Shakespeare's Stories for Young Readers

by E. Nesbit

  So when Bassanio came to him to ask for a loan of three thousand ducats to Antonio for three months, Shylock hid his hatred, and turning to Antonio, said—“Harshly as you have treated me, I would be friends with you and have your love. So I will lend you the money and charge you no interest. But, just for fun, you shall sign a bond in which it shall be agreed that if you do not repay me in three months’ time, then I shall have the right to a pound of your flesh, to be cut from what part of your body I choose.”

  “No,” cried Bassanio to his friend, “you shall run no such risk for me.”

  “Why, fear not,” said Antonio, “my ships will be home a month before the time. I will sign the bond.”

  Thus Bassanio was furnished with the means to go to Belmont, there to woo the lovely Portia. The very night he started, the Jew’s pretty daughter, Jessica, ran away from her father’s house with a Christian lover, and she took with her from her father’s hoards some bags of ducats and precious stones. Shylock’s grief and anger were terrible to see. His love for her changed to hate. “I would she were dead at my feet and the jewels in her ear,” he cried. His only comfort now was in hearing of the serious losses which had befallen Antonio, some of whose ships were wrecked. “Let him look to his bond,” said Shylock, “let him look to his bond.”

  Meanwhile Bassanio had reached Belmont, and had visited the fair Portia. He found, as he had told Antonio, that the rumor of her wealth and beauty had drawn to her suitors from far and near. But to all of them Portia had but one reply. She would only accept that suitor who would pledge himself to abide by the terms of her father’s will. These were conditions that frightened away many an ardent wooer. For he who would win Portia’s heart and hand, had to guess which of three caskets held her portrait. If he guessed aright, then Portia would be his bride; if wrong, then he was bound by oath never to reveal which casket he chose, never to marry, and to go away at once.

  The caskets were of gold, silver, and lead. The gold one bore this inscription:—“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire”; the silver one had this:—“Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves”; while on the lead one were these words:—“Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.” The Prince of Morocco, as brave as he was black, was among the first to submit to this test. He chose the gold casket, for he said neither base lead nor silver could contain her picture. So be chose the gold casket, and found inside the likeness of what many men desire—death.

  After him came the haughty Prince of Arragon, and saying, “Let me have what I deserve—surely I deserve the lady,” he chose the silver one, and found inside a fool’s head. “Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head?” he cried.

  Then at last came Bassanio, and Portia would have delayed him from making his choice from very fear of his choosing wrong. For she loved him dearly, even as he loved her. “But,” said Bassanio, “let me choose at once, for, as I am, I live upon the rack.”

  Then Portia bade her servants to bring music and play while her gallant lover made his choice. And Bassanio took the oath and walked up to the caskets—the musicians playing softly the while. “Mere outward show,” he said, “is to be despised. The world is still deceived with ornament, and so no gaudy gold or shining silver for me. I choose the lead casket; joy be the consequence!” And opening it, he found fair Portia’s portrait inside, and he turned to her and asked if it were true that she was his.

  “Yes,” said Portia, “I am yours, and this house is yours, and with them I give you this ring, from which you must never part.”

  And Bassanio, saying that he could hardly speak for joy, found words to swear that he would never part with the ring while he lived.

  Then suddenly all his happiness was dashed with sorrow, for messengers came from Venice to tell him that Antonio was ruined, and that Shylock demanded from the Duke the fulfilment of the bond, under which he was entitled to a pound of the merchant’s flesh. Portia was as grieved as Bassanio to hear of the danger which threatened his friend.

  “First,” she said, “take me to church and make me your wife, and then go to Venice at once to help your friend. You shall take with you money enough to pay his debt twenty times over.”

  But when her newly-made husband had gone, Portia went after him, and arrived in Venice disguised as a lawyer, and with an introduction from a celebrated lawyer Bellario, whom the Duke of Venice had called in to decide the legal questions raised by Shylock’s claim to a pound of Antonio’s flesh. When the Court met, Bassanio offered Shylock twice the money borrowed, if he would withdraw his claim. But the Jew’s only answer was—

  “If every ducat in six thousand ducats

  Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,

  I would not draw them,—I would have my bond.”

  It was then that Portia arrived in her disguise, and not even her own husband knew her. The Duke gave her welcome on account of the great Bellario’s introduction, and left the settlement of the case to her. Then in noble words she bade the Jew have mercy. But he was deaf to her entreaties. “I will have the pound of flesh,” was his reply.

  “What have you to say?” asked Portia of the merchant.

  “But little,” he answered; “I am armed and well prepared.”

  “The Court awards you a pound of Antonio’s flesh,” said Portia to the Jew.

  “Most righteous Judge!” cried the cruel Jew. “A sentence, come, prepare.”

  “Stop, Jew. This bond gives you no right to Antonio’s blood, only to his flesh. If, then, you spill a drop of his blood, all your property will be forfeited to the State. Such is the Law.”

  And Shylock, in his fear, said, “Then I will take Bassanio’s offer.”

  “No,” said Portia sternly, “you shall have nothing but your bond. Take your pound of flesh, but remember, that if you take more or less, even by the weight of a hair, you will lose your property and your life.”

  Shylock now grew very frightened. “Give me back my three thousand ducats that I lent him, and let him go.”

  Bassanio would have paid it to him, but said Portia, “No! He shall have nothing but his bond.”

  “You, a foreigner,” she added, “have sought to take the life of a Venetian citizen, and thus by the Venetian law, your life and goods are forfeited. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke.”

  Thus were the tables turned, and no mercy would have been shown to Shylock, had it not been for Antonio. As it was, the Jew forfeited half his fortune to the State, and he had to settle the other half on his daughter’s husband, while his life was only spared on condition of his becoming a Christian.

  Bassanio, in his gratitude to the clever lawyer, was induced to part with the ring his wife gave him, and when on his return to Belmont, he confessed as much to Portia, she seemed very angry, and vowed she would not be friends with him until she had her ring again. But at last she told him that it was she who, in the disguise of the lawyer, had saved his friend’s life, and got the ring from him. So Bassanio was forgiven, and made happier than ever, to know how rich a prize he had drawn at the lottery of the caskets.

  THE WINTER’S TALE

  LEONTES was the King of Sicily, and his dearest friend was Polixenes, King of Bohemia. They had been brought up together and only separated when they reached man’s estate and each had to go and rule over his kingdom. After many years, when each was married and had a son, Polixenes came to stay with Leontes in Sicily.

  Leontes was a violent-tempered man and rather silly, and he took it into his stupid head that his wife, Hermione, liked Polixenes better than she did him, her own husband. When once he had got this into his head, nothing could put it out; and he ordered one of his lords, Camillo, to put a poison in Polixenes’ wine. Camillo tried to dissuade him from this wicked action, but finding he was not to be moved, pretended to consent. He then told Polixenes what was proposed against him, and they fled from the Court of Sicily that night, and returned to Bohemia where Camillo lived on as Polixenes’ friend and counsellor.<
br />
  Leontes threw the Queen into prison; and her son, the heir to the throne, died of sorrow to see his mother so unjustly and cruelly treated.

  While the Queen was in prison she had a little baby, and a friend of hers, named Paulina, had the baby dressed in its best, and took it to show the King, thinking that the sight of his helpless little daughter would soften his heart towards his dear Queen, who had never done him any wrong, and who loved him a great deal more than he deserved; but the King would not look at the baby, and ordered Paulina’s husband to take it away in a ship, and leave it in the most deserted and dreadful place he could find, which Paulina’s husband, very much against his will, was obliged to do.

  Then the poor Queen was brought up to be tried for treason in preferring Polixenes to her King; but really she had never thought of anyone except Leontes, her husband. Leontes had sent some messengers to ask the god, Apollo, whether he was not right in his cruel thoughts of the Queen. But he had not patience to wait till they came back, and so it happened that they arrived in the middle of the trial. The Oracle said—

  “Hermione is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the King shall live without an heir, if that which is lost be not found.”

  Then a man came and told them that the little prince was dead. The poor Queen, hearing this, fell down in a fit; and then the King saw how wicked and wrong he had been. He ordered Paulina and the ladies who were with the Queen to take her away, and try to restore her. But Paulina came back in a few moments, and told the King that Hermione was dead.

  Now Leontes’ eyes were at last open to his folly. His Queen was dead, and the little daughter who might have been a comfort to him he had sent away to be the prey of wolves and kites. Life had nothing left for him now. He gave himself up to his grief, and passed many sad years in prayer and remorse.

  The baby Princess was left on the sea-coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom where Polixenes reigned. Paulina’s husband never went home to tell Leontes where he had left the baby; for as he was going back to the ship, he met a bear and was torn to pieces. So there was an end of him.

  But the poor, deserted little baby was found by a shepherd. She was richly dressed, and had with her some jewels, and a paper was pinned to her cloak, saying that she came of noble parents.

  The shepherd, being a kind-hearted man, took home the little baby to his wife, and they brought it up as their own child. She had no more teaching than a shepherd’s child generally has, but she inherited from her royal mother many graces and charms, so that she was quite different from the other maidens in the village where she lived.

  One day Prince Florizel, the son of the good King of Bohemia, was hunting near the shepherd’s house and saw Perdita, now grown up to a charming woman. He made friends with the shepherd, not telling him that he was the Prince, but saying that his name was Doricles, and that he was a private gentleman; and then, being deeply in love with the pretty Perdita, he came almost daily to see her.

  The King could not understand what it was that took his son nearly every day from home; so he set people to watch him, and then found out that the heir of the King of Bohemia was in love with Perdita, the pretty shepherd girl. Polixenes, wishing to see whether this was true, disguised himself, and went with the faithful Camillo, in disguise too, to the old shepherd’s house. They arrived at the feast of sheep-shearing, and, though strangers, they were made welcome. There was dancing going on, and a pedlar was selling ribbons and laces and gloves, which the young men bought for their sweethearts.

  Florizel and Perdita, however, were taking no part in this gay scene, but sat quietly talking. The King noticed the charming manners and great beauty of Perdita, never guessing that she was the daughter of his old friend, Leontes. He said to Camillo—

  “This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the green sward. Nothing she does or seems but smacks of something greater than herself—too noble for this place.”

  And Camillo answered, “In truth she is the Queen of curds and cream.”

  But when Florizel, who did not recognize his father, called upon the strangers to witness his betrothal with the pretty shepherdess, the King made himself known and forbade the marriage, adding, that if ever she saw Florizel again, he would kill her and her old father, the shepherd; and with that he left them. But Camillo remained behind, for he was charmed with Perdita, and wished to befriend her.

  Camillo had long known how sorry Leontes was for that foolish madness of his, and he longed to go back to Sicily to see his old master. He now proposed that the young people should go there and claim the protection of Leontes. So they went, and the shepherd went with them, taking Perdita’s jewels, her baby clothes, and the paper he had found pinned to her cloak.

  Leontes received them with great kindness. He was very polite to Prince Florizel, but all his looks were for Perdita. He saw how much she was like the Queen Hermione, and said again and again—

  “Such a sweet creature my daughter might have been, if I had not cruelly sent her from me.”

  When the old shepherd heard that the King had lost a baby daughter, who had been left upon the coast of Bohemia, he felt sure that Perdita, the child he had reared, must be the King’s daughter, and when he told his tale and showed the jewels and the paper, the King perceived that Perdita was indeed his long-lost child. He welcomed her with joy, and rewarded the good shepherd.

  Polixenes had hastened after his son to prevent his marriage with Perdita, but when he found that she was the daughter of his old friend, he was only too glad to give his consent.

  Yet Leontes could not be happy. He remembered how his fair Queen, who should have been at his side to share his joy in his daughter’s happiness, was dead through his unkindness, and he could say nothing for a long time but—

  “Oh, thy mother! thy mother!” and ask forgiveness of the King of Bohemia, and then kiss his daughter again, and then the Prince Florizel, and then thank the old shepherd for all his goodness.

  Then Paulina, who had been high all these years in the King’s favor, because of her kindness to the dead Queen Hermione, said—”I have a statue made in the likeness of the dead Queen, a piece many years in doing, and performed by the rare Italian Master, Giulio Romano. I keep it in a private house apart, and there, ever since you lost your queen, I have gone twice or thrice a day. Will it please your Majesty to go and see the statue?”

  So Leontes, and Polixenes, and Florizel, and Perdita, with Camillo and their attendants, went to Paulina’s house, and there was a heavy purple curtain screening off an alcove; and Paulina, with her hand on the curtain, said—

  “She was peerless when she was alive, and I do believe that her dead likeness excels whatever yet you have looked upon, or that the hand of man hath done. Therefore I keep it lonely, apart. But here it is,—Behold, and say, ’tis well.”

  And with that she drew back the curtain and showed them the statue. The King gazed and gazed on the beautiful statue of his dead wife, but said nothing.

  “I like your silence,” said Paulina, “it the more shows off your wonder; but speak, is it not like her?”

  “It is almost herself,” said the King, “and yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing like so old as this seems.”

  “Oh, not by much,” said Polixenes.

  “Ah,” said Paulina, “there is the cleverness of the carver, who shows her to us as she would have been, had she lived till now.”

  And still Leontes looked at the statue and could not take his eyes away.

  “If I had known,” said Paulina, “that this poor image would so have stirred your grief and love, I would not have shown it to you.”

  But he only answered, “Do not draw the curtain.”

  “No, you must not look any longer,” said Paulina, “or you will think it moves.”

  “Let be, let be!” said the King. “Would you not think it breathed?”

  “I will draw the curtain,” said Paulina, “you wi
ll think it lives presently.” “Ah, sweet Paulina,” said Leontes, “make me to think so twenty years together.” “If you can bear it,” said Paulina, “I can make the statue move, make it come down and take you by the hand. Only you would think it was by wicked magic.” “Whatever you can make her do, I am content to look on,” said the King. And then, all folks there admiring and beholding, the statue moved from its pedestal, and came down the steps and put its arms round the King’s neck, and he held her face and kissed her many times, for this was no statue, but the real living Queen Hermione herself. She had lived, hidden by Paulina’s kindness, all these years, and would not have discovered herself to her husband, though she knew he had repented, because she could not quite forgive him till she knew what had become of her little baby. Now that Perdita was found, she forgave her husband everything, and it was like a new and beautiful marriage to them, to be together once more. Florizel and Perdita were married, and lived long and happily. To Leontes his long years of suffering were well paid for, in the moment, when, after long grief and pain, he felt the arms of his true love round him once again.