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The Shakespeare Story-Book
Goneril and Regan
What Cordelia had feared with respect to her sisters speedily came to pass. When the kingdom was safely in their possession, their true natures became apparent, and they showed themselves for what they really were – false, cruel, and utterly heartless women. The arrangement had been that King Lear, with a hundred knights, was to stay a month at each daughter’s in turn, but before his term of residence at his eldest son-in-law’s, the Duke of Albany, had come to an end, Goneril contrived, by her outrageous behaviour, to drive him from the palace. She pretended that his knights brought disorder into her household; and although her father had presented her with half his kingdom as a dowry, she grudged even the small expenditure of maintaining this paltry band of followers. She ordered her steward Oswald and her servants to treat him with open negligence and disrespect, in the hope of bringing about a quarrel; if it were to her father’s distaste, she said brutally, he could go to her sister’s; she knew that Regan was of the same mind with herself in the resolve, as they expressed it, “not to be overruled.”
“Idle old man,” remarked Goneril contemptuously, “who would like still to manage the authorities that he has given away.”
Lear, always fiery-tempered and impetuous, was certainly not one to submit tamely to such insulting treatment, and, almost out of his mind at the base ingratitude of Goneril and the insolence of her domestics, he ordered his horses to be got ready, and prepared to depart to his second daughter. He now began to repent of his harshness to Cordelia, and to realise how foolish he had been in parting so rashly with his authority.
But the poor, headstrong old King had one friend near him of whom he did not know. The faithful Earl of Kent loved his master in spite of his faults, and determined not to forsake him in the evil days which he knew must be at hand. In the guise of a poor man, Kent came to the palace of the Duke of Albany, and persuaded King Lear to take him into his service.
One other devoted follower was also left to the King – his faithful Fool, or jester. The loving loyalty of this man never failed, and his deep attachment to his royal master was touching to see. In the midst of the vexations which fretted his impatient spirit, the old King turned for refreshment to the quaint sayings of this humble friend; had he but known it, the intelligence of this poor Fool far surpassed in wisdom his own mad folly.
Cordelia’s departure had been a great grief to this affectionate creature, and after she went to France he pined and pined away, and kept sadly aloof from his master. But King Lear, missing his favourite, sent for him, and the poor Fool came in answer to the summons, glib of tongue, but with eyes that looked sorrowful enough under his cap and bells. His speech was ready, as usual, but his wit was tinged with bitter philosophy, and his sayings conveyed many a sharp home-truth to the misguided monarch. The King suffered him to speak what he would have allowed no one else to utter, and the Fool, in half-mocking words, pointed out with blunt plainness the folly of the King in giving away his possessions. Later on, when Goneril appeared, and with her lying statements and heartless insolence almost goaded Lear to madness, the poor Fool tried, by every means in his power, to divert the King’s mind; he desperately interposed after some of Goneril’s most biting speeches, trying to take off their edge by a little twist of humour, and to distract the King’s attention from his daughter’s cruelty by bringing reproof upon himself by his own impertinent sallies. Poor faithful heart! He might as well have tried to divert a thunderbolt with a harlequin’s wand. In the storm that was now to burst over them, the poor thrall could do nothing to save his master, but at least he could cling to him with unswerving fidelity, and share his wanderings and misery.
The Duke of Albany, less hard-hearted than his wife, tried to soften her harsh severity, but his attempts were useless. She declined to listen to any reasoning, called his mildness “want of wisdom,” and, acting on her own authority, suddenly dismissed fifty of her father’s knights, on the frivolous and altogether false pretext that they conducted themselves in a riotous fashion in her house, and that it was dangerous for the lives of herself and her husband for Lear to keep such a large guard about him.
Lear, furious with rage, declared his intention of leaving Albany’s palace immediately, and started with the Fool for Regan’s house, sending Kent on in advance with letters to announce his coming. Goneril, however, to secure her sister on her side, also sent letters to her by the steward Oswald, the man who had already incurred King Lear’s wrath by his insolence. The two messengers happening to meet on the way, outside the castle of the Earl of Gloucester, where Regan and her husband were then staying, Kent fell on the saucy knave, and gave him a thoroughly well-deserved thrashing. Oswald’s loud and cowardly cries raised the household, and by order of the Duke of Cornwall, Kent was seized and placed in the stocks, in spite of his protest that he was the messenger of the King, and as such ought to be treated with respect. He took his punishment with much philosophy, and when the kindly Earl of Gloucester expressed his pity, and said he would entreat the Duke of Cornwall for him, Kent answered with sturdy fortitude: “Pray do not, sir; I have watched and travelled hard; some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle.” And, as a matter of fact, the stout-hearted champion presently went calmly to sleep in his uncomfortable resting-place.
When King Lear, with the Fool and a gentleman attendant, arrived at the Earl of Gloucester’s castle, the first thing he saw was his messenger sitting in the stocks. He asked indignantly who had dared to do such a deed, and was told that it was his daughter and his son-in-law. The King could scarcely think such a thing was possible, and demanded to see Regan and the Duke of Cornwall. They returned for answer that they could not be spoken with. King Lear’s fiery temper was already blazing at this insulting reception. He sent a peremptory summons that Regan and her husband should come forth and hear him, or else he would go and batter with drums at their chamber door; and the Earl of Gloucester, always ready to make peace, at last persuaded his guests to appear.
After a stiff greeting from the Duke of Cornwall and his wife, Kent was set at liberty, and King Lear began to relate the unkind treatment of Goneril, thinking to receive some affection and sympathy from this daughter, although the eldest one had behaved so badly.
Regan, however, took her sister’s part, and coldly replied that she could not think that her sister would have failed the least in her duty; if she restrained the riots of his followers, she was not to blame. Her father was old, he should be ruled and led by some discretion better than his own. Therefore she prayed him to return to Goneril and say he had wronged her.
“Ask her forgiveness?” demanded King Lear. “Mark how this becomes the house.” He fell on his knees and continued in bitter mockery: “‘Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; age is unnecessary; on my knees I beg that you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’”
Regan was annoyed at the old man’s raillery, and again bade him return to her sister.
“Never, Regan,” said King Lear, rising; and in angry words he called down the vengeance of heaven on his eldest daughter for her black ingratitude.
”So you will wish on me when the rash mood is on,” said Regan.
“No, Regan, you will never have my curse,” said the old man, and with piteous words of misplaced affection he tried to convince himself that this daughter would never have treated him as the other one had done.
While they were speaking, the sound of a trumpet was heard, and, to the horror and dismay of King Lear, Goneril herself appeared.
“O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?” he asked reproachfully.
“Why not by the hand, sir?” demanded Goneril arrogantly. “How have I offended? All is not offence that indiscretion finds and dotage terms so.”
Lear’s self-control was rapidly leaving him, and he could scarcely answer calmly when Regan again advised him to return and sojourn with her sister for the remainder of the month, dismissing half his train, and then to go back to her. Lear indignantly refused to return with Goneril, but, making one last effort to subdue his rising violence, he said he would not trouble Goneril; they need never see each other again; but he could stay with Regan, he and his hundred knights.
To this Regan answered coldly that she had not expected him so soon, and was not provided for his fit welcome. She again counselled him to listen to her sister. Fifty followers? What should he need of more? Indeed, why so many? How, in one house, could many people under two commands dwell peaceably? It was hard, almost impossible.
“Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance from those that she calls servants, or from mine?” put in Goneril.
“Why not, my lord?” echoed Regan. “If you will come to me – for now I spy a danger – I entreat you to bring but five-and-twenty; to no more will I give place or notice.”
Seeing that Regan was about to treat him worse, if anything, than Goneril, King Lear said he would return to his eldest daughter with the fifty knights to which she had reduced him. But now Goneril began to draw back. Why did he need five-and-twenty, ten, or even five followers, in a house where twice as many had orders to attend on him?
“What need of one?” added Regan.
“O, reason not the need,” exclaimed Lear, justly indignant at this sordid argument from those to whom he had given his entire possessions. “Our basest beggars are in the poorest thing superfluous. But for true need – you heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, as full of grief as age; wretched in both… You think I’ll weep? No, I’ll not weep. I have full cause of weeping; but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws before I’ll weep… O Fool, I shall go mad!”
And, hurling forth threats of revenge, King Lear hurried from the castle, followed by his faithful companions, the Fool and the Earl of Kent. Darkness was coming on; it was a wild night of storm; the wind howled and raged; for miles around on the desolate heath there was not even a bush for shelter. But the heart-broken father’s only thought was to fly from the cruel daughters who had so shamefully treated him.
The Earl of Gloucester came in much concern to tell Goneril and Regan that the King was leaving the castle, but they bade him with cold brutality not to persuade him to stay, but to shut his doors. Regan remarked that to wilful men the injuries they brought on themselves must be their own schoolmasters; Lear was attended with a desperate train, and it was wise to be cautious.
“Shut up your doors, my lord,” agreed Cornwall; “it’s a wild night; my Regan counsels well. Come in, out of the storm.”
Night and Storm
Out into the night and storm hurried King Lear, but little he heeded the darkness or the raging of the elements, for now he was mad – really mad. Amid the howling of the blast, cataracts of rain, the rattle of thunder, and blinding flashes of lightning, the old man wandered, bareheaded, tearing his white locks, and shouting incoherent exclamations to the whirlwind.
“Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!.. Spit, fire! Spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, called you children; you owe me nothing; then let fall your horrible pleasure. Here I stand, your slave, a poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.”
Then, his mood altering, he called them the servile ministers of two pernicious daughters, who had joined with them in battle against an old white head.
So he went on, raving wildly, while all the time the faithful Fool clung to him, half supporting his tottering steps, and still striving with his jests to divert the mind of his heart-broken master.
Meanwhile, friends of the King were working on his behalf. Information had reached the Earl of Kent that there was secret division between Albany and Cornwall, though the face of it was hidden with mutual cunning. Word had been carried to France of the harsh way in which both these sons-in-law had behaved to the old King, and Cordelia was on her way to rescue her father, and had already landed with an army at Dover. The Earl of Gloucester also, disgusted with the brutal behaviour of Regan and her husband, was now on the watch to protect the old man. After King Lear had been driven out into the storm, Gloucester overheard a plot to put him to death. He at once made arrangements to secure his safety, and, setting out in search of the fugitives, he found them in a wretched little hovel on the heath, where they had gone for shelter. The poor old man’s wits were now entirely gone, and his distracted brain could do nothing but brood over the heartless cruelty of his daughters, which had brought him to this condition. But he was tenderly humoured and watched over by the few followers still left to him, and now by their loyalty he was safely conveyed out of reach of his enemies. Gloucester told Kent there was a litter waiting ready, and bade him take up his master in his arms at once, and carry him to it, and then drive instantly to Dover, where he should receive both welcome and protection. If he delayed in the slightest degree, the King’s life, and Kent’s, and all who offered to defend him, would assuredly be lost.
Thanks to the devotion of his faithful friends, the poor old King was safely conveyed to Dover, but a terrible fate rewarded the loyalty of the Earl of Gloucester. Finding out the part he had played in the escape of King Lear, the Duke of Cornwall, with savage barbarity, had both the eyes of the nobleman put out, and then Regan pitilessly bade her servants thrust him forth from his own castle.
A just punishment, however, overtook the brutal Earl. One of his own servants, indignant at his cruelty, refused to perform his bidding. Cornwall, enraged, fell upon the man, and they fought. Regan, coming to her husband’s assistance, stabbed the servant from behind, but not before the man contrived to wound the Earl so seriously that he soon after died of the injury.
King Lear reached Dover safely, and Cordelia was prepared with the most tender affection to welcome her old father. But remorse for the injustice with which he had treated this daughter, and robbed her of her rights, to bestow them on her worthless sisters, so stung King Lear’s mind that shame kept him from seeing Cordelia, and he contrived to make his escape from the French camp. Cordelia sent out in search of him, and he was presently found wandering about on the cliffs, all decked out with wild flowers, but still in his madness assuming the majesty of a King. He was taken back to the camp, and placed in the care of a skilful doctor, who said that the chief thing needed to cure his shattered senses was complete repose. The poor old King was put to bed, and everything was done to aid his recovery; in the tent where he lay attendants watched so that nothing should disturb him, and soft music was played. He had a long, refreshing sleep, and when the moment of awakening came, to the great joy of Cordelia and those who had followed him so faithfully, it was evident that his reason was restored.
The first sight on which his eyes opened was the loving face of Cordelia. For a moment the King thought it must be some spirit from heaven, and could scarcely believe that it was indeed his own daughter, in flesh and blood. He thought that his wits must still be wandering.
“Where have I been? Where am I?” he murmured, looking round with dazed eyes, while the spectators watched with mute anxiety, to see what turn his malady would take. “I should die with pity to see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands; let’s see. I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured of my condition!”
“Oh, look upon me, sir!” entreated Cordelia, with her soft voice. “And hold your hands in benediction over me. No, sir, you must not kneel.”
“Pray do not mock me,” said Lear in trembling accents. “I am a very foolish, fond old man, fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less; and, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man” – he looked round in piteous appeal – “yet I am doubtful, for I am ignorant what place this is… Pray do not mock me, for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia.”
“And so I am, I am,” cried Cordelia, the tears raining from her tender eyes.
“Are your tears wet?” said Lear, touching her cheeks softly, like a child. “Yes, faith! I pray, weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me, for your sisters have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause; they have not.”
“No cause, no cause,” said Cordelia.
“Am I in France?” asked Lear.
“In your own kingdom, sir,” said Kent respectfully.
“Do not abuse me,” pleaded the once haughty King.
The good doctor now interposed; he bade Cordelia be comforted: the madness was cured, but there was danger in letting the King brood over what had passed. He must not be troubled with further talking until his shaken senses were more securely settled.
“Will it please your highness walk?” asked Cordelia, with her sweet grace of manner.
“You must bear with me,” said the old man humbly. “Pray you, now, forget and forgive. I am old and foolish.”
And so, subdued in mind and crushed in spirit, clinging to the child whom he had spurned, the once fiery and impetuous monarch was tenderly led away by his loving daughter.
It would be pleasant if the story could end here, and if we could leave the tempest-tossed old King in the cherished keeping of the gentle Cordelia. But a sadder fate for both was at hand. The King of France had been suddenly called back to his own land by business which imported so much fear and danger to the State that his personal return was absolutely necessary. In his absence the French forces were attacked by the British troops of Goneril and Regan, under the command of a treacherous son of the loyal Earl of Gloucester, called Edmund. Unfortunately, on this occasion the British won the battle, and Cordelia and King Lear were both captured.
Edmund ordered them away to prison, whither King Lear went joyously enough, for he was quite happy at being again with his daughter. As soon as they had gone, Edmund despatched an officer to the prison with secret instructions, which he ordered him to carry out at once.
Scarcely had this been done when a flourish of trumpets announced the approach of the Duke of Albany, Goneril, and Regan. The Duke of Albany, always of a milder and more merciful nature, had for some time been dissatisfied with the treatment to which the poor old King had been subjected. He was indignant at the Duke of Cornwall’s barbarity in putting out the eyes of Gloucester, and was glad to hear that he had met his just punishment at the hands of the servant whom he had killed for daring to remonstrate with him.
Albany now demanded that Lear should be handed over to his keeping – a request which Edmund refused to comply with, giving as pretext that the question of Cordelia and her father required a fitter place for discussion. The Duke of Albany ordered Edmund to obey, saying that he regarded him only as a subject in this war, and not as his brother, whereupon Regan interposed, and declared that she had invested Edmund with full authority, therefore he was quite the equal of Albany; moreover, she intended to marry him.
An angry discussion now arose between the two sisters. Goneril also had taken a fancy to this Edmund, and had not scrupled to lay a plot to get her husband killed, so that she might marry him. Knowing Regan’s designs, she had added to her crimes by secretly poisoning her sister, in order to get her out of the way, and even while they were disputing, the drug began to take effect, and in a few minutes Regan was dead.
Goneril’s husband, however, had discovered the plot against himself, and now he publicly denounced his wife. In ungovernable fury at the failure of her schemes, and refusing to give any answer to the Duke of Albany’s accusations, Goneril hurried away, and took her own life.
Thus miserably perished these two hard-hearted and wicked women.
Edmund in the meanwhile, wounded to death by his own brave half-brother Edgar, who had appeared as champion to punish Edmund for his many horrible acts of treachery and wickedness, now confessed that he and Goneril had given private instructions that Cordelia was to be hanged in prison, and had intended to lay the blame on her own despair, which had caused her to do this desperate deed.
Messengers were sent in haste to arrest this fatal order, but, alas! it was too late. As Edmund was borne away, King Lear entered, bearing the dead body of Cordelia in his arms. The old man’s reason was again tottering on the brink of madness, and the spectators could only listen in pitying sorrow to his frenzied grief over his murdered child. One moment he mourned her as dead; the next he tried to persuade himself she was still living. He called for a looking-glass, to see if her breath would mist or stain it, a proof that she lived; and held a feather to her lips, and thought it stirred. The Earl of Kent came and knelt before him, but the King turned from him impatiently, and bent again over Cordelia, where she lay on the ground.
“Cordelia, Cordelia! Stay a little!” he implored in piteous accents. “Ha! What is it thou sayest?” He leant his ear to listen, and with eager self-deception tried to explain his failure to hear a sound. “Her voice was ever soft, gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.” Then, with a sudden change, he drew himself up, and, looking round, cried exultingly: “I killed the slave that was a-hanging thee!”
“’Tis true, my lords, he did,” said an officer who was standing by.
“Did I not, fellow?” said the King proudly. “I have seen the time, with my good biting falchion, I would have made them skip. I am old now, and these same crosses spoil me. – Who are you? Mine eyes are not of the best; I’ll tell you in a minute. Are you not Kent?”
“The same – your servant Kent.”
But the King’s last gleam of reason was going, and Kent in vain tried to make him realise the fact of his own loyal fidelity, and that the cruel Goneril and Regan were dead. The King’s thoughts were again with his beloved child.
“And my poor fool is hanged! No, no, no life!” he wailed in heart-broken accents. “Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more – never, never, never, never, never! Pray, you, undo this button.” He made a choking movement at the cloak at his throat, and someone stepped forward and gently unclasped it for him. “Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her – look, her lips – look there, look there!” and with a strange cry of mingled joy and anguish King Lear fell dead on the body of his dear child Cordelia.
And so, with all his faults and follies, which had assuredly wrought out their own bitter retribution, the fiery-hearted King passed into the realm of eternal rest.
