soul. Here with the villain Iachimo at her mercysuspecting nothing, recognising neither of the victims of his foul practice-is a moment too precious to risk losing for the sake of anything in the world. She begs the King to step aside and give her some private hearing. Cymbeline grants this also.

46

Ay, with all my heart,

And lend my best attention. What's thy name?

Fidele, sir," answers Imogen: and upon that word leaves Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus to an increased amazement. This is the boy then "who died, and was Fidele"!

She and the King return from their conference. The King points a finger at Iachimo-"Sir, step you forth "--and Imogen, indicating the ring on Iachimo's finger, demands, as her boon, to know "How came it yours?" Iachimo, caught in a trap, confesses his villainy and his confession carries us to 1. 209, until Posthumus, on whom the truth has been dawning, breaks in upon the tale and reveals himself in an agony of rage and remorse. As the first gust spends itself in wild cries,

O Imogen !

My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,

Imogen, Imogen !

Imogen herself, unable to bear the anguish of her husband's anguish, throws herself forward.

Peace, my lord! hear-hear

He, believing her to be a silly interrupting boy, turns fiercely and strikes her to earth.

At this point, then (1. 229):

(a) Iachimo's confession has been made, to elucidate matters.

(b) Posthumus has declared himself.

(c) Imogen, her chastity cleared, is yet supposed to be dead. She lies on the ground, stunned by this last blow from her husband-his last blow and a physical one.

But this is too much for Pisanio, the only person on the stage who knows the supposed boy to be the real Imogen. He rushes on, lifts her head to his knee, crying :

O gentlemen, help!

Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus,

You ne'er killed Imogen till now!

So his story, too, comes out: and his story reveals not only that she is the boy Fidele but (with Cornelius supplementing it) the whole vile complot of the dead Queen and how it chanced to be foiled. Therefore, Imogen being revealed for Imogen, she anticipates Posthumus' remorse by running to him and holding him in her arms, that only fail as his arms conquer them in a stronger clasp. Shakespeare wrote many plays more perfect than Cymbeline: but he never wrote five lines more exquisitely poignant than these :

Imogen. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a lock, and now-

(embracing him)

Throw me again!

Posthumus.

Till the tree die !

Hang there like fruit, my soul,

We have only yet arrived at line 265; and in the remaining 221 lines of this marvellous scene there are yet some nine or ten complications and dénoûments left for the audience to follow. But on this passage I am satisfied to call a halt and claim that Cymbeline has vindicated its author.

"O mighty poet!" was all that De Quincey could utter, arising stunned from perusal of Macbeth. "O mighty poet!"

May not we, closing Cymbeline, exclaim "O mighty craftsman !"?

CHAPTER XIV

THE WINTER'S TALE

The Winter's Tale-Echoes of Pericles-Fusion of Tragedy and Comedy-Futility of hard definitions-False criticism of its structure-The author's aim-An honest failure-The jealousy of Leontes-Some careless workmanship-The fate of Antigonus-The part of Autolycus-The recognition. scene-Deliberate faëry-Weakness of the plot as a wholeThe unapproachable love-scene.

(1)

IMAGINE a gallery hung with tapestries and having many side-doors to left and right, with passages that lead into mysterious parts of the house; or a long garden alley out of which by-paths branch and are lost in glooms of shade and echoes of lapsing water, faint, unseen, at times distant and anon close at hand. At close of day in such a place, you will be haunted first by the uncanny feeling "I have been here-just herebefore, either in this life or in some previous one," and next by whispers, footfalls, shadows, that form themselves at the crossways ahead and fade down them as soon as surmised.

So, at the close of Shakespeare's day, are we haunted as we follow The Winter's Tale; and by many ghosts, but chiefly by the ghost of Pericles, Prince of

Tyre. Indeed (to speak fancifully a little longer of a play that cannot be criticised without fancy), I cannot read these two plays in close succession but I am constantly put in mind of Coleridge's allegory, Time, Real and Imaginary, to give it a new application :

On the wide level of a mountain's head

(I know not where, but 'twas some faëry place),
Their pinions ostrich-like for sails outspread,
Two lovely children ran an endless race-

A sister and a brother.

This far outstripp'd the other:

Yet ever runs she with reverted face

And looks and listens for the boy behind:

For he, alas, is blind!

O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd

And knows not whether he be first or last.

Like Pericles, The Winter's Tale slips a long interval of years between its third and fourth acts, like Pericles employing a chorus to beg our forgiveness for the breach made in the sacred Unity of Time. They are yawning gaps, too: fourteen years in Pericles, sixteen in The Winter's Tale. But of course we recognise them to be necessary as soon as we see what Shakespeare is trying to do; which is, to reconcile the mistakes, wrongs, sufferings of one generation of men and women in their hopes for the next. "The fathers have eaten sour grapes, but through their repentance and under God's mercy the children's teeth shall not be set on edge." That is the recurrent task of our Shakespeare in these his last years, in the sunsetting:

On the wide level of a mountain's head

(I know not where, but 'twas some faëry place):