Pericles, Prince of Tyre, became a
voluntary exile from his dominions, to avert the dreadful
calamities which Antiochus, the wicked emperor of
Greece, threatened to bring upon his subjects and city
of Tyre, in revenge for a discovery which the prince
had made of a shocking deed which the emperor had
done in secret; as commonly it proves dangerous to
pry into the hidden crimes of great ones. Leaving
the government of his people in the hands of his able
and honest minister, Helicanus, Pericles set sail
from Tyre, thinking to absent himself till the wrath
of Antiochus, who was mighty, should be appeased.
The first place which the prince directed
his course to was Tarsus, and hearing that the city
of Tarsus was at that time suffering under a severe
famine, he took with him store of provisions for its
relief. On his arrival he found the city reduced
to the utmost distress; and, he coming like a messenger
from heaven with his unhoped-for succour, Cleon, the
governor of Tarsus, welcomed him with boundless thanks.
Pericles had not been here many days, before letters
came from his faithful minister, warning him that
it was not safe for him to stay at Tarsus, for Antiochus
knew of his abode, and by secret emissaries despatched
for that purpose sought his life. Upon receipt
of these letters Pericles put out to sea again, amidst
the blessings and prayers of a whole people who had
been fed by his bounty.
He had not sailed far, when his ship
was overtaken by a dreadful storm, and every man on
board perished except Pericles, who was cast by the
sea-waves naked on an unknown shore, where he had not
wandered long before he met with some poor fishermen,
who invited him to their homes, giving him clothes
and provisions. The fishermen told Pericles the
name of their country was Pentapolis, and that their
king was Simonides, commonly called the good Simonides,
because of his peaceable reign and good government.
From them he also learned that King Simonides had a
fair young daughter, and that the following day was
her birthday, when a grand tournament was to be held
at court, many princes and knights being come from
all parts to try their skill in arms for the love of
Thaisa, this fair princess. While the prince
was listening to this account, and secretly lamenting
the loss of his good armour, which disabled him from
making one among these valiant knights, another fisherman
brought in a complete suit of armour that he had taken
out of the sea with his fishing-net, which proved
to be the very armour he had lost. When Pericles
beheld his own armour, he said, “Thanks, Fortune;
after all my crosses you give me somewhat to repair
myself. This armour was bequeathed to me by my
dead father, for whose dear sake I have so loved it,
that whithersoever I went, I still have kept it by
me, and the rough sea that parted it from me, having
now become calm, hath given it back again, for which
I thank it, for, since I have my father’s gift
again, I think my shipwreck no misfortune.”
The next day Pericles, clad in his
brave father’s armour, repaired to the royal
court of Simonides, where he performed wonders at the
tournament, vanquishing with ease all the brave knights
and valiant princes who contended with him in arms
for the honour of Thaisa’s love. When brave
warriors contended at court tournaments for the love
of kings’ daughters, if one proved sole victor
over all the rest, it was usual for the great lady
for whose sake these deeds of valour were undertaken,
to bestow all her respect upon the conqueror, and Thaisa
did not depart from this custom, for she presently
dismissed all the princes and knights whom Pericles
had vanquished, and distinguished him by her especial
favour and regard, crowning him with the wreath of
victory, as king of that day’s happiness; and
Pericles became a most passionate lover of this beauteous
princess from the first moment he beheld her.
The good Simonides so well approved
of the valour and noble qualities of Pericles, who
was indeed a most accomplished gentleman, and well
learned in all excellent arts, that though he knew
not the rank of this royal stranger (for Pericles
for fear of Antiochus gave out that he was a private
gentleman of Tyre), yet did not Simonides disdain to
accept of the valiant unknown for a son-in-law, when
he perceived his daughter’s affections were
firmly fixed upon him.
Pericles had not been many months
married to Thaisa, before he received intelligence
that his enemy Antiochus was dead; and that his subjects
of Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened
to revolt, and talked of placing Helicanus upon his
vacant throne. This news came from Helicanus
himself, who, being a loyal subject to his royal master,
would not accept of the high dignity offered him,
but sent to let Pericles know their intentions, that
he might return home and resume his lawful right.
It was matter of great surprise and joy to Simonides,
to find that his son-in-law (the obscure knight) was
the renowned Prince of Tyre; yet again he regretted
that he was not the private gentleman he supposed him
to be, seeing that he must now part both with his admired
son-in-law and his beloved daughter, whom he feared
to trust to the perils of the sea, because Thaisa
was with child; and Pericles himself wished her to
remain with her father till after her confinement,
but the poor lady so earnestly desired to go with
her husband, that at last they consented, hoping she
would reach Tyre before she was brought to bed.
The sea was no friendly element to
unhappy Pericles, for long before they reached Tyre
another dreadful tempest arose, which so terrified
Thaisa that she was taken ill, and in a short space
of time her nurse Lychorida came to Pericles with
a little child in her arms, to tell the prince the
sad tidings that his wife died the moment her little
babe was born. She held the babe towards its
father, saying, “Here is a thing too young for
such a place. This is the child of your dead queen.”
No tongue can tell the dreadful sufferings of Pericles
when he heard his wife was dead. As soon as he
could speak, he said, “O you gods, why do you
make us love your goodly gifts, and then snatch those
gifts away?” “Patience, good sir,”
said Lychorida, “here is all that is left alive
of our dead queen, a little daughter, and for your
child’s sake be more manly. Patience, good
sir, even for the sake of this precious charge.”
Pericles took the new-born infant in his arms, and
he said to the little babe, “Now may your life
be mild, for a more blusterous birth had never babe!
May your condition be mild and gentle, for you have
had the rudest welcome that ever prince’s child
did meet with! May that which follows be happy,
for you have had as chiding a nativity as fire, air,
water, earth, and heaven could make to herald you
from the womb! Even at the first, your loss,”
meaning in the death of her mother, “is more
than all the joys, which you shall find upon this
earth to which you are come a new visitor, shall be
able to recompense.”
The storm still continuing to rage
furiously, and the sailors having a superstition that
while a dead body remained in the ship the storm would
never cease, they came to Pericles to demand that his
queen should be thrown overboard; and they said, “What
courage, sir? God save you!” “Courage
enough,” said the sorrowing prince: “I
do not fear the storm; it has done to me its worst;
yet for the love of this poor infant, this fresh new
seafarer, I wish the storm was over.” “Sir,”
said the sailors, “your queen must overboard.
The sea works high, the wind is loud, and the storm
will not abate till the ship be cleared of the dead.”
Though Pericles knew how weak and unfounded this superstition
was, yet he patiently submitted, saying, “As
you think meet. Then she must overboard, most
wretched queen!” And now this unhappy prince
went to take a last view of his dear wife, and as
he looked on his Thaisa, he said, “A terrible
childbed hast thou had, my dear; no light, no fire;
the unfriendly elements forget thee utterly, nor have
I time to bring thee hallowed to thy grave, but must
cast thee scarcely coffined into the sea, where for
a monument upon thy bones the humming waters must
overwhelm thy corpse, lying with simple shells.
O Lychorida, bid Nestor bring me spices, ink, and
paper, my casket and my jewels, and bid Nicandor bring
me the satin coffin. Lay the babe upon the pillow,
and go about this suddenly, Lychorida, while I say
a priestly farewell to my Thaisa.”
They brought Pericles a large chest,
in which (wrapped in a satin shroud) he placed his
queen, and sweet-smelling spices he strewed over her,
and beside her he placed rich jewels, and a written
paper, telling who she was, and praying if haply any
one should find the chest which contained the body
of his wife, they would give her burial: and then
with his own hands he cast the chest into the sea.
When the storm was over, Pericles ordered the sailors
to make for Tarsus. “For,” said Pericles,
“the babe cannot hold out till we come to Tyre.
At Tarsus I will leave it at careful nursing.”
After that tempestuous night when
Thaisa was thrown into the sea, and while it was yet
early morning, as Cerimon a worthy gentleman of Ephesus,
and a most skilful physician, was standing by the sea-side,
his servants brought to him a chest, which they said
the sea-waves had thrown on the land. “I
never saw,” said one of them, “so huge
a billow as cast it on our shore.” Cerimon
ordered the chest to be conveyed to his own house,
and when it was opened he beheld with wonder the body
of a young and lovely lady; and the sweet-smelling
spices and rich casket of jewels made him conclude
it was some great person who was thus strangely entombed:
searching farther, he discovered a paper, from which
he learned that the corpse which lay as dead before
him had been a queen, and wife to Pericles, Prince
of Tyre; and much admiring at the strangeness of that
accident, and more pitying the husband who had lost
this sweet lady, he said, “If you are living,
Pericles, you have a heart that even cracks with woe.”
Then observing attentively Thaisa’s face, he
saw how fresh and unlike death her looks were, and
he said, “They were too hasty that threw you
into the sea:” for he did not believe her
to be dead. He ordered a fire to be made, and
proper cordials to be brought, and soft music
to be played, which might help to calm her amazed spirits
if she should revive; and he said to those who crowded
round her, wondering at what they saw, “I pray
you, gentlemen, give her air; the queen will live;
she has not been entranced above five hours; and see,
she begins to blow into life again; she is alive; behold,
her eyelids move; this fair creature will live to
make us weep to hear her fate.” Thaisa
had never died, but after the birth of her little baby
had fallen into a deep swoon, which made all that
saw her conclude her to be dead; and now by the care
of this kind gentleman she once more revived to light
and life; and opening her eyes, she said, “Where
am I? Where is my lord? What world is this?”
By gentle degrees Cerimon let her understand what
had befallen her; and when he thought she was enough
recovered to bear the sight, he showed her the paper
written by her husband, and the jewels; and she looked
on the paper, and said, “It is my lord’s
writing. That I was shipped at sea, I well remember,
but whether there delivered of my babe, by the holy
gods I cannot rightly say; but since my wedded lord
I never shall see again, I will put on a vestal livery,
and never more have joy.” “Madam,”
said Cerimon, “if you purpose as you speak, the
temple of Diana is not far distant from hence; there
you may abide as a vestal. Moreover, if you please,
a niece of mine shall there attend you.”
This proposal was accepted with thanks by Thaisa; and
when she was perfectly recovered, Cerimon placed her
in the temple of Diana, where she became a vestal
or priestess of that goddess, and passed her days in
sorrowing for her husband’s supposed loss, and
in the most devout exercises of those times.
Pericles carried his young daughter
(whom he named Marina, because she was born at sea)
to Tarsus, intending to leave her with Cleon, the
governor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking,
for the good he had done to them at the time of their
famine, they would be kind to his little motherless
daughter. When Cleon saw Prince Pericles, and
heard of the great loss which had befallen him, he
said, “O your sweet queen, that it had pleased
Heaven you could have brought her hither to have blessed
my eyes with the sight of her!” Pericles replied,
“We must obey the powers above us. Should
I rage and roar as the sea does in which my Thaisa
lies, yet the end must be as it is. My gentle
babe, Marina here, I must charge your charity with
her. I leave her the infant of your care, beseeching
you to give her princely training.” And
then turning to Cleon’s wife, Dionysia, he said,
“Good madam, make me blessed in your care in
bringing up my child:” and she answered,
“I have a child myself who shall not be more
dear to my respect than yours, my lord;” and
Cleon made the like promise, saying, “Your noble
services, Prince Pericles, in feeding my whole people
with your corn (for which in their prayers they daily
remember you) must in your child be thought on.
If I should neglect your child, my whole people that
were by you relieved would force me to my duty; but
if to that I need a spur, the gods revenge it on me
and mine to the end of generation.” Pericles,
being thus assured that his child would be carefully
attended to, left her to the protection of Cleon and
his wife Dionysia, and with her he left the nurse
Lychorida. When he went away, the little Marina
knew not her loss, but Lychorida wept sadly at parting
with her royal master. “O, no tears, Lychorida,”
said Pericles: “no tears; look to your little
mistress, on whose grace you may depend hereafter.”
Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre,
and was once more settled in the quiet possession
of his throne, while his woeful queen, whom he thought
dead, remained at Ephesus. Her little babe Marina,
whom this hapless mother had never seen, was brought
up by Cleon in a manner suitable to her high birth.
He gave her the most careful education, so that by
the time Marina attained the age of fourteen years,
the most deeply-learned men were not more studied
in the learning of those times than was Marina.
She sang like one immortal, and danced as goddess-like,
and with her needle she was so skilful that she seemed
to compose nature’s own shapes, in birds, fruits,
or flowers, the natural roses being scarcely more
like to each other than they were to Marina’s
silken flowers. But when she had gained from
education all these graces, which made her the general
wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, became her mortal
enemy from jealousy, by reason that her own daughter,
from the slowness of her mind, was not able to attain
to that perfection wherein Marina excelled: and
finding that all praise was bestowed on Marina, whilst
her daughter, who was of the same age, and had been
educated with the same care as Marina, though not
with the same success, was in comparison disregarded,
she formed a project to remove Marina out of the way,
vainly imagining that her untoward daughter would
be more respected when Marina was no more seen.
To encompass this she employed a man to murder Marina,
and she well timed her wicked design, when Lychorida,
the faithful nurse, had just died. Dionysia was
discoursing with the man she had commanded to commit
this murder, when the young Marina was weeping over
the dead Lychorida. Leonine, the man she employed
to do this bad deed, though he was a very wicked man,
could hardly be persuaded to undertake it, so had
Marina won all hearts to love her. He said, “She
is a goodly creature!” “The fitter then
the gods should have her,” replied her merciless
enemy: “here she comes weeping for the
death of her nurse Lychorida: are you resolved
to obey me?” Leonine, fearing to disobey her,
replied, “I am resolved.” And so,
in that one short sentence, was the matchless Marina
doomed to an untimely death. She now approached,
with a basket of flowers in her hand, which she said
she would daily strew over the grave of good Lychorida.
The purple violet and the marigold should as a carpet
hang upon her grave, while summer days did last.
“Alas, for me!” she said, “poor
unhappy maid, born in a tempest, when my mother died.
This world to me is like a lasting storm, hurrying
me from my friends.” “How now, Marina,”
said the dissembling Dionysia, “do you weep alone?
How does it chance my daughter is not with you?
Do not sorrow for Lychorida, you have a nurse in me.
Your beauty is quite changed with this unprofitable
woe. Come, give me your flowers, the sea-air will
spoil them; and walk with Leonine: the air is
fine, and will enliven you. Come, Leonine, take
her by the arm, and walk with her.” “No
madam,” said Marina, “I pray you let me
not deprive you of your servant:” for Leonine
was one of Dionysia’s attendants. “Come,
come,” said this artful woman, who wished for
a pretence to leave her alone with Leonine, “I
love the prince, your father, and I love you.
We every day expect your father here; and when he
comes, and finds you so changed by grief from the
paragon of beauty we reported you, he will think we
have taken no care of you. Go, I pray you, walk,
and be cheerful once again. Be careful of that
excellent complexion, which stole the hearts of old
and young.” Marina, being thus importuned,
said, “Well, I will go, but yet I have no desire
to it.” As Dionysia walked away, she said
to Leonine, “Remember what I have said!” shocking
words, for their meaning was that he should remember
to kill Marina.
Marina looked towards the sea, her
birthplace, and said, “Is the wind westerly
that blows?” “South-west,” replied
Leonine. “When I was born the wind was
north,” said she: and then the storm and
tempest, and all her father’s sorrows, and her
mother’s death, came full into her mind; and
she said, “My father, as Lychorida told me, did
never fear, but cried, Courage, good seamen,
to the sailors, galling his princely hands with the
ropes, and, clasping to the masts, he endured a sea
that almost split the deck.” “When
was this?” said Leonine. “When I was
born,” replied Marina: “never were
wind and waves more violent;” and then she described
the storm, the action of the sailors, the boatswain’s
whistle, and the loud call of the master, “which,”
said she, “trebled the confusion of the ship.”
Lychorida had so often recounted to Marina the story
of her hapless birth that these things seemed ever
present to her imagination. But here Leonine
interrupted her with desiring her to say her prayers.
“What mean you?” said Marina, who began
to fear, she knew not why. “If you require
a little space for prayer, I grant it,” said
Leonine; “but be not tedious, the gods are quick
of ear, and I am sworn to do my work in haste.”
“Will you kill me?” said Marina: “alas!
why?” “To satisfy my lady,” replied
Leonine. “Why would she have me killed?”
said Marina: “now, as I can remember, I
never hurt her in all my life. I never spake
bad word, nor did any ill turn to any living creature.
Believe me now, I never killed a mouse, nor hurt a
fly. I trod upon a worm once against my will,
but I wept for it. How have I offended?”
The murderer replied, “My commission is not to
reason on the deed, but to do it.” And
he was just going to kill her, when certain pirates
happened to land at that very moment, who seeing Marina,
bore her off as a prize to their ship.
The pirate who had made Marina his
prize carried her to Mitylene, and sold her for a
slave, where, though in that humble condition, Marina
soon became known throughout the whole city of Mitylene
for her beauty and her virtues; and the person to
whom she was sold became rich by the money she earned
for him. She taught music, dancing, and fine
needleworks, and the money she got by her scholars
she gave to her master and mistress; and the fame
of her learning and her great industry came to the
knowledge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was governor
of Mitylene, and Lysimachus went himself to the house
where Marina dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence,
whom all the city praised so highly. Her conversation
delighted Lysimachus beyond measure, for though he
had heard much of this admired maiden, he did not expect
to find her so sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so
good, as he perceived Marina to be; and he left her,
saying, he hoped she would persevere in her industrious
and virtuous course, and that if ever she heard from
him again it should be for her good. Lysimachus
thought Marina such a miracle for sense, fine breeding,
and excellent qualities, as well as for beauty and
all outward graces, that he wished to marry her, and
notwithstanding her humble situation, he hoped to find
that her birth was noble; but ever when they asked
her parentage she would sit still and weep.
Meantime, at Tarsus, Leonine, fearing
the anger of Dionysia, told her he had killed Marina;
and that wicked woman gave out that she was dead, and
made a pretended funeral for her, and erected a stately
monument; and shortly after Pericles, accompanied
by his loyal minister Helicanus, made a voyage from
Tyre to Tarsus, on purpose to see his daughter, intending
to take her home with him: and he never having
beheld her since he left her an infant in the care
of Cleon and his wife, how did this good prince rejoice
at the thought of seeing this dear child of his buried
queen! but when they told him Marina was dead, and
showed the monument they had erected for her, great
was the misery this most wretched father endured,
and not being able to bear the sight of that country
where his last hope and only memory of his dear Thaisa
was entombed, he took ship, and hastily departed from
Tarsus. From the day he entered the ship a dull
and heavy melancholy seized him. He never spoke,
and seemed totally insensible to everything around
him.
Sailing from Tarsus to Tyre, the ship
in its course passed by Mitylene, where Marina dwelt;
the governor of which place, Lysimachus, observing
this royal vessel from the shore, and desirous of knowing
who was on board, went in a barge to the side of the
ship, to satisfy his curiosity. Helicanus received
him very courteously and told him that the ship came
from Tyre, and that they were conducting thither Pericles,
their prince; “A man, sir,” said Helicanus,
“who has not spoken to any one these three months,
nor taken any sustenance, but just to prolong his
grief; it would be tedious to repeat the whole ground
of his distemper, but the main springs from the loss
of a beloved daughter and a wife.” Lysimachus
begged to see this afflicted prince, and when he beheld
Pericles, he saw he had been once a goodly person,
and he said to him, “Sir king, all hail, the
gods preserve you, hail, royal sir!” But in
vain Lysimachus spoke to him; Pericles made no answer,
nor did he appear to perceive any stranger approached.
And then Lysimachus bethought him of the peerless
maid Marina, that haply with her sweet tongue she
might win some answer from the silent prince:
and with the consent of Helicanus he sent for Marina,
and when she entered the ship in which her own father
sat motionless with grief, they welcomed her on board
as if they had known she was their princess; and they
cried, “She is a gallant lady.” Lysimachus
was well pleased to hear their commendations, and
he said, “She is such a one, that were I well
assured she came of noble birth, I would wish no better
choice, and think me rarely blessed in a wife.”
And then he addressed her in courtly terms, as if
the lowly-seeming maid had been the high-born lady
he wished to find her, calling her Fair and beautiful
Marina, telling her a great prince on board that
ship had fallen into a sad and mournful silence; and,
as if Marina had the power of conferring health and
felicity, he begged she would undertake to cure the
royal stranger of his melancholy. “Sir,”
said Marina, “I will use my utmost skill in his
recovery, provided none but I and my maid be suffered
to come near him.”
She, who at Mitylene had so carefully
concealed her birth, ashamed to tell that one of royal
ancestry was now a slave, first began to speak to
Pericles of the wayward changes in her own fate, telling
him from what a high estate herself had fallen.
As if she had known it was her royal father she stood
before, all the words she spoke were of her own sorrows;
but her reason for so doing was, that she knew nothing
more wins the attention of the unfortunate than the
recital of some sad calamity to match their own.
The sound of her sweet voice aroused the drooping
prince; he lifted up his eyes, which had been so long
fixed and motionless; and Marina, who was the perfect
image of her mother, presented to his amazed sight
the features of his dead queen. The long-silent
prince was once more heard to speak. “My
dearest wife,” said the awakened Pericles, “was
like this maid, and such a one might my daughter have
been. My queen’s square brows, her stature
to an inch, as wand-like straight, as silver-voiced,
her eyes as jewel-like. Where do you live, young
maid? Report your parentage. I think you
said you had been tossed from wrong to injury, and
that you thought your griefs would equal mine, if
both were opened.” “Some such thing
I said,” replied Marina, “and said no
more than what my thoughts did warrant me as likely.”
“Tell me your story,” answered Pericles;
“if I find you have known the thousandth part
of my endurance, you have borne your sorrows like
a man, and I have suffered like a girl; yet you do
look like Patience gazing on kings’ graves,
and smiling extremity out of act. How lost you
your name, my most kind virgin? Recount your story
I beseech you. Come, sit by me.” How
was Pericles surprised when she said her name was
Marina, for he knew it was no usual name, but
had been invented by himself for his own child to
signify seaborn: “O, I am mocked,”
said he, “and you are sent hither by some incensed
god to make the world laugh at me.” “Patience,
good sir,” said Marina, “or I must cease
here.” “Nay,” said Pericles,
“I will be patient; you little know how you do
startle me, to call yourself Marina.” “The
name,” she replied, “was given me by one
that had some power, my father, and a king.”
“How, a king’s daughter!” said Pericles,
“and called Marina! But are you flesh and
blood? Are you no fairy? Speak on; where
were you born? and wherefore called Marina?”
She replied, “I was called Marina, because I
was born at sea. My mother was the daughter of
a king; she died the minute I was born, as my good
nurse Lychorida has often told me weeping. The
king, my father, left me at Tarsus, till the cruel
wife of Cleon sought to murder me. A crew of
pirates came and rescued me, and brought me here to
Mitylene. But, good sir, why do you weep?
It may be, you think me an impostor. But, indeed,
sir, I am the daughter to King Pericles, if good King
Pericles be living.” Then Pericles, terrified
as he seemed at his own sudden joy, and doubtful if
this could be real, loudly called for his attendants,
who rejoiced at the sound of their beloved king’s
voice; and he said to Helicanus, “O Helicanus,
strike me, give me a gash, put me to present pain,
lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me, overbear
the shores of my mortality. O come hither, thou
that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus, and found
at sea again. O Helicanus, down on your knees,
thank the holy gods! This is Marina. Now
blessings on thee, my child! Give me fresh garments,
mine own Helicanus! She is not dead at Tarsus
as she should have been by the savage Dionysia.
She shall tell you all, when you shall kneel to her
and call her your very princess. Who is this?”
(observing Lysimachus for the first time). “Sir,”
said Helicanus, “it is the governor of Mitylene,
who, hearing of your melancholy, came to see you.”
“I embrace you, sir,” said Pericles.
“Give me my robes! I am well with beholding O
heaven bless my girl! But hark, what music is
that?” for now, either sent by some
kind god, or by his own delighted fancy deceived, he
seemed to hear soft music. “My lord, I
hear none,” replied Helicanus. “None?”
said Pericles; “why it is the music of the spheres.”
As there was no music to be heard, Lysimachus concluded
that the sudden joy had unsettled the prince’s
understanding; and he said, “It is not good to
cross him: let him have his way:”
and then they told him they heard the music; and he
now complaining of a drowsy slumber coming over him,
Lysimachus persuaded him to rest on a couch, and placing
a pillow under his head, he, quite overpowered with
excess of joy, sank into a sound sleep, and Marina
watched in silence by the couch of her sleeping parent.
While he slept, Pericles dreamed a
dream which made him resolve to go to Ephesus.
His dream was, that Diana, the goddess of the Ephesians,
appeared to him, and commanded him to go to her temple
at Ephesus, and there before her altar to declare
the story of his life and misfortunes; and by her
silver bow she swore, that if he performed her injunction,
he should meet with some rare felicity. When
he awoke, being miraculously refreshed, he told his
dream, and that his resolution was to obey the bidding
of the goddess.
Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to
come on shore, and refresh himself with such entertainment
as he should find at Mitylene, which courteous offer
Pericles accepting, agreed to tarry with him for the
space of a day or two. During which time we may
well suppose what feastings, what rejoicings, what
costly shows and entertainments the governor made in
Mitylene, to greet the royal father of his dear Marina,
whom in her obscure fortunes he had so respected.
Nor did Pericles frown upon Lysimachus’s suit,
when he understood how he had honoured his child in
the days of her low estate, and that Marina showed
herself not averse to his proposals; only he made
it a condition, before he gave his consent, that they
should visit with him the shrine of the Ephesian Diana:
to whose temple they shortly after all three undertook
a voyage; and, the goddess herself filling their sails
with prosperous winds, after a few weeks they arrived
in safety at Ephesus.
There was standing near the altar
of the goddess, when Pericles with his train entered
the temple, the good Cerimon (now grown very aged)
who had restored Thaisa, the wife of Pericles, to
life; and Thaisa, now a priestess of the temple, was
standing before the altar; and though the many years
he had passed in sorrow for her loss had much altered
Pericles, Thaisa thought she knew her husband’s
features, and when he approached the altar and began
to speak, she remembered his voice, and listened to
his words with wonder and a joyful amazement.
And these were the words that Pericles spoke before
the altar: “Hail, Diana! to perform thy
just commands, I here confess myself the Prince of
Tyre, who, frighted from my country, at Pentapolis
wedded the fair Thaisa: she died at sea in childbed,
but brought forth a maid-child called Marina.
She at Tarsus was nursed with Dionysia, who at fourteen
years thought to kill her, but her better stars brought
her to Mitylene, by whose shores as I sailed, her
good fortunes brought this maid on board, where by
her most clear remembrance she made herself known
to be my daughter.”
Thaisa, unable to bear the transports
which his words had raised in her, cried out, “You
are, you are, O royal Pericles” and
fainted. “What means this woman?”
said Pericles: “she dies! gentlemen, help.” “Sir,”
said Cerimon, “if you have told Diana’s
altar true, this is your wife.” “Reverend
gentleman, no,” said Pericles: “I
threw her overboard with these very arms.”
Cerimon then recounted how, early one tempestuous
morning, this lady was thrown upon the Ephesian shore;
how, opening the coffin, he found therein rich jewels,
and a paper; how, happily, he recovered her, and placed
her here in Diana’s temple. And now, Thaisa
being restored from her swoon said, “O my lord,
are you not Pericles? Like him you speak, like
him you are. Did you not name a tempest, a birth,
and death?” He astonished said, “The voice
of dead Thaisa!” “That Thaisa am I,”
she replied, “supposed dead and drowned.”
“O true Diana!” exclaimed Pericles, in
a passion of devout astonishment. “And now,”
said Thaisa, “I know you better. Such a
ring as I see on your finger did the king my father
give you, when we with tears parted from him at Pentapolis.”
“Enough, you gods!” cried Pericles, “your
present kindness makes my past miseries sport.
O come, Thaisa, be buried a second time within these
arms.”
And Marina said, “My heart leaps
to be gone into my mother’s bosom.”
Then did Pericles show his daughter to her mother,
saying, “Look who kneels here, flesh of thy
flesh, thy burthen at sea, and called Marina, because
she was yielded there.” “Blessed and
my own!” said Thaisa: and while she hung
in rapturous joy over her child, Pericles knelt before
the altar, saying, “Pure Diana, bless thee for
thy vision. For this, I will offer oblations
nightly to thee.” And then and there did
Pericles, with the consent of Thaisa, solemnly affiance
their daughter, the virtuous Marina, to the well-deserving
Lysimachus in marriage.
Thus have we seen in Pericles, his
queen, and daughter, a famous example of virtue assailed
by calamity (through the sufferance of Heaven, to
teach patience and constancy to men), under the same
guidance becoming finally successful, and triumphing
over chance and change. In Helicanus we have
beheld a notable pattern of truth, of faith, and loyalty,
who, when he might have succeeded to a throne, chose
rather to recall the rightful owner to his possession,
than to become great by another’s wrong.
In the worthy Cerimon, who restored Thaisa to life,
we are instructed how goodness directed by knowledge,
in bestowing benefits upon mankind, approaches to
the nature of the gods. It only remains to be
told, that Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon, met
with an end proportionable to her deserts; the inhabitants
of Tarsus, when her cruel attempt upon Marina was
known, rising in a body to revenge the daughter of
their benefactor, and setting fire to the palace of
Cleon, burnt both him and her, and their whole household:
the gods seeming well pleased, that so foul a murder,
though but intentional, and never carried into act,
should be punished in a way befitting its enormity.