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 Clotus, who is his new queen's only son by a previous marriage of her own. (As the First Gentleman discusses, Cymbeline had two twin sons, Imogen's brothers, who mysteriously disappeared during their infancy.) However, Clotus 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 Clotus 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 Clotus, 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. (One should note that throughout Cymbeline Shakespeare refers to "Britain", not "England", as the setting of his play; this is because the notion of Empire, which specifies that England is only one country in Britain, informs the play at an essential level.) 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 (as depicted in the Aeneid) 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 (we'll get to that in time), 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.

Summary

Clotus' 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 Clotus, 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:

[T]hough it be allow'd 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-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'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 (for now) 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.

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.

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 (and, confusingly, somewhat erotic) 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.

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" (jailer).

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 (disguised as Fidele) 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 (as opposed to the open-air Globe) 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 ("phil", of harmony, "armonus", of "amor"), 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.

• Biography of William Shakespeare
• About Cymbeline
• Character List
• Major Themes
• Glossary of Terms
• Short Summary
• Full Summary and Analysis
• Summary and Analysis of Act One
• Summary and Analysis of Act Two
• Summary and Analysis of Act Three
• Summary and Analysis of Act Four
• Summary and Analysis of Act Five
• Related Links on Cymbeline
• Suggested Essay Questions
• Editions of Cymbeline
• Author of ClassicNote and Sources
• Purchase Cymbeline and Other Works
• Test Yourself! Quiz 1
• Test Yourself! Quiz 2
• Test Yourself! Quiz 3
• Test Yourself! Quiz 4
• Essays on Cymbeline
• E-Text
• Message Board on Cymbeline