties command, to whom I am now in Ward, euermore in subiection Laf. You shall find of the King a husband Madame, you sir a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessitie hold his vertue to you, whose worthinesse would stirre it vp where it wanted rather then lack it where there is such abundance Mo. What hope is there of his Maiesties amendment? Laf. He hath abandon'd his Phisitions Madam, vnder whose practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other aduantage in the processe, but onely the loosing of hope by time Mo. This yong Gentlewoman had a father, O that had, how sad a passage tis, whose skill was almost as great as his honestie, had it stretch'd so far, would haue made nature immortall, and death should haue play for lacke of worke. Would for the Kings sake hee were liuing, I thinke it would be the death of the Kings disease Laf. How call'd you the man you speake of Madam? Mo. He was famous sir in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon Laf. He was excellent indeed Madam, the King very latelie spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly: hee was skilfull enough to haue liu'd stil, if knowledge could be set vp against mortallitie Ros. What is it (my good Lord) the King languishes of? Laf. A Fistula my Lord Ros. I heard not of it before Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this Gentlewoman the Daughter of Gerard de Narbon? Mo. His sole childe my Lord, and bequeathed to my ouer looking. I haue those hopes of her good, that her education promises her dispositions shee inherits, which makes faire gifts fairer: for where an vncleane mind carries vertuous qualities, there commendations go with pitty, they are vertues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simplenesse; she deriues her honestie, and atcheeues her goodnesse Lafew. Your commendations Madam get from her teares Mo. 'Tis the best brine a Maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father neuer approches her heart, but the tirrany of her sorrowes takes all liuelihood from her cheeke. No more of this Helena, go too, no more least it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, then to haue- Hell. I doe affect a sorrow indeed, but I haue it too Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessiue greefe the enemie to the liuing Mo. If the liuing be enemie to the greefe, the excesse makes it soone mortall Ros. Maddam I desire your holie wishes Laf. How vnderstand we that? Mo. Be thou blest Bertrame, and succeed thy father In manners as in shape: thy blood and vertue Contend for Empire in thee, and thy goodnesse Share with thy birth-right. Loue all, trust a few, Doe wrong to none: be able for thine enemie Rather in power then vse: and keepe thy friend Vnder thy owne lifes key. Be checkt for silence, But neuer tax'd for speech. What heauen more wil, That thee may furnish, and my prayers plucke downe, Fall on thy head. Farwell my Lord, 'Tis an vnseason'd Courtier, good my Lord Aduise him Laf. He cannot want the best That shall attend his loue Mo. Heauen blesse him: Farwell Bertram Ro. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoghts be seruants to you: be comfortable to my mother, your Mistris, and make much of her Laf. Farewell prettie Lady, you must hold the credit of your father Hell. O were that all, I thinke not on my father, And these great teares grace his remembrance more Then those I shed for him. What was he like? I haue forgott him. My imagination Carries no fauour in't but Bertrams. I am vndone, there is no liuing, none, If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one, That I should loue a bright particuler starre, And think to wed it, he is so aboue me In his bright radience and colaterall light, Must I be comforted, not in his sphere; Th' ambition in my loue thus plagues it selfe: The hind that would be mated by the Lion Must die for loue. 'Twas prettie, though a plague To see him euerie houre to sit and draw His arched browes, his hawking eie, his curles In our hearts table: heart too capeable Of euerie line and tricke of his sweet fauour. But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancie Must sanctifie his Reliques. Who comes heere? Enter Parrolles. One that goes with him: I loue him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious Liar, Thinke him a great way foole, solie a coward, Yet these fixt euils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when Vertues steely bones Lookes bleake i'th cold wind: withall, full ofte we see Cold wisedome waighting on superfluous follie Par. Saue you faire Queene Hel. And you Monarch Par. No Hel. And no Par. Are you meditating on virginitie? Hel. I: you haue some staine of souldier in you: Let mee aske you a question. Man is enemie to virginitie, how may we barracado it against him? Par. Keepe him out Hel. But he assailes, and our virginitie though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: vnfold to vs some war-like resistance Par. There is none: Man setting downe before you, will vndermine you, and blow you vp Hel. Blesse our poore Virginity from vnderminers and blowers vp. Is there no Military policy how Virgins might blow vp men? Par. Virginity beeing blowne downe, Man will quicklier be blowne vp: marry in blowing him downe againe, with the breach your selues made, you lose your Citty. It is not politicke, in the Common-wealth of Nature, to preserue virginity. Losse of Virginitie, is rationall encrease, and there was neuer Virgin goe, till virginitie was first lost. That you were made of, is mettall to make Virgins. Virginitie, by beeing once lost, may be ten times found: by being euer kept, it is euer lost: 'tis too cold a companion: Away with't Hel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a Virgin Par. There's little can bee saide in't, 'tis against the rule of Nature. To speake on the part of virginitie, is to accuse your Mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himselfe is a Virgin: Virginitie murthers it selfe, and should be buried in highwayes out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate Offendresse against Nature. Virginitie breedes mites, much like a Cheese, consumes it selfe to the very payring, and so dies with feeding his owne stomacke. Besides, Virginitie is peeuish, proud, ydle, made of selfe-loue, which is the most inhibited sinne in the Cannon. Keepe it not, you cannot choose but loose by't. Out with't: within ten yeare it will make it selfe two, which is a goodly increase, and the principall it selfe not much the worse. Away with't Hel. How might one do sir, to loose it to her owne liking? Par. Let mee see. Marry ill, to like him that ne're it likes. 'Tis a commodity wil lose the glosse with lying: The longer kept, the lesse worth: Off with't while 'tis vendible. Answer the time of request, Virginitie like an olde Courtier, weares her cap out of fashion, richly suted, but vnsuteable, iust like the brooch & the tooth-pick, which were not now: your Date is better in your Pye and your Porredge, then in your cheeke: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd peares, it lookes ill, it eates drily, marry 'tis a wither'd peare: it was formerly better, marry yet 'tis a wither'd peare: Will you any thing with it? Hel. Not my virginity yet: There shall your Master haue a thousand loues, A Mother, and a Mistresse, and a friend, A Phenix, Captaine, and an enemy, A guide, a Goddesse, and a Soueraigne, A Counsellor, a Traitoresse, and a Deare: His humble ambition, proud humility: His iarring, concord: and his discord, dulcet: His faith, his sweet disaster: with a world Of pretty fond adoptious christendomes That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he: I know not what he shall, God send him well, The Courts a learning place, and he is one Par. What one ifaith? Hel. That I wish well, 'tis pitty Par. What's pitty? Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt, that we the poorer borne, Whose baser starres do shut vs vp in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And shew what we alone must thinke, which neuer Returnes vs thankes. Enter Page. Pag. Monsieur Parrolles, My Lord cals for you Par. Little Hellen farewell, if I can remember thee, I will thinke of thee at Court Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were borne vnder a charitable starre Par. Vnder Mars I Hel. I especially thinke, vnder Mars Par. Why vnder Mars? Hel. The warres hath so kept you vnder, that you must needes be borne vnder Mars Par. When he was predominant Hel. When he was retrograde I thinke rather Par. Why thinke you so? Hel. You go so much backward when you fight Par. That's for aduantage Hel. So is running away, When feare proposes the safetie: But the composition that your valour and feare makes in you, is a vertue of a good wing, and I like the weare well Paroll. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answere thee acutely: I will returne perfect Courtier, in the which my instruction shall serue to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capeable of a Courtiers councell, and vnderstand what aduice shall thrust vppon thee, else thou diest in thine vnthankfulnes, and thine ignorance makes thee away, farewell: When thou hast leysure, say thy praiers: when thou hast none, remember thy Friends: Get thee a good husband, and vse him as he vses thee: So farewell Hel. Our remedies oft in our selues do lye, Which we ascribe to heauen: the fated skye Giues vs free scope, onely doth backward pull Our slow designes, when we our selues are dull. What power is it, which mounts my loue so hye, That makes me see, and cannot feede mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune, Nature brings To ioyne like, likes; and kisse like natiue things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their paines in sence, and do suppose What hath beene, cannot be. Who euer stroue To shew her merit, that did misse her loue? (The Kings disease) my proiect may deceiue me, But my intents are fixt, and will not leaue me. Exit Flourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with Letters, and diuers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' eares, Haue fought with equall fortune, and continue A brauing warre 1.Lo.G. So tis reported sir King. Nay tis most credible, we heere receiue it, A certaintie vouch'd from our Cosin Austria, With caution, that the Florentine will moue vs For speedie ayde: wherein our deerest friend Preiudicates the businesse, and would seeme To haue vs make deniall 1.Lo.G. His loue and wisedome Approu'd so to your Maiesty, may pleade For amplest credence King. He hath arm'd our answer, And Florence is deni'de before he comes: Yet for our Gentlemen that meane to see The Tuscan seruice, freely haue they leaue To stand on either part 2.Lo.E. It well may serue A nursserie to our Gentrie, who are sicke For breathing, and exploit King. What's he comes heere. Enter Bertram, Lafew, and Parolles. 1.Lor.G. It is the Count Rosignoll my good Lord, Yong Bertram King. Youth, thou bear'st thy Fathers face, Franke Nature rather curious then in hast Hath well compos'd thee: Thy Fathers morall parts Maist thou inherit too: Welcome to Paris Ber. My thankes and dutie are your Maiesties Kin. I would I had that corporall soundnesse now, As when thy father, and my selfe, in friendship First tride our souldiership: he did looke farre Into the seruice of the time, and was Discipled of the brauest. He lasted long, But on vs both did haggish Age steale on, And wore vs out of act: It much repaires me To talke of your good father; in his youth He had the wit, which I can well obserue To day in our yong Lords: but they may iest Till their owne scorne returne to them vnnoted Ere they can hide their leuitie in honour: So like a Courtier, contempt nor bitternesse Were in his pride, or sharpnesse; if they were, His equall had awak'd them, and his honour Clocke to it selfe, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speake: and at this time His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him, He vs'd as creatures of another place, And bow'd his eminent top to their low rankes, Making them proud of his humilitie, In their poore praise he humbled: Such a man Might be a copie to these yonger times; Which followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward Ber. His good remembrance sir Lies richer in your thoughts, then on his tombe: So in approofe liues not his Epitaph, As in your royall speech King. Would I were with him he would alwaies say, (Me thinkes I heare him now) his plausiue words He scatter'd not in eares, but grafted them To grow there and to beare: Let me not liue, This his good melancholly oft began On the Catastrophe and heele of pastime When it was out: Let me not liue (quoth hee) After my flame lackes oyle, to be the snuffe Of yonger spirits, whose apprehensiue senses All but new things disdaine; whose iudgements are Meere fathers of their garments: whose constancies Expire before their fashions: this he wish'd. I after him, do after him wish too: Since I nor wax nor honie can bring home, I quickly were dissolued from my hiue To giue some Labourers roome 2.L.E. You'r loued Sir, They that least lend it you, shall lacke you first Kin. I fill a place I know't: how long ist Count Since the Physitian at your fathers died? He was much fam'd Ber. Some six moneths since my Lord Kin. If he were liuing, I would try him yet. Lend me an arme: the rest haue worne me out With seuerall applications: Nature and sicknesse Debate it at their leisure. Welcome Count, My sonne's no deerer Ber. Thanke your Maiesty. Exit Flourish. Enter Countesse, Steward, and Clowne. Coun. I will now heare, what say you of this gentlewoman Ste. Maddam the care I haue had to euen your content, I wish might be found in the Kalender of my past endeuours, for then we wound our Modestie, and make foule the clearnesse of our deseruings, when of our selues we publish them Coun. What doe's this knaue heere? Get you gone sirra: the complaints I haue heard of you I do not all beleeue, 'tis my slownesse that I doe not: For I know you lacke not folly to commit them, & haue abilitie enough to make such knaueries yours Clo. 'Tis not vnknown to you Madam, I am a poore fellow Coun. Well sir Clo. No maddam, 'Tis not so well that I am poore, though manie of the rich are damn'd, but if I may haue your Ladiships good will to goe to the world, Isbell the woman and I will doe as we may Coun. Wilt thou needes be a begger? Clo. I doe beg your good will in this case Cou. In what case? Clo. In Isbels case and mine owne: seruice is no heritage, and I thinke I shall neuer haue the blessing of God, till I haue issue a my bodie: for they say barnes are blessings Cou. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marrie? Clo. My poore bodie Madam requires it, I am driuen on by the flesh, and hee must needes goe that the diuell driues Cou. Is this all your worships reason? Clo. Faith Madam I haue other holie reasons, such as they are Cou. May the world know them? Clo. I haue beene Madam a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are, and indeede I doe marrie that I may repent Cou. Thy marriage sooner then thy wickednesse Clo. I am out a friends Madam, and I hope to haue friends for my wiues sake Cou. Such friends are thine enemies knaue Clo. Y'are shallow Madam in great friends, for the knaues come to doe that for me which I am a wearie of: he that eres my Land, spares my teame, and giues mee leaue to Inne the crop: if I be his cuckold hee's my drudge; he that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; hee that cherishes my flesh and blood, loues my flesh and blood; he that loues my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend: if men could be contented to be what they are, there were no feare in marriage, for yong Charbon the Puritan, and old Poysam the Papist, how somere their hearts are seuer'd in Religion, their heads are both one, they may ioule horns together like any Deare i'th Herd Cou. Wilt thou euer be a foule mouth'd and calumnious knaue? Clo. A Prophet I Madam, and I speake the truth the next waie, for I the Ballad will repeate, which men full true shall finde, your marriage comes by destinie, your Cuckow sings by kinde Cou. Get you gone sir, Ile talke with you more anon Stew. May it please you Madam, that hee bid Hellen come to you, of her I am to speake Cou. Sirra tell my gentlewoman I would speake with her, Hellen I meane Clo. Was this faire face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy, Fond done, done, fond was this King Priams ioy, With that she sighed as she stood, bis And gaue this sentence then, among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten Cou. What, one good in tenne? you corrupt the song sirra Clo. One good woman in ten Madam, which is a purifying ath' song: would God would serue the world so all the yeere, weed finde no fault with the tithe woman if I were the Parson, one in ten quoth a? and wee might haue a good woman borne but ore euerie blazing starre, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the Lotterie well, a man may draw his heart out ere a plucke one Cou. Youle begone sir knaue, and doe as I command you? Clo. That man should be at womans command, and yet no hurt done, though honestie be no Puritan, yet it will doe no hurt, it will weare the Surplis of humilitie ouer the blacke-Gowne of a bigge heart: I am going forsooth, the businesse is for Helen to come hither. Enter. Cou. Well now Stew. I know Madam you loue your Gentlewoman intirely Cou. Faith I doe: her Father bequeath'd her to mee, and she her selfe without other aduantage, may lawfullie make title to as much loue as shee findes, there is more owing her then is paid, and more shall be paid her then sheele demand Stew. Madam, I was verie late more neere her then I thinke shee wisht mee, alone shee was, and did communicate to her selfe her owne words to her owne eares, shee thought, I dare vowe for her, they toucht not anie stranger sence, her matter was, shee loued your Sonne; Fortune shee said was no goddesse, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates: Loue no god, that would not extend his might onelie, where qualities were leuell, Queene of Virgins, that would suffer her poore Knight surpris'd without rescue in the first assault or ransome afterward: This shee deliuer'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow that ere I heard Virgin exclaime in, which I held my dutie speedily to acquaint you withall, sithence in the losse that may happen, it concernes you something to know it Cou. You haue discharg'd this honestlie, keepe it to your selfe, manie likelihoods inform'd mee of this before, which hung so tottring in the ballance, that I could neither beleeue nor misdoubt: praie you leaue mee, stall this in your bosome, and I thanke you for your honest care: I will speake with you further anon. Exit Steward. Enter Hellen. Old.Cou. Euen so it was with me when I was yong: If euer we are natures, these are ours, this thorne Doth to our Rose of youth rightlie belong Our bloud to vs, this to our blood is borne, It is the show, and seale of natures truth, Where loues strong passion is imprest in youth, By our remembrances of daies forgon, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none, Her eie is sicke on't, I obserue her now Hell. What is your pleasure Madam? Ol.Cou. You know Hellen I am a mother to you Hell. Mine honorable Mistris Ol.Cou. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I sed a mother Me thought you saw a serpent, what's in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the Catalogue of those That were enwombed mine, 'tis often seene Adoption striues with nature, and choise breedes A natiue slip to vs from forraine seedes: You nere opprest me with a mothers groane, Yet I expresse to you a mothers care, (Gods mercie maiden) dos it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? what's the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet? The manie colour'd Iris rounds thine eye? - Why, that you are my daughter? Hell. That I am not Old.Cou. I say I am your Mother Hell. Pardon Madam. The Count Rosillion cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honored name: No note vpon my Parents, his all noble, My Master, my deere Lord he is, and I His seruant liue, and will his vassall die: He must not be my brother Ol.Cou. Nor I your Mother Hell. You are my mother Madam, would you were So that my Lord your sonne were not my brother, Indeede my mother, or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, then I doe for heauen, So I were not his sister, cant no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother Old.Cou. Yes Hellen, you might be my daughter in law, God shield you meane it not, daughter and mother So striue vpon your pulse; what pale agen? My feare hath catcht your fondnesse! now I see The mistrie of your louelinesse, and finde Your salt teares head, now to all sence 'tis grosse: You loue my sonne, inuention is asham'd Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou doost not: therefore tell me true, But tell me then 'tis so, for looke, thy cheekes Confesse it 'ton tooth to th' other, and thine eies See it so grosely showne in thy behauiours, That in their kinde they speake it, onely sinne And hellish obstinacie tye thy tongue That truth should be suspected, speake, ist so? If it be so, you haue wound a goodly clewe: If it be not, forsweare't how ere I charge thee, As heauen shall worke in me for thine auaile To tell me truelie Hell. Good Madam pardon me Cou. Do you loue my Sonne? Hell. Your pardon noble Mistris Cou. Loue you my Sonne? Hell. Doe not you loue him Madam? Cou. Goe not about; my loue hath in't a bond Whereof the world takes note: Come, come, disclose: The state of your affection, for your passions Haue to the full appeach'd Hell. Then I confesse Here on my knee, before high heauen and you, That before you, and next vnto high heauen, I loue your Sonne: My friends were poore but honest, so's my loue: Be not offended, for it hurts not him That he is lou'd of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suite, Nor would I haue him, till I doe deserue him, Yet neuer know how that desert should be: I know I loue in vaine, striue against hope: Yet in this captious, and intemible Siue. I still poure in the waters of my loue And lacke not to loose still; thus Indian like Religious in mine error, I adore The Sunne that lookes vpon his worshipper, But knowes of him no more. My deerest Madam, Let not your hate incounter with my loue, For louing where you doe; but if your selfe, Whose aged honor cites a vertuous youth, Did euer, in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastly, and loue dearely, that your Dian Was both her selfe and loue, O then giue pittie To her whose state is such, that cannot choose But lend and giue where she is sure to loose; That seekes not to finde that, her search implies, But riddle like, liues sweetely where she dies Cou. Had you not lately an intent, speake truely, To goe to Paris? Hell. Madam I had Cou. Wherefore? tell true Hell. I will tell truth, by grace it selfe I sweare: You know my Father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prou'd effects, such as his reading And manifest experience, had collected For generall soueraigntie: and that he wil'd me In heedefull'st reseruation to bestow them, As notes, whose faculties inclusiue were, More then they were in note: Amongst the rest, There is a remedie, approu'd, set downe, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The King is render'd lost Cou. This was your motiue for Paris, was it, speake? Hell. My Lord, your sonne, made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King, Had from the conuersation of my thoughts, Happily beene absent then Cou. But thinke you Hellen, If you should tender your supposed aide, He would receiue it? He and his Phisitions Are of a minde, he, that they cannot helpe him: They, that they cannot helpe, how shall they credit A poore vnlearned Virgin, when the Schooles Embowel'd of their doctrine, haue left off The danger to it selfe Hell. There's something in't More then my Fathers skill, which was the great'st Of his profession, that his good receipt, Shall for my legacie be sanctified Byth' luckiest stars in heauen, and would your honor But giue me leaue to trie successe, I'de venture The well lost life of mine, on his Graces cure, By such a day, an houre Cou. Doo'st thou beleeue't? Hell. I Madam knowingly Cou. Why Hellen thou shalt haue my leaue and loue, Meanes and attendants, and my louing greetings To those of mine in Court, Ile staie at home And praie Gods blessing into thy attempt: Begon to morrow, and be sure of this, What I can helpe thee to, thou shalt not misse. Exeunt.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-i-scene-1

At the opening of this play, the main figures of the plot are weighed down with thoughts of two recent deaths. "Young Bertram," the Count of Rousillon , has lost his father, as has Helena, the beautiful daughter of a famed physician, Gerard de Narbon, "whose skill was almost as great as his honesty." Bertram's mother is further distressed that she must say farewell to her son, now a ward of the ailing king of France. Opening the play, she exclaims: "In delivering my son from me , I bury a second husband." As an older lord and a close family friend, Lafeu assures the Countess that in the king she shall find someone as good as a second husband for herself and a second father for Bertram. Once mother and son have said their goodbyes and he has departed, Helena delivers a soliloquy in which she reveals a double reason for her sadness. "I am undone; there is no living, none, if Bertram be away." A "follower" of Bertram, named Parolles, interrupts her and engages her in an extended dialogue on the subject of virginity. He pledges that he will "return a perfect courtier" from Paris, where he is about to go with Bertram. A second soliloquy, this time by Helena, reveals her to be resolute in her pledge to pursue her unlikely attempt at capturing Bertram's heart: " . . . my project may deceive me, but my intents are fixed, and will not leave me."

A gloomy mood at the opening of the play is often customary for a Shakespearean comedy. But amidst the general lamentation over departures and deaths, there is some emotional ambiguity which sets a tone for this "problem play," as All's Well has been called by some critics. Lafeu remarks on Helena's tears at the Countess' praise, whereupon the older woman kindly says that Helena must not cry lest people think that she is "affecting" or putting on her sad demeanor. Helena's answer -- "I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too" -- seems puzzling, until we learn in her soliloquy that she is crying for the sake of her unacknowledged lover, and not for her deceased father. Helena keeps to herself much of the time, partly because she may be embarrassed at the feelings she has for a person beyond her station, socially. In the first moments of the play, she is uneasy, aware that Bertram is "so far above me." One wonders what Bertram's feelings in this first scene may be. Though some editors have disputed the placement of Lafeu's second line in the following exchange, it seems possible that the wise, older gentleman is reacting to Bertram's abruptness in cutting off his mother's speech. Lafeu: Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, Excessive grief the enemy to the living. Countess: If the living be enemy to the grief, The excess makes it soon mortal. Bertram: Madam, I desire your holy wishes. Lafeu: How understand we that? There is something of a gentle hand slap in the tone of Lafeu's last line. Bertram may be speaking rudely, overstepping the quite normal impatience of a young man about to leave home for a more adventuresome life in Paris. Consider for yourself if this line -- "How understand we that?" -- makes sense here, or if it might better fit in just before the words "moderate lamentation," where some editors place it. There is an abrupt shift in tone at Parolles' entrance. Helena confides that he is a "notorious liar" whom she tolerates only because of his association with Bertram. The conversation between the two, saturated in polite obscenity, gives the audience a clear view of the play's heroine as someone who is not so romantic and frail that she cannot survive in the gritty world of court sexuality. Parolles argues conventionally that virginity is nonsensical since it goes against nature and since it condemns, as it were, its own mother, and furthermore, he says that it loses its value proportionately with age. Helena can bandy easily enough with this affected man of the world and can ask in her own private interest, "How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?" But her mind is fixed on Bertram, for he will soon appear at court in Paris. Notice the way that her lines are broken to indicate breathlessness and distraction as she imagines Bertram there amidst pretty mistresses: . . . with a world of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms that blinking Cupid gossips . Now shall he -- I know not what he shall. God send him well! The court's a learning place, and he is one -- Helena insults Parolles, calling him a coward and an overdressed fool, and he beats a hasty retreat. Her feistiness is evident. Helena's second soliloquy differs from the first in its view of fate. Now the focus is on individual determination. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven. The fated sky Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. The exchange between Helena and Parolles seems to have had the effect of bolstering her courage.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_3_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 2.scene 1

act 2

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-1", "summary": "In Paris, the king wishes his young warriors well as they leave for the Italian wars: \" . . . be you the sons! Of worthy Frenchmen . . . see that you come / Not to woo honor, but to wed it.\" He adds a sly note to \"beware the Italian women!\" Bertram, who is unhappy that he must linger behind -- and be told that he is \"too young\" and that he must wait until \"the next year\" -- succumbs to Parolles' and the other lords' urging to steal away on his own, for \"there's honour in the theft.\" Lafeu and the king now exchange formal greetings, and the Rousillon elder statesman politely urges the king to shake off despair: . . . O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will my noble grapes . . . if my royal fox Could reach them. I have seen a medicine That's able to breathe life into a stone. Soon, Lafeu introduces Helena, \"Doctor She,\" who explains her presence and describes her deceased father's special cure: And, hearing your high majesty is touched With that malignant cause wherein the honor Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power, I come to tender it and my appliance With all bound humbleness. After a short debate between himself and Helena, the king decides to give her a chance to cure him. She offers her life as the penalty should she fail; and as the reward for success: Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand With husband in thy power I will command. The sickly king, amazed by this bold young woman, agrees, and then he asks to be helped from the stage: Unquestioned, welcome and undoubted blest. Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.", "analysis": "The framework of this scene provides insights into the two central characters, although Bertram and Helena are not seen together. There is something puppyish about Bertram; his feelings are hurt deeply because the rest of the young noblemen are riding off to battle while he must remain behind. Shakespeare paints a picture of youthful petulance and malleability in this part of the scene, as Parolles acts as a tempter and as a bad influence to Bertram. His advice is to ignore the king's command and, furthermore, to study the ways of the courtly gentlemen and soldiers in order to become a perfectly fashionable man of the world -- presumably like Parolles himself. Of course, the audience can see right through Parolles' bombast. One imagines the other noblemen urging Bertram and Parolles into their company with their tongues tucked firmly into their cheeks. Parolles typically stresses fashion when talking to his companion: \"Be more expressive to them, for they wear themselves in the cap of time; there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.\" The reference here to \"devil\" is Shakespeare's way of underlining a similarity in this situation to the \"prodigal son\" stories in the Bible and other traditional sources. Consider Helena's behavior in the latter section of the scene. As a woman, she is conventionally conceived of as being frail; the thought of her being a professional is absurd; and the notion that she -- a mere woman -- could cure a king would normally be beyond imagining. Nevertheless, she overcomes the king's doubts, which are, given his time, reasonable enough. He fears that people will think that he's downright dotty if it were known that a \"maiden\" is attending him as a physician: I say we must not so stain our judgment or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malady to empirics , Or to dissever so our great self and our credit, To esteem a senseless help, when help past sense we deem. Using her skill of rhetoric, larded with aphoristic remarks like, Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises, and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most fits. Helena finally sways the king to give her a chance. Perhaps she nudges him over the edge by hinting that she is a divine emissary: But most it is presumption in us when The help of Heaven we count the act of men. Some critics have observed a trace of the fairy tale formula in this section of the play, in which the young virgin \"magically\" cures an ailing king. This may be so, but one cannot fail to be impressed by the sheer doggedness of Shakespeare's heroine. Her effort of will commands the end of the scene, contrasting with Bertram's jellyfish compliance at its opening."}

Actus Secundus. Enter the King with diuers yong Lords, taking leaue for the Florentine warre: Count, Rosse, and Parrolles. Florish Cornets. King. Farewell yong Lords, these warlike principles Doe not throw from you, and you my Lords farewell: Share the aduice betwixt you, if both gaine, all The guift doth stretch it selfe as 'tis receiu'd, And is enough for both Lord.G. 'Tis our hope sir, After well entred souldiers, to returne And finde your grace in health King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confesse he owes the mallady That doth my life besiege: farwell yong Lords, Whether I liue or die, be you the sonnes Of worthy French men: let higher Italy (Those bated that inherit but the fall Of the last Monarchy) see that you come Not to wooe honour, but to wed it, when The brauest questant shrinkes: finde what you seeke, That fame may cry you loud: I say farewell L.G. Health at your bidding serue your Maiesty King. Those girles of Italy, take heed of them, They say our French, lacke language to deny If they demand: beware of being Captiues Before you serue Bo. Our hearts receiue your warnings King. Farewell, come hether to me 1.Lo.G. Oh my sweet Lord y you wil stay behind vs Parr. 'Tis not his fault the spark 2.Lo.E. Oh 'tis braue warres Parr. Most admirable, I haue seene those warres Rossill. I am commanded here, and kept a coyle with, Too young, and the next yeere, and 'tis too early Parr. And thy minde stand too't boy, Steale away brauely Rossill. I shal stay here the for-horse to a smocke, Creeking my shooes on the plaine Masonry, Till honour be bought vp, and no sword worne But one to dance with: by heauen, Ile steale away 1.Lo.G. There's honour in the theft Parr. Commit it Count 2.Lo.E. I am your accessary, and so farewell Ros. I grow to you, & our parting is a tortur'd body 1.Lo.G. Farewell Captaine 2.Lo.E. Sweet Mounsier Parolles Parr. Noble Heroes; my sword and yours are kinne, good sparkes and lustrous, a word good mettals. You shall finde in the Regiment of the Spinij, one Captaine Spurio his sicatrice, with an Embleme of warre heere on his sinister cheeke; it was this very sword entrench'd it: say to him I liue, and obserue his reports for me Lo.G. We shall noble Captaine Parr. Mars doate on you for his nouices, what will ye doe? Ross. Stay the King Parr. Vse a more spacious ceremonie to the Noble Lords, you haue restrain'd your selfe within the List of too cold an adieu: be more expressiue to them; for they weare themselues in the cap of the time, there do muster true gate; eat, speake, and moue vnder the influence of the most receiu'd starre, and though the deuill leade the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell Ross. And I will doe so Parr. Worthy fellowes, and like to prooue most sinewie sword-men. Exeunt. Enter Lafew. L.Laf. Pardon my Lord for mee and for my tidings King. Ile see thee to stand vp L.Laf. Then heres a man stands that has brought his pardon, I would you had kneel'd my Lord to aske me mercy, And that at my bidding you could so stand vp King. I would I had, so I had broke thy pate And askt thee mercy for't Laf. Goodfaith a-crosse, but my good Lord 'tis thus, Will you be cur'd of your infirmitie? King. No Laf. O will you eat no grapes my royall foxe? Yes but you will, my noble grapes, and if My royall foxe could reach them: I haue seen a medicine That's able to breath life into a stone, Quicken a rocke, and make you dance Canari With sprightly fire and motion, whose simple touch Is powerfull to arayse King Pippen, nay To giue great Charlemaine a pen in's hand And write to her a loue-line King. What her is this? Laf. Why doctor she: my Lord, there's one arriu'd, If you will see her: now by my faith and honour, If seriously I may conuay my thoughts In this my light deliuerance, I haue spoke With one, that in her sexe, her yeeres, profession, Wisedome and constancy, hath amaz'd mee more Then I dare blame my weakenesse: will you see her? For that is her demand, and know her businesse? That done, laugh well at me King. Now good Lafew, Bring in the admiration, that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wondring how thou tookst it Laf. Nay, Ile fit you, And not be all day neither King. Thus he his speciall nothing euer prologues Laf. Nay, come your waies. Enter Hellen. King. This haste hath wings indeed Laf. Nay, come your waies, This is his Maiestie, say your minde to him, A Traitor you doe looke like, but such traitors His Maiesty seldome feares, I am Cresseds Vncle, That dare leaue two together, far you well. Enter. King. Now faire one, do's your busines follow vs? Hel. I my good Lord, Gerard de Narbon was my father, In what he did professe, well found King. I knew him Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards him, Knowing him is enough: on's bed of death, Many receits he gaue me, chieflie one, Which as the dearest issue of his practice And of his olde experience, th' onlie darling, He bad me store vp, as a triple eye, Safer then mine owne two: more deare I haue so, And hearing your high Maiestie is toucht With that malignant cause, wherein the honour Of my deare fathers gift, stands cheefe in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humblenesse King. We thanke you maiden, But may not be so credulous of cure, When our most learned Doctors leaue vs, and The congregated Colledge haue concluded, That labouring Art can neuer ransome nature From her inaydible estate: I say we must not So staine our iudgement, or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malladie To empericks, or to disseuer so Our great selfe and our credit, to esteeme A sencelesse helpe, when helpe past sence we deeme Hell. My dutie then shall pay me for my paines: I will no more enforce mine office on you, Humbly intreating from your royall thoughts, A modest one to beare me backe againe King. I cannot giue thee lesse to be cal'd gratefull: Thou thoughtst to helpe me, and such thankes I giue, As one neere death to those that wish him liue: But what at full I know, thou knowst no part, I knowing all my perill, thou no Art Hell. What I can doe, can doe no hurt to try, Since you set vp your rest 'gainst remedie: He that of greatest workes is finisher, Oft does them by the weakest minister: So holy Writ, in babes hath iudgement showne, When Iudges haue bin babes; great flouds haue flowne From simple sources: and great Seas haue dried When Miracles haue by the great'st beene denied. Oft expectation failes, and most oft there Where most it promises: and oft it hits, Where hope is coldest, and despaire most shifts King. I must not heare thee, fare thee wel kind maide, Thy paines not vs'd, must by thy selfe be paid, Proffers not tooke, reape thanks for their reward Hel. Inspired Merit so by breath is bard, It is not so with him that all things knowes As 'tis with vs, that square our guesse by showes: But most it is presumption in vs, when The help of heauen we count the act of men. Deare sir, to my endeauors giue consent, Of heauen, not me, make an experiment. I am not an Imposture, that proclaime My selfe against the leuill of mine aime, But know I thinke, and thinke I know most sure, My Art is not past power, nor you past cure King. Art thou so confident? Within what space Hop'st thou my cure? Hel. The greatest grace lending grace, Ere twice the horses of the sunne shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnall ring, Ere twice in murke and occidentall dampe Moist Hesperus hath quench'd her sleepy Lampe: Or foure and twenty times the Pylots glasse Hath told the theeuish minutes, how they passe: What is infirme, from your sound parts shall flie, Health shall liue free, and sickenesse freely dye King. Vpon thy certainty and confidence, What dar'st thou venter? Hell. Taxe of impudence, A strumpets boldnesse, a divulged shame Traduc'd by odious ballads: my maidens name Seard otherwise, ne worse of worst extended With vildest torture, let my life be ended Kin. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak His powerfull sound, within an organ weake: And what impossibility would slay In common sence, sence saues another way: Thy life is deere, for all that life can rate Worth name of life, in thee hath estimate: Youth, beauty, wisedome, courage, all That happines and prime, can happy call: Thou this to hazard, needs must intimate Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate, Sweet practiser, thy Physicke I will try, That ministers thine owne death if I die Hel. If I breake time, or flinch in property Of what I spoke, vnpittied let me die, And well deseru'd: not helping, death's my fee, But if I helpe, what doe you promise me Kin. Make thy demand Hel. But will you make it euen? Kin. I by my Scepter, and my hopes of helpe Hel. Then shalt thou giue me with thy kingly hand What husband in thy power I will command: Exempted be from me the arrogance To choose from forth the royall bloud of France, My low and humble name to propagate With any branch or image of thy state: But such a one thy vassall, whom I know Is free for me to aske, thee to bestow Kin. Heere is my hand, the premises obseru'd, Thy will by my performance shall be seru'd: So make the choice of thy owne time, for I Thy resolv'd Patient, on thee still relye: More should I question thee, and more I must, Though more to know, could not be more to trust: From whence thou cam'st, how tended on, but rest Vnquestion'd welcome, and vndoubted blest. Giue me some helpe heere hoa, if thou proceed, As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed. Florish. Exit. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Lady. Come on sir, I shall now put you to the height of your breeding Clown. I will shew my selfe highly fed, and lowly taught, I know my businesse is but to the Court Lady. To the Court, why what place make you speciall, when you put off that with such contempt, but to the Court? Clo. Truly Madam, if God haue lent a man any manners, hee may easilie put it off at Court: hee that cannot make a legge, put off's cap, kisse his hand, and say nothing, has neither legge, hands, lippe, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the Court, but for me, I haue an answere will serue all men Lady. Marry that's a bountifull answere that fits all questions Clo. It is like a Barbers chaire that fits all buttockes, the pin buttocke, the quatch-buttocke, the brawn buttocke, or any buttocke Lady. Will your answere serue fit to all questions? Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an Atturney, as your French Crowne for your taffety punke, as Tibs rush for Toms fore-finger, as a pancake for Shroue-tuesday, a Morris for May-day, as the naile to his hole, the Cuckold to his horne, as a scolding queane to a wrangling knaue, as the Nuns lip to the Friers mouth, nay as the pudding to his skin Lady. Haue you, I say, an answere of such fitnesse for all questions? Clo. From below your Duke, to beneath your Constable, it will fit any question Lady. It must be an answere of most monstrous size, that must fit all demands Clo. But a triflle neither in good faith, if the learned should speake truth of it: heere it is, and all that belongs to't. Aske mee if I am a Courtier, it shall doe you no harme to learne Lady. To be young againe if we could: I will bee a foole in question, hoping to bee the wiser by your answer La. I pray you sir, are you a Courtier? Clo. O Lord sir theres a simple putting off: more, more, a hundred of them La. Sir I am a poore freind of yours, that loues you Clo. O Lord sir, thicke, thicke, spare not me La. I thinke sir, you can eate none of this homely meate Clo. O Lord sir; nay put me too't, I warrant you La. You were lately whipt sir as I thinke Clo. O Lord sir, spare not me La. Doe you crie O Lord sir at your whipping, and spare not me? Indeed your O Lord sir, is very sequent to your whipping: you would answere very well to a whipping if you were but bound too't Clo. I nere had worse lucke in my life in my O Lord sir: I see things may serue long, but not serue euer La. I play the noble huswife with the time, to entertaine it so merrily with a foole Clo. O Lord sir, why there't serues well agen La. And end sir to your businesse: giue Hellen this, And vrge her to a present answer backe, Commend me to my kinsmen, and my sonne, This is not much Clo. Not much commendation to them La. Not much imployement for you, you vnderstand me Clo. Most fruitfully, I am there, before my legges La. Hast you agen. Exeunt. Enter Count, Lafew, and Parolles. Ol.Laf. They say miracles are past, and we haue our Philosophicall persons, to make moderne and familiar things supernaturall and causelesse. Hence is it, that we make trifles of terrours, ensconcing our selues into seeming knowledge, when we should submit our selues to an vnknowne feare Par. Why 'tis the rarest argument of wonder, that hath shot out in our latter times Ros. And so 'tis Ol.Laf. To be relinquisht of the Artists Par. So I say both of Galen and Paracelsus Ol.Laf. Of all the learned and authenticke fellowes Par. Right so I say Ol.Laf. That gaue him out incureable Par. Why there 'tis, so say I too Ol.Laf. Not to be help'd Par. Right, as 'twere a man assur'd of a- Ol.Laf. Vncertaine life, and sure death Par. Iust, you say well: so would I haue said Ol.Laf. I may truly say, it is a noueltie to the world Par. It is indeede if you will haue it in shewing, you shall reade it in what do ye call there Ol.Laf. A shewing of a heauenly effect in an earthly Actor Par. That's it, I would haue said, the verie same Ol.Laf. Why your Dolphin is not lustier: fore mee I speake in respect- Par. Nay 'tis strange, 'tis very straunge, that is the breefe and the tedious of it, and he's of a most facinerious spirit, that will not acknowledge it to be the- Ol.Laf. Very hand of heauen Par. I, so I say Ol.Laf. In a most weake- Par. And debile minister great power, great trancendence, which should indeede giue vs a further vse to be made, then alone the recou'ry of the king, as to bee Old Laf. Generally thankfull. Enter King, Hellen, and attendants. Par. I would haue said it, you say well: heere comes the King Ol.Laf. Lustique, as the Dutchman saies: Ile like a maide the Better whil'st I haue a tooth in my head: why he's able to leade her a Carranto Par. Mor du vinager, is not this Helen? Ol.Laf. Fore God I thinke so King. Goe call before mee all the Lords in Court, Sit my preseruer by thy patients side, And with this healthfull hand whose banisht sence Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receyue The confirmation of my promis'd guift, Which but attends thy naming. Enter 3 or 4 Lords. Faire Maide send forth thine eye, this youthfull parcell Of Noble Batchellors, stand at my bestowing, Ore whom both Soueraigne power, and fathers voice I haue to vse; thy franke election make, Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake Hel. To each of you, one faire and vertuous Mistris; Fall when loue please, marry to each but one Old Laf. I'de giue bay curtall, and his furniture My mouth no more were broken then these boyes, And writ as little beard King. Peruse them well: Not one of those, but had a Noble father. She addresses her to a Lord. Hel. Gentlemen, heauen hath through me, restor'd the king to health All. We vnderstand it, and thanke heauen for you Hel. I am a simple Maide, and therein wealthiest That I protest, I simply am a Maide: Please it your Maiestie, I haue done already: The blushes in my cheekes thus whisper mee, We blush that thou shouldst choose, but be refused; Let the white death sit on thy cheeke for euer, Wee'l nere come there againe King. Make choise and see, Who shuns thy loue, shuns all his loue in mee Hel. Now Dian from thy Altar do I fly, And to imperiall loue, that God most high Do my sighes streame: Sir, wil you heare my suite? 1.Lo. And grant it Hel. Thankes sir, all the rest is mute Ol.Laf. I had rather be in this choise, then throw Ames-ace for my life Hel. The honor sir that flames in your faire eyes, Before I speake too threatningly replies: Loue make your fortunes twentie times aboue Her that so wishes, and her humble loue 2.Lo. No better if you please Hel. My wish receiue, Which great loue grant, and so I take my leaue Ol.Laf. Do all they denie her? And they were sons of mine, I'de haue them whip'd, or I would send them to'th Turke to make Eunuches of Hel. Be not afraid that I your hand should take, Ile neuer do you wrong for your owne sake: Blessing vpon your vowes, and in your bed Finde fairer fortune, if you euer wed Old Laf. These boyes are boyes of Ice, they'le none haue heere: sure they are bastards to the English, the French nere got em La. You are too young, too happie, and too good To make your selfe a sonne out of my blood 4.Lord. Faire one, I thinke not so Ol.Lord There's one grape yet, I am sure thy father drunke wine. But if thou be'st not an asse, I am a youth of fourteene: I haue knowne thee already Hel. I dare not say I take you, but I giue Me and my seruice, euer whilst I liue Into your guiding power: This is the man King. Why then young Bertram take her shee's thy wife Ber. My wife my Leige? I shal beseech your highnes In such a busines, giue me leaue to vse The helpe of mine owne eies King. Know'st thou not Bertram what shee ha's done for mee? Ber. Yes my good Lord, but neuer hope to know why I should marrie her King. Thou know'st shee ha's rais'd me from my sickly bed Ber. But followes it my Lord, to bring me downe Must answer for your raising? I knowe her well: Shee had her breeding at my fathers charge: A poore Physitians daughter my wife? Disdaine Rather corrupt me euer King. Tis onely title thou disdainst in her, the which I can build vp: strange is it that our bloods Of colour, waight, and heat, pour'd all together, Would quite confound distinction: yet stands off In differences so mightie. If she bee All that is vertuous (saue what thou dislik'st) A poore Phisitians daughter, thou dislik'st Of vertue for the name: but doe not so: From lowest place, whence vertuous things proceed, The place is dignified by th' doers deede. Where great additions swell's, and vertue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone, Is good without a name? Vilenesse is so: The propertie by what is is, should go, Not by the title. Shee is young, wise, faire, In these, to Nature shee's immediate heire: And these breed honour: that is honours scorne, Which challenges it selfe as honours borne, And is not like the sire: Honours thriue, When rather from our acts we them deriue Then our fore-goers: the meere words, a slaue Debosh'd on euerie tombe, on euerie graue: A lying Trophee, and as oft is dumbe, Where dust, and damn'd obliuion is the Tombe. Of honour'd bones indeed, what should be saide? If thou canst like this creature, as a maide, I can create the rest: Vertue, and shee Is her owne dower: Honour and wealth, from mee Ber. I cannot loue her, nor will striue to doo't King. Thou wrong'st thy selfe, if thou shold'st striue to choose Hel. That you are well restor'd my Lord, I'me glad: Let the rest go King. My Honor's at the stake, which to defeate I must produce my power. Heere, take her hand, Proud scornfull boy, vnworthie this good gift, That dost in vile misprision shackle vp My loue, and her desert: that canst not dreame, We poizing vs in her defectiue scale, Shall weigh thee to the beame: That wilt not know, It is in Vs to plant thine Honour, where We please to haue it grow. Checke thy contempt: Obey Our will, which trauailes in thy good: Beleeue not thy disdaine, but presentlie Do thine owne fortunes that obedient right Which both thy dutie owes, and Our power claimes, Or I will throw thee from my care for euer Into the staggers, and the carelesse lapse Of youth and ignorance: both my reuenge and hate Loosing vpon thee, in the name of iustice, Without all termes of pittie. Speake, thine answer Ber. Pardon my gracious Lord: for I submit My fancie to your eies, when I consider What great creation, and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it: I finde that she which late Was in my Nobler thoughts, most base: is now The praised of the King, who so ennobled, Is as 'twere borne so King. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise A counterpoize: If not to thy estate, A ballance more repleat Ber. I take her hand Kin. Good fortune, and the fauour of the King Smile vpon this Contract: whose Ceremonie Shall seeme expedient on the now borne briefe, And be perform'd to night: the solemne Feast Shall more attend vpon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lou'st her, Thy loue's to me Religious: else, do's erre. Exeunt. Parolles and Lafew stay behind, commenting of this wedding. Laf. Do you heare Monsieur? A word with you Par. Your pleasure sir Laf. Your Lord and Master did well to make his recantation Par. Recantation? My Lord? my Master? Laf. I: Is it not a Language I speake? Par. A most harsh one, and not to bee vnderstoode without bloudie succeeding. My Master? Laf. Are you Companion to the Count Rosillion? Par. To any Count, to all Counts: to what is man Laf. To what is Counts man: Counts maister is of another stile Par. You are too old sir: Let it satisfie you, you are too old Laf. I must tell thee sirrah, I write Man: to which title age cannot bring thee Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do Laf. I did thinke thee for two ordinaries: to bee a prettie wise fellow, thou didst make tollerable vent of thy trauell, it might passe: yet the scarffes and the bannerets about thee, did manifoldlie disswade me from beleeuing thee a vessell of too great a burthen. I haue now found thee, when I loose thee againe, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking vp, and that th'ourt scarce worth Par. Hadst thou not the priuiledge of Antiquity vpon thee Laf. Do not plundge thy selfe to farre in anger, least thou hasten thy triall: which if, Lord haue mercie on thee for a hen, so my good window of Lettice fare thee well, thy casement I neede not open, for I look through thee. Giue me thy hand Par. My Lord, you giue me most egregious indignity Laf. I with all my heart, and thou art worthy of it Par. I haue not my Lord deseru'd it Laf. Yes good faith, eu'ry dramme of it, and I will not bate thee a scruple Par. Well, I shall be wiser Laf. Eu'n as soone as thou can'st, for thou hast to pull at a smacke a'th contrarie. If euer thou bee'st bound in thy skarfe and beaten, thou shall finde what it is to be proud of thy bondage, I haue a desire to holde my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know Par. My Lord you do me most insupportable vexation Laf. I would it were hell paines for thy sake, and my poore doing eternall: for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will giue me leaue. Enter. Par. Well, thou hast a sonne shall take this disgrace off me; scuruy, old, filthy, scuruy Lord: Well, I must be patient, there is no fettering of authority. Ile beate him (by my life) if I can meete him with any conuenience, and he were double and double a Lord. Ile haue no more pittie of his age then I would haue of- Ile beate him, and if I could but meet him agen. Enter Lafew. Laf. Sirra, your Lord and masters married, there's newes for you: you haue a new Mistris Par. I most vnfainedly beseech your Lordshippe to make some reseruation of your wrongs. He is my good Lord, whom I serue aboue is my master Laf. Who? God Par. I sir Laf. The deuill it is, that's thy master. Why dooest thou garter vp thy armes a this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeues? Do other seruants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine Honor, if I were but two houres yonger, I'de beate thee: mee-think'st thou art a generall offence, and euery man shold beate thee: I thinke thou wast created for men to breath themselues vpon thee Par. This is hard and vndeserued measure my Lord Laf. Go too sir, you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernell out of a Pomgranat, you are a vagabond, and no true traueller: you are more sawcie with Lordes and honourable personages, then the Commission of your birth and vertue giues you Heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I'de call you knaue. I leaue you. Exit Enter Count Rossillion. Par. Good, very good, it is so then: good, very good, let it be conceal'd awhile Ros. Vndone, and forfeited to cares for euer Par. What's the matter sweet-heart? Rossill. Although before the solemne Priest I haue sworne, I will not bed her Par. What? what sweet heart? Ros. O my Parrolles, they haue married me: Ile to the Tuscan warres, and neuer bed her Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits, The tread of a mans foot: too'th warres Ros. There's letters from my mother: What th' import is, I know not yet Par. I that would be knowne: too'th warrs my boy, too'th warres: He weares his honor in a boxe vnseene, That hugges his kickie wickie heare at home, Spending his manlie marrow in her armes Which should sustaine the bound and high curuet Of Marses fierie steed: to other Regions, France is a stable, wee that dwell in't Iades, Therefore too'th warre Ros. It shall be so, Ile send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled: Write to the King That which I durst not speake. His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields Where noble fellowes strike: Warres is no strife To the darke house, and the detected wife Par. Will this Caprichio hold in thee, art sure? Ros. Go with me to my chamber, and aduice me. Ile send her straight away: To morrow, Ile to the warres, she to her single sorrow Par. Why these bals bound, ther's noise in it. Tis hard A yong man maried, is a man that's mard: Therefore away, and leaue her brauely: go, The King ha's done you wrong: but hush 'tis so. Exit Enter Helena and Clowne. Hel. My mother greets me kindly, is she well? Clo. She is not well, but yet she has her health, she's very merrie, but yet she is not well: but thankes be giuen she's very well, and wants nothing i'th world: but yet she is not well Hel. If she be verie wel, what do's she ayle, that she's not verie well? Clo. Truly she's very well indeed, but for two things Hel. What two things? Clo. One, that she's not in heauen, whether God send her quickly: the other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly. Enter Parolles. Par. Blesse you my fortunate Ladie Hel. I hope sir I haue your good will to haue mine owne good fortune Par. You had my prayers to leade them on, and to keepe them on, haue them still. O my knaue, how do's my old Ladie? Clo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her money, I would she did as you say Par. Why I say nothing Clo. Marry you are the wiser man: for many a mans tongue shakes out his masters vndoing: to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to haue nothing, is to be a great part of your title, which is within a verie little of nothing Par. Away, th'art a knaue Clo. You should haue said sir before a knaue, th'art a knaue, that's before me th'art a knaue: this had beene truth sir Par. Go too, thou art a wittie foole, I haue found thee Clo. Did you finde me in your selfe sir, or were you taught to finde me? Clo. The search sir was profitable, and much Foole may you find in you, euen to the worlds pleasure, and the encrease of laughter Par. A good knaue ifaith, and well fed. Madam, my Lord will go awaie to night, A verie serrious businesse call's on him: The great prerogatiue and rite of loue, Which as your due time claimes, he do's acknowledge, But puts it off to a compell'd restraint: Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets Which they distill now in the curbed time, To make the comming houre oreflow with ioy, And pleasure drowne the brim Hel. What's his will else? Par. That you will take your instant leaue a'th king, And make this hast as your owne good proceeding, Strengthned with what Apologie you thinke May make it probable neede Hel. What more commands hee? Par. That hauing this obtain'd, you presentlie Attend his further pleasure Hel. In euery thing I waite vpon his will Par. I shall report it so. Exit Par. Hell. I pray you come sirrah. Exit Enter Lafew and Bertram. Laf. But I hope your Lordshippe thinkes not him a souldier Ber. Yes my Lord and of verie valiant approofe Laf. You haue it from his owne deliuerance Ber. And by other warranted testimonie Laf. Then my Diall goes not true, I tooke this Larke for a bunting Ber. I do assure you my Lord he is very great in knowledge, and accordinglie valiant Laf. I haue then sinn'd against his experience, and transgrest against his valour, and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent: Heere he comes, I pray you make vs freinds, I will pursue the amitie. Enter Parolles. Par. These things shall be done sir Laf. Pray you sir whose his Tailor? Par. Sir? Laf. O I know him well, I sir, hee sirs a good workeman, a verie good Tailor Ber. Is shee gone to the king? Par. Shee is Ber. Will shee away to night? Par. As you'le haue her Ber. I haue writ my letters, casketted my treasure, Giuen order for our horses, and to night, When I should take possession of the Bride, And ere I doe begin Laf. A good Trauailer is something at the latter end of a dinner, but on that lies three thirds, and vses a known truth to passe a thousand nothings with, should bee once hard, and thrice beaten. God saue you Captaine Ber. Is there any vnkindnes betweene my Lord and you Monsieur? Par. I know not how I haue deserued to run into my Lords displeasure Laf. You haue made shift to run into't, bootes and spurres and all: like him that leapt into the Custard, and out of it you'le runne againe, rather then suffer question for your residence Ber. It may bee you haue mistaken him my Lord Laf. And shall doe so euer, though I tooke him at's prayers. Fare you well my Lord, and beleeue this of me, there can be no kernell in this light Nut: the soule of this man is his cloathes: Trust him not in matter of heauie consequence: I haue kept of them tame, & know their natures. Farewell Monsieur, I haue spoken better of you, then you haue or will to deserue at my hand, but we must do good against euill Par. An idle Lord, I sweare Ber. I thinke so Par. Why do you not know him? Ber. Yes, I do know him well, and common speech Giues him a worthy passe. Heere comes my clog. Enter Helena. Hel. I haue sir as I was commanded from you Spoke with the King, and haue procur'd his leaue For present parting, onely he desires Some priuate speech with you Ber. I shall obey his will. You must not meruaile Helen at my course, Which holds not colour with the time, nor does The ministration, and required office On my particular. Prepar'd I was not For such a businesse, therefore am I found So much vnsetled: This driues me to intreate you, That presently you take your way for home, And rather muse then aske why I intreate you, For my respects are better then they seeme, And my appointments haue in them a neede Greater then shewes it selfe at the first view, To you that know them not. This to my mother, 'Twill be two daies ere I shall see you, so I leaue you to your wisedome Hel. Sir, I can nothing say, But that I am your most obedient seruant Ber. Come, come, no more of that Hel. And euer shall With true obseruance seeke to eeke out that Wherein toward me my homely starres haue faild To equall my great fortune Ber. Let that goe: my hast is verie great. Farwell: Hie home Hel. Pray sir your pardon Ber. Well, what would you say? Hel. I am not worthie of the wealth I owe, Nor dare I say 'tis mine: and yet it is, But like a timorous theefe, most faine would steale What law does vouch mine owne Ber. What would you haue? Hel. Something, and scarse so much: nothing indeed, I would not tell you what I would my Lord: Faith yes, Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kisse Ber. I pray you stay not, but in hast to horse Hel. I shall not breake your bidding, good my Lord: Where are my other men? Monsieur, farwell. Exit Ber. Go thou toward home, where I wil neuer come, Whilst I can shake my sword, or heare the drumme: Away, and for our flight Par. Brauely, Coragio.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-scene-1

In Paris, the king wishes his young warriors well as they leave for the Italian wars: " . . . be you the sons! Of worthy Frenchmen . . . see that you come / Not to woo honor, but to wed it." He adds a sly note to "beware the Italian women!" Bertram, who is unhappy that he must linger behind -- and be told that he is "too young" and that he must wait until "the next year" -- succumbs to Parolles' and the other lords' urging to steal away on his own, for "there's honour in the theft." Lafeu and the king now exchange formal greetings, and the Rousillon elder statesman politely urges the king to shake off despair: . . . O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will my noble grapes . . . if my royal fox Could reach them. I have seen a medicine That's able to breathe life into a stone. Soon, Lafeu introduces Helena, "Doctor She," who explains her presence and describes her deceased father's special cure: And, hearing your high majesty is touched With that malignant cause wherein the honor Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power, I come to tender it and my appliance With all bound humbleness. After a short debate between himself and Helena, the king decides to give her a chance to cure him. She offers her life as the penalty should she fail; and as the reward for success: Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand With husband in thy power I will command. The sickly king, amazed by this bold young woman, agrees, and then he asks to be helped from the stage: Unquestioned, welcome and undoubted blest. Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.

The framework of this scene provides insights into the two central characters, although Bertram and Helena are not seen together. There is something puppyish about Bertram; his feelings are hurt deeply because the rest of the young noblemen are riding off to battle while he must remain behind. Shakespeare paints a picture of youthful petulance and malleability in this part of the scene, as Parolles acts as a tempter and as a bad influence to Bertram. His advice is to ignore the king's command and, furthermore, to study the ways of the courtly gentlemen and soldiers in order to become a perfectly fashionable man of the world -- presumably like Parolles himself. Of course, the audience can see right through Parolles' bombast. One imagines the other noblemen urging Bertram and Parolles into their company with their tongues tucked firmly into their cheeks. Parolles typically stresses fashion when talking to his companion: "Be more expressive to them, for they wear themselves in the cap of time; there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell." The reference here to "devil" is Shakespeare's way of underlining a similarity in this situation to the "prodigal son" stories in the Bible and other traditional sources. Consider Helena's behavior in the latter section of the scene. As a woman, she is conventionally conceived of as being frail; the thought of her being a professional is absurd; and the notion that she -- a mere woman -- could cure a king would normally be beyond imagining. Nevertheless, she overcomes the king's doubts, which are, given his time, reasonable enough. He fears that people will think that he's downright dotty if it were known that a "maiden" is attending him as a physician: I say we must not so stain our judgment or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malady to empirics , Or to dissever so our great self and our credit, To esteem a senseless help, when help past sense we deem. Using her skill of rhetoric, larded with aphoristic remarks like, Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises, and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most fits. Helena finally sways the king to give her a chance. Perhaps she nudges him over the edge by hinting that she is a divine emissary: But most it is presumption in us when The help of Heaven we count the act of men. Some critics have observed a trace of the fairy tale formula in this section of the play, in which the young virgin "magically" cures an ailing king. This may be so, but one cannot fail to be impressed by the sheer doggedness of Shakespeare's heroine. Her effort of will commands the end of the scene, contrasting with Bertram's jellyfish compliance at its opening.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_3.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_7_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 3.scene 1

act 3

{"name": "Scenes 1-2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scenes-12", "summary": "In twenty-three lines, Shakespeare introduces the city of Florence, Italy, to the play while that city's duke puzzles aloud to a French nobleman about the king of France's neutrality in the Italian wars. The French lord concurs: \"Holy seems the quarrel / Upon your Grace's part; black and fearful / On the opposer.\" In Scene 2, the clown has returned to Rousillon, where he delivers a letter from Bertram to his mother advising her that he has run away from his marriage; in the letter, he says: \"If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance.\" This upsets the Countess: \"This is not well, rash and unbridled boy, / To fly the favours of so good a King.\" Helena's distress, when she reads Bertram's letter to her, compounds the feeling. She labels his note a \"passport\" -- that is, a license to beg on the open road -- and says that it is a \"dreadful sentence.\" When thou canst get the ring upon my finger,Which never shall come off, and show me a childBegotten of thy body that I am father to, then callMe husband; but in such a \"then\" I write a \"Never.\" The Countess disavows Bertram as her son and then asks whether or not he is still traveling in the company of Parolles, the \"very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.\" The scene ends with a monologue by Helena, who vows to leave France to clear the way for Bertram to return home from the dangerous wars: No; come thou home, Rousillon,Whence honor but of danger wins a scar,As oft it loses all. I will be gone, -- My being here it is that holds thee hence.Shall I stay here to do it? No, no.", "analysis": "No doubt the clown has altered his appearance, somewhat, to be like the fashionable set that he mingled with in Paris. His attitude toward \"mere provincials\" has taken a radical turn too. Isbel was the wench whom he begged permission to marry in Act I, but now, I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court.Our old lings and ourIsbels o'th' country are nothing like yourOld lings, and your Isbels o' th' court. The Countess, for her part, responds to her \"altered\" son, young Bertram. Note the number of times that he is referred to by her and others as a \"boy,\" implying immaturity. She cannot understand his disobedience to the king in refusing to honor Helena, especially since Helena is such a fine person. The Countess' words are meant to assuage poor Helena's grief, but they seem harsh to her son: I prithee, lady, have a better cheer.If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,Thou robb'st me of a moiety . He was my son,But I do wash his name out of my bloodAnd thou art all my child. The \"dreadful sentence\" which Helena reads conjures up further associations with fairy tales and stories of legend. Here, one should remember the reference to the archetypal \"curing of the king\" story earlier in the play. Shakespeare uses a tradition in which a beleaguered bride must accomplish several \"impossible\" tasks, or overcome a number of severe trials in order to prove herself, and win the love of the man whom she loves. The plot elements in the rest of the play hinge on this \"sentence,\" as Helena sets out to solve the riddle and overcome the obstacles which Bertram has set. She must get the ring from his finger , and she must also become pregnant -- despite Bertram's avowed dislike of her. In a play which has far fewer passages of sheer poetic beauty than we have come to expect from Shakespeare, Helena's soliloquy here, expressing her torment, stands out even if it does use fairly commonplace metaphors: And is it I that drive thee from the sportive court, Where thou wast shot at with fair eyes, To be the mark of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride upon the violent speed of fire, Fly with false aim, move the still-peering air That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord!"}

Actus Tertius. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a troope of Souldiers. Duke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard The fundamentall reasons of this warre, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth And more thirsts after 1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell Vpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull On the opposer Duke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France Would in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome Against our borrowing prayers French E. Good my Lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yeelde, But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a Counsaile frames, By selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not Say what I thinke of it, since I haue found My selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile As often as I guest Duke. Be it his pleasure Fren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature, That surfet on their ease, will day by day Come heere for Physicke Duke. Welcome shall they bee: And all the honors that can flye from vs, Shall on them settle: you know your places well, When better fall, for your auailes they fell, To morrow to'th the field. Flourish. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Count. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue that he comes not along with her Clo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie melancholly man Count. By what obseruance I pray you Clo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing: mend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke his teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of melancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song Lad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes to come Clow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court. Our old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing like your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an old man loues money, with no stomacke Lad. What haue we heere? Clo. In that you haue there. Exit A Letter. I haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the King, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her, and sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am runne away, know it before the report come. If there bee bredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne, Bertram. This is not well rash and vnbridled boy, To flye the fauours of so good a King, To plucke his indignation on thy head, By the misprising of a Maide too vertuous For the contempt of Empire. Enter Clowne. Clow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene two souldiers, and my yong Ladie La. What is the matter Clo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some comfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght he would La. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he does, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of men, though it be the getting of children. Heere they come will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your sonne was run away. Enter Hellen and two Gentlemen. French E. Saue you good Madam Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone French G. Do not say so La. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen, I haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe, That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you? Fren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence, We met him thitherward, for thence we came: And after some dispatch in hand at Court, Thither we bend againe Hel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport. When thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer shall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie, that I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then) I write a Neuer. This is a dreadfull sentence La. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen? 1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie for our paines Old La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere, If thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine, Thou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he? Fren.G. I Madam La. And to be a souldier Fren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't The Duke will lay vpon him all the honor That good conuenience claimes La. Returne you thither Fren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed Hel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France, 'Tis bitter La. Finde you that there? Hel. I Madame Fren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting too Lad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife: There's nothing heere that is too good for him But onely she, and she deserues a Lord That twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon, And call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him? Fren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I haue sometime knowne La. Parolles was it not? Fren.E. I my good Ladie, hee La. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse, My sonne corrupts a well deriued nature With his inducement Fren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of that, too much, which holds him much to haue La. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you when you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can neuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate you written to beare along Fren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your worthiest affaires La. Not so, but as we change our courtesies, Will you draw neere? Enter. Hel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France. Nothing in France vntill he has no wife: Thou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France, Then hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I That chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose Those tender limbes of thine, to the euent Of the none-sparing warre? And is it I, That driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou Was't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke Of smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride vpon the violent speede of fire, Fly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire That sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord: Who euer shoots at him, I set him there. Who euer charges on his forward brest I am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't, And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: Better 'twere I met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd With sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere, That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion, Whence honor but of danger winnes a scarre, As oft it looses all. I will be gone: My being heere it is, that holds thee hence, Shall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although The ayre of Paradise did fan the house, And Angels offic'd all: I will be gone, That pittifull rumour may report my flight To consolate thine eare. Come night, end day, For with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away. Enter. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and trumpets, soldiers, Parrolles. Duke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we Great in our hope, lay our best loue and credence Vpon thy promising fortune Ber. Sir it is A charge too heauy for my strength, but yet Wee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake, To th' extreme edge of hazard Duke. Then go thou forth, And fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme As thy auspicious mistris Ber. This very day Great Mars I put my selfe into thy file, Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue A louer of thy drumme, hater of loue. Exeunt. omnes Enter Countesse & Steward. La. Alas! and would you take the letter of her: Might you not know she would do, as she has done, By sending me a Letter. Reade it agen. Letter. I am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious loue hath so in me offended, That bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon With sainted vow my faults to haue amended Write, write, that from the bloodie course of warre, My deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie, Blesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre, His name with zealous feruour sanctifie: His taken labours bid him me forgiue: I his despightfull Iuno sent him forth, From Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue, Where death and danger dogges the heeles of worth. He is too good and faire for death, and mee, Whom I my selfe embrace, to set him free. Ah what sharpe stings are in her mildest words? Rynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much, As letting her passe so: had I spoke with her, I could haue well diuerted her intents, Which thus she hath preuented Ste. Pardon me Madam, If I had giuen you this at ouer-night, She might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes Pursuite would be but vaine La. What Angell shall Blesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue, Vnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare And loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath Of greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo, To this vnworthy husband of his wife, Let euerie word waigh heauie of her worth, That he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe, Though little he do feele it, set downe sharpely. Dispatch the most conuenient messenger, When haply he shall heare that she is gone, He will returne, and hope I may that shee Hearing so much, will speede her foote againe, Led hither by pure loue: which of them both Is deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence To make distinction: prouide this Messenger: My heart is heauie, and mine age is weake, Greefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake. Exeunt. A Tucket afarre off. Enter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and Mariana, with other Citizens. Widdow. Nay come, For if they do approach the Citty, We shall loose all the sight Diana. They say, the French Count has done Most honourable seruice Wid. It is reported, That he has taken their great'st Commander, And that with his owne hand he slew The Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour, They are gone a contrarie way: harke, you may know by their Trumpets Maria. Come lets returne againe, And suffice our selues with the report of it. Well Diana, take heed of this French Earle, The honor of a Maide is her name, And no Legacie is so rich As honestie Widdow. I haue told my neighbour How you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman His Companion Maria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles, a filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young Earle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements, oathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene seduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so terrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot for all that disswade succession, but that they are limed with the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede not to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace will keepe you where you are, though there were no further danger knowne, but the modestie which is so lost Dia. You shall not neede to feare me. Enter Hellen. Wid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know she will lye at my house, thither they send one another, Ile question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are bound? Hel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand. Where do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port Hel. Is this the way? A march afarre. Wid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way: If you will tarrie holy Pilgrime But till the troopes come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd, The rather for I thinke I know your hostesse As ample as my selfe Hel. Is it your selfe? Wid. If you shall please so Pilgrime Hel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure Wid. You came I thinke from France? Hel. I did so Wid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours That has done worthy seruice Hel. His name I pray you? Dia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one? Hel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him: His face I know not Dia. What somere he is He's brauely taken heere. He stole from France As 'tis reported: for the King had married him Against his liking. Thinke you it is so? Hel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady Dia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count, Reports but coursely of her Hel. What's his name? Dia. Monsieur Parrolles Hel. Oh I beleeue with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great Count himselfe, she is too meane To haue her name repeated, all her deseruing Is a reserued honestie, and that I haue not heard examin'd Dian. Alas poore Ladie, 'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting Lord Wid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is, Her hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her A shrewd turne if she pleas'd Hel. How do you meane? May be the amorous Count solicites her In the vnlawfull purpose Wid. He does indeede, And brokes with all that can in such a suite Corrupt the tender honour of a Maide: But she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard In honestest defence. Drumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the whole Armie. Mar. The goddes forbid else Wid. So, now they come: That is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne, That Escalus Hel. Which is the Frenchman? Dia. Hee, That with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow, I would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman Hel. I like him well Di. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue That leades him to these places: were I his Ladie, I would poison that vile Rascall Hel. Which is he? Dia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee melancholly? Hel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile Par. Loose our drum? Well Mar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he has spyed vs Wid. Marrie hang you Mar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier. Enter. Wid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring you, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents There's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound, Alreadie at my house Hel. I humbly thanke you: Please it this Matron, and this gentle Maide To eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me, and to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this Virgin, Worthy the note Both. Wee'l take your offer kindly. Exeunt. Enter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first. Cap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him haue his way Cap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding, hold me no more in your respect Cap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble Ber. Do you thinke I am so farre Deceiued in him Cap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him as my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite and endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the owner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships entertainment Cap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too farre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some great and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle you Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him Cap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his drumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake to do C.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize him; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes not from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring him to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present at his examination, if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to betray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his soule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie thing Cap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his drumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your Lordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to what mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted if you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement, your inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes. Enter Parrolles. Cap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor of his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any hand Ber. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely in your disposition Cap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme Par. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so lost. There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne souldiers Cap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C�sar him selfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to command Ber. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe: some dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum, but it is not to be recouered Par. It might haue beene recouered Ber. It might, but it is not now Par. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice is sildome attributed to the true and exact performer, I would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet Ber. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if you thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this instrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be magnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in it, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost syllable of your worthinesse Par. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it Ber. But you must not now slumber in it Par. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently pen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my certaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation: and by midnight looke to heare further from me Ber. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it Par. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord, but the attempt I vow Ber. I know th'art valiant, And to the possibility of thy souldiership, Will subscribe for thee: Farewell Par. I loue not many words. Exit Cap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this a strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to vndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be done, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd then to doo't Cap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe, certaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour, and for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries, but when you finde him out, you haue him euer after Ber. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at all of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe vnto? Cap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention, and clap vpon you two or three probable lies: but we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to night; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect Cap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord Lafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie night Cap.E. I must go looke my twigges, He shall be caught Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me Cap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you Ber. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you The Lasse I spoke of Cap.E. But you say she's honest Ber. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde Tokens and Letters, which she did resend, And this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature, Will you go see her? Cap.E. With all my heart my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hellen, and Widdow. Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon Wid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act Hel. Nor would I wish you. First giue me trust, the Count he is my husband, And what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken, Is so from word to word: and then you cannot By the good ayde that I of you shall borrow, Erre in bestowing it Wid. I should beleeue you, For you haue shew'd me that which well approues Y'are great in fortune Hel. Take this purse of Gold, And let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre, Which I will ouer-pay, and pay againe When I haue found it. The Count he woes your daughter, Layes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie, Resolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent As wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it: Now his important blood will naught denie, That shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares, That downward hath succeeded in his house From sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents, Since the first father wore it. This Ring he holds In most rich choice: yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seeme too deere, How ere repented after Wid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose Hel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more, But that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne, Desires this Ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, deliuers me to fill the time, Her selfe most chastly absent: after To marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes To what is past already Wid. I haue yeelded: Instruct my daughter how she shall perseuer, That time and place with this deceite so lawfull May proue coherent. Euery night he comes With Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd To her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs To chide him from our eeues, for he persists As if his life lay on't Hel. Why then to night Let vs assay our plot, which if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawfull deede; And lawfull meaning in a lawfull act, Where both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact. But let's about it.

Scenes 1-2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-scenes-12

In twenty-three lines, Shakespeare introduces the city of Florence, Italy, to the play while that city's duke puzzles aloud to a French nobleman about the king of France's neutrality in the Italian wars. The French lord concurs: "Holy seems the quarrel / Upon your Grace's part; black and fearful / On the opposer." In Scene 2, the clown has returned to Rousillon, where he delivers a letter from Bertram to his mother advising her that he has run away from his marriage; in the letter, he says: "If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance." This upsets the Countess: "This is not well, rash and unbridled boy, / To fly the favours of so good a King." Helena's distress, when she reads Bertram's letter to her, compounds the feeling. She labels his note a "passport" -- that is, a license to beg on the open road -- and says that it is a "dreadful sentence." When thou canst get the ring upon my finger,Which never shall come off, and show me a childBegotten of thy body that I am father to, then callMe husband; but in such a "then" I write a "Never." The Countess disavows Bertram as her son and then asks whether or not he is still traveling in the company of Parolles, the "very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness." The scene ends with a monologue by Helena, who vows to leave France to clear the way for Bertram to return home from the dangerous wars: No; come thou home, Rousillon,Whence honor but of danger wins a scar,As oft it loses all. I will be gone, -- My being here it is that holds thee hence.Shall I stay here to do it? No, no.

No doubt the clown has altered his appearance, somewhat, to be like the fashionable set that he mingled with in Paris. His attitude toward "mere provincials" has taken a radical turn too. Isbel was the wench whom he begged permission to marry in Act I, but now, I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court.Our old lings and ourIsbels o'th' country are nothing like yourOld lings, and your Isbels o' th' court. The Countess, for her part, responds to her "altered" son, young Bertram. Note the number of times that he is referred to by her and others as a "boy," implying immaturity. She cannot understand his disobedience to the king in refusing to honor Helena, especially since Helena is such a fine person. The Countess' words are meant to assuage poor Helena's grief, but they seem harsh to her son: I prithee, lady, have a better cheer.If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,Thou robb'st me of a moiety . He was my son,But I do wash his name out of my bloodAnd thou art all my child. The "dreadful sentence" which Helena reads conjures up further associations with fairy tales and stories of legend. Here, one should remember the reference to the archetypal "curing of the king" story earlier in the play. Shakespeare uses a tradition in which a beleaguered bride must accomplish several "impossible" tasks, or overcome a number of severe trials in order to prove herself, and win the love of the man whom she loves. The plot elements in the rest of the play hinge on this "sentence," as Helena sets out to solve the riddle and overcome the obstacles which Bertram has set. She must get the ring from his finger , and she must also become pregnant -- despite Bertram's avowed dislike of her. In a play which has far fewer passages of sheer poetic beauty than we have come to expect from Shakespeare, Helena's soliloquy here, expressing her torment, stands out even if it does use fairly commonplace metaphors: And is it I that drive thee from the sportive court, Where thou wast shot at with fair eyes, To be the mark of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride upon the violent speed of fire, Fly with false aim, move the still-peering air That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord!

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_4.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_11_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 4.scene 1

act 4

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-1", "summary": "One of the French lords and a band of soldiers set a trap for Parolles as previously planned. They capture and blindfold him and speak in a hilarious nonsense language which he takes to be Russian -- that is, \"Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.\" To save his life, Parolles, as predicted, immediately volunteers to betray anyone and anything: Oh, let me live! And all the secrets of our camp I'll show, Their force, their purposes; nay, I'll speak that Which you will wonder at.", "analysis": "For Parolles, the Falstaffian mock-motto, \"Discretion is the better part of valor,\" seems to apply. There is no real surprise in his behavior, although his captors marvel at his self-knowledge: Parolles: What shall I say I have done? It must be a veryPlausive invention that carries it.They begin to smoke me , anddisgracesHave of late knocked too often at my door.I find My tongue is too foolhardy.First Lord : This is the first truth that e'er thine ownTongue was guilty of.Second Lord: Is it possible he should know what he is, andBe that he is? There is a sly joke embedded in this scene, in which the \"man of words\" is tricked by a plot which makes use of some assorted syllables of a gobbledygook language that Parolles thinks is Russian."}

Actus Quartus. Enter one of the Frenchmen, with fiue or sixe other souldiers in ambush. Lord E. He can come no other way but by this hedge corner: when you sallie vpon him, speake what terrible Language you will: though you vnderstand it not your selues, no matter: for we must not seeme to vnderstand him, vnlesse some one among vs, whom wee must produce for an Interpreter 1.Sol. Good Captaine, let me be th' Interpreter Lor.E. Art not acquainted with him? knowes he not thy voice? 1.Sol. No sir I warrant you Lo.E. But what linsie wolsy hast thou to speake to vs againe 1.Sol. E'n such as you speake to me Lo.E. He must thinke vs some band of strangers, i'th aduersaries entertainment. Now he hath a smacke of all neighbouring Languages: therefore we must euery one be a man of his owne fancie, not to know what we speak one to another: so we seeme to know, is to know straight our purpose: Choughs language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you interpreter, you must seeme very politicke. But couch hoa, heere hee comes, to beguile two houres in a sleepe, and then to returne & swear the lies he forges. Enter Parrolles. Par. Ten a clocke: Within these three houres 'twill be time enough to goe home. What shall I say I haue done? It must bee a very plausiue inuention that carries it. They beginne to smoake mee, and disgraces haue of late, knock'd too often at my doore: I finde my tongue is too foole-hardie, but my heart hath the feare of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue Lo.E. This is the first truth that ere thine own tongue was guiltie of Par. What the diuell should moue mee to vndertake the recouerie of this drumme, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must giue my selfe some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carrie it. They will say, came you off with so little? And great ones I dare not giue, wherefore what's the instance. Tongue, I must put you into a Butter-womans mouth, and buy my selfe another of Baiazeths Mule, if you prattle mee into these perilles Lo.E. Is it possible he should know what hee is, and be that he is Par. I would the cutting of my garments wold serue the turne, or the breaking of my Spanish sword Lo.E. We cannot affoord you so Par. Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem Lo.E. 'Twould not do Par. Or to drowne my cloathes, and say I was stript Lo.E. Hardly serue Par. Though I swore I leapt from the window of the Citadell Lo.E. How deepe? Par. Thirty fadome Lo.E. Three great oathes would scarse make that be beleeued Par. I would I had any drumme of the enemies, I would sweare I recouer'd it Lo.E. You shall heare one anon Par. A drumme now of the enemies. Alarum within. Lo.E. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo Par. O ransome, ransome, Do not hide mine eyes Inter. Boskos thromuldo boskos Par. I know you are the Muskos Regiment, And I shall loose my life for want of language. If there be heere German or Dane, Low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speake to me, Ile discouer that, which shal vndo the Florentine Int. Boskos vauvado, I vnderstand thee, & can speake thy tongue: Kerelybonto sir, betake thee to thy faith, for seuenteene ponyards are at thy bosome Par. Oh Inter. Oh pray, pray, pray, Manka reuania dulche Lo.E. Oscorbidulchos voliuorco Int. The Generall is content to spare thee yet, And hoodwinkt as thou art, will leade thee on To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst informe Something to saue thy life Par. O let me liue, And all the secrets of our campe Ile shew, Their force, their purposes: Nay, Ile speake that, Which you will wonder at Inter. But wilt thou faithfully? Par. If I do not, damne me Inter. Acordo linta. Come on, thou are granted space. Exit A short Alarum within. L.E. Go tell the Count Rossillion and my brother, We haue caught the woodcocke, and will keepe him mufled Till we do heare from them Sol. Captaine I will L.E. A will betray vs all vnto our selues, Informe on that Sol. So I will sir L.E. Till then Ile keepe him darke and safely lockt. Exit Enter Bertram, and the Maide called Diana. Ber. They told me that your name was Fontybell Dia. No my good Lord, Diana Ber. Titled Goddesse, And worth it with addition: but faire soule, In your fine frame hath loue no qualitie? If the quicke fire of youth light not your minde, You are no Maiden but a monument When you are dead you should be such a one As you are now: for you are cold and sterne, And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet selfe was got Dia. She then was honest Ber. So should you be Dia. No: My mother did but dutie, such (my Lord) As you owe to your wife Ber. No more a'that: I prethee do not striue against my vowes: I was compell'd to her, but I loue thee By loues owne sweet constraint, and will for euer Do thee all rights of seruice Dia. I so you serue vs Till we serue you: But when you haue our Roses, You barely leaue our thornes to pricke our selues, And mocke vs with our barenesse Ber. How haue I sworne Dia. Tis not the many oathes that makes the truth, But the plaine single vow, that is vow'd true: What is not holie, that we sweare not by, But take the high'st to witnesse: then pray you tell me, If I should sweare by Ioues great attributes, I lou'd you deerely, would you beleeue my oathes, When I did loue you ill? This ha's no holding To sweare by him whom I protest to loue That I will worke against him. Therefore your oathes Are words and poore conditions, but vnseal'd At lest in my opinion Ber. Change it, change it: Be not so holy cruell: Loue is holie, And my integritie ne're knew the crafts That you do charge men with: Stand no more off, But giue thy selfe vnto my sicke desires, Who then recouers. Say thou art mine, and euer My loue as it beginnes, shall so perseuer Dia. I see that men make rope's in such a scarre, That wee'l forsake our selues. Giue me that Ring Ber. Ile lend it thee my deere; but haue no power To giue it from me Dia. Will you not my Lord? Ber. It is an honour longing to our house, Bequeathed downe from manie Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In me to loose Dian. Mine Honors such a Ring, My chastities the Iewell of our house, Bequeathed downe from many Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In mee to loose. Thus your owne proper wisedome Brings in the Champion honor on my part, Against your vaine assault Ber. Heere, take my Ring, My house, mine honor, yea my life be thine, And Ile be bid by thee Dia. When midnight comes, knocke at my chamber window: Ile order take, my mother shall not heare. Now will I charge you in the band of truth, When you haue conquer'd my yet maiden-bed, Remaine there but an houre, nor speake to mee: My reasons are most strong, and you shall know them, When backe againe this Ring shall be deliuer'd: And on your finger in the night, Ile put Another Ring, that what in time proceeds, May token to the future, our past deeds. Adieu till then, then faile not: you haue wonne A wife of me, though there my hope be done Ber. A heauen on earth I haue won by wooing thee Di. For which, liue long to thank both heauen & me, You may so in the end. My mother told me iust how he would woo, As if she sate in's heart. She sayes, all men Haue the like oathes: He had sworne to marrie me When his wife's dead: therfore Ile lye with him When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braide, Marry that will, I liue and die a Maid: Onely in this disguise, I think't no sinne, To cosen him that would vniustly winne. Exit Enter the two French Captaines, and some two or three Souldiours. Cap.G. You haue not giuen him his mothers letter Cap.E. I haue deliu'red it an houre since, there is som thing in't that stings his nature: for on the reading it, he chang'd almost into another man Cap.G. He has much worthy blame laid vpon him, for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a Lady Cap.E. Especially, hee hath incurred the euerlasting displeasure of the King, who had euen tun'd his bounty to sing happinesse to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you Cap.G. When you haue spoken it 'tis dead, and I am the graue of it Cap.E. Hee hath peruerted a young Gentlewoman heere in Florence, of a most chaste renown, & this night he fleshes his will in the spoyle of her honour: hee hath giuen her his monumentall Ring, and thinkes himselfe made in the vnchaste composition Cap.G. Now God delay our rebellion as we are our selues, what things are we Cap.E. Meerely our owne traitours. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reueale themselues, till they attaine to their abhorr'd ends: so he that in this action contriues against his owne Nobility in his proper streame, ore-flowes himselfe Cap.G. Is it not meant damnable in vs, to be Trumpeters of our vnlawfull intents? We shall not then haue his company to night? Cap.E. Not till after midnight: for hee is dieted to his houre Cap.G. That approaches apace: I would gladly haue him see his company anathomiz'd, that hee might take a measure of his owne iudgements, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit Cap.E. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other Cap.G. In the meane time, what heare you of these Warres? Cap.E. I heare there is an ouerture of peace Cap.G. Nay, I assure you a peace concluded Cap.E. What will Count Rossillion do then? Will he trauaile higher, or returne againe into France? Cap.G. I perceiue by this demand, you are not altogether of his councell Cap.E. Let it be forbid sir, so should I bee a great deale of his act Cap.G. Sir, his wife some two months since fledde from his house, her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Iaques le grand; which holy vndertaking, with most austere sanctimonie she accomplisht: and there residing, the tendernesse of her Nature, became as a prey to her greefe: in fine, made a groane of her last breath, & now she sings in heauen Cap.E. How is this iustified? Cap.G. The stronger part of it by her owne Letters, which makes her storie true, euen to the poynt of her death: her death it selfe, which could not be her office to say, is come: was faithfully confirm'd by the Rector of the place Cap.E. Hath the Count all this intelligence? Cap.G. I, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the veritie Cap.E. I am heartily sorrie that hee'l bee gladde of this Cap.G. How mightily sometimes, we make vs comforts of our losses Cap.E. And how mightily some other times, wee drowne our gaine in teares, the great dignitie that his valour hath here acquir'd for him, shall at home be encountred with a shame as ample Cap.G. The webbe of our life, is of a mingled yarne, good and ill together: our vertues would bee proud, if our faults whipt them not, and our crimes would dispaire if they were not cherish'd by our vertues. Enter a Messenger. How now? Where's your master? Ser. He met the Duke in the street sir, of whom hee hath taken a solemne leaue: his Lordshippe will next morning for France. The Duke hath offered him Letters of commendations to the King Cap.E. They shall bee no more then needfull there, if they were more then they can commend. Enter Count Rossillion. Ber. They cannot be too sweete for the Kings tartnesse, heere's his Lordship now. How now my Lord, i'st not after midnight? Ber. I haue to night dispatch'd sixteene businesses, a moneths length a peece, by an abstract of successe: I haue congied with the Duke, done my adieu with his neerest; buried a wife, mourn'd for her, writ to my Ladie mother, I am returning, entertain'd my Conuoy, & betweene these maine parcels of dispatch, affected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I haue not ended yet Cap.E. If the businesse bee of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires hast of your Lordship Ber. I meane the businesse is not ended, as fearing to heare of it hereafter: but shall we haue this dialogue betweene the Foole and the Soldiour. Come, bring forth this counterfet module, ha's deceiu'd mee, like a double-meaning Prophesier Cap.E. Bring him forth, ha's sate i'th stockes all night poore gallant knaue Ber. No matter, his heeles haue deseru'd it, in vsurping his spurres so long. How does he carry himselfe? Cap.E. I haue told your Lordship alreadie: The stockes carrie him. But to answer you as you would be vnderstood, hee weepes like a wench that had shed her milke, he hath confest himselfe to Morgan, whom hee supposes to be a Friar, fro[m] the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i'th stockes: and what thinke you he hath confest? Ber. Nothing of me, ha's a? Cap.E. His confession is taken, and it shall bee read to his face, if your Lordshippe be in't, as I beleeue you are, you must haue the patience to heare it. Enter Parolles with his Interpreter. Ber. A plague vpon him, muffeld; he can say nothing of me: hush, hush Cap.G. Hoodman comes: Portotartarossa Inter. He calles for the tortures, what will you say without em Par. I will confesse what I know without constraint, If ye pinch me like a Pasty, I can say no more Int. Bosko Chimurcho Cap. Boblibindo chicurmurco Int. You are a mercifull Generall: Our Generall bids you answer to what I shall aske you out of a Note Par. And truly, as I hope to liue Int. First demand of him, how many horse the Duke is strong. What say you to that? Par. Fiue or sixe thousand, but very weake and vnseruiceable: the troopes are all scattered, and the Commanders verie poore rogues, vpon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to liue Int. Shall I set downe your answer so? Par. Do, Ile take the Sacrament on't, how & which way you will: all's one to him Ber. What a past-sauing slaue is this? Cap.G. Y'are deceiu'd my Lord, this is Mounsieur Parrolles the gallant militarist, that was his owne phrase that had the whole theoricke of warre in the knot of his scarfe, and the practise in the chape of his dagger Cap.E. I will neuer trust a man againe, for keeping his sword cleane, nor beleeue he can haue euerie thing in him, by wearing his apparrell neatly Int. Well, that's set downe Par. Fiue or six thousand horse I sed, I will say true, or thereabouts set downe, for Ile speake truth Cap.G. He's very neere the truth in this Ber. But I con him no thankes for't in the nature he deliuers it Par. Poore rogues, I pray you say Int. Well, that's set downe Par. I humbly thanke you sir, a truth's a truth, the Rogues are maruailous poore Interp. Demaund of him of what strength they are a foot. What say you to that? Par. By my troth sir, if I were to liue this present houre, I will tell true. Let me see, Spurio a hundred & fiftie, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Iaques so many: Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowicke, and Gratij, two hundred fiftie each: Mine owne Company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentij, two hundred fiftie each: so that the muster file, rotten and sound, vppon my life amounts not to fifteene thousand pole, halfe of the which, dare not shake the snow from off their Cassockes, least they shake themselues to peeces Ber. What shall be done to him? Cap.G. Nothing, but let him haue thankes. Demand of him my condition: and what credite I haue with the Duke Int. Well that's set downe: you shall demaund of him, whether one Captaine Dumaine bee i'th Campe, a Frenchman: what his reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honestie, and expertnesse in warres: or whether he thinkes it were not possible with well-waighing summes of gold to corrupt him to a reuolt. What say you to this? What do you know of it? Par. I beseech you let me answer to the particular of the intergatories. Demand them singly Int. Do you know this Captaine Dumaine? Par. I know him, a was a Botchers Prentize in Paris, from whence he was whipt for getting the Shrieues fool with childe, a dumbe innocent that could not say him nay Ber. Nay, by your leaue hold your hands, though I know his braines are forfeite to the next tile that fals Int. Well, is this Captaine in the Duke of Florences campe? Par. Vpon my knowledge he is, and lowsie Cap.G. Nay looke not so vpon me: we shall heare of your Lord anon Int. What is his reputation with the Duke? Par. The Duke knowes him for no other, but a poore Officer of mine, and writ to mee this other day, to turne him out a'th band. I thinke I haue his Letter in my pocket Int. Marry we'll search Par. In good sadnesse I do not know, either it is there, or it is vpon a file with the Dukes other Letters, in my Tent Int. Heere 'tis, heere's a paper, shall I reade it to you? Par. I do not know if it be it or no Ber. Our Interpreter do's it well Cap.G. Excellently Int. Dian, the Counts a foole, and full of gold Par. That is not the Dukes letter sir: that is an aduertisement to a proper maide in Florence, one Diana, to take heede of the allurement of one Count Rossillion, a foolish idle boy: but for all that very ruttish. I pray you sir put it vp againe Int. Nay, Ile reade it first by your fauour Par. My meaning in't I protest was very honest in the behalfe of the maid: for I knew the young Count to be a dangerous and lasciuious boy, who is a whale to Virginity, and deuours vp all the fry it finds Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue Int. Let. When he sweares oathes, bid him drop gold, and take it: After he scores, he neuer payes the score: Halfe won is match well made, match and well make it, He nere payes after-debts, take it before, And say a souldier (Dian) told thee this: Men are to mell with, boyes are not to kis. For count of this, the Counts a Foole I know it, Who payes before, but not when he does owe it. Thine as he vow'd to thee in thine eare, Parolles Ber. He shall be whipt through the Armie with this rime in's forehead Cap.E. This is your deuoted friend sir, the manifold Linguist, and the army-potent souldier Ber. I could endure any thing before but a Cat, and now he's a Cat to me Int. I perceiue sir by your Generals lookes, wee shall be faine to hang you Par. My life sir in any case: Not that I am afraide to dye, but that my offences beeing many, I would repent out the remainder of Nature. Let me liue sir in a dungeon, i'th stockes, or any where, so I may liue Int. Wee'le see what may bee done, so you confesse freely: therefore once more to this Captaine Dumaine: you haue answer'd to his reputation with the Duke, and to his valour. What is his honestie? Par. He will steale sir an Egge out of a Cloister: for rapes and rauishments he paralels Nessus. Hee professes not keeping of oaths, in breaking em he is stronger then Hercules. He will lye sir, with such volubilitie, that you would thinke truth were a foole: drunkennesse is his best vertue, for he will be swine-drunke, and in his sleepe he does little harme, saue to his bed-cloathes about him: but they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I haue but little more to say sir of his honesty, he ha's euerie thing that an honest man should not haue; what an honest man should haue, he has nothing Cap.G. I begin to loue him for this Ber. For this description of thine honestie? A pox vpon him for me, he's more and more a Cat Int. What say you to his expertnesse in warre? Par. Faith sir, ha's led the drumme before the English Tragedians: to belye him I will not, and more of his souldiership I know not, except in that Country, he had the honour to be the Officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would doe the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certaine Cap.G. He hath out-villain'd villanie so farre, that the raritie redeemes him Ber. A pox on him, he's a Cat still Int. His qualities being at this poore price, I neede not to aske you, if Gold will corrupt him to reuolt Par. Sir, for a Cardceue he will sell the fee-simple of his saluation, the inheritance of it, and cut th' intaile from all remainders, and a perpetuall succession for it perpetually Int. What's his Brother, the other Captain Dumain? Cap.E. Why do's he aske him of me? Int. What's he? Par. E'ne a Crow a'th same nest: not altogether so great as the first in goodnesse, but greater a great deale in euill. He excels his Brother for a coward, yet his Brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreate hee outrunnes any Lackey; marrie in comming on, hee ha's the Crampe Int. If your life be saued, will you vndertake to betray the Florentine Par. I, and the Captaine of his horse, Count Rossillion Int. Ile whisper with the Generall, and knowe his pleasure Par. Ile no more drumming, a plague of all drummes, onely to seeme to deserue well, and to beguile the supposition of that lasciuious yong boy the Count, haue I run into this danger: yet who would haue suspected an ambush where I was taken? Int. There is no remedy sir, but you must dye: the Generall sayes, you that haue so traitorously discouerd the secrets of your army, and made such pestifferous reports of men very nobly held, can serue the world for no honest vse: therefore you must dye. Come headesman, off with his head Par. O Lord sir let me liue, or let me see my death Int. That shall you, and take your leaue of all your friends: So, looke about you, know you any heere? Count. Good morrow noble Captaine Lo.E. God blesse you Captaine Parolles Cap.G. God saue you noble Captaine Lo.E. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France Cap.G. Good Captaine will you giue me a Copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalfe of the Count Rossillion, and I were not a verie Coward, I'de compell it of you, but far you well. Exeunt. Int. You are vndone Captaine all but your scarfe, that has a knot on't yet Par. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot? Inter. If you could finde out a Countrie where but women were that had receiued so much shame, you might begin an impudent Nation. Fare yee well sir, I am for France too, we shall speake of you there. Exit Par. Yet am I thankfull: if my heart were great 'Twould burst at this: Captaine Ile be no more, But I will eate, and drinke, and sleepe as soft As Captaine shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me liue: who knowes himselfe a braggart Let him feare this; for it will come to passe, That euery braggart shall be found an Asse. Rust sword, coole blushes, and Parrolles liue Safest in shame: being fool'd, by fool'rie thriue; There's place and meanes for euery man aliue. Ile after them. Enter. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana. Hel. That you may well perceiue I haue not wrong'd you, One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my suretie: for whose throne 'tis needfull Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneele. Time was, I did him a desired office Deere almost as his life, which gratitude Through flintie Tartars bosome would peepe forth, And answer thankes. I duly am inform'd, His grace is at Marcellae, to which place We haue conuenient conuoy: you must know I am supposed dead, the Army breaking, My husband hies him home, where heauen ayding, And by the leaue of my good Lord the King, Wee'l be before our welcome Wid. Gentle Madam, You neuer had a seruant to whose trust Your busines was more welcome Hel. Nor your Mistris Euer a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour To recompence your loue: Doubt not but heauen Hath brought me vp to be your daughters dower, As it hath fated her to be my motiue And helper to a husband. But O strange men, That can such sweet vse make of what they hate, When sawcie trusting of the cosin'd thoughts Defiles the pitchy night, so lust doth play With what it loathes, for that which is away, But more of this heereafter: you Diana, Vnder my poore instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalfe Dia. Let death and honestie Go with your impositions, I am yours Vpon your will to suffer Hel. Yet I pray you: But with the word the time will bring on summer, When Briars shall haue leaues as well as thornes, And be as sweet as sharpe: we must away, Our Wagon is prepar'd, and time reuiues vs, All's well that ends well, still the fines the Crowne; What ere the course, the end is the renowne. Exeunt. Enter Clowne, old Lady, and Lafew. Laf. No, no, no, your sonne was misled with a snipt taffata fellow there, whose villanous saffron wold haue made all the vnbak'd and dowy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had beene aliue at this houre, and your sonne heere at home, more aduanc'd by the King, then by that red-tail'd humble Bee I speak of La. I would I had not knowne him, it was the death of the most vertuous gentlewoman, that euer Nature had praise for creating. If she had pertaken of my flesh and cost mee the deerest groanes of a mother, I could not haue owed her a more rooted loue Laf. Twas a good Lady, 'twas a good Lady. Wee may picke a thousand sallets ere wee light on such another hearbe Clo. Indeed sir she was the sweete Margerom of the sallet, or rather the hearbe of grace Laf. They are not hearbes you knaue, they are nose-hearbes Clowne. I am no great Nabuchadnezar sir, I haue not much skill in grace Laf. Whether doest thou professe thy selfe, a knaue or a foole? Clo. A foole sir at a womans seruice, and a knaue at a mans Laf. Your distinction Clo. I would cousen the man of his wife, and do his seruice Laf. So you were a knaue at his seruice indeed Clo. And I would giue his wife my bauble sir to doe her seruice Laf. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knaue and foole Clo. At your seruice Laf. No, no, no Clo. Why sir, if I cannot serue you, I can serue as great a prince as you are Laf. Whose that, a Frenchman? Clo. Faith sir a has an English maine, but his fisnomie is more hotter in France then there Laf. What prince is that? Clo. The blacke prince sir, alias the prince of darkenesse, alias the diuell Laf. Hold thee there's my purse, I giue thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talk'st off, serue him still Clo. I am a woodland fellow sir, that alwaies loued a great fire, and the master I speak of euer keeps a good fire, but sure he is the Prince of the world, let his Nobilitie remaine in's Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pompe to enter: some that humble themselues may, but the manie will be too chill and tender, and theyle bee for the flowrie way that leads to the broad gate, and the great fire Laf. Go thy waies, I begin to bee a wearie of thee, and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy wayes, let my horses be wel look'd too, without any trickes Clo. If I put any trickes vpon em sir, they shall bee Iades trickes, which are their owne right by the law of Nature. Exit Laf. A shrewd knaue and an vnhappie Lady. So a is. My Lord that's gone made himselfe much sport out of him, by his authoritie hee remaines heere, which he thinkes is a pattent for his sawcinesse, and indeede he has no pace, but runnes where he will Laf. I like him well, 'tis not amisse: and I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good Ladies death, and that my Lord your sonne was vpon his returne home. I moued the King my master to speake in the behalfe of my daughter, which in the minoritie of them both, his Maiestie out of a selfe gracious remembrance did first propose, his Highnesse hath promis'd me to doe it, and to stoppe vp the displeasure he hath conceiued against your sonne, there is no fitter matter. How do's your Ladyship like it? La. With verie much content my Lord, and I wish it happily effected Laf. His Highnesse comes post from Marcellus, of as able bodie as when he number'd thirty, a will be heere to morrow, or I am deceiu'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldome fail'd La. It reioyces me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I haue letters that my sonne will be heere to night: I shall beseech your Lordship to remaine with mee, till they meete together Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted Lad. You neede but pleade your honourable priuiledge Laf. Ladie, of that I haue made a bold charter, but I thanke my God, it holds yet. Enter Clowne. Clo. O Madam, yonders my Lord your sonne with a patch of veluet on's face, whether there bee a scar vnder't or no, the Veluet knowes, but 'tis a goodly patch of Veluet, his left cheeke is a cheeke of two pile and a halfe, but his right cheeke is worne bare Laf. A scarre nobly got, Or a noble scarre, is a good liu'rie of honor, So belike is that Clo. But it is your carbinado'd face Laf. Let vs go see your sonne I pray you, I long to talke With the yong noble souldier Clowne. 'Faith there's a dozen of em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head, and nod at euerie man. Exeunt.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-iv-scene-1

One of the French lords and a band of soldiers set a trap for Parolles as previously planned. They capture and blindfold him and speak in a hilarious nonsense language which he takes to be Russian -- that is, "Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo." To save his life, Parolles, as predicted, immediately volunteers to betray anyone and anything: Oh, let me live! And all the secrets of our camp I'll show, Their force, their purposes; nay, I'll speak that Which you will wonder at.

For Parolles, the Falstaffian mock-motto, "Discretion is the better part of valor," seems to apply. There is no real surprise in his behavior, although his captors marvel at his self-knowledge: Parolles: What shall I say I have done? It must be a veryPlausive invention that carries it.They begin to smoke me , anddisgracesHave of late knocked too often at my door.I find My tongue is too foolhardy.First Lord : This is the first truth that e'er thine ownTongue was guilty of.Second Lord: Is it possible he should know what he is, andBe that he is? There is a sly joke embedded in this scene, in which the "man of words" is tricked by a plot which makes use of some assorted syllables of a gobbledygook language that Parolles thinks is Russian.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_5.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_15_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 5.scene 1

act 5

{"name": "Scenes 1-2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scenes-12", "summary": "Helena, the widow and Diana are in pursuit of the king, whom they know to have traveled to Marseilles. Once there, they learn from a gentleman that the king has left in haste for Rousillon. Helena asks him to speed ahead with a message for the king. In Rousillon, Parolles is begging the clown to deliver a letter of his own to Lafeu, when that gentleman appears. After teasing Parolles about his fallen status, Lafeu shows pity and bids Parolles to follow him to the count's palace , saying, \"Though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat.\"", "analysis": "Noteworthy here is the clown's relish in teasing Parolles with numerous scatological references to the \"stench\" he finds himself in with Fortune and society -- \"Fortune's close-stool\" and \"a purn of Fortune\" -- and Lafeu's contrasting good-humored forgiveness of the knavish fellow."}

Actus Quintus. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana, with two Attendants. Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night, Must wear your spirits low, we cannot helpe it: But since you haue made the daies and nights as one, To weare your gentle limbes in my affayres, Be bold you do so grow in my requitall, As nothing can vnroote you. In happie time, Enter a gentle Astringer. This man may helpe me to his Maiesties eare, If he would spend his power. God saue you sir Gent. And you Hel. Sir, I haue seene you in the Court of France Gent. I haue beene sometimes there Hel. I do presume sir, that you are not falne From the report that goes vpon your goodnesse, And therefore goaded with most sharpe occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The vse of your owne vertues, for the which I shall continue thankefull Gent. What's your will? Hel. That it will please you To giue this poore petition to the King, And ayde me with that store of power you haue To come into his presence Gen. The Kings not heere Hel. Not heere sir? Gen. Not indeed, He hence remou'd last night, and with more hast Then is his vse Wid. Lord how we loose our paines Hel. All's well that ends well yet, Though time seeme so aduerse, and meanes vnfit: I do beseech you, whither is he gone? Gent. Marrie as I take it to Rossillion, Whither I am going Hel. I do beseech you sir, Since you are like to see the King before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thanke your paines for it, I will come after you with what good speede Our meanes will make vs meanes Gent. This Ile do for you Hel. And you shall finde your selfe to be well thankt what e're falles more. We must to horse againe, Go, go, prouide. Enter Clowne and Parrolles. Par. Good Mr Lauatch giue my Lord Lafew this letter, I haue ere now sir beene better knowne to you, when I haue held familiaritie with fresher cloathes: but I am now sir muddied in fortunes mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure Clo. Truely, Fortunes displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will hencefoorth eate no Fish of Fortunes butt'ring. Prethee alow the winde Par. Nay you neede not to stop your nose sir: I spake but by a Metaphor Clo. Indeed sir, if your Metaphor stinke, I will stop my nose, or against any mans Metaphor. Prethe get thee further Par. Pray you sir deliuer me this paper Clo. Foh, prethee stand away: a paper from fortunes close-stoole, to giue to a Nobleman. Looke heere he comes himselfe. Enter Lafew. Clo. Heere is a purre of Fortunes sir, or of Fortunes Cat, but not a Muscat, that ha's falne into the vncleane fish-pond of her displeasure, and as he sayes is muddied withall. Pray you sir, vse the Carpe as you may, for he lookes like a poore decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knaue. I doe pittie his distresse in my smiles of comfort, and leaue him to your Lordship Par. My Lord I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratch'd Laf. And what would you haue me to doe? 'Tis too late to paire her nailes now. Wherein haue you played the knaue with fortune that she should scratch you, who of her selfe is a good Lady, and would not haue knaues thriue long vnder? There's a Cardecue for you: Let the Iustices make you and fortune friends; I am for other businesse Par. I beseech your honour to heare mee one single word, Laf. you begge a single peny more: Come you shall ha't, saue your word Par. My name my good Lord is Parrolles Laf. You begge more then word then. Cox my passion, giue me your hand: How does your drumme? Par. O my good Lord, you were the first that found mee Laf. Was I insooth? And I was the first that lost thee Par. It lies in you my Lord to bring me in some grace for you did bring me out Laf. Out vpon thee knaue, doest thou put vpon mee at once both the office of God and the diuel: one brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. The Kings comming I know by his Trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me, I had talke of you last night, though you are a foole and a knaue, you shall eate, go too, follow Par. I praise God for you. Flourish. Enter King, old Lady, Lafew, the two French Lords, with attendants. Kin. We lost a Iewell of her, and our esteeme Was made much poorer by it: but your sonne, As mad in folly, lack'd the sence to know Her estimation home Old La. 'Tis past my Liege, And I beseech your Maiestie to make it Naturall rebellion, done i'th blade of youth, When oyle and fire, too strong for reasons force, Ore-beares it, and burnes on Kin. My honour'd Lady, I haue forgiuen and forgotten all, Though my reuenges were high bent vpon him, And watch'd the time to shoote Laf. This I must say, But first I begge my pardon: the yong Lord Did to his Maiesty, his Mother, and his Ladie, Offence of mighty note; but to himselfe The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife, Whose beauty did astonish the suruey Of richest eies: whose words all eares tooke captiue, Whose deere perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serue, Humbly call'd Mistris Kin. Praising what is lost, Makes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither, We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill All repetition: Let him not aske our pardon, The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper then obliuion, we do burie Th' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and informe him So 'tis our will he should Gent. I shall my Liege Kin. What sayes he to your daughter, Haue you spoke? Laf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes Kin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent me, that sets him high in fame. Enter Count Bertram. Laf. He lookes well on't Kin. I am not a day of season, For thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile In me at once: But to the brightest beames Distracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth, The time is faire againe Ber. My high repented blames Deere Soueraigne pardon to me Kin. All is whole, Not one word more of the consumed time, Let's take the instant by the forward top: For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees Th' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time Steales, ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this Lord? Ber. Admiringly my Liege, at first I stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herauld of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye enfixing, Contempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me, Which warpt the line, of euerie other fauour, Scorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous obiect. Thence it came, That she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe, Since I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye The dust that did offend it Kin. Well excus'd: That thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but loue that comes too late, Like a remorsefull pardon slowly carried To the great sender, turnes a sowre offence, Crying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults, Make triuiall price of serious things we haue, Not knowing them, vntill we know their graue. Oft our displeasures to our selues vniust, Destroy our friends, and after weepe their dust: Our owne loue waking, cries to see what's done, While shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone. Be this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin, The maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay To see our widdowers second marriage day: Which better then the first, O deere heauen blesse, Or, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse Laf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name Must be digested: giue a fauour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. By my old beard, And eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court, I saw vpon her finger Ber. Hers it was not King. Now pray you let me see it. For mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd too't: This Ring was mine, and when I gaue it Hellen, I bad her if her fortunes euer stoode Necessitied to helpe, that by this token I would releeue her. Had you that craft to reaue her Of what should stead her most? Ber. My gracious Soueraigne, How ere it pleases you to take it so, The ring was neuer hers Old La. Sonne, on my life I haue seene her weare it, and she reckon'd it At her liues rate Laf. I am sure I saw her weare it Ber. You are deceiu'd my Lord, she neuer saw it: In Florence was it from a casement throwne mee, Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name Of her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought I stood ingag'd, but when I had subscrib'd To mine owne fortune, and inform'd her fully, I could not answer in that course of Honour As she had made the ouerture, she ceast In heauie satisfaction, and would neuer Receiue the Ring againe Kin. Platus himselfe, That knowes the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in natures mysterie more science, Then I haue in this Ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helens, Who euer gaue it you: then if you know That you are well acquainted with your selfe, Confesse 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to suretie, That she would neuer put it from her finger, Vnlesse she gaue it to your selfe in bed, Where you haue neuer come: or sent it vs Vpon her great disaster Ber. She neuer saw it Kin. Thou speak'st it falsely: as I loue mine Honor, And mak'st connecturall feares to come into me, Which I would faine shut out, if it should proue That thou art so inhumane, 'twill not proue so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead, which nothing but to close Her eyes my selfe, could win me to beleeue, More then to see this Ring. Take him away, My fore-past proofes, how ere the matter fall Shall taze my feares of little vanitie, Hauing vainly fear'd too little. Away with him, Wee'l sift this matter further Ber. If you shall proue This Ring was euer hers, you shall as easie Proue that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where yet she neuer was. Enter a Gentleman. King. I am wrap'd in dismall thinkings Gen. Gracious Soueraigne. Whether I haue beene too blame or no, I know not, Here's a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for foure or fiue remoues come short, To tender it her selfe. I vndertooke it, Vanquish'd thereto by the faire grace and speech Of the poore suppliant, who by this I know Is heere attending: her businesse lookes in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verball breefe, it did concerne Your Highnesse with her selfe. A Letter. Vpon his many protestations to marrie mee when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he wonne me. Now is the Count Rossillion a Widdower, his vowes are forfeited to mee, and my honors payed to him. Hee stole from Florence, taking no leaue, and I follow him to his Countrey for Iustice: Grant it me, O King, in you it best lies, otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poore Maid is vndone. Diana Capilet Laf. I will buy me a sonne in Law in a faire, and toule for this. Ile none of him Kin. The heauens haue thought well on thee Lafew, To bring forth this discou'rie, seeke these sutors: Go speedily, and bring againe the Count. Enter Bertram. I am a-feard the life of Hellen (Ladie) Was fowly snatcht Old La. Now iustice on the doers King. I wonder sir, sir, wiues are monsters to you, And that you flye them as you sweare them Lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman's that? Enter Widdow, Diana, and Parrolles. Dia. I am my Lord a wretched Florentine, Deriued from the ancient Capilet, My suite as I do vnderstand you know, And therefore know how farre I may be pittied Wid. I am her Mother sir, whose age and honour Both suffer vnder this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedie King. Come hether Count, do you know these Women? Ber. My Lord, I neither can nor will denie, But that I know them, do they charge me further? Dia. Why do you looke so strange vpon your wife? Ber. She's none of mine my Lord Dia. If you shall marrie You giue away this hand, and that is mine, You giue away heauens vowes, and those are mine: You giue away my selfe, which is knowne mine: For I by vow am so embodied yours, That she which marries you, must marrie me, Either both or none Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter, you are no husband for her Ber. My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature, Whom sometime I haue laugh'd with: Let your highnes Lay a more noble thought vpon mine honour, Then for to thinke that I would sinke it heere Kin. Sir for my thoughts, you haue them il to friend, Till your deeds gaine them fairer: proue your honor, Then in my thought it lies Dian. Good my Lord, Aske him vpon his oath, if hee do's thinke He had not my virginity Kin. What saist thou to her? Ber. She's impudent my Lord, And was a common gamester to the Campe Dia. He do's me wrong my Lord: If I were so, He might haue bought me at a common price. Do not beleeue him. O behold this Ring, Whose high respect and rich validitie Did lacke a Paralell: yet for all that He gaue it to a Commoner a'th Campe If I be one Coun. He blushes, and 'tis hit: Of sixe preceding Ancestors that Iemme Confer'd by testament to'th sequent issue Hath it beene owed and worne. This is his wife, That Ring's a thousand proofes King. Me thought you saide You saw one heere in Court could witnesse it Dia. I did my Lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument, his names Parrolles Laf. I saw the man to day, if man he bee Kin. Finde him, and bring him hether Ros. What of him: He's quoted for a most perfidious slaue With all the spots a'th world, taxt and debosh'd, Whose nature sickens: but to speake a truth, Am I, or that or this for what he'l vtter, That will speake any thing Kin. She hath that Ring of yours Ros. I thinke she has; certaine it is I lyk'd her, And boorded her i'th wanton way of youth: She knew her distance, and did angle for mee, Madding my eagernesse with her restraint, As all impediments in fancies course Are motiues of more fancie, and in fine, Her insuite comming with her moderne grace, Subdu'd me to her rate, she got the Ring, And I had that which any inferiour might At Market price haue bought Dia. I must be patient: You that haue turn'd off a first so noble wife, May iustly dyet me. I pray you yet, (Since you lacke vertue, I will loose a husband) Send for your Ring, I will returne it home, And giue me mine againe Ros. I haue it not Kin. What Ring was yours I pray you? Dian. Sir much like the same vpon your finger Kin. Know you this Ring, this Ring was his of late Dia. And this was it I gaue him being a bed Kin. The story then goes false, you threw it him Out of a Casement Dia. I haue spoke the truth. Enter Parolles. Ros. My Lord, I do confesse the ring was hers Kin. You boggle shrewdly, euery feather starts you: Is this the man you speake of? Dia. I, my Lord Kin. Tell me sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master: Which on your iust proceeding, Ile keepe off, By him and by this woman heere, what know you? Par. So please your Maiesty, my master hath bin an honourable Gentleman. Trickes hee hath had in him, which Gentlemen haue Kin. Come, come, to'th' purpose: Did hee loue this woman? Par. Faith sir he did loue her, but how Kin. How I pray you? Par. He did loue her sir, as a Gent. loues a Woman Kin. How is that? Par. He lou'd her sir, and lou'd her not Kin. As thou art a knaue and no knaue, what an equiuocall Companion is this? Par. I am a poore man, and at your Maiesties command Laf. Hee's a good drumme my Lord, but a naughtie Orator Dian. Do you know he promist me marriage? Par. Faith I know more then Ile speake Kin. But wilt thou not speake all thou know'st? Par. Yes so please your Maiesty: I did goe betweene them as I said, but more then that he loued her, for indeede he was madde for her, and talkt of Sathan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that I knewe of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would deriue mee ill will to speake of, therefore I will not speake what I know Kin. Thou hast spoken all alreadie, vnlesse thou canst say they are maried, but thou art too fine in thy euidence, therefore stand aside. This Ring you say was yours Dia. I my good Lord Kin. Where did you buy it? Or who gaue it you? Dia. It was not giuen me, nor I did not buy it Kin. Who lent it you? Dia. It was not lent me neither Kin. Where did you finde it then? Dia. I found it not Kin. If it were yours by none of all these wayes, How could you giue it him? Dia. I neuer gaue it him Laf. This womans an easie gloue my Lord, she goes off and on at pleasure Kin. This Ring was mine, I gaue it his first wife Dia. It might be yours or hers for ought I know Kin. Take her away, I do not like her now, To prison with her: and away with him, Vnlesse thou telst me where thou hadst this Ring, Thou diest within this houre Dia. Ile neuer tell you Kin. Take her away Dia. Ile put in baile my liedge Kin. I thinke thee now some common Customer Dia. By Ioue if euer I knew man 'twas you King. Wherefore hast thou accusde him al this while Dia. Because he's guiltie, and he is not guilty: He knowes I am no Maid, and hee'l sweare too't: Ile sweare I am a Maid, and he knowes not. Great King I am no strumpet, by my life, I am either Maid, or else this old mans wife Kin. She does abuse our eares, to prison with her Dia. Good mother fetch my bayle. Stay Royall sir, The Ieweller that owes the Ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this Lord, Who hath abus'd me as he knowes himselfe, Though yet he neuer harm'd me, heere I quit him. He knowes himselfe my bed he hath defil'd, And at that time he got his wife with childe: Dead though she be, she feeles her yong one kicke: So there's my riddle, one that's dead is quicke, And now behold the meaning. Enter Hellen and Widdow. Kin. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer Office of mine eyes? Is't reall that I see? Hel. No my good Lord, 'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing Ros. Both, both, O pardon Hel. Oh my good Lord, when I was like this Maid, I found you wondrous kinde, there is your Ring, And looke you, heeres your letter: this it sayes, When from my finger you can get this Ring, And is by me with childe, &c. This is done, Will you be mine now you are doubly wonne? Ros. If she my Liege can make me know this clearly, Ile loue her dearely, euer, euer dearly Hel. If it appeare not plaine, and proue vntrue, Deadly diuorce step betweene me and you. O my deere mother do I see you liuing? Laf. Mine eyes smell Onions, I shall weepe anon: Good Tom Drumme lend me a handkercher. So I thanke thee, waite on me home, Ile make sport with thee: Let thy curtsies alone, they are scuruy ones King. Let vs from point to point this storie know, To make the euen truth in pleasure flow: If thou beest yet a fresh vncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and Ile pay thy dower. For I can guesse, that by thy honest ayde, Thou keptst a wife her selfe, thy selfe a Maide. Of that and all the progresse more and lesse, Resoluedly more leasure shall expresse: All yet seemes well, and if it end so meete, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. Flourish. The Kings a Begger, now the Play is done, All is well ended, if this suite be wonne, That you expresse Content: which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day: Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts, Your gentle hands lend vs, and take our hearts. Exeunt. omn. FINIS. ALL'S Well, that Ends Well.

Scenes 1-2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101100305/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/alls-well-that-ends-well/summary-and-analysis/act-v-scenes-12

Helena, the widow and Diana are in pursuit of the king, whom they know to have traveled to Marseilles. Once there, they learn from a gentleman that the king has left in haste for Rousillon. Helena asks him to speed ahead with a message for the king. In Rousillon, Parolles is begging the clown to deliver a letter of his own to Lafeu, when that gentleman appears. After teasing Parolles about his fallen status, Lafeu shows pity and bids Parolles to follow him to the count's palace , saying, "Though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat."

Noteworthy here is the clown's relish in teasing Parolles with numerous scatological references to the "stench" he finds himself in with Fortune and society -- "Fortune's close-stool" and "a purn of Fortune" -- and Lafeu's contrasting good-humored forgiveness of the knavish fellow.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_1_chapters_1_to_3.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_0_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 1.scenes 1-3

act 1, scenes 1-3

{"name": "Act I, Scenes i-iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210211081705/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/allswell/section1/", "summary": "Helena, the daughter of a famous doctor, has been the ward of the Countess of Rousillon, a wise and kindly old noblewoman, since her father's death. The Countess' husband has also recently died, and her son Count Bertram, a brave, handsome, but callow young man, is sent to serve the King of France, his liege lord. . Helena is in love with Bertram, but hopelessly, since he is a nobleman and she a commoner. As he departs for the King's Court, she banters with Parolles, an unsavory character who has managed to gain Bertram's ear despite being a liar and a coward. They discuss chastity in coarse terms, with Parolles recommending that she find a husband and lose her virginity quickly. As they speak Helena conceives a plan that she hopes will gain her the hand of Bertram. Bertram arrives at the King's court, where the cautious monarch has recently decided to stay out of a war involving Austria and the Duke of Florence--with the caveat that any French noblemen who wish to involve themselves in the conflict are free to go. Greeting Bertram, the King laments the loss of the young man's father, and then remarks that he wishes Helena's father were still living, because only such a great doctor could now save his life. Meanwhile, in Rousillon, the Countess walks about and chats with the coarse, bawdy Clown who once served her husband. Her Steward joins them and informs the Countess that he overheard Helena declaring her love for Bertram; the noblewoman sends for her ward immediately. After much dissembling, Helena admits to loving the Countess' son, and then immediately declares her plan to go to the King's palace and offer her services as a doctor, using the medical knowledge that her father taught her. The Countess, while expressing her doubts that the King and the royal doctors will accept the help of a young woman, gives her blessing, and sends Helena on her way.", "analysis": "Commentary The play opens on a dark, somber note: as Bertram departs, his mother recalls her husband's passing, and Bertram comments that \"I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death anew.\" Lafew, the wise old nobleman, makes an attempt at comforting them by saying that the King will act as a husband and father to the family, but this only leads into a discussion of the King's illness, and how he has abandoned all hope of a cure--which, in turn, leads them to speak of the recent death of Helena's father. This conversation is useful to the audience, since it fills in the background details before the action of the play begins, but its heavy emphasis on illness and death casts a pall over the scene. Indeed, the entire older generation in All's Well That Ends Well is nearing death--the King, the Countess, and Lafew are all figures of wisdom, offering sage advice to the headstrong young, but they are also figures of decay and decrepitude. The Countess and Lafew speak repeatedly of their own feebleness and impending deaths; the King's life will be saved by Helena, but it is clearly only a reprieve, and he seems to lack energy, especially in his refusal to take part in the war that so many of his young nobles flock to join. In sum, the play presents a \"generation gap\"--a stark contrast between the weakness of the older generation and the vitality of the younger characters . The shadow that mortality casts on the action is one reason why this play has often been termed a \"problem comedy,\" or \"dark comedy.\" Another reason is the nature of the younger generation, who are poised to inherit from their wiser, aging elders. Bertram, the supposed romantic hero, possesses most of the appropriate attributes--everyone admits that he is handsome, dashing, and brave, and certainly, Helena speaks highly of him, describing his \"bright radiance and collateral light / . . . His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls\" in the glowing terms of a would-be lover. But, significantly, she only mentions, and we only observe, the superficial qualities of the man. When he shows his true colors later, his image will be tarnished significantly. Helena, meanwhile, is more appealing--her worth is evident despite her low birth--and already her resourcefulness is on display as she assumes the male role of physician and plans a journey to Paris. But her fixation on Bertram, while determined, will come to seem almost monomaniacal--it is her defining character trait, in the end. Her love, she admits, is a kind of \"idolatrous fancy,\" but she will not release her hold on it. There is a bitter edge to her humor, too, a coarseness that other Shakespearean heroines lack; her conversation with Parolles, filled with sexual innuendo, displays a cynicism about relations between the sexes that is seems jarring coming from a romantic heroine. The cynicism is appropriate to Parolles, of course, who seems cast as the villain in the early going. Eventually, his essential harmlessness will be revealed--he is a minor rogue, whose boasts and lies are dangerous, but not deadly."}

Actus primus. Scoena Prima. Enter yong Bertram Count of Rossillion, his Mother, and Helena, Lord Lafew, all in blacke. Mother. In deliuering my sonne from me, I burie a second husband Ros. And I in going Madam, weep ore my fathers death anew; but I must attend his maiesties command, to whom I am now in Ward, euermore in subiection Laf. You shall find of the King a husband Madame, you sir a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessitie hold his vertue to you, whose worthinesse would stirre it vp where it wanted rather then lack it where there is such abundance Mo. What hope is there of his Maiesties amendment? Laf. He hath abandon'd his Phisitions Madam, vnder whose practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other aduantage in the processe, but onely the loosing of hope by time Mo. This yong Gentlewoman had a father, O that had, how sad a passage tis, whose skill was almost as great as his honestie, had it stretch'd so far, would haue made nature immortall, and death should haue play for lacke of worke. Would for the Kings sake hee were liuing, I thinke it would be the death of the Kings disease Laf. How call'd you the man you speake of Madam? Mo. He was famous sir in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon Laf. He was excellent indeed Madam, the King very latelie spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly: hee was skilfull enough to haue liu'd stil, if knowledge could be set vp against mortallitie Ros. What is it (my good Lord) the King languishes of? Laf. A Fistula my Lord Ros. I heard not of it before Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this Gentlewoman the Daughter of Gerard de Narbon? Mo. His sole childe my Lord, and bequeathed to my ouer looking. I haue those hopes of her good, that her education promises her dispositions shee inherits, which makes faire gifts fairer: for where an vncleane mind carries vertuous qualities, there commendations go with pitty, they are vertues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simplenesse; she deriues her honestie, and atcheeues her goodnesse Lafew. Your commendations Madam get from her teares Mo. 'Tis the best brine a Maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father neuer approches her heart, but the tirrany of her sorrowes takes all liuelihood from her cheeke. No more of this Helena, go too, no more least it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, then to haue- Hell. I doe affect a sorrow indeed, but I haue it too Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessiue greefe the enemie to the liuing Mo. If the liuing be enemie to the greefe, the excesse makes it soone mortall Ros. Maddam I desire your holie wishes Laf. How vnderstand we that? Mo. Be thou blest Bertrame, and succeed thy father In manners as in shape: thy blood and vertue Contend for Empire in thee, and thy goodnesse Share with thy birth-right. Loue all, trust a few, Doe wrong to none: be able for thine enemie Rather in power then vse: and keepe thy friend Vnder thy owne lifes key. Be checkt for silence, But neuer tax'd for speech. What heauen more wil, That thee may furnish, and my prayers plucke downe, Fall on thy head. Farwell my Lord, 'Tis an vnseason'd Courtier, good my Lord Aduise him Laf. He cannot want the best That shall attend his loue Mo. Heauen blesse him: Farwell Bertram Ro. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoghts be seruants to you: be comfortable to my mother, your Mistris, and make much of her Laf. Farewell prettie Lady, you must hold the credit of your father Hell. O were that all, I thinke not on my father, And these great teares grace his remembrance more Then those I shed for him. What was he like? I haue forgott him. My imagination Carries no fauour in't but Bertrams. I am vndone, there is no liuing, none, If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one, That I should loue a bright particuler starre, And think to wed it, he is so aboue me In his bright radience and colaterall light, Must I be comforted, not in his sphere; Th' ambition in my loue thus plagues it selfe: The hind that would be mated by the Lion Must die for loue. 'Twas prettie, though a plague To see him euerie houre to sit and draw His arched browes, his hawking eie, his curles In our hearts table: heart too capeable Of euerie line and tricke of his sweet fauour. But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancie Must sanctifie his Reliques. Who comes heere? Enter Parrolles. One that goes with him: I loue him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious Liar, Thinke him a great way foole, solie a coward, Yet these fixt euils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when Vertues steely bones Lookes bleake i'th cold wind: withall, full ofte we see Cold wisedome waighting on superfluous follie Par. Saue you faire Queene Hel. And you Monarch Par. No Hel. And no Par. Are you meditating on virginitie? Hel. I: you haue some staine of souldier in you: Let mee aske you a question. Man is enemie to virginitie, how may we barracado it against him? Par. Keepe him out Hel. But he assailes, and our virginitie though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: vnfold to vs some war-like resistance Par. There is none: Man setting downe before you, will vndermine you, and blow you vp Hel. Blesse our poore Virginity from vnderminers and blowers vp. Is there no Military policy how Virgins might blow vp men? Par. Virginity beeing blowne downe, Man will quicklier be blowne vp: marry in blowing him downe againe, with the breach your selues made, you lose your Citty. It is not politicke, in the Common-wealth of Nature, to preserue virginity. Losse of Virginitie, is rationall encrease, and there was neuer Virgin goe, till virginitie was first lost. That you were made of, is mettall to make Virgins. Virginitie, by beeing once lost, may be ten times found: by being euer kept, it is euer lost: 'tis too cold a companion: Away with't Hel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a Virgin Par. There's little can bee saide in't, 'tis against the rule of Nature. To speake on the part of virginitie, is to accuse your Mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himselfe is a Virgin: Virginitie murthers it selfe, and should be buried in highwayes out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate Offendresse against Nature. Virginitie breedes mites, much like a Cheese, consumes it selfe to the very payring, and so dies with feeding his owne stomacke. Besides, Virginitie is peeuish, proud, ydle, made of selfe-loue, which is the most inhibited sinne in the Cannon. Keepe it not, you cannot choose but loose by't. Out with't: within ten yeare it will make it selfe two, which is a goodly increase, and the principall it selfe not much the worse. Away with't Hel. How might one do sir, to loose it to her owne liking? Par. Let mee see. Marry ill, to like him that ne're it likes. 'Tis a commodity wil lose the glosse with lying: The longer kept, the lesse worth: Off with't while 'tis vendible. Answer the time of request, Virginitie like an olde Courtier, weares her cap out of fashion, richly suted, but vnsuteable, iust like the brooch & the tooth-pick, which were not now: your Date is better in your Pye and your Porredge, then in your cheeke: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd peares, it lookes ill, it eates drily, marry 'tis a wither'd peare: it was formerly better, marry yet 'tis a wither'd peare: Will you any thing with it? Hel. Not my virginity yet: There shall your Master haue a thousand loues, A Mother, and a Mistresse, and a friend, A Phenix, Captaine, and an enemy, A guide, a Goddesse, and a Soueraigne, A Counsellor, a Traitoresse, and a Deare: His humble ambition, proud humility: His iarring, concord: and his discord, dulcet: His faith, his sweet disaster: with a world Of pretty fond adoptious christendomes That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he: I know not what he shall, God send him well, The Courts a learning place, and he is one Par. What one ifaith? Hel. That I wish well, 'tis pitty Par. What's pitty? Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt, that we the poorer borne, Whose baser starres do shut vs vp in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And shew what we alone must thinke, which neuer Returnes vs thankes. Enter Page. Pag. Monsieur Parrolles, My Lord cals for you Par. Little Hellen farewell, if I can remember thee, I will thinke of thee at Court Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were borne vnder a charitable starre Par. Vnder Mars I Hel. I especially thinke, vnder Mars Par. Why vnder Mars? Hel. The warres hath so kept you vnder, that you must needes be borne vnder Mars Par. When he was predominant Hel. When he was retrograde I thinke rather Par. Why thinke you so? Hel. You go so much backward when you fight Par. That's for aduantage Hel. So is running away, When feare proposes the safetie: But the composition that your valour and feare makes in you, is a vertue of a good wing, and I like the weare well Paroll. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answere thee acutely: I will returne perfect Courtier, in the which my instruction shall serue to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capeable of a Courtiers councell, and vnderstand what aduice shall thrust vppon thee, else thou diest in thine vnthankfulnes, and thine ignorance makes thee away, farewell: When thou hast leysure, say thy praiers: when thou hast none, remember thy Friends: Get thee a good husband, and vse him as he vses thee: So farewell Hel. Our remedies oft in our selues do lye, Which we ascribe to heauen: the fated skye Giues vs free scope, onely doth backward pull Our slow designes, when we our selues are dull. What power is it, which mounts my loue so hye, That makes me see, and cannot feede mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune, Nature brings To ioyne like, likes; and kisse like natiue things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their paines in sence, and do suppose What hath beene, cannot be. Who euer stroue To shew her merit, that did misse her loue? (The Kings disease) my proiect may deceiue me, But my intents are fixt, and will not leaue me. Exit Flourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with Letters, and diuers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' eares, Haue fought with equall fortune, and continue A brauing warre 1.Lo.G. So tis reported sir King. Nay tis most credible, we heere receiue it, A certaintie vouch'd from our Cosin Austria, With caution, that the Florentine will moue vs For speedie ayde: wherein our deerest friend Preiudicates the businesse, and would seeme To haue vs make deniall 1.Lo.G. His loue and wisedome Approu'd so to your Maiesty, may pleade For amplest credence King. He hath arm'd our answer, And Florence is deni'de before he comes: Yet for our Gentlemen that meane to see The Tuscan seruice, freely haue they leaue To stand on either part 2.Lo.E. It well may serue A nursserie to our Gentrie, who are sicke For breathing, and exploit King. What's he comes heere. Enter Bertram, Lafew, and Parolles. 1.Lor.G. It is the Count Rosignoll my good Lord, Yong Bertram King. Youth, thou bear'st thy Fathers face, Franke Nature rather curious then in hast Hath well compos'd thee: Thy Fathers morall parts Maist thou inherit too: Welcome to Paris Ber. My thankes and dutie are your Maiesties Kin. I would I had that corporall soundnesse now, As when thy father, and my selfe, in friendship First tride our souldiership: he did looke farre Into the seruice of the time, and was Discipled of the brauest. He lasted long, But on vs both did haggish Age steale on, And wore vs out of act: It much repaires me To talke of your good father; in his youth He had the wit, which I can well obserue To day in our yong Lords: but they may iest Till their owne scorne returne to them vnnoted Ere they can hide their leuitie in honour: So like a Courtier, contempt nor bitternesse Were in his pride, or sharpnesse; if they were, His equall had awak'd them, and his honour Clocke to it selfe, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speake: and at this time His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him, He vs'd as creatures of another place, And bow'd his eminent top to their low rankes, Making them proud of his humilitie, In their poore praise he humbled: Such a man Might be a copie to these yonger times; Which followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward Ber. His good remembrance sir Lies richer in your thoughts, then on his tombe: So in approofe liues not his Epitaph, As in your royall speech King. Would I were with him he would alwaies say, (Me thinkes I heare him now) his plausiue words He scatter'd not in eares, but grafted them To grow there and to beare: Let me not liue, This his good melancholly oft began On the Catastrophe and heele of pastime When it was out: Let me not liue (quoth hee) After my flame lackes oyle, to be the snuffe Of yonger spirits, whose apprehensiue senses All but new things disdaine; whose iudgements are Meere fathers of their garments: whose constancies Expire before their fashions: this he wish'd. I after him, do after him wish too: Since I nor wax nor honie can bring home, I quickly were dissolued from my hiue To giue some Labourers roome 2.L.E. You'r loued Sir, They that least lend it you, shall lacke you first Kin. I fill a place I know't: how long ist Count Since the Physitian at your fathers died? He was much fam'd Ber. Some six moneths since my Lord Kin. If he were liuing, I would try him yet. Lend me an arme: the rest haue worne me out With seuerall applications: Nature and sicknesse Debate it at their leisure. Welcome Count, My sonne's no deerer Ber. Thanke your Maiesty. Exit Flourish. Enter Countesse, Steward, and Clowne. Coun. I will now heare, what say you of this gentlewoman Ste. Maddam the care I haue had to euen your content, I wish might be found in the Kalender of my past endeuours, for then we wound our Modestie, and make foule the clearnesse of our deseruings, when of our selues we publish them Coun. What doe's this knaue heere? Get you gone sirra: the complaints I haue heard of you I do not all beleeue, 'tis my slownesse that I doe not: For I know you lacke not folly to commit them, & haue abilitie enough to make such knaueries yours Clo. 'Tis not vnknown to you Madam, I am a poore fellow Coun. Well sir Clo. No maddam, 'Tis not so well that I am poore, though manie of the rich are damn'd, but if I may haue your Ladiships good will to goe to the world, Isbell the woman and I will doe as we may Coun. Wilt thou needes be a begger? Clo. I doe beg your good will in this case Cou. In what case? Clo. In Isbels case and mine owne: seruice is no heritage, and I thinke I shall neuer haue the blessing of God, till I haue issue a my bodie: for they say barnes are blessings Cou. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marrie? Clo. My poore bodie Madam requires it, I am driuen on by the flesh, and hee must needes goe that the diuell driues Cou. Is this all your worships reason? Clo. Faith Madam I haue other holie reasons, such as they are Cou. May the world know them? Clo. I haue beene Madam a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are, and indeede I doe marrie that I may repent Cou. Thy marriage sooner then thy wickednesse Clo. I am out a friends Madam, and I hope to haue friends for my wiues sake Cou. Such friends are thine enemies knaue Clo. Y'are shallow Madam in great friends, for the knaues come to doe that for me which I am a wearie of: he that eres my Land, spares my teame, and giues mee leaue to Inne the crop: if I be his cuckold hee's my drudge; he that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; hee that cherishes my flesh and blood, loues my flesh and blood; he that loues my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend: if men could be contented to be what they are, there were no feare in marriage, for yong Charbon the Puritan, and old Poysam the Papist, how somere their hearts are seuer'd in Religion, their heads are both one, they may ioule horns together like any Deare i'th Herd Cou. Wilt thou euer be a foule mouth'd and calumnious knaue? Clo. A Prophet I Madam, and I speake the truth the next waie, for I the Ballad will repeate, which men full true shall finde, your marriage comes by destinie, your Cuckow sings by kinde Cou. Get you gone sir, Ile talke with you more anon Stew. May it please you Madam, that hee bid Hellen come to you, of her I am to speake Cou. Sirra tell my gentlewoman I would speake with her, Hellen I meane Clo. Was this faire face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy, Fond done, done, fond was this King Priams ioy, With that she sighed as she stood, bis And gaue this sentence then, among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten Cou. What, one good in tenne? you corrupt the song sirra Clo. One good woman in ten Madam, which is a purifying ath' song: would God would serue the world so all the yeere, weed finde no fault with the tithe woman if I were the Parson, one in ten quoth a? and wee might haue a good woman borne but ore euerie blazing starre, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the Lotterie well, a man may draw his heart out ere a plucke one Cou. Youle begone sir knaue, and doe as I command you? Clo. That man should be at womans command, and yet no hurt done, though honestie be no Puritan, yet it will doe no hurt, it will weare the Surplis of humilitie ouer the blacke-Gowne of a bigge heart: I am going forsooth, the businesse is for Helen to come hither. Enter. Cou. Well now Stew. I know Madam you loue your Gentlewoman intirely Cou. Faith I doe: her Father bequeath'd her to mee, and she her selfe without other aduantage, may lawfullie make title to as much loue as shee findes, there is more owing her then is paid, and more shall be paid her then sheele demand Stew. Madam, I was verie late more neere her then I thinke shee wisht mee, alone shee was, and did communicate to her selfe her owne words to her owne eares, shee thought, I dare vowe for her, they toucht not anie stranger sence, her matter was, shee loued your Sonne; Fortune shee said was no goddesse, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates: Loue no god, that would not extend his might onelie, where qualities were leuell, Queene of Virgins, that would suffer her poore Knight surpris'd without rescue in the first assault or ransome afterward: This shee deliuer'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow that ere I heard Virgin exclaime in, which I held my dutie speedily to acquaint you withall, sithence in the losse that may happen, it concernes you something to know it Cou. You haue discharg'd this honestlie, keepe it to your selfe, manie likelihoods inform'd mee of this before, which hung so tottring in the ballance, that I could neither beleeue nor misdoubt: praie you leaue mee, stall this in your bosome, and I thanke you for your honest care: I will speake with you further anon. Exit Steward. Enter Hellen. Old.Cou. Euen so it was with me when I was yong: If euer we are natures, these are ours, this thorne Doth to our Rose of youth rightlie belong Our bloud to vs, this to our blood is borne, It is the show, and seale of natures truth, Where loues strong passion is imprest in youth, By our remembrances of daies forgon, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none, Her eie is sicke on't, I obserue her now Hell. What is your pleasure Madam? Ol.Cou. You know Hellen I am a mother to you Hell. Mine honorable Mistris Ol.Cou. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I sed a mother Me thought you saw a serpent, what's in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the Catalogue of those That were enwombed mine, 'tis often seene Adoption striues with nature, and choise breedes A natiue slip to vs from forraine seedes: You nere opprest me with a mothers groane, Yet I expresse to you a mothers care, (Gods mercie maiden) dos it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? what's the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet? The manie colour'd Iris rounds thine eye? - Why, that you are my daughter? Hell. That I am not Old.Cou. I say I am your Mother Hell. Pardon Madam. The Count Rosillion cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honored name: No note vpon my Parents, his all noble, My Master, my deere Lord he is, and I His seruant liue, and will his vassall die: He must not be my brother Ol.Cou. Nor I your Mother Hell. You are my mother Madam, would you were So that my Lord your sonne were not my brother, Indeede my mother, or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, then I doe for heauen, So I were not his sister, cant no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother Old.Cou. Yes Hellen, you might be my daughter in law, God shield you meane it not, daughter and mother So striue vpon your pulse; what pale agen? My feare hath catcht your fondnesse! now I see The mistrie of your louelinesse, and finde Your salt teares head, now to all sence 'tis grosse: You loue my sonne, inuention is asham'd Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou doost not: therefore tell me true, But tell me then 'tis so, for looke, thy cheekes Confesse it 'ton tooth to th' other, and thine eies See it so grosely showne in thy behauiours, That in their kinde they speake it, onely sinne And hellish obstinacie tye thy tongue That truth should be suspected, speake, ist so? If it be so, you haue wound a goodly clewe: If it be not, forsweare't how ere I charge thee, As heauen shall worke in me for thine auaile To tell me truelie Hell. Good Madam pardon me Cou. Do you loue my Sonne? Hell. Your pardon noble Mistris Cou. Loue you my Sonne? Hell. Doe not you loue him Madam? Cou. Goe not about; my loue hath in't a bond Whereof the world takes note: Come, come, disclose: The state of your affection, for your passions Haue to the full appeach'd Hell. Then I confesse Here on my knee, before high heauen and you, That before you, and next vnto high heauen, I loue your Sonne: My friends were poore but honest, so's my loue: Be not offended, for it hurts not him That he is lou'd of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suite, Nor would I haue him, till I doe deserue him, Yet neuer know how that desert should be: I know I loue in vaine, striue against hope: Yet in this captious, and intemible Siue. I still poure in the waters of my loue And lacke not to loose still; thus Indian like Religious in mine error, I adore The Sunne that lookes vpon his worshipper, But knowes of him no more. My deerest Madam, Let not your hate incounter with my loue, For louing where you doe; but if your selfe, Whose aged honor cites a vertuous youth, Did euer, in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastly, and loue dearely, that your Dian Was both her selfe and loue, O then giue pittie To her whose state is such, that cannot choose But lend and giue where she is sure to loose; That seekes not to finde that, her search implies, But riddle like, liues sweetely where she dies Cou. Had you not lately an intent, speake truely, To goe to Paris? Hell. Madam I had Cou. Wherefore? tell true Hell. I will tell truth, by grace it selfe I sweare: You know my Father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prou'd effects, such as his reading And manifest experience, had collected For generall soueraigntie: and that he wil'd me In heedefull'st reseruation to bestow them, As notes, whose faculties inclusiue were, More then they were in note: Amongst the rest, There is a remedie, approu'd, set downe, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The King is render'd lost Cou. This was your motiue for Paris, was it, speake? Hell. My Lord, your sonne, made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King, Had from the conuersation of my thoughts, Happily beene absent then Cou. But thinke you Hellen, If you should tender your supposed aide, He would receiue it? He and his Phisitions Are of a minde, he, that they cannot helpe him: They, that they cannot helpe, how shall they credit A poore vnlearned Virgin, when the Schooles Embowel'd of their doctrine, haue left off The danger to it selfe Hell. There's something in't More then my Fathers skill, which was the great'st Of his profession, that his good receipt, Shall for my legacie be sanctified Byth' luckiest stars in heauen, and would your honor But giue me leaue to trie successe, I'de venture The well lost life of mine, on his Graces cure, By such a day, an houre Cou. Doo'st thou beleeue't? Hell. I Madam knowingly Cou. Why Hellen thou shalt haue my leaue and loue, Meanes and attendants, and my louing greetings To those of mine in Court, Ile staie at home And praie Gods blessing into thy attempt: Begon to morrow, and be sure of this, What I can helpe thee to, thou shalt not misse. Exeunt.

Act I, Scenes i-iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210211081705/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/allswell/section1/

Helena, the daughter of a famous doctor, has been the ward of the Countess of Rousillon, a wise and kindly old noblewoman, since her father's death. The Countess' husband has also recently died, and her son Count Bertram, a brave, handsome, but callow young man, is sent to serve the King of France, his liege lord. . Helena is in love with Bertram, but hopelessly, since he is a nobleman and she a commoner. As he departs for the King's Court, she banters with Parolles, an unsavory character who has managed to gain Bertram's ear despite being a liar and a coward. They discuss chastity in coarse terms, with Parolles recommending that she find a husband and lose her virginity quickly. As they speak Helena conceives a plan that she hopes will gain her the hand of Bertram. Bertram arrives at the King's court, where the cautious monarch has recently decided to stay out of a war involving Austria and the Duke of Florence--with the caveat that any French noblemen who wish to involve themselves in the conflict are free to go. Greeting Bertram, the King laments the loss of the young man's father, and then remarks that he wishes Helena's father were still living, because only such a great doctor could now save his life. Meanwhile, in Rousillon, the Countess walks about and chats with the coarse, bawdy Clown who once served her husband. Her Steward joins them and informs the Countess that he overheard Helena declaring her love for Bertram; the noblewoman sends for her ward immediately. After much dissembling, Helena admits to loving the Countess' son, and then immediately declares her plan to go to the King's palace and offer her services as a doctor, using the medical knowledge that her father taught her. The Countess, while expressing her doubts that the King and the royal doctors will accept the help of a young woman, gives her blessing, and sends Helena on her way.

Commentary The play opens on a dark, somber note: as Bertram departs, his mother recalls her husband's passing, and Bertram comments that "I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death anew." Lafew, the wise old nobleman, makes an attempt at comforting them by saying that the King will act as a husband and father to the family, but this only leads into a discussion of the King's illness, and how he has abandoned all hope of a cure--which, in turn, leads them to speak of the recent death of Helena's father. This conversation is useful to the audience, since it fills in the background details before the action of the play begins, but its heavy emphasis on illness and death casts a pall over the scene. Indeed, the entire older generation in All's Well That Ends Well is nearing death--the King, the Countess, and Lafew are all figures of wisdom, offering sage advice to the headstrong young, but they are also figures of decay and decrepitude. The Countess and Lafew speak repeatedly of their own feebleness and impending deaths; the King's life will be saved by Helena, but it is clearly only a reprieve, and he seems to lack energy, especially in his refusal to take part in the war that so many of his young nobles flock to join. In sum, the play presents a "generation gap"--a stark contrast between the weakness of the older generation and the vitality of the younger characters . The shadow that mortality casts on the action is one reason why this play has often been termed a "problem comedy," or "dark comedy." Another reason is the nature of the younger generation, who are poised to inherit from their wiser, aging elders. Bertram, the supposed romantic hero, possesses most of the appropriate attributes--everyone admits that he is handsome, dashing, and brave, and certainly, Helena speaks highly of him, describing his "bright radiance and collateral light / . . . His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls" in the glowing terms of a would-be lover. But, significantly, she only mentions, and we only observe, the superficial qualities of the man. When he shows his true colors later, his image will be tarnished significantly. Helena, meanwhile, is more appealing--her worth is evident despite her low birth--and already her resourcefulness is on display as she assumes the male role of physician and plans a journey to Paris. But her fixation on Bertram, while determined, will come to seem almost monomaniacal--it is her defining character trait, in the end. Her love, she admits, is a kind of "idolatrous fancy," but she will not release her hold on it. There is a bitter edge to her humor, too, a coarseness that other Shakespearean heroines lack; her conversation with Parolles, filled with sexual innuendo, displays a cynicism about relations between the sexes that is seems jarring coming from a romantic heroine. The cynicism is appropriate to Parolles, of course, who seems cast as the villain in the early going. Eventually, his essential harmlessness will be revealed--he is a minor rogue, whose boasts and lies are dangerous, but not deadly.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_2_chapters_1_to_3.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_1_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 2.scenes 1-3

act 2, scenes 1-3

{"name": "Act II, Scenes i-iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210211081705/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/allswell/section2/", "summary": "In Paris, the King of France bids farewell to a party of lords bound for the war in Florence, declaring that he may well be dead by the time they return. Two brothers, the First Lord and Second Lord Dumaine, urge Bertram to come with them to the war, but he says regretfully that the King has commanded him to remain at court. Parolles, boasting of his own prowess in battle, suggests that Bertram sneak away, and then wishes the two Lords good luck and the blessings of Mars, the god of war. The King, meanwhile, is in conversation with Lafew, an old lord who was recently visiting Rousillon, and who tells his sovereign that a female doctor has recently arrived promising a cure for his ailment. Helena is ushered in, and tells the King that on his deathbed her father gave her a powerful medicine, ordering her to keep it safe--and that she has brought the medicine to save the royal life. The King thanks her for her offer, but says that there is no point in trying, since his doctors insist that the disease is incurable. Helena responds that there is no harm in making an attempt, and then boldly promises that the medicine will restore his health within just two days. She goes further, saying that if the cure fails, her life should be forfeit. If it succeeds, however, she asks permission to choose whomever she desires as a husband. The King agrees to the bargain, and promises to try the medicine immediately. The Countess, after letting her Clown jest with her for a time, sends him to court with a message for Helena. In Paris, meanwhile, Parolles and Lafew remark on the amazing success of Helena's cure, which has restored the King to good health. True to his word, the King assembles five stalwart young noblemen as potential mates, but Helena passes over them all and selects Bertram. The young Count is taken aback, and declares that she is too far beneath him for the marriage to work. The King rebukes him, saying that inner worth is more important that noble birth, and promises to raise Helena to a higher rank; when Bertram still refuses to agree to the match, his monarch threatens to throw him out of royal favor. Faced with that threat, Bertram unhappily agrees, and the couple is immediately led to the altar. Left behind, Lafew and Parolles argue over the relative worth of the new husband and wife, with Lafew criticizing Bertram's conduct, and Parolles taking offense and trying to pick a fight--only to back away, saying that Lafew is too old for a duel. The old lord sees through the other man's bluster, and calls Parolles a coward. Meanwhile, Bertram returns, newly married, and tells Parolles that he will never consummate the wedding: he plans to send Helena home to his mother, and then run away to war.", "analysis": "Commentary The central problem of All's Well That Ends Well is illustrated by Bertram's behavior in these scenes. Given that he acts like a cad, treats her terribly, and essentially humiliates her, why does Helena continue to love him and pursue him? Why is she so smitten with a man who is obviously unworthy of her? In a way, one can almost pity Bertram, who finds himself forced to marry against his will by what is, essentially, a fairy-tale sequence of events--a fair maid saves a dying King and receives her true love's hand as a reward. But the young Count quickly forfeits our pity when he whines \"but follows it, my lord, to bring me down / Must answer for your raising? I know her well; / She had her breeding at my father's charge: / A poor physician's daughter my wife!\" . The arranged marriage--which a nobleman of the era would have been brought up to expect--bothers him less than the fact that Helena is not of noble birth, but only \"a poor physician's daughter. \" In short, he is a snob, and a foolish one at that, since he cannot perceive what all the wiser characters know at once, namely, that Helena is a better woman than he deserves. The King's words put it aptly: \"If she be / All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik'st-- / A poor physician's daughter--thou dislik'st / Of virtue for the name\" . But a noble name, more than virtue, is what matters to the callow Bertram. Indeed, we should not be surprised that he fails to recognize Helena's worth, given his ridiculously high estimation of Parolles's character. His boastful companion is not a master of deceit, like the great Shakespearean villains ; rather, Parolles is easily seen through, and every wise character in the play does so, beginning with Helena in the first act, and continuing here with the able Lafew. Some critics have argued that Parolles leads Bertram astray, but this is putting the cart before the horse--the fact that Bertram is taken in by Parolles is indicative of the weakness and folly that exists, independent of any outside influence, at the heart of his character. And Bertram's foolishness, too, is hardly a secret: just as all the wise characters see through Parolles, so do all of them, beginning with Lafew, perceive that Bertram is committing a great wrong in his treatment of Helena. Shakespeare is not interested in shades of gray here-- Bertram is condemned and Helena favored by everyone."}

Actus Secundus. Enter the King with diuers yong Lords, taking leaue for the Florentine warre: Count, Rosse, and Parrolles. Florish Cornets. King. Farewell yong Lords, these warlike principles Doe not throw from you, and you my Lords farewell: Share the aduice betwixt you, if both gaine, all The guift doth stretch it selfe as 'tis receiu'd, And is enough for both Lord.G. 'Tis our hope sir, After well entred souldiers, to returne And finde your grace in health King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confesse he owes the mallady That doth my life besiege: farwell yong Lords, Whether I liue or die, be you the sonnes Of worthy French men: let higher Italy (Those bated that inherit but the fall Of the last Monarchy) see that you come Not to wooe honour, but to wed it, when The brauest questant shrinkes: finde what you seeke, That fame may cry you loud: I say farewell L.G. Health at your bidding serue your Maiesty King. Those girles of Italy, take heed of them, They say our French, lacke language to deny If they demand: beware of being Captiues Before you serue Bo. Our hearts receiue your warnings King. Farewell, come hether to me 1.Lo.G. Oh my sweet Lord y you wil stay behind vs Parr. 'Tis not his fault the spark 2.Lo.E. Oh 'tis braue warres Parr. Most admirable, I haue seene those warres Rossill. I am commanded here, and kept a coyle with, Too young, and the next yeere, and 'tis too early Parr. And thy minde stand too't boy, Steale away brauely Rossill. I shal stay here the for-horse to a smocke, Creeking my shooes on the plaine Masonry, Till honour be bought vp, and no sword worne But one to dance with: by heauen, Ile steale away 1.Lo.G. There's honour in the theft Parr. Commit it Count 2.Lo.E. I am your accessary, and so farewell Ros. I grow to you, & our parting is a tortur'd body 1.Lo.G. Farewell Captaine 2.Lo.E. Sweet Mounsier Parolles Parr. Noble Heroes; my sword and yours are kinne, good sparkes and lustrous, a word good mettals. You shall finde in the Regiment of the Spinij, one Captaine Spurio his sicatrice, with an Embleme of warre heere on his sinister cheeke; it was this very sword entrench'd it: say to him I liue, and obserue his reports for me Lo.G. We shall noble Captaine Parr. Mars doate on you for his nouices, what will ye doe? Ross. Stay the King Parr. Vse a more spacious ceremonie to the Noble Lords, you haue restrain'd your selfe within the List of too cold an adieu: be more expressiue to them; for they weare themselues in the cap of the time, there do muster true gate; eat, speake, and moue vnder the influence of the most receiu'd starre, and though the deuill leade the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell Ross. And I will doe so Parr. Worthy fellowes, and like to prooue most sinewie sword-men. Exeunt. Enter Lafew. L.Laf. Pardon my Lord for mee and for my tidings King. Ile see thee to stand vp L.Laf. Then heres a man stands that has brought his pardon, I would you had kneel'd my Lord to aske me mercy, And that at my bidding you could so stand vp King. I would I had, so I had broke thy pate And askt thee mercy for't Laf. Goodfaith a-crosse, but my good Lord 'tis thus, Will you be cur'd of your infirmitie? King. No Laf. O will you eat no grapes my royall foxe? Yes but you will, my noble grapes, and if My royall foxe could reach them: I haue seen a medicine That's able to breath life into a stone, Quicken a rocke, and make you dance Canari With sprightly fire and motion, whose simple touch Is powerfull to arayse King Pippen, nay To giue great Charlemaine a pen in's hand And write to her a loue-line King. What her is this? Laf. Why doctor she: my Lord, there's one arriu'd, If you will see her: now by my faith and honour, If seriously I may conuay my thoughts In this my light deliuerance, I haue spoke With one, that in her sexe, her yeeres, profession, Wisedome and constancy, hath amaz'd mee more Then I dare blame my weakenesse: will you see her? For that is her demand, and know her businesse? That done, laugh well at me King. Now good Lafew, Bring in the admiration, that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wondring how thou tookst it Laf. Nay, Ile fit you, And not be all day neither King. Thus he his speciall nothing euer prologues Laf. Nay, come your waies. Enter Hellen. King. This haste hath wings indeed Laf. Nay, come your waies, This is his Maiestie, say your minde to him, A Traitor you doe looke like, but such traitors His Maiesty seldome feares, I am Cresseds Vncle, That dare leaue two together, far you well. Enter. King. Now faire one, do's your busines follow vs? Hel. I my good Lord, Gerard de Narbon was my father, In what he did professe, well found King. I knew him Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards him, Knowing him is enough: on's bed of death, Many receits he gaue me, chieflie one, Which as the dearest issue of his practice And of his olde experience, th' onlie darling, He bad me store vp, as a triple eye, Safer then mine owne two: more deare I haue so, And hearing your high Maiestie is toucht With that malignant cause, wherein the honour Of my deare fathers gift, stands cheefe in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humblenesse King. We thanke you maiden, But may not be so credulous of cure, When our most learned Doctors leaue vs, and The congregated Colledge haue concluded, That labouring Art can neuer ransome nature From her inaydible estate: I say we must not So staine our iudgement, or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malladie To empericks, or to disseuer so Our great selfe and our credit, to esteeme A sencelesse helpe, when helpe past sence we deeme Hell. My dutie then shall pay me for my paines: I will no more enforce mine office on you, Humbly intreating from your royall thoughts, A modest one to beare me backe againe King. I cannot giue thee lesse to be cal'd gratefull: Thou thoughtst to helpe me, and such thankes I giue, As one neere death to those that wish him liue: But what at full I know, thou knowst no part, I knowing all my perill, thou no Art Hell. What I can doe, can doe no hurt to try, Since you set vp your rest 'gainst remedie: He that of greatest workes is finisher, Oft does them by the weakest minister: So holy Writ, in babes hath iudgement showne, When Iudges haue bin babes; great flouds haue flowne From simple sources: and great Seas haue dried When Miracles haue by the great'st beene denied. Oft expectation failes, and most oft there Where most it promises: and oft it hits, Where hope is coldest, and despaire most shifts King. I must not heare thee, fare thee wel kind maide, Thy paines not vs'd, must by thy selfe be paid, Proffers not tooke, reape thanks for their reward Hel. Inspired Merit so by breath is bard, It is not so with him that all things knowes As 'tis with vs, that square our guesse by showes: But most it is presumption in vs, when The help of heauen we count the act of men. Deare sir, to my endeauors giue consent, Of heauen, not me, make an experiment. I am not an Imposture, that proclaime My selfe against the leuill of mine aime, But know I thinke, and thinke I know most sure, My Art is not past power, nor you past cure King. Art thou so confident? Within what space Hop'st thou my cure? Hel. The greatest grace lending grace, Ere twice the horses of the sunne shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnall ring, Ere twice in murke and occidentall dampe Moist Hesperus hath quench'd her sleepy Lampe: Or foure and twenty times the Pylots glasse Hath told the theeuish minutes, how they passe: What is infirme, from your sound parts shall flie, Health shall liue free, and sickenesse freely dye King. Vpon thy certainty and confidence, What dar'st thou venter? Hell. Taxe of impudence, A strumpets boldnesse, a divulged shame Traduc'd by odious ballads: my maidens name Seard otherwise, ne worse of worst extended With vildest torture, let my life be ended Kin. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak His powerfull sound, within an organ weake: And what impossibility would slay In common sence, sence saues another way: Thy life is deere, for all that life can rate Worth name of life, in thee hath estimate: Youth, beauty, wisedome, courage, all That happines and prime, can happy call: Thou this to hazard, needs must intimate Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate, Sweet practiser, thy Physicke I will try, That ministers thine owne death if I die Hel. If I breake time, or flinch in property Of what I spoke, vnpittied let me die, And well deseru'd: not helping, death's my fee, But if I helpe, what doe you promise me Kin. Make thy demand Hel. But will you make it euen? Kin. I by my Scepter, and my hopes of helpe Hel. Then shalt thou giue me with thy kingly hand What husband in thy power I will command: Exempted be from me the arrogance To choose from forth the royall bloud of France, My low and humble name to propagate With any branch or image of thy state: But such a one thy vassall, whom I know Is free for me to aske, thee to bestow Kin. Heere is my hand, the premises obseru'd, Thy will by my performance shall be seru'd: So make the choice of thy owne time, for I Thy resolv'd Patient, on thee still relye: More should I question thee, and more I must, Though more to know, could not be more to trust: From whence thou cam'st, how tended on, but rest Vnquestion'd welcome, and vndoubted blest. Giue me some helpe heere hoa, if thou proceed, As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed. Florish. Exit. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Lady. Come on sir, I shall now put you to the height of your breeding Clown. I will shew my selfe highly fed, and lowly taught, I know my businesse is but to the Court Lady. To the Court, why what place make you speciall, when you put off that with such contempt, but to the Court? Clo. Truly Madam, if God haue lent a man any manners, hee may easilie put it off at Court: hee that cannot make a legge, put off's cap, kisse his hand, and say nothing, has neither legge, hands, lippe, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the Court, but for me, I haue an answere will serue all men Lady. Marry that's a bountifull answere that fits all questions Clo. It is like a Barbers chaire that fits all buttockes, the pin buttocke, the quatch-buttocke, the brawn buttocke, or any buttocke Lady. Will your answere serue fit to all questions? Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an Atturney, as your French Crowne for your taffety punke, as Tibs rush for Toms fore-finger, as a pancake for Shroue-tuesday, a Morris for May-day, as the naile to his hole, the Cuckold to his horne, as a scolding queane to a wrangling knaue, as the Nuns lip to the Friers mouth, nay as the pudding to his skin Lady. Haue you, I say, an answere of such fitnesse for all questions? Clo. From below your Duke, to beneath your Constable, it will fit any question Lady. It must be an answere of most monstrous size, that must fit all demands Clo. But a triflle neither in good faith, if the learned should speake truth of it: heere it is, and all that belongs to't. Aske mee if I am a Courtier, it shall doe you no harme to learne Lady. To be young againe if we could: I will bee a foole in question, hoping to bee the wiser by your answer La. I pray you sir, are you a Courtier? Clo. O Lord sir theres a simple putting off: more, more, a hundred of them La. Sir I am a poore freind of yours, that loues you Clo. O Lord sir, thicke, thicke, spare not me La. I thinke sir, you can eate none of this homely meate Clo. O Lord sir; nay put me too't, I warrant you La. You were lately whipt sir as I thinke Clo. O Lord sir, spare not me La. Doe you crie O Lord sir at your whipping, and spare not me? Indeed your O Lord sir, is very sequent to your whipping: you would answere very well to a whipping if you were but bound too't Clo. I nere had worse lucke in my life in my O Lord sir: I see things may serue long, but not serue euer La. I play the noble huswife with the time, to entertaine it so merrily with a foole Clo. O Lord sir, why there't serues well agen La. And end sir to your businesse: giue Hellen this, And vrge her to a present answer backe, Commend me to my kinsmen, and my sonne, This is not much Clo. Not much commendation to them La. Not much imployement for you, you vnderstand me Clo. Most fruitfully, I am there, before my legges La. Hast you agen. Exeunt. Enter Count, Lafew, and Parolles. Ol.Laf. They say miracles are past, and we haue our Philosophicall persons, to make moderne and familiar things supernaturall and causelesse. Hence is it, that we make trifles of terrours, ensconcing our selues into seeming knowledge, when we should submit our selues to an vnknowne feare Par. Why 'tis the rarest argument of wonder, that hath shot out in our latter times Ros. And so 'tis Ol.Laf. To be relinquisht of the Artists Par. So I say both of Galen and Paracelsus Ol.Laf. Of all the learned and authenticke fellowes Par. Right so I say Ol.Laf. That gaue him out incureable Par. Why there 'tis, so say I too Ol.Laf. Not to be help'd Par. Right, as 'twere a man assur'd of a- Ol.Laf. Vncertaine life, and sure death Par. Iust, you say well: so would I haue said Ol.Laf. I may truly say, it is a noueltie to the world Par. It is indeede if you will haue it in shewing, you shall reade it in what do ye call there Ol.Laf. A shewing of a heauenly effect in an earthly Actor Par. That's it, I would haue said, the verie same Ol.Laf. Why your Dolphin is not lustier: fore mee I speake in respect- Par. Nay 'tis strange, 'tis very straunge, that is the breefe and the tedious of it, and he's of a most facinerious spirit, that will not acknowledge it to be the- Ol.Laf. Very hand of heauen Par. I, so I say Ol.Laf. In a most weake- Par. And debile minister great power, great trancendence, which should indeede giue vs a further vse to be made, then alone the recou'ry of the king, as to bee Old Laf. Generally thankfull. Enter King, Hellen, and attendants. Par. I would haue said it, you say well: heere comes the King Ol.Laf. Lustique, as the Dutchman saies: Ile like a maide the Better whil'st I haue a tooth in my head: why he's able to leade her a Carranto Par. Mor du vinager, is not this Helen? Ol.Laf. Fore God I thinke so King. Goe call before mee all the Lords in Court, Sit my preseruer by thy patients side, And with this healthfull hand whose banisht sence Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receyue The confirmation of my promis'd guift, Which but attends thy naming. Enter 3 or 4 Lords. Faire Maide send forth thine eye, this youthfull parcell Of Noble Batchellors, stand at my bestowing, Ore whom both Soueraigne power, and fathers voice I haue to vse; thy franke election make, Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake Hel. To each of you, one faire and vertuous Mistris; Fall when loue please, marry to each but one Old Laf. I'de giue bay curtall, and his furniture My mouth no more were broken then these boyes, And writ as little beard King. Peruse them well: Not one of those, but had a Noble father. She addresses her to a Lord. Hel. Gentlemen, heauen hath through me, restor'd the king to health All. We vnderstand it, and thanke heauen for you Hel. I am a simple Maide, and therein wealthiest That I protest, I simply am a Maide: Please it your Maiestie, I haue done already: The blushes in my cheekes thus whisper mee, We blush that thou shouldst choose, but be refused; Let the white death sit on thy cheeke for euer, Wee'l nere come there againe King. Make choise and see, Who shuns thy loue, shuns all his loue in mee Hel. Now Dian from thy Altar do I fly, And to imperiall loue, that God most high Do my sighes streame: Sir, wil you heare my suite? 1.Lo. And grant it Hel. Thankes sir, all the rest is mute Ol.Laf. I had rather be in this choise, then throw Ames-ace for my life Hel. The honor sir that flames in your faire eyes, Before I speake too threatningly replies: Loue make your fortunes twentie times aboue Her that so wishes, and her humble loue 2.Lo. No better if you please Hel. My wish receiue, Which great loue grant, and so I take my leaue Ol.Laf. Do all they denie her? And they were sons of mine, I'de haue them whip'd, or I would send them to'th Turke to make Eunuches of Hel. Be not afraid that I your hand should take, Ile neuer do you wrong for your owne sake: Blessing vpon your vowes, and in your bed Finde fairer fortune, if you euer wed Old Laf. These boyes are boyes of Ice, they'le none haue heere: sure they are bastards to the English, the French nere got em La. You are too young, too happie, and too good To make your selfe a sonne out of my blood 4.Lord. Faire one, I thinke not so Ol.Lord There's one grape yet, I am sure thy father drunke wine. But if thou be'st not an asse, I am a youth of fourteene: I haue knowne thee already Hel. I dare not say I take you, but I giue Me and my seruice, euer whilst I liue Into your guiding power: This is the man King. Why then young Bertram take her shee's thy wife Ber. My wife my Leige? I shal beseech your highnes In such a busines, giue me leaue to vse The helpe of mine owne eies King. Know'st thou not Bertram what shee ha's done for mee? Ber. Yes my good Lord, but neuer hope to know why I should marrie her King. Thou know'st shee ha's rais'd me from my sickly bed Ber. But followes it my Lord, to bring me downe Must answer for your raising? I knowe her well: Shee had her breeding at my fathers charge: A poore Physitians daughter my wife? Disdaine Rather corrupt me euer King. Tis onely title thou disdainst in her, the which I can build vp: strange is it that our bloods Of colour, waight, and heat, pour'd all together, Would quite confound distinction: yet stands off In differences so mightie. If she bee All that is vertuous (saue what thou dislik'st) A poore Phisitians daughter, thou dislik'st Of vertue for the name: but doe not so: From lowest place, whence vertuous things proceed, The place is dignified by th' doers deede. Where great additions swell's, and vertue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone, Is good without a name? Vilenesse is so: The propertie by what is is, should go, Not by the title. Shee is young, wise, faire, In these, to Nature shee's immediate heire: And these breed honour: that is honours scorne, Which challenges it selfe as honours borne, And is not like the sire: Honours thriue, When rather from our acts we them deriue Then our fore-goers: the meere words, a slaue Debosh'd on euerie tombe, on euerie graue: A lying Trophee, and as oft is dumbe, Where dust, and damn'd obliuion is the Tombe. Of honour'd bones indeed, what should be saide? If thou canst like this creature, as a maide, I can create the rest: Vertue, and shee Is her owne dower: Honour and wealth, from mee Ber. I cannot loue her, nor will striue to doo't King. Thou wrong'st thy selfe, if thou shold'st striue to choose Hel. That you are well restor'd my Lord, I'me glad: Let the rest go King. My Honor's at the stake, which to defeate I must produce my power. Heere, take her hand, Proud scornfull boy, vnworthie this good gift, That dost in vile misprision shackle vp My loue, and her desert: that canst not dreame, We poizing vs in her defectiue scale, Shall weigh thee to the beame: That wilt not know, It is in Vs to plant thine Honour, where We please to haue it grow. Checke thy contempt: Obey Our will, which trauailes in thy good: Beleeue not thy disdaine, but presentlie Do thine owne fortunes that obedient right Which both thy dutie owes, and Our power claimes, Or I will throw thee from my care for euer Into the staggers, and the carelesse lapse Of youth and ignorance: both my reuenge and hate Loosing vpon thee, in the name of iustice, Without all termes of pittie. Speake, thine answer Ber. Pardon my gracious Lord: for I submit My fancie to your eies, when I consider What great creation, and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it: I finde that she which late Was in my Nobler thoughts, most base: is now The praised of the King, who so ennobled, Is as 'twere borne so King. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise A counterpoize: If not to thy estate, A ballance more repleat Ber. I take her hand Kin. Good fortune, and the fauour of the King Smile vpon this Contract: whose Ceremonie Shall seeme expedient on the now borne briefe, And be perform'd to night: the solemne Feast Shall more attend vpon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lou'st her, Thy loue's to me Religious: else, do's erre. Exeunt. Parolles and Lafew stay behind, commenting of this wedding. Laf. Do you heare Monsieur? A word with you Par. Your pleasure sir Laf. Your Lord and Master did well to make his recantation Par. Recantation? My Lord? my Master? Laf. I: Is it not a Language I speake? Par. A most harsh one, and not to bee vnderstoode without bloudie succeeding. My Master? Laf. Are you Companion to the Count Rosillion? Par. To any Count, to all Counts: to what is man Laf. To what is Counts man: Counts maister is of another stile Par. You are too old sir: Let it satisfie you, you are too old Laf. I must tell thee sirrah, I write Man: to which title age cannot bring thee Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do Laf. I did thinke thee for two ordinaries: to bee a prettie wise fellow, thou didst make tollerable vent of thy trauell, it might passe: yet the scarffes and the bannerets about thee, did manifoldlie disswade me from beleeuing thee a vessell of too great a burthen. I haue now found thee, when I loose thee againe, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking vp, and that th'ourt scarce worth Par. Hadst thou not the priuiledge of Antiquity vpon thee Laf. Do not plundge thy selfe to farre in anger, least thou hasten thy triall: which if, Lord haue mercie on thee for a hen, so my good window of Lettice fare thee well, thy casement I neede not open, for I look through thee. Giue me thy hand Par. My Lord, you giue me most egregious indignity Laf. I with all my heart, and thou art worthy of it Par. I haue not my Lord deseru'd it Laf. Yes good faith, eu'ry dramme of it, and I will not bate thee a scruple Par. Well, I shall be wiser Laf. Eu'n as soone as thou can'st, for thou hast to pull at a smacke a'th contrarie. If euer thou bee'st bound in thy skarfe and beaten, thou shall finde what it is to be proud of thy bondage, I haue a desire to holde my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know Par. My Lord you do me most insupportable vexation Laf. I would it were hell paines for thy sake, and my poore doing eternall: for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will giue me leaue. Enter. Par. Well, thou hast a sonne shall take this disgrace off me; scuruy, old, filthy, scuruy Lord: Well, I must be patient, there is no fettering of authority. Ile beate him (by my life) if I can meete him with any conuenience, and he were double and double a Lord. Ile haue no more pittie of his age then I would haue of- Ile beate him, and if I could but meet him agen. Enter Lafew. Laf. Sirra, your Lord and masters married, there's newes for you: you haue a new Mistris Par. I most vnfainedly beseech your Lordshippe to make some reseruation of your wrongs. He is my good Lord, whom I serue aboue is my master Laf. Who? God Par. I sir Laf. The deuill it is, that's thy master. Why dooest thou garter vp thy armes a this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeues? Do other seruants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine Honor, if I were but two houres yonger, I'de beate thee: mee-think'st thou art a generall offence, and euery man shold beate thee: I thinke thou wast created for men to breath themselues vpon thee Par. This is hard and vndeserued measure my Lord Laf. Go too sir, you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernell out of a Pomgranat, you are a vagabond, and no true traueller: you are more sawcie with Lordes and honourable personages, then the Commission of your birth and vertue giues you Heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I'de call you knaue. I leaue you. Exit Enter Count Rossillion. Par. Good, very good, it is so then: good, very good, let it be conceal'd awhile Ros. Vndone, and forfeited to cares for euer Par. What's the matter sweet-heart? Rossill. Although before the solemne Priest I haue sworne, I will not bed her Par. What? what sweet heart? Ros. O my Parrolles, they haue married me: Ile to the Tuscan warres, and neuer bed her Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits, The tread of a mans foot: too'th warres Ros. There's letters from my mother: What th' import is, I know not yet Par. I that would be knowne: too'th warrs my boy, too'th warres: He weares his honor in a boxe vnseene, That hugges his kickie wickie heare at home, Spending his manlie marrow in her armes Which should sustaine the bound and high curuet Of Marses fierie steed: to other Regions, France is a stable, wee that dwell in't Iades, Therefore too'th warre Ros. It shall be so, Ile send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled: Write to the King That which I durst not speake. His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields Where noble fellowes strike: Warres is no strife To the darke house, and the detected wife Par. Will this Caprichio hold in thee, art sure? Ros. Go with me to my chamber, and aduice me. Ile send her straight away: To morrow, Ile to the warres, she to her single sorrow Par. Why these bals bound, ther's noise in it. Tis hard A yong man maried, is a man that's mard: Therefore away, and leaue her brauely: go, The King ha's done you wrong: but hush 'tis so. Exit Enter Helena and Clowne. Hel. My mother greets me kindly, is she well? Clo. She is not well, but yet she has her health, she's very merrie, but yet she is not well: but thankes be giuen she's very well, and wants nothing i'th world: but yet she is not well Hel. If she be verie wel, what do's she ayle, that she's not verie well? Clo. Truly she's very well indeed, but for two things Hel. What two things? Clo. One, that she's not in heauen, whether God send her quickly: the other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly. Enter Parolles. Par. Blesse you my fortunate Ladie Hel. I hope sir I haue your good will to haue mine owne good fortune Par. You had my prayers to leade them on, and to keepe them on, haue them still. O my knaue, how do's my old Ladie? Clo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her money, I would she did as you say Par. Why I say nothing Clo. Marry you are the wiser man: for many a mans tongue shakes out his masters vndoing: to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to haue nothing, is to be a great part of your title, which is within a verie little of nothing Par. Away, th'art a knaue Clo. You should haue said sir before a knaue, th'art a knaue, that's before me th'art a knaue: this had beene truth sir Par. Go too, thou art a wittie foole, I haue found thee Clo. Did you finde me in your selfe sir, or were you taught to finde me? Clo. The search sir was profitable, and much Foole may you find in you, euen to the worlds pleasure, and the encrease of laughter Par. A good knaue ifaith, and well fed. Madam, my Lord will go awaie to night, A verie serrious businesse call's on him: The great prerogatiue and rite of loue, Which as your due time claimes, he do's acknowledge, But puts it off to a compell'd restraint: Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets Which they distill now in the curbed time, To make the comming houre oreflow with ioy, And pleasure drowne the brim Hel. What's his will else? Par. That you will take your instant leaue a'th king, And make this hast as your owne good proceeding, Strengthned with what Apologie you thinke May make it probable neede Hel. What more commands hee? Par. That hauing this obtain'd, you presentlie Attend his further pleasure Hel. In euery thing I waite vpon his will Par. I shall report it so. Exit Par. Hell. I pray you come sirrah. Exit Enter Lafew and Bertram. Laf. But I hope your Lordshippe thinkes not him a souldier Ber. Yes my Lord and of verie valiant approofe Laf. You haue it from his owne deliuerance Ber. And by other warranted testimonie Laf. Then my Diall goes not true, I tooke this Larke for a bunting Ber. I do assure you my Lord he is very great in knowledge, and accordinglie valiant Laf. I haue then sinn'd against his experience, and transgrest against his valour, and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent: Heere he comes, I pray you make vs freinds, I will pursue the amitie. Enter Parolles. Par. These things shall be done sir Laf. Pray you sir whose his Tailor? Par. Sir? Laf. O I know him well, I sir, hee sirs a good workeman, a verie good Tailor Ber. Is shee gone to the king? Par. Shee is Ber. Will shee away to night? Par. As you'le haue her Ber. I haue writ my letters, casketted my treasure, Giuen order for our horses, and to night, When I should take possession of the Bride, And ere I doe begin Laf. A good Trauailer is something at the latter end of a dinner, but on that lies three thirds, and vses a known truth to passe a thousand nothings with, should bee once hard, and thrice beaten. God saue you Captaine Ber. Is there any vnkindnes betweene my Lord and you Monsieur? Par. I know not how I haue deserued to run into my Lords displeasure Laf. You haue made shift to run into't, bootes and spurres and all: like him that leapt into the Custard, and out of it you'le runne againe, rather then suffer question for your residence Ber. It may bee you haue mistaken him my Lord Laf. And shall doe so euer, though I tooke him at's prayers. Fare you well my Lord, and beleeue this of me, there can be no kernell in this light Nut: the soule of this man is his cloathes: Trust him not in matter of heauie consequence: I haue kept of them tame, & know their natures. Farewell Monsieur, I haue spoken better of you, then you haue or will to deserue at my hand, but we must do good against euill Par. An idle Lord, I sweare Ber. I thinke so Par. Why do you not know him? Ber. Yes, I do know him well, and common speech Giues him a worthy passe. Heere comes my clog. Enter Helena. Hel. I haue sir as I was commanded from you Spoke with the King, and haue procur'd his leaue For present parting, onely he desires Some priuate speech with you Ber. I shall obey his will. You must not meruaile Helen at my course, Which holds not colour with the time, nor does The ministration, and required office On my particular. Prepar'd I was not For such a businesse, therefore am I found So much vnsetled: This driues me to intreate you, That presently you take your way for home, And rather muse then aske why I intreate you, For my respects are better then they seeme, And my appointments haue in them a neede Greater then shewes it selfe at the first view, To you that know them not. This to my mother, 'Twill be two daies ere I shall see you, so I leaue you to your wisedome Hel. Sir, I can nothing say, But that I am your most obedient seruant Ber. Come, come, no more of that Hel. And euer shall With true obseruance seeke to eeke out that Wherein toward me my homely starres haue faild To equall my great fortune Ber. Let that goe: my hast is verie great. Farwell: Hie home Hel. Pray sir your pardon Ber. Well, what would you say? Hel. I am not worthie of the wealth I owe, Nor dare I say 'tis mine: and yet it is, But like a timorous theefe, most faine would steale What law does vouch mine owne Ber. What would you haue? Hel. Something, and scarse so much: nothing indeed, I would not tell you what I would my Lord: Faith yes, Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kisse Ber. I pray you stay not, but in hast to horse Hel. I shall not breake your bidding, good my Lord: Where are my other men? Monsieur, farwell. Exit Ber. Go thou toward home, where I wil neuer come, Whilst I can shake my sword, or heare the drumme: Away, and for our flight Par. Brauely, Coragio.

Act II, Scenes i-iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210211081705/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/allswell/section2/

In Paris, the King of France bids farewell to a party of lords bound for the war in Florence, declaring that he may well be dead by the time they return. Two brothers, the First Lord and Second Lord Dumaine, urge Bertram to come with them to the war, but he says regretfully that the King has commanded him to remain at court. Parolles, boasting of his own prowess in battle, suggests that Bertram sneak away, and then wishes the two Lords good luck and the blessings of Mars, the god of war. The King, meanwhile, is in conversation with Lafew, an old lord who was recently visiting Rousillon, and who tells his sovereign that a female doctor has recently arrived promising a cure for his ailment. Helena is ushered in, and tells the King that on his deathbed her father gave her a powerful medicine, ordering her to keep it safe--and that she has brought the medicine to save the royal life. The King thanks her for her offer, but says that there is no point in trying, since his doctors insist that the disease is incurable. Helena responds that there is no harm in making an attempt, and then boldly promises that the medicine will restore his health within just two days. She goes further, saying that if the cure fails, her life should be forfeit. If it succeeds, however, she asks permission to choose whomever she desires as a husband. The King agrees to the bargain, and promises to try the medicine immediately. The Countess, after letting her Clown jest with her for a time, sends him to court with a message for Helena. In Paris, meanwhile, Parolles and Lafew remark on the amazing success of Helena's cure, which has restored the King to good health. True to his word, the King assembles five stalwart young noblemen as potential mates, but Helena passes over them all and selects Bertram. The young Count is taken aback, and declares that she is too far beneath him for the marriage to work. The King rebukes him, saying that inner worth is more important that noble birth, and promises to raise Helena to a higher rank; when Bertram still refuses to agree to the match, his monarch threatens to throw him out of royal favor. Faced with that threat, Bertram unhappily agrees, and the couple is immediately led to the altar. Left behind, Lafew and Parolles argue over the relative worth of the new husband and wife, with Lafew criticizing Bertram's conduct, and Parolles taking offense and trying to pick a fight--only to back away, saying that Lafew is too old for a duel. The old lord sees through the other man's bluster, and calls Parolles a coward. Meanwhile, Bertram returns, newly married, and tells Parolles that he will never consummate the wedding: he plans to send Helena home to his mother, and then run away to war.

Commentary The central problem of All's Well That Ends Well is illustrated by Bertram's behavior in these scenes. Given that he acts like a cad, treats her terribly, and essentially humiliates her, why does Helena continue to love him and pursue him? Why is she so smitten with a man who is obviously unworthy of her? In a way, one can almost pity Bertram, who finds himself forced to marry against his will by what is, essentially, a fairy-tale sequence of events--a fair maid saves a dying King and receives her true love's hand as a reward. But the young Count quickly forfeits our pity when he whines "but follows it, my lord, to bring me down / Must answer for your raising? I know her well; / She had her breeding at my father's charge: / A poor physician's daughter my wife!" . The arranged marriage--which a nobleman of the era would have been brought up to expect--bothers him less than the fact that Helena is not of noble birth, but only "a poor physician's daughter. " In short, he is a snob, and a foolish one at that, since he cannot perceive what all the wiser characters know at once, namely, that Helena is a better woman than he deserves. The King's words put it aptly: "If she be / All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik'st-- / A poor physician's daughter--thou dislik'st / Of virtue for the name" . But a noble name, more than virtue, is what matters to the callow Bertram. Indeed, we should not be surprised that he fails to recognize Helena's worth, given his ridiculously high estimation of Parolles's character. His boastful companion is not a master of deceit, like the great Shakespearean villains ; rather, Parolles is easily seen through, and every wise character in the play does so, beginning with Helena in the first act, and continuing here with the able Lafew. Some critics have argued that Parolles leads Bertram astray, but this is putting the cart before the horse--the fact that Bertram is taken in by Parolles is indicative of the weakness and folly that exists, independent of any outside influence, at the heart of his character. And Bertram's foolishness, too, is hardly a secret: just as all the wise characters see through Parolles, so do all of them, beginning with Lafew, perceive that Bertram is committing a great wrong in his treatment of Helena. Shakespeare is not interested in shades of gray here-- Bertram is condemned and Helena favored by everyone.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/act_4_chapters_1_to_3.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/All's Well That Ends Well/section_4_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 4.scenes 1-3

act 4, scene 1-3

{"name": "Act IV, scene i-iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210211081705/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/allswell/section5/", "summary": "Outside the army's camp, the First Lord and Second Lord Dumaine wait with a party of their men to capture the unfortunate Parolles. They decide to disguise their voices by speaking nonsense, and pick a soldier whose voice is unfamiliar to their victim to act as \"interpreter.\" Parolles comes along soon enough, debating with himself how to make it look like he attempted the recovery of the drum without exposing himself to any danger. He considers giving himself a flesh wound, or ripping his clothes, and then wishes aloud that he had one of the enemy's drums, so he could pretend to have taken it. Then, screaming nonsense words, the group of soldiers falls upon him, binds him and blindfolds him. The ruse works--he believes himself to be captured by the enemy. In the Widow's house, Bertram pleads with Diana to agree to sleep with him, professing his love for her. After much prodding, she agrees to allow him to come to her bedroom late that night, but she demands the ring of his finger as a token of his love. He reluctantly gives it, telling her that the ring is the emblem of his family; in return, she makes him wear a ring of hers. In fact, the ring Diana gives him comes from Helena--it was a gift given to her by the King of France after his recovery. Bertram departs, convinced that he has won a pleasure-filled evening for himself. Back at the camp, the two Lords Dumaine discuss Bertram's conduct. His mother's letter, condemning his behavior, has arrived, and so has the false news that Helena has died in a monastery--a rumor spread, no doubt, by Helena herself. When Bertram returns from visiting Diana's bedroom, where he has been successfully duped into sleeping with Helena, the Lords take him to the location where Parolles lies pinioned, and tell him to watch. Then the soldier picked as \"interpreter\" threatens Parolles with torture unless he tells all the secrets of his army. Parolles, terrified, complies, and then goes on to give extremely unflattering descriptions of Bertram and both of the Lords Dumaine. His bags are searched, and a letter is found addressed to Diana, urging her to sleep with Bertram in return for payment. Finally, they declare that they will kill him anyway, and Parolles, completely undone, weeps and begs for his life. Amid much laughter, the blindfold is removed, and Parolles is left a ruined, friendless man. Nevertheless, he is not entirely discouraged--he has lost his position at Bertram's side, but he accepts the reversal and decides to get on with his life.", "analysis": "Commentary The action is these scenes is taken up with unfolding the plots devised earlier--the Dumaines' exposure of Parolles, and Helena's entrapment of her husband. The latter would seem to offer the greatest opportunity for laughs, but Elizabethan decorum requires that the sex take place off-stage: we must infer the success of Helena's ruse, since when Bertram returns to camp, he behaves as though his seduction of Diana was a triumph. What we see, in scene ii, is Diana seducing Bertram, as her honeyed words convince him to give up his ring. Her success proves her to be every bit as able a manipulator as Helena, and reconfirms the impression of Bertram as a fool everywhere but on the battlefield. The unmasking of Parolles, meanwhile, is played for deliberate comic effect, especially in the ludicrous nonsense language that his captors speak--ostensibly in order to disguise their voices, but mainly, one imagines, because Shakespeare took pleasure in having his characters speak lines like \"Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo. / Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo. \" Surrounded by voices intoning these ridiculous syllables, Parolles' fear is so strong that he almost becomes likable--he has no illusions about himself, certainly, and willingly abandons any pretense to honor when his life is threatened. The very eagerness with which Parolles falls over himself to denounce his former friends to the \"enemy\" is so baldly self-serving that the audience may agree with the First Lord's comment, made while Parolles is describing him as dishonest and corrupt--\"I begin to love him for this\". Parolles may be a rogue, but after enduring four acts of the supposedly \"noble\" Bertram, a little roguery can be appealing. Indeed, Bertram's priggish disillusionment with his former friend hardly excites the audience's sympathies, since Bertram has no one but himself to blame. Everyone else saw through Parolles from the beginning. A true villain, once revealed, must repent or die. But Parolles is strictly a minor rogue, able to easily roll with life's punches. \"If my heart were great,\" he remarks at the end, alone and friendless, \"'Twould burst at this\" . If his heart were great--but it isn't, he is no tragic hero or impassioned villain, but only a harmless fraud. \" Captain I'll be no more,\" Parolles says with a little wistfulness, \"But I will eat and drink and sleep as soft / As captain shall . . . There's place and means for every man alive. / I'll after them\" . In a sense, his pragmatism makes him Helena's spiritual brother, at least in ruthless practicality. Neither of them waste time on the inner turmoil characteristic of other Shakespearean characters: Helena loses her love and sets about getting him back my the most pragmatic means available; Parolles loses everything, but instead of bemoaning his fate, he shrugs and moves on, looking for greener pastures."}

Actus Quartus. Enter one of the Frenchmen, with fiue or sixe other souldiers in ambush. Lord E. He can come no other way but by this hedge corner: when you sallie vpon him, speake what terrible Language you will: though you vnderstand it not your selues, no matter: for we must not seeme to vnderstand him, vnlesse some one among vs, whom wee must produce for an Interpreter 1.Sol. Good Captaine, let me be th' Interpreter Lor.E. Art not acquainted with him? knowes he not thy voice? 1.Sol. No sir I warrant you Lo.E. But what linsie wolsy hast thou to speake to vs againe 1.Sol. E'n such as you speake to me Lo.E. He must thinke vs some band of strangers, i'th aduersaries entertainment. Now he hath a smacke of all neighbouring Languages: therefore we must euery one be a man of his owne fancie, not to know what we speak one to another: so we seeme to know, is to know straight our purpose: Choughs language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you interpreter, you must seeme very politicke. But couch hoa, heere hee comes, to beguile two houres in a sleepe, and then to returne & swear the lies he forges. Enter Parrolles. Par. Ten a clocke: Within these three houres 'twill be time enough to goe home. What shall I say I haue done? It must bee a very plausiue inuention that carries it. They beginne to smoake mee, and disgraces haue of late, knock'd too often at my doore: I finde my tongue is too foole-hardie, but my heart hath the feare of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue Lo.E. This is the first truth that ere thine own tongue was guiltie of Par. What the diuell should moue mee to vndertake the recouerie of this drumme, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must giue my selfe some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carrie it. They will say, came you off with so little? And great ones I dare not giue, wherefore what's the instance. Tongue, I must put you into a Butter-womans mouth, and buy my selfe another of Baiazeths Mule, if you prattle mee into these perilles Lo.E. Is it possible he should know what hee is, and be that he is Par. I would the cutting of my garments wold serue the turne, or the breaking of my Spanish sword Lo.E. We cannot affoord you so Par. Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem Lo.E. 'Twould not do Par. Or to drowne my cloathes, and say I was stript Lo.E. Hardly serue Par. Though I swore I leapt from the window of the Citadell Lo.E. How deepe? Par. Thirty fadome Lo.E. Three great oathes would scarse make that be beleeued Par. I would I had any drumme of the enemies, I would sweare I recouer'd it Lo.E. You shall heare one anon Par. A drumme now of the enemies. Alarum within. Lo.E. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo Par. O ransome, ransome, Do not hide mine eyes Inter. Boskos thromuldo boskos Par. I know you are the Muskos Regiment, And I shall loose my life for want of language. If there be heere German or Dane, Low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speake to me, Ile discouer that, which shal vndo the Florentine Int. Boskos vauvado, I vnderstand thee, & can speake thy tongue: Kerelybonto sir, betake thee to thy faith, for seuenteene ponyards are at thy bosome Par. Oh Inter. Oh pray, pray, pray, Manka reuania dulche Lo.E. Oscorbidulchos voliuorco Int. The Generall is content to spare thee yet, And hoodwinkt as thou art, will leade thee on To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst informe Something to saue thy life Par. O let me liue, And all the secrets of our campe Ile shew, Their force, their purposes: Nay, Ile speake that, Which you will wonder at Inter. But wilt thou faithfully? Par. If I do not, damne me Inter. Acordo linta. Come on, thou are granted space. Exit A short Alarum within. L.E. Go tell the Count Rossillion and my brother, We haue caught the woodcocke, and will keepe him mufled Till we do heare from them Sol. Captaine I will L.E. A will betray vs all vnto our selues, Informe on that Sol. So I will sir L.E. Till then Ile keepe him darke and safely lockt. Exit Enter Bertram, and the Maide called Diana. Ber. They told me that your name was Fontybell Dia. No my good Lord, Diana Ber. Titled Goddesse, And worth it with addition: but faire soule, In your fine frame hath loue no qualitie? If the quicke fire of youth light not your minde, You are no Maiden but a monument When you are dead you should be such a one As you are now: for you are cold and sterne, And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet selfe was got Dia. She then was honest Ber. So should you be Dia. No: My mother did but dutie, such (my Lord) As you owe to your wife Ber. No more a'that: I prethee do not striue against my vowes: I was compell'd to her, but I loue thee By loues owne sweet constraint, and will for euer Do thee all rights of seruice Dia. I so you serue vs Till we serue you: But when you haue our Roses, You barely leaue our thornes to pricke our selues, And mocke vs with our barenesse Ber. How haue I sworne Dia. Tis not the many oathes that makes the truth, But the plaine single vow, that is vow'd true: What is not holie, that we sweare not by, But take the high'st to witnesse: then pray you tell me, If I should sweare by Ioues great attributes, I lou'd you deerely, would you beleeue my oathes, When I did loue you ill? This ha's no holding To sweare by him whom I protest to loue That I will worke against him. Therefore your oathes Are words and poore conditions, but vnseal'd At lest in my opinion Ber. Change it, change it: Be not so holy cruell: Loue is holie, And my integritie ne're knew the crafts That you do charge men with: Stand no more off, But giue thy selfe vnto my sicke desires, Who then recouers. Say thou art mine, and euer My loue as it beginnes, shall so perseuer Dia. I see that men make rope's in such a scarre, That wee'l forsake our selues. Giue me that Ring Ber. Ile lend it thee my deere; but haue no power To giue it from me Dia. Will you not my Lord? Ber. It is an honour longing to our house, Bequeathed downe from manie Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In me to loose Dian. Mine Honors such a Ring, My chastities the Iewell of our house, Bequeathed downe from many Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In mee to loose. Thus your owne proper wisedome Brings in the Champion honor on my part, Against your vaine assault Ber. Heere, take my Ring, My house, mine honor, yea my life be thine, And Ile be bid by thee Dia. When midnight comes, knocke at my chamber window: Ile order take, my mother shall not heare. Now will I charge you in the band of truth, When you haue conquer'd my yet maiden-bed, Remaine there but an houre, nor speake to mee: My reasons are most strong, and you shall know them, When backe againe this Ring shall be deliuer'd: And on your finger in the night, Ile put Another Ring, that what in time proceeds, May token to the future, our past deeds. Adieu till then, then faile not: you haue wonne A wife of me, though there my hope be done Ber. A heauen on earth I haue won by wooing thee Di. For which, liue long to thank both heauen & me, You may so in the end. My mother told me iust how he would woo, As if she sate in's heart. She sayes, all men Haue the like oathes: He had sworne to marrie me When his wife's dead: therfore Ile lye with him When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braide, Marry that will, I liue and die a Maid: Onely in this disguise, I think't no sinne, To cosen him that would vniustly winne. Exit Enter the two French Captaines, and some two or three Souldiours. Cap.G. You haue not giuen him his mothers letter Cap.E. I haue deliu'red it an houre since, there is som thing in't that stings his nature: for on the reading it, he chang'd almost into another man Cap.G. He has much worthy blame laid vpon him, for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a Lady Cap.E. Especially, hee hath incurred the euerlasting displeasure of the King, who had euen tun'd his bounty to sing happinesse to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you Cap.G. When you haue spoken it 'tis dead, and I am the graue of it Cap.E. Hee hath peruerted a young Gentlewoman heere in Florence, of a most chaste renown, & this night he fleshes his will in the spoyle of her honour: hee hath giuen her his monumentall Ring, and thinkes himselfe made in the vnchaste composition Cap.G. Now God delay our rebellion as we are our selues, what things are we Cap.E. Meerely our owne traitours. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reueale themselues, till they attaine to their abhorr'd ends: so he that in this action contriues against his owne Nobility in his proper streame, ore-flowes himselfe Cap.G. Is it not meant damnable in vs, to be Trumpeters of our vnlawfull intents? We shall not then haue his company to night? Cap.E. Not till after midnight: for hee is dieted to his houre Cap.G. That approaches apace: I would gladly haue him see his company anathomiz'd, that hee might take a measure of his owne iudgements, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit Cap.E. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other Cap.G. In the meane time, what heare you of these Warres? Cap.E. I heare there is an ouerture of peace Cap.G. Nay, I assure you a peace concluded Cap.E. What will Count Rossillion do then? Will he trauaile higher, or returne againe into France? Cap.G. I perceiue by this demand, you are not altogether of his councell Cap.E. Let it be forbid sir, so should I bee a great deale of his act Cap.G. Sir, his wife some two months since fledde from his house, her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Iaques le grand; which holy vndertaking, with most austere sanctimonie she accomplisht: and there residing, the tendernesse of her Nature, became as a prey to her greefe: in fine, made a groane of her last breath, & now she sings in heauen Cap.E. How is this iustified? Cap.G. The stronger part of it by her owne Letters, which makes her storie true, euen to the poynt of her death: her death it selfe, which could not be her office to say, is come: was faithfully confirm'd by the Rector of the place Cap.E. Hath the Count all this intelligence? Cap.G. I, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the veritie Cap.E. I am heartily sorrie that hee'l bee gladde of this Cap.G. How mightily sometimes, we make vs comforts of our losses Cap.E. And how mightily some other times, wee drowne our gaine in teares, the great dignitie that his valour hath here acquir'd for him, shall at home be encountred with a shame as ample Cap.G. The webbe of our life, is of a mingled yarne, good and ill together: our vertues would bee proud, if our faults whipt them not, and our crimes would dispaire if they were not cherish'd by our vertues. Enter a Messenger. How now? Where's your master? Ser. He met the Duke in the street sir, of whom hee hath taken a solemne leaue: his Lordshippe will next morning for France. The Duke hath offered him Letters of commendations to the King Cap.E. They shall bee no more then needfull there, if they were more then they can commend. Enter Count Rossillion. Ber. They cannot be too sweete for the Kings tartnesse, heere's his Lordship now. How now my Lord, i'st not after midnight? Ber. I haue to night dispatch'd sixteene businesses, a moneths length a peece, by an abstract of successe: I haue congied with the Duke, done my adieu with his neerest; buried a wife, mourn'd for her, writ to my Ladie mother, I am returning, entertain'd my Conuoy, & betweene these maine parcels of dispatch, affected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I haue not ended yet Cap.E. If the businesse bee of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires hast of your Lordship Ber. I meane the businesse is not ended, as fearing to heare of it hereafter: but shall we haue this dialogue betweene the Foole and the Soldiour. Come, bring forth this counterfet module, ha's deceiu'd mee, like a double-meaning Prophesier Cap.E. Bring him forth, ha's sate i'th stockes all night poore gallant knaue Ber. No matter, his heeles haue deseru'd it, in vsurping his spurres so long. How does he carry himselfe? Cap.E. I haue told your Lordship alreadie: The stockes carrie him. But to answer you as you would be vnderstood, hee weepes like a wench that had shed her milke, he hath confest himselfe to Morgan, whom hee supposes to be a Friar, fro[m] the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i'th stockes: and what thinke you he hath confest? Ber. Nothing of me, ha's a? Cap.E. His confession is taken, and it shall bee read to his face, if your Lordshippe be in't, as I beleeue you are, you must haue the patience to heare it. Enter Parolles with his Interpreter. Ber. A plague vpon him, muffeld; he can say nothing of me: hush, hush Cap.G. Hoodman comes: Portotartarossa Inter. He calles for the tortures, what will you say without em Par. I will confesse what I know without constraint, If ye pinch me like a Pasty, I can say no more Int. Bosko Chimurcho Cap. Boblibindo chicurmurco Int. You are a mercifull Generall: Our Generall bids you answer to what I shall aske you out of a Note Par. And truly, as I hope to liue Int. First demand of him, how many horse the Duke is strong. What say you to that? Par. Fiue or sixe thousand, but very weake and vnseruiceable: the troopes are all scattered, and the Commanders verie poore rogues, vpon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to liue Int. Shall I set downe your answer so? Par. Do, Ile take the Sacrament on't, how & which way you will: all's one to him Ber. What a past-sauing slaue is this? Cap.G. Y'are deceiu'd my Lord, this is Mounsieur Parrolles the gallant militarist, that was his owne phrase that had the whole theoricke of warre in the knot of his scarfe, and the practise in the chape of his dagger Cap.E. I will neuer trust a man againe, for keeping his sword cleane, nor beleeue he can haue euerie thing in him, by wearing his apparrell neatly Int. Well, that's set downe Par. Fiue or six thousand horse I sed, I will say true, or thereabouts set downe, for Ile speake truth Cap.G. He's very neere the truth in this Ber. But I con him no thankes for't in the nature he deliuers it Par. Poore rogues, I pray you say Int. Well, that's set downe Par. I humbly thanke you sir, a truth's a truth, the Rogues are maruailous poore Interp. Demaund of him of what strength they are a foot. What say you to that? Par. By my troth sir, if I were to liue this present houre, I will tell true. Let me see, Spurio a hundred & fiftie, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Iaques so many: Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowicke, and Gratij, two hundred fiftie each: Mine owne Company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentij, two hundred fiftie each: so that the muster file, rotten and sound, vppon my life amounts not to fifteene thousand pole, halfe of the which, dare not shake the snow from off their Cassockes, least they shake themselues to peeces Ber. What shall be done to him? Cap.G. Nothing, but let him haue thankes. Demand of him my condition: and what credite I haue with the Duke Int. Well that's set downe: you shall demaund of him, whether one Captaine Dumaine bee i'th Campe, a Frenchman: what his reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honestie, and expertnesse in warres: or whether he thinkes it were not possible with well-waighing summes of gold to corrupt him to a reuolt. What say you to this? What do you know of it? Par. I beseech you let me answer to the particular of the intergatories. Demand them singly Int. Do you know this Captaine Dumaine? Par. I know him, a was a Botchers Prentize in Paris, from whence he was whipt for getting the Shrieues fool with childe, a dumbe innocent that could not say him nay Ber. Nay, by your leaue hold your hands, though I know his braines are forfeite to the next tile that fals Int. Well, is this Captaine in the Duke of Florences campe? Par. Vpon my knowledge he is, and lowsie Cap.G. Nay looke not so vpon me: we shall heare of your Lord anon Int. What is his reputation with the Duke? Par. The Duke knowes him for no other, but a poore Officer of mine, and writ to mee this other day, to turne him out a'th band. I thinke I haue his Letter in my pocket Int. Marry we'll search Par. In good sadnesse I do not know, either it is there, or it is vpon a file with the Dukes other Letters, in my Tent Int. Heere 'tis, heere's a paper, shall I reade it to you? Par. I do not know if it be it or no Ber. Our Interpreter do's it well Cap.G. Excellently Int. Dian, the Counts a foole, and full of gold Par. That is not the Dukes letter sir: that is an aduertisement to a proper maide in Florence, one Diana, to take heede of the allurement of one Count Rossillion, a foolish idle boy: but for all that very ruttish. I pray you sir put it vp againe Int. Nay, Ile reade it first by your fauour Par. My meaning in't I protest was very honest in the behalfe of the maid: for I knew the young Count to be a dangerous and lasciuious boy, who is a whale to Virginity, and deuours vp all the fry it finds Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue Int. Let. When he sweares oathes, bid him drop gold, and take it: After he scores, he neuer payes the score: Halfe won is match well made, match and well make it, He nere payes after-debts, take it before, And say a souldier (Dian) told thee this: Men are to mell with, boyes are not to kis. For count of this, the Counts a Foole I know it, Who payes before, but not when he does owe it. Thine as he vow'd to thee in thine eare, Parolles Ber. He shall be whipt through the Armie with this rime in's forehead Cap.E. This is your deuoted friend sir, the manifold Linguist, and the army-potent souldier Ber. I could endure any thing before but a Cat, and now he's a Cat to me Int. I perceiue sir by your Generals lookes, wee shall be faine to hang you Par. My life sir in any case: Not that I am afraide to dye, but that my offences beeing many, I would repent out the remainder of Nature. Let me liue sir in a dungeon, i'th stockes, or any where, so I may liue Int. Wee'le see what may bee done, so you confesse freely: therefore once more to this Captaine Dumaine: you haue answer'd to his reputation with the Duke, and to his valour. What is his honestie? Par. He will steale sir an Egge out of a Cloister: for rapes and rauishments he paralels Nessus. Hee professes not keeping of oaths, in breaking em he is stronger then Hercules. He will lye sir, with such volubilitie, that you would thinke truth were a foole: drunkennesse is his best vertue, for he will be swine-drunke, and in his sleepe he does little harme, saue to his bed-cloathes about him: but they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I haue but little more to say sir of his honesty, he ha's euerie thing that an honest man should not haue; what an honest man should haue, he has nothing Cap.G. I begin to loue him for this Ber. For this description of thine honestie? A pox vpon him for me, he's more and more a Cat Int. What say you to his expertnesse in warre? Par. Faith sir, ha's led the drumme before the English Tragedians: to belye him I will not, and more of his souldiership I know not, except in that Country, he had the honour to be the Officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would doe the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certaine Cap.G. He hath out-villain'd villanie so farre, that the raritie redeemes him Ber. A pox on him, he's a Cat still Int. His qualities being at this poore price, I neede not to aske you, if Gold will corrupt him to reuolt Par. Sir, for a Cardceue he will sell the fee-simple of his saluation, the inheritance of it, and cut th' intaile from all remainders, and a perpetuall succession for it perpetually Int. What's his Brother, the other Captain Dumain? Cap.E. Why do's he aske him of me? Int. What's he? Par. E'ne a Crow a'th same nest: not altogether so great as the first in goodnesse, but greater a great deale in euill. He excels his Brother for a coward, yet his Brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreate hee outrunnes any Lackey; marrie in comming on, hee ha's the Crampe Int. If your life be saued, will you vndertake to betray the Florentine Par. I, and the Captaine of his horse, Count Rossillion Int. Ile whisper with the Generall, and knowe his pleasure Par. Ile no more drumming, a plague of all drummes, onely to seeme to deserue well, and to beguile the supposition of that lasciuious yong boy the Count, haue I run into this danger: yet who would haue suspected an ambush where I was taken? Int. There is no remedy sir, but you must dye: the Generall sayes, you that haue so traitorously discouerd the secrets of your army, and made such pestifferous reports of men very nobly held, can serue the world for no honest vse: therefore you must dye. Come headesman, off with his head Par. O Lord sir let me liue, or let me see my death Int. That shall you, and take your leaue of all your friends: So, looke about you, know you any heere? Count. Good morrow noble Captaine Lo.E. God blesse you Captaine Parolles Cap.G. God saue you noble Captaine Lo.E. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France Cap.G. Good Captaine will you giue me a Copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalfe of the Count Rossillion, and I were not a verie Coward, I'de compell it of you, but far you well. Exeunt. Int. You are vndone Captaine all but your scarfe, that has a knot on't yet Par. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot? Inter. If you could finde out a Countrie where but women were that had receiued so much shame, you might begin an impudent Nation. Fare yee well sir, I am for France too, we shall speake of you there. Exit Par. Yet am I thankfull: if my heart were great 'Twould burst at this: Captaine Ile be no more, But I will eate, and drinke, and sleepe as soft As Captaine shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me liue: who knowes himselfe a braggart Let him feare this; for it will come to passe, That euery braggart shall be found an Asse. Rust sword, coole blushes, and Parrolles liue Safest in shame: being fool'd, by fool'rie thriue; There's place and meanes for euery man aliue. Ile after them. Enter. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana. Hel. That you may well perceiue I haue not wrong'd you, One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my suretie: for whose throne 'tis needfull Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneele. Time was, I did him a desired office Deere almost as his life, which gratitude Through flintie Tartars bosome would peepe forth, And answer thankes. I duly am inform'd, His grace is at Marcellae, to which place We haue conuenient conuoy: you must know I am supposed dead, the Army breaking, My husband hies him home, where heauen ayding, And by the leaue of my good Lord the King, Wee'l be before our welcome Wid. Gentle Madam, You neuer had a seruant to whose trust Your busines was more welcome Hel. Nor your Mistris Euer a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour To recompence your loue: Doubt not but heauen Hath brought me vp to be your daughters dower, As it hath fated her to be my motiue And helper to a husband. But O strange men, That can such sweet vse make of what they hate, When sawcie trusting of the cosin'd thoughts Defiles the pitchy night, so lust doth play With what it loathes, for that which is away, But more of this heereafter: you Diana, Vnder my poore instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalfe Dia. Let death and honestie Go with your impositions, I am yours Vpon your will to suffer Hel. Yet I pray you: But with the word the time will bring on summer, When Briars shall haue leaues as well as thornes, And be as sweet as sharpe: we must away, Our Wagon is prepar'd, and time reuiues vs, All's well that ends well, still the fines the Crowne; What ere the course, the end is the renowne. Exeunt. Enter Clowne, old Lady, and Lafew. Laf. No, no, no, your sonne was misled with a snipt taffata fellow there, whose villanous saffron wold haue made all the vnbak'd and dowy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had beene aliue at this houre, and your sonne heere at home, more aduanc'd by the King, then by that red-tail'd humble Bee I speak of La. I would I had not knowne him, it was the death of the most vertuous gentlewoman, that euer Nature had praise for creating. If she had pertaken of my flesh and cost mee the deerest groanes of a mother, I could not haue owed her a more rooted loue Laf. Twas a good Lady, 'twas a good Lady. Wee may picke a thousand sallets ere wee light on such another hearbe Clo. Indeed sir she was the sweete Margerom of the sallet, or rather the hearbe of grace Laf. They are not hearbes you knaue, they are nose-hearbes Clowne. I am no great Nabuchadnezar sir, I haue not much skill in grace Laf. Whether doest thou professe thy selfe, a knaue or a foole? Clo. A foole sir at a womans seruice, and a knaue at a mans Laf. Your distinction Clo. I would cousen the man of his wife, and do his seruice Laf. So you were a knaue at his seruice indeed Clo. And I would giue his wife my bauble sir to doe her seruice Laf. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knaue and foole Clo. At your seruice Laf. No, no, no Clo. Why sir, if I cannot serue you, I can serue as great a prince as you are Laf. Whose that, a Frenchman? Clo. Faith sir a has an English maine, but his fisnomie is more hotter in France then there Laf. What prince is that? Clo. The blacke prince sir, alias the prince of darkenesse, alias the diuell Laf. Hold thee there's my purse, I giue thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talk'st off, serue him still Clo. I am a woodland fellow sir, that alwaies loued a great fire, and the master I speak of euer keeps a good fire, but sure he is the Prince of the world, let his Nobilitie remaine in's Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pompe to enter: some that humble themselues may, but the manie will be too chill and tender, and theyle bee for the flowrie way that leads to the broad gate, and the great fire Laf. Go thy waies, I begin to bee a wearie of thee, and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy wayes, let my horses be wel look'd too, without any trickes Clo. If I put any trickes vpon em sir, they shall bee Iades trickes, which are their owne right by the law of Nature. Exit Laf. A shrewd knaue and an vnhappie Lady. So a is. My Lord that's gone made himselfe much sport out of him, by his authoritie hee remaines heere, which he thinkes is a pattent for his sawcinesse, and indeede he has no pace, but runnes where he will Laf. I like him well, 'tis not amisse: and I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good Ladies death, and that my Lord your sonne was vpon his returne home. I moued the King my master to speake in the behalfe of my daughter, which in the minoritie of them both, his Maiestie out of a selfe gracious remembrance did first propose, his Highnesse hath promis'd me to doe it, and to stoppe vp the displeasure he hath conceiued against your sonne, there is no fitter matter. How do's your Ladyship like it? La. With verie much content my Lord, and I wish it happily effected Laf. His Highnesse comes post from Marcellus, of as able bodie as when he number'd thirty, a will be heere to morrow, or I am deceiu'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldome fail'd La. It reioyces me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I haue letters that my sonne will be heere to night: I shall beseech your Lordship to remaine with mee, till they meete together Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted Lad. You neede but pleade your honourable priuiledge Laf. Ladie, of that I haue made a bold charter, but I thanke my God, it holds yet. Enter Clowne. Clo. O Madam, yonders my Lord your sonne with a patch of veluet on's face, whether there bee a scar vnder't or no, the Veluet knowes, but 'tis a goodly patch of Veluet, his left cheeke is a cheeke of two pile and a halfe, but his right cheeke is worne bare Laf. A scarre nobly got, Or a noble scarre, is a good liu'rie of honor, So belike is that Clo. But it is your carbinado'd face Laf. Let vs go see your sonne I pray you, I long to talke With the yong noble souldier Clowne. 'Faith there's a dozen of em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head, and nod at euerie man. Exeunt.

Act IV, scene i-iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210211081705/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/allswell/section5/

Outside the army's camp, the First Lord and Second Lord Dumaine wait with a party of their men to capture the unfortunate Parolles. They decide to disguise their voices by speaking nonsense, and pick a soldier whose voice is unfamiliar to their victim to act as "interpreter." Parolles comes along soon enough, debating with himself how to make it look like he attempted the recovery of the drum without exposing himself to any danger. He considers giving himself a flesh wound, or ripping his clothes, and then wishes aloud that he had one of the enemy's drums, so he could pretend to have taken it. Then, screaming nonsense words, the group of soldiers falls upon him, binds him and blindfolds him. The ruse works--he believes himself to be captured by the enemy. In the Widow's house, Bertram pleads with Diana to agree to sleep with him, professing his love for her. After much prodding, she agrees to allow him to come to her bedroom late that night, but she demands the ring of his finger as a token of his love. He reluctantly gives it, telling her that the ring is the emblem of his family; in return, she makes him wear a ring of hers. In fact, the ring Diana gives him comes from Helena--it was a gift given to her by the King of France after his recovery. Bertram departs, convinced that he has won a pleasure-filled evening for himself. Back at the camp, the two Lords Dumaine discuss Bertram's conduct. His mother's letter, condemning his behavior, has arrived, and so has the false news that Helena has died in a monastery--a rumor spread, no doubt, by Helena herself. When Bertram returns from visiting Diana's bedroom, where he has been successfully duped into sleeping with Helena, the Lords take him to the location where Parolles lies pinioned, and tell him to watch. Then the soldier picked as "interpreter" threatens Parolles with torture unless he tells all the secrets of his army. Parolles, terrified, complies, and then goes on to give extremely unflattering descriptions of Bertram and both of the Lords Dumaine. His bags are searched, and a letter is found addressed to Diana, urging her to sleep with Bertram in return for payment. Finally, they declare that they will kill him anyway, and Parolles, completely undone, weeps and begs for his life. Amid much laughter, the blindfold is removed, and Parolles is left a ruined, friendless man. Nevertheless, he is not entirely discouraged--he has lost his position at Bertram's side, but he accepts the reversal and decides to get on with his life.

Commentary The action is these scenes is taken up with unfolding the plots devised earlier--the Dumaines' exposure of Parolles, and Helena's entrapment of her husband. The latter would seem to offer the greatest opportunity for laughs, but Elizabethan decorum requires that the sex take place off-stage: we must infer the success of Helena's ruse, since when Bertram returns to camp, he behaves as though his seduction of Diana was a triumph. What we see, in scene ii, is Diana seducing Bertram, as her honeyed words convince him to give up his ring. Her success proves her to be every bit as able a manipulator as Helena, and reconfirms the impression of Bertram as a fool everywhere but on the battlefield. The unmasking of Parolles, meanwhile, is played for deliberate comic effect, especially in the ludicrous nonsense language that his captors speak--ostensibly in order to disguise their voices, but mainly, one imagines, because Shakespeare took pleasure in having his characters speak lines like "Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo. / Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo. " Surrounded by voices intoning these ridiculous syllables, Parolles' fear is so strong that he almost becomes likable--he has no illusions about himself, certainly, and willingly abandons any pretense to honor when his life is threatened. The very eagerness with which Parolles falls over himself to denounce his former friends to the "enemy" is so baldly self-serving that the audience may agree with the First Lord's comment, made while Parolles is describing him as dishonest and corrupt--"I begin to love him for this". Parolles may be a rogue, but after enduring four acts of the supposedly "noble" Bertram, a little roguery can be appealing. Indeed, Bertram's priggish disillusionment with his former friend hardly excites the audience's sympathies, since Bertram has no one but himself to blame. Everyone else saw through Parolles from the beginning. A true villain, once revealed, must repent or die. But Parolles is strictly a minor rogue, able to easily roll with life's punches. "If my heart were great," he remarks at the end, alone and friendless, "'Twould burst at this" . If his heart were great--but it isn't, he is no tragic hero or impassioned villain, but only a harmless fraud. " Captain I'll be no more," Parolles says with a little wistfulness, "But I will eat and drink and sleep as soft / As captain shall . . . There's place and means for every man alive. / I'll after them" . In a sense, his pragmatism makes him Helena's spiritual brother, at least in ruthless practicality. Neither of them waste time on the inner turmoil characteristic of other Shakespearean characters: Helena loses her love and sets about getting him back my the most pragmatic means available; Parolles loses everything, but instead of bemoaning his fate, he shrugs and moves on, looking for greener pastures.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/All's Well That Ends Well/section_0_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 1.scene 1

act 1, scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell10.asp", "summary": "The play begins in the Countess' palace at Rousillon, where all the characters are in mourning. Bertram, his mother , and Lafeu , all mourn for the recently deceased Count of Rousillon, and young Helena mourns for her recently deceased father. Bertram announces that he must leave for Paris and present himself to the King for service. His mother expresses sorrow over his eminent departure, especially in her period of mourning, but is encouraged by Lafeu, who reminds her of the King's good will toward them all. Lafeu's words comfort the Countess, who then inquires about the King's ailing health. She is told that the King has abandoned all hope of getting well. The Countess remarks that Helena's late father, the famous Gerard de Narbon, was a greatly skilled and honest physician who would surely have been able to cure the King. She speaks with maternal affection about young Helena, who is genuinely touched by the tenderness and begins to weep. In the meantime, Bertram asks his mother for permission to leave for France. The Countess lets him go, expressing her hope that he will someday be as great a man as his father. She gives him a lot of advice and asks Lafeu to watch over Bertram since he is young and inexperienced. Her son and the lord depart, and the Countess retires. When Helena is alone, she speaks to herself about her present feelings. She sighs that she no longer thinks about her father and admits that she has quite forgotten him and that her imagination is transfixed by Bertram. Her tears are, in fact, due to Bertram's departure, for she cannot imagine life without him. She is in love with him, deeply in love, but thinks they are too far apart in social status for her love to ever be recognized. Helena notices Parolles, Bertram's friend, approaching. Though she feels a fondness for Parolles because Bertram has chosen him as friend, she believes he is a \"notorious liar,\" a \"fool,\" and \"a coward\". She believes evil is an inborn part of his character. Still, she greets him. Parolles mockingly prompts a discussion with Helena on virginity, trying to shock her; but Helena, not shrinking from the conversation, tells Parolles that a woman need not always protect her virginity. She might lose it to her own liking. A page interrupts, carrying a message that Bertram is waiting for Parolles. As Parolles takes his leave of Helena, she reminds him that she has had the last word in their verbal exchange. Unable to compete with her in a battle of wits, Parolles retreats, promising that he would have outdone her had he more time. Alone again, Helena reflects that the current situation is bleak, but that remedies lie within human beings themselves and not in the stars under which they were born. She believes that she is the architect of her own fate, that she can win Bertram by her own efforts.", "analysis": "Notes This expository scene serves to introduce many of the main characters and thematic concerns of the play. The opening of the play reveals the mourning at Rousillon, the eminent departure of Bertram, the Countess' affection for Helena, and the significance of her late father the doctor. The revelation of Helena's feelings for Bertram is also introduced and provides a springboard for the entire action of the play. The idea that virtue is something one possesses independent of social rank is a theme that will often resound. It is this battle, between personal virtue and inherited rank, that will define the relationship between the protagonist and the antagonist of the play. In terms of mood, the scene opens with the Countess expressing sadness at the loss of her husband and Bertram's imminent departure. The mood of mourning is furthered when the Countess mentions that Helena, too, has lost a loved one and has been left all alone. These feelings of sadness are directly contrasted with Bertram's own impatient and eager plans to go away to Paris and further his own desires. Oblivious to the sadness of the two women, he can only think of how quickly he can depart. Of course, he expresses his deep feelings for his dead father, but quickly insists that he must leave for Paris at once since he is bound by his duty to the King. His espousal of loyalty sounds false when viewed in the context of the entire play, since Bertram's actions show no deference to the King's authority and mostly preference for his own personal advancement. A very important plot construct is also introduced in the opening scene; the King is very ill and has given up hope of ever being better. The King's doctors have been unable to cure him with all their treatments and medicines. Then the Countess reveals that Helena might be the only hope of curing the King, if only she possesses some of her father's skill. The thematic relationship of parent to child is not limited to Helena and her late father; it also includes Bertram's legacy, or lack thereof, from his father. When the Countess bids farewell to Bertram, she expresses hope that he will be like his father and says \"succeed thy father/ In manners as in shape!\" The Countess' anxious hopes and constant advice reveal that she is not certain of Bertram's character and only hopes he will prove himself worthy of his rank. When she asks Lafeu to guide Bertram, she seems acutely aware that Bertram is stepping out into the real world for the first time and may not be able to handle it or himself. When Bertram departs for Paris, Helena is terribly grieved, but not by the loss of her father. Her love for Bertram is absolute and all consuming. Her own revelation of the depths of her feelings, even while she ought to be grieving for her father, alerts the audience that she is consumed by this love. She cannot bear the thought of living away from him. At the same time she confesses her ideal love of Bertram, she also expresses her awareness of the impossibility of their union since he belongs to a higher class. She herself says, \"`twere all one / That I should love a bright particular star / And think to wed it, he is so above me\". Helena, however, is not simply thwarted by social differences. Bertram seems to be unaware and indifferent to her feelings. His parting comment to her is coldly distant, as he says, \"Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her\". He has no thoughts for the young girl, other than perfunctory social niceties. As a result, Helena's love for Bertram has two obstacles: class and his total indifference to her. In the loud and bawdy conversation with Parolles regarding the subject of virginity, which seems an abrupt change in tone to the early part of the scene, Helena shows excellent argumentative powers, proving herself to be more than a naive, lovesick girl. Even before the discussion, when Helena recognizes Parolles as a liar, she shows perceptive insight that Bertram seems to lack. Helena swiftly defeats Parolles in their verbal battle and proves herself to be a competent conversationalist, both quick and witty. After Parolles is called away by Bertram, Helena is once again left to her thoughts and decides her love must not be wasted. If she is to save it, she must act. She states that \"our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, / Which we ascribe to heaven.\" This philosophy of self-reliance underlines all of Helena's actions to come. She observes that the unlikeliest things can be achieved if a person only works toward them. Helena resolves to go to Paris and cure the King of his ailment. She feels that she can win Bertram if she tries hard enough and sees this act as her best chance of determining her fate."}

Actus primus. Scoena Prima. Enter yong Bertram Count of Rossillion, his Mother, and Helena, Lord Lafew, all in blacke. Mother. In deliuering my sonne from me, I burie a second husband Ros. And I in going Madam, weep ore my fathers death anew; but I must attend his maiesties command, to whom I am now in Ward, euermore in subiection Laf. You shall find of the King a husband Madame, you sir a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessitie hold his vertue to you, whose worthinesse would stirre it vp where it wanted rather then lack it where there is such abundance Mo. What hope is there of his Maiesties amendment? Laf. He hath abandon'd his Phisitions Madam, vnder whose practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other aduantage in the processe, but onely the loosing of hope by time Mo. This yong Gentlewoman had a father, O that had, how sad a passage tis, whose skill was almost as great as his honestie, had it stretch'd so far, would haue made nature immortall, and death should haue play for lacke of worke. Would for the Kings sake hee were liuing, I thinke it would be the death of the Kings disease Laf. How call'd you the man you speake of Madam? Mo. He was famous sir in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon Laf. He was excellent indeed Madam, the King very latelie spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly: hee was skilfull enough to haue liu'd stil, if knowledge could be set vp against mortallitie Ros. What is it (my good Lord) the King languishes of? Laf. A Fistula my Lord Ros. I heard not of it before Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this Gentlewoman the Daughter of Gerard de Narbon? Mo. His sole childe my Lord, and bequeathed to my ouer looking. I haue those hopes of her good, that her education promises her dispositions shee inherits, which makes faire gifts fairer: for where an vncleane mind carries vertuous qualities, there commendations go with pitty, they are vertues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simplenesse; she deriues her honestie, and atcheeues her goodnesse Lafew. Your commendations Madam get from her teares Mo. 'Tis the best brine a Maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father neuer approches her heart, but the tirrany of her sorrowes takes all liuelihood from her cheeke. No more of this Helena, go too, no more least it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, then to haue- Hell. I doe affect a sorrow indeed, but I haue it too Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessiue greefe the enemie to the liuing Mo. If the liuing be enemie to the greefe, the excesse makes it soone mortall Ros. Maddam I desire your holie wishes Laf. How vnderstand we that? Mo. Be thou blest Bertrame, and succeed thy father In manners as in shape: thy blood and vertue Contend for Empire in thee, and thy goodnesse Share with thy birth-right. Loue all, trust a few, Doe wrong to none: be able for thine enemie Rather in power then vse: and keepe thy friend Vnder thy owne lifes key. Be checkt for silence, But neuer tax'd for speech. What heauen more wil, That thee may furnish, and my prayers plucke downe, Fall on thy head. Farwell my Lord, 'Tis an vnseason'd Courtier, good my Lord Aduise him Laf. He cannot want the best That shall attend his loue Mo. Heauen blesse him: Farwell Bertram Ro. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoghts be seruants to you: be comfortable to my mother, your Mistris, and make much of her Laf. Farewell prettie Lady, you must hold the credit of your father Hell. O were that all, I thinke not on my father, And these great teares grace his remembrance more Then those I shed for him. What was he like? I haue forgott him. My imagination Carries no fauour in't but Bertrams. I am vndone, there is no liuing, none, If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one, That I should loue a bright particuler starre, And think to wed it, he is so aboue me In his bright radience and colaterall light, Must I be comforted, not in his sphere; Th' ambition in my loue thus plagues it selfe: The hind that would be mated by the Lion Must die for loue. 'Twas prettie, though a plague To see him euerie houre to sit and draw His arched browes, his hawking eie, his curles In our hearts table: heart too capeable Of euerie line and tricke of his sweet fauour. But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancie Must sanctifie his Reliques. Who comes heere? Enter Parrolles. One that goes with him: I loue him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious Liar, Thinke him a great way foole, solie a coward, Yet these fixt euils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when Vertues steely bones Lookes bleake i'th cold wind: withall, full ofte we see Cold wisedome waighting on superfluous follie Par. Saue you faire Queene Hel. And you Monarch Par. No Hel. And no Par. Are you meditating on virginitie? Hel. I: you haue some staine of souldier in you: Let mee aske you a question. Man is enemie to virginitie, how may we barracado it against him? Par. Keepe him out Hel. But he assailes, and our virginitie though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: vnfold to vs some war-like resistance Par. There is none: Man setting downe before you, will vndermine you, and blow you vp Hel. Blesse our poore Virginity from vnderminers and blowers vp. Is there no Military policy how Virgins might blow vp men? Par. Virginity beeing blowne downe, Man will quicklier be blowne vp: marry in blowing him downe againe, with the breach your selues made, you lose your Citty. It is not politicke, in the Common-wealth of Nature, to preserue virginity. Losse of Virginitie, is rationall encrease, and there was neuer Virgin goe, till virginitie was first lost. That you were made of, is mettall to make Virgins. Virginitie, by beeing once lost, may be ten times found: by being euer kept, it is euer lost: 'tis too cold a companion: Away with't Hel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a Virgin Par. There's little can bee saide in't, 'tis against the rule of Nature. To speake on the part of virginitie, is to accuse your Mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himselfe is a Virgin: Virginitie murthers it selfe, and should be buried in highwayes out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate Offendresse against Nature. Virginitie breedes mites, much like a Cheese, consumes it selfe to the very payring, and so dies with feeding his owne stomacke. Besides, Virginitie is peeuish, proud, ydle, made of selfe-loue, which is the most inhibited sinne in the Cannon. Keepe it not, you cannot choose but loose by't. Out with't: within ten yeare it will make it selfe two, which is a goodly increase, and the principall it selfe not much the worse. Away with't Hel. How might one do sir, to loose it to her owne liking? Par. Let mee see. Marry ill, to like him that ne're it likes. 'Tis a commodity wil lose the glosse with lying: The longer kept, the lesse worth: Off with't while 'tis vendible. Answer the time of request, Virginitie like an olde Courtier, weares her cap out of fashion, richly suted, but vnsuteable, iust like the brooch & the tooth-pick, which were not now: your Date is better in your Pye and your Porredge, then in your cheeke: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd peares, it lookes ill, it eates drily, marry 'tis a wither'd peare: it was formerly better, marry yet 'tis a wither'd peare: Will you any thing with it? Hel. Not my virginity yet: There shall your Master haue a thousand loues, A Mother, and a Mistresse, and a friend, A Phenix, Captaine, and an enemy, A guide, a Goddesse, and a Soueraigne, A Counsellor, a Traitoresse, and a Deare: His humble ambition, proud humility: His iarring, concord: and his discord, dulcet: His faith, his sweet disaster: with a world Of pretty fond adoptious christendomes That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he: I know not what he shall, God send him well, The Courts a learning place, and he is one Par. What one ifaith? Hel. That I wish well, 'tis pitty Par. What's pitty? Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt, that we the poorer borne, Whose baser starres do shut vs vp in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And shew what we alone must thinke, which neuer Returnes vs thankes. Enter Page. Pag. Monsieur Parrolles, My Lord cals for you Par. Little Hellen farewell, if I can remember thee, I will thinke of thee at Court Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were borne vnder a charitable starre Par. Vnder Mars I Hel. I especially thinke, vnder Mars Par. Why vnder Mars? Hel. The warres hath so kept you vnder, that you must needes be borne vnder Mars Par. When he was predominant Hel. When he was retrograde I thinke rather Par. Why thinke you so? Hel. You go so much backward when you fight Par. That's for aduantage Hel. So is running away, When feare proposes the safetie: But the composition that your valour and feare makes in you, is a vertue of a good wing, and I like the weare well Paroll. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answere thee acutely: I will returne perfect Courtier, in the which my instruction shall serue to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capeable of a Courtiers councell, and vnderstand what aduice shall thrust vppon thee, else thou diest in thine vnthankfulnes, and thine ignorance makes thee away, farewell: When thou hast leysure, say thy praiers: when thou hast none, remember thy Friends: Get thee a good husband, and vse him as he vses thee: So farewell Hel. Our remedies oft in our selues do lye, Which we ascribe to heauen: the fated skye Giues vs free scope, onely doth backward pull Our slow designes, when we our selues are dull. What power is it, which mounts my loue so hye, That makes me see, and cannot feede mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune, Nature brings To ioyne like, likes; and kisse like natiue things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their paines in sence, and do suppose What hath beene, cannot be. Who euer stroue To shew her merit, that did misse her loue? (The Kings disease) my proiect may deceiue me, But my intents are fixt, and will not leaue me. Exit Flourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with Letters, and diuers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' eares, Haue fought with equall fortune, and continue A brauing warre 1.Lo.G. So tis reported sir King. Nay tis most credible, we heere receiue it, A certaintie vouch'd from our Cosin Austria, With caution, that the Florentine will moue vs For speedie ayde: wherein our deerest friend Preiudicates the businesse, and would seeme To haue vs make deniall 1.Lo.G. His loue and wisedome Approu'd so to your Maiesty, may pleade For amplest credence King. He hath arm'd our answer, And Florence is deni'de before he comes: Yet for our Gentlemen that meane to see The Tuscan seruice, freely haue they leaue To stand on either part 2.Lo.E. It well may serue A nursserie to our Gentrie, who are sicke For breathing, and exploit King. What's he comes heere. Enter Bertram, Lafew, and Parolles. 1.Lor.G. It is the Count Rosignoll my good Lord, Yong Bertram King. Youth, thou bear'st thy Fathers face, Franke Nature rather curious then in hast Hath well compos'd thee: Thy Fathers morall parts Maist thou inherit too: Welcome to Paris Ber. My thankes and dutie are your Maiesties Kin. I would I had that corporall soundnesse now, As when thy father, and my selfe, in friendship First tride our souldiership: he did looke farre Into the seruice of the time, and was Discipled of the brauest. He lasted long, But on vs both did haggish Age steale on, And wore vs out of act: It much repaires me To talke of your good father; in his youth He had the wit, which I can well obserue To day in our yong Lords: but they may iest Till their owne scorne returne to them vnnoted Ere they can hide their leuitie in honour: So like a Courtier, contempt nor bitternesse Were in his pride, or sharpnesse; if they were, His equall had awak'd them, and his honour Clocke to it selfe, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speake: and at this time His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him, He vs'd as creatures of another place, And bow'd his eminent top to their low rankes, Making them proud of his humilitie, In their poore praise he humbled: Such a man Might be a copie to these yonger times; Which followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward Ber. His good remembrance sir Lies richer in your thoughts, then on his tombe: So in approofe liues not his Epitaph, As in your royall speech King. Would I were with him he would alwaies say, (Me thinkes I heare him now) his plausiue words He scatter'd not in eares, but grafted them To grow there and to beare: Let me not liue, This his good melancholly oft began On the Catastrophe and heele of pastime When it was out: Let me not liue (quoth hee) After my flame lackes oyle, to be the snuffe Of yonger spirits, whose apprehensiue senses All but new things disdaine; whose iudgements are Meere fathers of their garments: whose constancies Expire before their fashions: this he wish'd. I after him, do after him wish too: Since I nor wax nor honie can bring home, I quickly were dissolued from my hiue To giue some Labourers roome 2.L.E. You'r loued Sir, They that least lend it you, shall lacke you first Kin. I fill a place I know't: how long ist Count Since the Physitian at your fathers died? He was much fam'd Ber. Some six moneths since my Lord Kin. If he were liuing, I would try him yet. Lend me an arme: the rest haue worne me out With seuerall applications: Nature and sicknesse Debate it at their leisure. Welcome Count, My sonne's no deerer Ber. Thanke your Maiesty. Exit Flourish. Enter Countesse, Steward, and Clowne. Coun. I will now heare, what say you of this gentlewoman Ste. Maddam the care I haue had to euen your content, I wish might be found in the Kalender of my past endeuours, for then we wound our Modestie, and make foule the clearnesse of our deseruings, when of our selues we publish them Coun. What doe's this knaue heere? Get you gone sirra: the complaints I haue heard of you I do not all beleeue, 'tis my slownesse that I doe not: For I know you lacke not folly to commit them, & haue abilitie enough to make such knaueries yours Clo. 'Tis not vnknown to you Madam, I am a poore fellow Coun. Well sir Clo. No maddam, 'Tis not so well that I am poore, though manie of the rich are damn'd, but if I may haue your Ladiships good will to goe to the world, Isbell the woman and I will doe as we may Coun. Wilt thou needes be a begger? Clo. I doe beg your good will in this case Cou. In what case? Clo. In Isbels case and mine owne: seruice is no heritage, and I thinke I shall neuer haue the blessing of God, till I haue issue a my bodie: for they say barnes are blessings Cou. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marrie? Clo. My poore bodie Madam requires it, I am driuen on by the flesh, and hee must needes goe that the diuell driues Cou. Is this all your worships reason? Clo. Faith Madam I haue other holie reasons, such as they are Cou. May the world know them? Clo. I haue beene Madam a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are, and indeede I doe marrie that I may repent Cou. Thy marriage sooner then thy wickednesse Clo. I am out a friends Madam, and I hope to haue friends for my wiues sake Cou. Such friends are thine enemies knaue Clo. Y'are shallow Madam in great friends, for the knaues come to doe that for me which I am a wearie of: he that eres my Land, spares my teame, and giues mee leaue to Inne the crop: if I be his cuckold hee's my drudge; he that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; hee that cherishes my flesh and blood, loues my flesh and blood; he that loues my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend: if men could be contented to be what they are, there were no feare in marriage, for yong Charbon the Puritan, and old Poysam the Papist, how somere their hearts are seuer'd in Religion, their heads are both one, they may ioule horns together like any Deare i'th Herd Cou. Wilt thou euer be a foule mouth'd and calumnious knaue? Clo. A Prophet I Madam, and I speake the truth the next waie, for I the Ballad will repeate, which men full true shall finde, your marriage comes by destinie, your Cuckow sings by kinde Cou. Get you gone sir, Ile talke with you more anon Stew. May it please you Madam, that hee bid Hellen come to you, of her I am to speake Cou. Sirra tell my gentlewoman I would speake with her, Hellen I meane Clo. Was this faire face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy, Fond done, done, fond was this King Priams ioy, With that she sighed as she stood, bis And gaue this sentence then, among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten Cou. What, one good in tenne? you corrupt the song sirra Clo. One good woman in ten Madam, which is a purifying ath' song: would God would serue the world so all the yeere, weed finde no fault with the tithe woman if I were the Parson, one in ten quoth a? and wee might haue a good woman borne but ore euerie blazing starre, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the Lotterie well, a man may draw his heart out ere a plucke one Cou. Youle begone sir knaue, and doe as I command you? Clo. That man should be at womans command, and yet no hurt done, though honestie be no Puritan, yet it will doe no hurt, it will weare the Surplis of humilitie ouer the blacke-Gowne of a bigge heart: I am going forsooth, the businesse is for Helen to come hither. Enter. Cou. Well now Stew. I know Madam you loue your Gentlewoman intirely Cou. Faith I doe: her Father bequeath'd her to mee, and she her selfe without other aduantage, may lawfullie make title to as much loue as shee findes, there is more owing her then is paid, and more shall be paid her then sheele demand Stew. Madam, I was verie late more neere her then I thinke shee wisht mee, alone shee was, and did communicate to her selfe her owne words to her owne eares, shee thought, I dare vowe for her, they toucht not anie stranger sence, her matter was, shee loued your Sonne; Fortune shee said was no goddesse, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates: Loue no god, that would not extend his might onelie, where qualities were leuell, Queene of Virgins, that would suffer her poore Knight surpris'd without rescue in the first assault or ransome afterward: This shee deliuer'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow that ere I heard Virgin exclaime in, which I held my dutie speedily to acquaint you withall, sithence in the losse that may happen, it concernes you something to know it Cou. You haue discharg'd this honestlie, keepe it to your selfe, manie likelihoods inform'd mee of this before, which hung so tottring in the ballance, that I could neither beleeue nor misdoubt: praie you leaue mee, stall this in your bosome, and I thanke you for your honest care: I will speake with you further anon. Exit Steward. Enter Hellen. Old.Cou. Euen so it was with me when I was yong: If euer we are natures, these are ours, this thorne Doth to our Rose of youth rightlie belong Our bloud to vs, this to our blood is borne, It is the show, and seale of natures truth, Where loues strong passion is imprest in youth, By our remembrances of daies forgon, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none, Her eie is sicke on't, I obserue her now Hell. What is your pleasure Madam? Ol.Cou. You know Hellen I am a mother to you Hell. Mine honorable Mistris Ol.Cou. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I sed a mother Me thought you saw a serpent, what's in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the Catalogue of those That were enwombed mine, 'tis often seene Adoption striues with nature, and choise breedes A natiue slip to vs from forraine seedes: You nere opprest me with a mothers groane, Yet I expresse to you a mothers care, (Gods mercie maiden) dos it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? what's the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet? The manie colour'd Iris rounds thine eye? - Why, that you are my daughter? Hell. That I am not Old.Cou. I say I am your Mother Hell. Pardon Madam. The Count Rosillion cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honored name: No note vpon my Parents, his all noble, My Master, my deere Lord he is, and I His seruant liue, and will his vassall die: He must not be my brother Ol.Cou. Nor I your Mother Hell. You are my mother Madam, would you were So that my Lord your sonne were not my brother, Indeede my mother, or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, then I doe for heauen, So I were not his sister, cant no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother Old.Cou. Yes Hellen, you might be my daughter in law, God shield you meane it not, daughter and mother So striue vpon your pulse; what pale agen? My feare hath catcht your fondnesse! now I see The mistrie of your louelinesse, and finde Your salt teares head, now to all sence 'tis grosse: You loue my sonne, inuention is asham'd Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou doost not: therefore tell me true, But tell me then 'tis so, for looke, thy cheekes Confesse it 'ton tooth to th' other, and thine eies See it so grosely showne in thy behauiours, That in their kinde they speake it, onely sinne And hellish obstinacie tye thy tongue That truth should be suspected, speake, ist so? If it be so, you haue wound a goodly clewe: If it be not, forsweare't how ere I charge thee, As heauen shall worke in me for thine auaile To tell me truelie Hell. Good Madam pardon me Cou. Do you loue my Sonne? Hell. Your pardon noble Mistris Cou. Loue you my Sonne? Hell. Doe not you loue him Madam? Cou. Goe not about; my loue hath in't a bond Whereof the world takes note: Come, come, disclose: The state of your affection, for your passions Haue to the full appeach'd Hell. Then I confesse Here on my knee, before high heauen and you, That before you, and next vnto high heauen, I loue your Sonne: My friends were poore but honest, so's my loue: Be not offended, for it hurts not him That he is lou'd of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suite, Nor would I haue him, till I doe deserue him, Yet neuer know how that desert should be: I know I loue in vaine, striue against hope: Yet in this captious, and intemible Siue. I still poure in the waters of my loue And lacke not to loose still; thus Indian like Religious in mine error, I adore The Sunne that lookes vpon his worshipper, But knowes of him no more. My deerest Madam, Let not your hate incounter with my loue, For louing where you doe; but if your selfe, Whose aged honor cites a vertuous youth, Did euer, in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastly, and loue dearely, that your Dian Was both her selfe and loue, O then giue pittie To her whose state is such, that cannot choose But lend and giue where she is sure to loose; That seekes not to finde that, her search implies, But riddle like, liues sweetely where she dies Cou. Had you not lately an intent, speake truely, To goe to Paris? Hell. Madam I had Cou. Wherefore? tell true Hell. I will tell truth, by grace it selfe I sweare: You know my Father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prou'd effects, such as his reading And manifest experience, had collected For generall soueraigntie: and that he wil'd me In heedefull'st reseruation to bestow them, As notes, whose faculties inclusiue were, More then they were in note: Amongst the rest, There is a remedie, approu'd, set downe, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The King is render'd lost Cou. This was your motiue for Paris, was it, speake? Hell. My Lord, your sonne, made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King, Had from the conuersation of my thoughts, Happily beene absent then Cou. But thinke you Hellen, If you should tender your supposed aide, He would receiue it? He and his Phisitions Are of a minde, he, that they cannot helpe him: They, that they cannot helpe, how shall they credit A poore vnlearned Virgin, when the Schooles Embowel'd of their doctrine, haue left off The danger to it selfe Hell. There's something in't More then my Fathers skill, which was the great'st Of his profession, that his good receipt, Shall for my legacie be sanctified Byth' luckiest stars in heauen, and would your honor But giue me leaue to trie successe, I'de venture The well lost life of mine, on his Graces cure, By such a day, an houre Cou. Doo'st thou beleeue't? Hell. I Madam knowingly Cou. Why Hellen thou shalt haue my leaue and loue, Meanes and attendants, and my louing greetings To those of mine in Court, Ile staie at home And praie Gods blessing into thy attempt: Begon to morrow, and be sure of this, What I can helpe thee to, thou shalt not misse. Exeunt.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell10.asp

The play begins in the Countess' palace at Rousillon, where all the characters are in mourning. Bertram, his mother , and Lafeu , all mourn for the recently deceased Count of Rousillon, and young Helena mourns for her recently deceased father. Bertram announces that he must leave for Paris and present himself to the King for service. His mother expresses sorrow over his eminent departure, especially in her period of mourning, but is encouraged by Lafeu, who reminds her of the King's good will toward them all. Lafeu's words comfort the Countess, who then inquires about the King's ailing health. She is told that the King has abandoned all hope of getting well. The Countess remarks that Helena's late father, the famous Gerard de Narbon, was a greatly skilled and honest physician who would surely have been able to cure the King. She speaks with maternal affection about young Helena, who is genuinely touched by the tenderness and begins to weep. In the meantime, Bertram asks his mother for permission to leave for France. The Countess lets him go, expressing her hope that he will someday be as great a man as his father. She gives him a lot of advice and asks Lafeu to watch over Bertram since he is young and inexperienced. Her son and the lord depart, and the Countess retires. When Helena is alone, she speaks to herself about her present feelings. She sighs that she no longer thinks about her father and admits that she has quite forgotten him and that her imagination is transfixed by Bertram. Her tears are, in fact, due to Bertram's departure, for she cannot imagine life without him. She is in love with him, deeply in love, but thinks they are too far apart in social status for her love to ever be recognized. Helena notices Parolles, Bertram's friend, approaching. Though she feels a fondness for Parolles because Bertram has chosen him as friend, she believes he is a "notorious liar," a "fool," and "a coward". She believes evil is an inborn part of his character. Still, she greets him. Parolles mockingly prompts a discussion with Helena on virginity, trying to shock her; but Helena, not shrinking from the conversation, tells Parolles that a woman need not always protect her virginity. She might lose it to her own liking. A page interrupts, carrying a message that Bertram is waiting for Parolles. As Parolles takes his leave of Helena, she reminds him that she has had the last word in their verbal exchange. Unable to compete with her in a battle of wits, Parolles retreats, promising that he would have outdone her had he more time. Alone again, Helena reflects that the current situation is bleak, but that remedies lie within human beings themselves and not in the stars under which they were born. She believes that she is the architect of her own fate, that she can win Bertram by her own efforts.

Notes This expository scene serves to introduce many of the main characters and thematic concerns of the play. The opening of the play reveals the mourning at Rousillon, the eminent departure of Bertram, the Countess' affection for Helena, and the significance of her late father the doctor. The revelation of Helena's feelings for Bertram is also introduced and provides a springboard for the entire action of the play. The idea that virtue is something one possesses independent of social rank is a theme that will often resound. It is this battle, between personal virtue and inherited rank, that will define the relationship between the protagonist and the antagonist of the play. In terms of mood, the scene opens with the Countess expressing sadness at the loss of her husband and Bertram's imminent departure. The mood of mourning is furthered when the Countess mentions that Helena, too, has lost a loved one and has been left all alone. These feelings of sadness are directly contrasted with Bertram's own impatient and eager plans to go away to Paris and further his own desires. Oblivious to the sadness of the two women, he can only think of how quickly he can depart. Of course, he expresses his deep feelings for his dead father, but quickly insists that he must leave for Paris at once since he is bound by his duty to the King. His espousal of loyalty sounds false when viewed in the context of the entire play, since Bertram's actions show no deference to the King's authority and mostly preference for his own personal advancement. A very important plot construct is also introduced in the opening scene; the King is very ill and has given up hope of ever being better. The King's doctors have been unable to cure him with all their treatments and medicines. Then the Countess reveals that Helena might be the only hope of curing the King, if only she possesses some of her father's skill. The thematic relationship of parent to child is not limited to Helena and her late father; it also includes Bertram's legacy, or lack thereof, from his father. When the Countess bids farewell to Bertram, she expresses hope that he will be like his father and says "succeed thy father/ In manners as in shape!" The Countess' anxious hopes and constant advice reveal that she is not certain of Bertram's character and only hopes he will prove himself worthy of his rank. When she asks Lafeu to guide Bertram, she seems acutely aware that Bertram is stepping out into the real world for the first time and may not be able to handle it or himself. When Bertram departs for Paris, Helena is terribly grieved, but not by the loss of her father. Her love for Bertram is absolute and all consuming. Her own revelation of the depths of her feelings, even while she ought to be grieving for her father, alerts the audience that she is consumed by this love. She cannot bear the thought of living away from him. At the same time she confesses her ideal love of Bertram, she also expresses her awareness of the impossibility of their union since he belongs to a higher class. She herself says, "`twere all one / That I should love a bright particular star / And think to wed it, he is so above me". Helena, however, is not simply thwarted by social differences. Bertram seems to be unaware and indifferent to her feelings. His parting comment to her is coldly distant, as he says, "Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her". He has no thoughts for the young girl, other than perfunctory social niceties. As a result, Helena's love for Bertram has two obstacles: class and his total indifference to her. In the loud and bawdy conversation with Parolles regarding the subject of virginity, which seems an abrupt change in tone to the early part of the scene, Helena shows excellent argumentative powers, proving herself to be more than a naive, lovesick girl. Even before the discussion, when Helena recognizes Parolles as a liar, she shows perceptive insight that Bertram seems to lack. Helena swiftly defeats Parolles in their verbal battle and proves herself to be a competent conversationalist, both quick and witty. After Parolles is called away by Bertram, Helena is once again left to her thoughts and decides her love must not be wasted. If she is to save it, she must act. She states that "our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, / Which we ascribe to heaven." This philosophy of self-reliance underlines all of Helena's actions to come. She observes that the unlikeliest things can be achieved if a person only works toward them. Helena resolves to go to Paris and cure the King of his ailment. She feels that she can win Bertram if she tries hard enough and sees this act as her best chance of determining her fate.