King Lear

Long ago in Britain there lived a certain King called Lear, who had three daughters—Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia. The King dearly loved all his daughters, but in especial the youngest one, Cordelia. His eldest daughter, Goneril, was married to the Duke of Albany; Regan was married to the Duke of Cornwall; and the Princes of France and Burgundy were rival suitors for the hand of Cordelia.

When King Lear grew old, wishing to shake off all cares andbusiness, he decided to divide his kingdom among his children, leaving the largest portion to the one who loved him the most. He therefore bade each one in turn say how much she loved him, and he hoped, and fully expected, that his favourite, Cordelia, would prove that her affection was the greatest.

Goneril, the eldest, was told to speak first. She at once replied, with great glibness, that she loved her father more than words could express—dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty; beyond what could be valued, rich or rare; no less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; as much as child ever loved; a love that made breath poor, and speech powerless; beyond all manner of so much, she loved him.

Cordelia, hearing this fluent harangue, was quite astounded, for she knew her sister’s cold and heartless nature. “What shall Cordelia do? Love and be silent,” she said to herself, for she did not choose to compete with loud and empty protestations of this kind.

King Lear, however, was greatly pleased, and awarded to his son-in-law Albany, as Goneril’s dowry, an ample third of his kingdom. Then came Regan’s turn. She declared that everything her sister had said she felt exactly in the same manner, only in a larger measure; and she professed that she was an enemy to every joy excepting her father’s love. Lear thereupon awarded her another third of his kingdom, equal in size to Goneril’s.

Lastly he turned to Cordelia, and asked her what she could say to win a third portion of his possessions, richer than her sisters’.

Cordelia, disgusted at their false hypocrisy, answered simply:

“Nothing.”

“Nothing!” echoed Lear.

“Nothing,” repeated Cordelia.

“Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again,” commanded the frowning King.

Cordelia answered quietly that she loved her father as a child ought to do—she obeyed, honoured, and loved him as a father. If her sisters pretended that he was everything in the world to them, why had they husbands? Haply, when she herself wedded, half her love and duty would go to her husband; she would never marry if, like her sisters, all her love was still to remain with her father.

“Goes thy heart with this?” asked Lear.

“Ay, good my lord,” said Cordelia.

“So young and so untender?”

“So young, my lord, and true,” was the steadfast answer.

“Let it be so; thy truth, then, be thy dower,” cried Lear, his rage bursting forth in full fury.

Always rash and headstrong, even in his best days, old age and infirmities had rendered him still more unruly and wayward, and his fits of unreasoning anger were often beyond control. In the most violent language, he now denounced Cordelia, utterly disowning her as a daughter, and ordering her out of his sight. He sent to summon the two Princes who had made application for her hand, and in the meanwhile divided the remaining portion of his kingdom between Albany and Cornwall, investing them jointly with all the powers of majesty, and declaring that his youngest daughter’s pride, which she called candour,should be her only dower. King Lear reserved to himself a hundred knights, and retained the name and dignity of a King; but everything else—the sway, the revenue, and the government—he said should belong to his sons-in-law. And to confirm this, he took off his crown, and handed it to them to divide between them.

At this flagrant injustice of the old King, an honest and loyal courtier, the Earl of Kent, ventured to remonstrate, and, braving his master’s anger, he pointed out the rash folly of what he was doing, and begged him to reverse his doom. He declared boldly that he would answer for it, on his life if necessary, that Cordelia did not love her father the least of his children.

“Kent, on thy life, no more!” threatened the King.

“My life I never held but as a pawn to wage against thy enemies,” returned Kent fearlessly; “nor fear to lose it, thy safety being the motive.”

The King, deeply incensed, ordered Kent immediately to quit the kingdom; five days were allowed for making preparations; on the sixth he was to depart. If on the tenth day following he were found in the dominions, that moment would be his death.

Nothing daunted, the gallant nobleman bade farewell to the King, and, turning to Cordelia, he gave her a tender word of blessing.

“The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, that justly think’st, and hast most rightly said!”

As for Goneril and Regan, he hoped that their lavish speeches would be approved by their deeds, so that good effects might spring from words of love. And so the faithful courtier was driven away in mad folly by the master whom he had served so loyally.

“There she stands”

The Princes of France and Burgundy, who had been summoned, now made their appearance. King Lear first addressed Burgundy, asking him what dowry he required with his youngest daughter. Burgundy replied that he craved no more than what King Lear had already offered with her, and he supposed King Lear would not tender less.

Lear replied that when Cordelia was dear to him he held her at that value, but now her price was fallen. If Burgundy liked to take her, just as she was, with only the King’s displeasure added, she was his.

“There she stands. Take her or leave her,” he ended curtly.

Burgundy was not inclined to take Cordelia on these terms, and tried civilly to express his refusal. Lear then turned to the King of France, but to him he said he would not do him so much wrong as to offer him a thing which Lear himself hated—a wretch whom nature was almost ashamed to acknowledge as hers.

The King of France replied that it was very strange that she who had been the object of Lear’s praise, the comfort of his age—his best, his dearest—should in a trice of time so absolutely forfeithis favour. Surely she must have committed some terrible offence to lose his affection, and this, without a miracle, he would never believe of her.

The King’s manly and chivalrous words fell like balm on the poor young girl’s wounded heart, and she begged her father to tell him that it was no base or unworthy action on her part that had deprived her of his grace and favour, but only the want of a glib tongue and an ever-avaricious eye.

“Better thou hadst not been born than not to have pleased me better,” was Lear’s resentful answer to this appeal.

“My lord of Burgundy, what say you to the lady?” said France. “Love’s not love when it is mixed with considerations that have nothing to do with the main point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry.”

“Royal Lear, give but that portion which you yourself proposed, and here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy.”

“Nothing; I have sworn; I am firm,” said the old King obstinately.

“I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father that you must lose a husband,” said Burgundy to Cordelia.

“Peace be with Burgundy!” said Cordelia with dignity. “Since respects of fortune are his love, I shall not be his wife.”

The King of France stepped forward and took the maiden by the hand.

“Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon; if it be lawful, I take up what’s cast away. Thy dowerlessdaughter, King, thrown to me by hazard, is Queen of us, of ours, and of our France; not all the Dukes of watery Burgundy can buy this unprized, precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind; thou losest here, a better home to find.”

“Thou hast her, France; let her be thine,” said Lear, “for I have no such daughter, nor shall ever see that face of hers again. Therefore be gone without my grace, my love, my blessing.”

And the offended old King swept away with his train, not deigning to bestow another glance upon his daughter.

“Bid farewell to your sisters,” said the King of France again.

Cordelia, in taking leave of Goneril and Regan, begged them to treat their father well, for too truly she mistrusted their selfishness and hardness of heart. Regan told her haughtily not to prescribe their duties to them; and Goneril bade her study to content her husband, who had only received her out of charity.

”Come, my fair Cordelia,” said the King of France; and, secure in her true lover’s tender protection, the young girl passed from the home that had so cruelly spurned her.

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 cameto 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 whenthe 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 somediscretion 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.

“You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!”

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 seeme 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.”

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 manwandered, 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.”

“Blow, winds! Rage! Blow!”

Then, his mood altering, he called them the servileministers 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 curehis 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 whichimported 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 investedEdmund 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 listenin 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 inheart-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.

Othello

Brave, generous, of a free and open nature, Othello the Moor had won high honour in the state of Venice, for, although dark in colouring and of an alien race, he was one of her most renowned generals, and time after time had carried her arms to victory. When, therefore, alarming news reached Venice that the Turkish hordes were again threatening to invade some of her most valued territories, it was to the Moorish warrior Othello that the Venetian senators turned at once to avert the threatened danger.

Othello’s frank, valiant nature had won him many friends, but close at hand, where he little suspected it, was one subtle and dangerousenemy. Iago, one of his under-officers, hated him with a deadly venom. Iago was a brave soldier, but a man of utterly unscrupulous character. He had been with Othello through several campaigns, and when a chance for promotion came had hoped, through high personal influence, to obtain the envied position of Othello’s lieutenant. In his own opinion, Iago thoroughly merited this post, but when suit was made to Othello he evaded the petitioners, and finally put an end to their hopes by saying that he had already chosen his officer.

“And what was he?” demanded Iago disdainfully. “Forsooth, a great arithmetician—one Michael Cassio, a Florentine that never set a squadron in the field, nor knows the division of a battle more than a spinster, unless by bookish theory; mere prattle without practice is all his soldiership. But he, in good time, must be his lieutenant, and I—God bless the mark!—his Moorship’s ancient.”

Burning for revenge, Iago, instead of declining the inferior position of “ancient,” or ensign-bearer, accepted it, but only to serve his own purpose. “In following Othello, I follow but myself,” he declared. “Heaven is my judge, not for love and duty, but seeming so, for my peculiar end.” For Iago prided himself on the skill with which he could conceal his real feelings, and under a mask of the bluntest honesty he began to work out a scheme of diabolical cunning.

There was a certain senator of Venice at that time called Brabantio, who had an only daughter, named Desdemona. Brabantio was very fond of Othello, and often invited him to his house, and questioned himconcerning the story of his life—the battles, sieges, fortunes, through which he had passed. Othello recounted all his adventures from year to year, from his boyish days to the moment when he was speaking; he told of disastrous chances, of moving accidents by flood and field; of hair-breadth escapes; of being taken by the foe and sold into slavery; of his redemption from captivity; and then of his travels in all sorts of wild and extraordinary places. He described the vast caves and barren deserts that he had seen; rough quarries, rocks, and hills, whose heads touched heaven; cannibals that eat each other, and queer tribes of savages whose heads grow beneath their shoulders.

Desdemona, the gentle daughter of Brabantio, dearly loved to hear these thrilling stories, and was quite fascinated by the valorous soldier who had passed through such strange experiences. Hastily despatching her household affairs, she would come again and again to listen greedily to Othello, often weeping for pity when she heard of some distressful stroke he had suffered in his youth. His story being done, she would sigh, and swear, “in faith, ’twas strange—’twas passing strange; ’twas pitiful—’twas wondrous pitiful!” She wished she had not heard it, and yet she wished that heaven had made her such a man; and she bade Othello, if he had a friend who loved her, that he would but teach him how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint, Othello spoke. Desdemona loved him for the dangers he had passed, and Othello loved Desdemona because she pitied him.

This was the simple explanation of what her father, furious withrage, put down to witchcraft, for he could not believe that his timid daughter could really have fallen in love with such an alarming person as the swarthy Moor. But, as Desdemona said, she saw Othello’s visage in his mind, and the valour and nobility of his nature made her forget the darkness of his complexion. Knowing her father’s violent, unreasonable disposition, and fearing that he would never give his consent, Desdemona quietly left her home one night without consulting him, and was married to Othello.

Now was Iago’s opportunity. Finding out by some means what was taking place, he informed a rejected suitor of Desdemona’s called Roderigo, a brainless Venetian youth, and together they went to Brabantio’s house, and in high glee roused him, and told the news that Othello had stolen away his daughter. Having raised the alarm, and set them on the trail where they would be likely to find Othello, Iago thought it discreet to retire, for he did not wish it to appear as if he had anything to do with the matter. To Othello, he afterwards laid all the blame on Roderigo, declaring that several times he was so enraged with him that he could almost have killed him for the abusive way in which he had spoken of Othello.

Brabantio immediately called up his servants, and set out to look for the culprits; but before he found them the mischief was done—Othello and Desdemona were securely married.

In the Council Chamber at Venice, though it was night time, the Duke and senators were holding an important meeting. News had come that afleet of Turkish galleys was bearing down on Cyprus; and though the rumours were conflicting as to the number of the fleet and its present position, there was no doubt that the danger was imminent, and that preparations for defence must at once be set on foot. Messengers were sent to summon both Othello and Brabantio. As it happened, the latter was already on his way to appeal to the Duke to punish Othello, and happening to fall in with Othello, the two arrived at the same moment.

“Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you against the public enemy,” said the Duke. Then, turning to Brabantio, he added courteously: ”I did not see you; welcome, gentle signor; we lacked your counsel and your help to-night.”

“So did I yours,” replied Brabantio; and he proceeded to pour forth his complaint, saying that it was not anything he had heard of business which had called him from his bed, nor did the public anxiety make any impression on him, for his own private grief was of so overbearing a nature that it swallowed up all other concerns.

The Duke, much concerned, asked what was the matter, whereupon Brabantio in the bitterest terms accused Othello of having bewitched his daughter, for, he said, it was quite against nature that she could have fallen in love with him if she had been in her proper senses. The Duke asked Othello what he could say in answer to the charge. Then Othello, in a manly but modest fashion, gave a straightforward account of what had really happened, and so convincing were his words that the Duke was quite won over to his side, and at the end exclaimed heartily, “I think this tale would win my daughter too!”He tried to persuade Brabantio to make the best of the matter, but the old senator was relentless. All that he would do was to transfer the blame to his daughter, when Desdemona, on being sent for, confirmed everything Othello had said. Her father bade her say to whom in all the assembled company she owed most obedience. Desdemona, with modesty but decision, replied that she saw a divided duty—that she was indebted to her father for life and education, and that she loved and respected him as a daughter; but even as her own mother had left her father, preferring Brabantio, so Desdemona claimed that she had as much right to leave her father and follow her husband Othello.

Brabantio was quite unmoved by this argument.

“God be with you! I have done,” he said roughly, and in a few heartless words he handed over his daughter to Othello. “Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see; she has deceived her father, and may thee,” was his final cruel taunt.

“My life upon her faith!” cried Othello indignantly, as he clasped his weeping young wife in his arms.

The next question to decide was where Desdemona should stay during her husband’s absence. She begged so earnestly to be allowed to accompany him to the war that Othello joined his voice to hers, and the Duke gave them leave to settle the matter as they chose. Othello was obliged to start that very night, and Desdemona was to follow later under the escort of his officer, “honest Iago,” to whose care Othello especially committed her, and whose wife Emilia he begged might attend on her.

If Othello had but known it, “honest Iago” at that very momentwas already weaving his plans of villainy, and was sneering inwardly at his General’s open and trustful nature, which made him so easy to be deceived. The sweetest revenge which occurred to Iago was to bring discord between Othello and the beautiful young wife whom he loved so devotedly. Iago therefore determined to set cunningly to work to implant a feeling of jealousy in Othello’s mind. Like many warm-hearted and affectionate people, Othello was extremely passionate and impulsive. Once his feelings were aroused, he rushed forward blindly in the direction in which a clever villain might lure him, and being so absolutely truthful and candid himself, he was utterly unsuspicious of falsehood in others.

Iago’s weapon was not far to seek, and he had, moreover, the satisfaction of feeling that he would enjoy a double revenge, for it was Michael Cassio, Othello’s new lieutenant, on whom he fixed as a fitting tool. Cassio was young, handsome, attractive, a general favourite, especially with women, where his graceful manners always won him favour. He was already greatly liked by Desdemona, for when Othello came to woo her, Cassio was his frequent companion, and often carried messages between them. What, then, more natural than that a young girl like Desdemona should presently grow tired of her elderly and war-beaten husband, and turn for amusement to this charming young gallant? Such, at least, was Iago’s reasoning, and such was the poison which he intended to pour into the ear of the guileless Othello.

On the way to Cyprus a terrible tempest sprang up, which scattered Othello’s convoy, and drove his own ship out of its course, so that, after all, Desdemona got to the island before her husband. Cassio, Othello’s lieutenant, had already arrived, and had been sounding the praises of his General’s wife to the islanders, and when news came that Desdemona’s ship had also safely reached port, he was ready with a rapturous greeting for the young bride.

“O, behold, the riches of the ship is come on shore!” he cried, as Desdemona approached, with Emilia, Iago, Roderigo, and their attendants. “Hail to thee, lady! The grace of heaven, before, behind thee, and on every hand, enwheel thee round!”

“I thank thee, valiant Cassio,” replied Desdemona. “What tidings can you tell me of my lord?”

Cassio answered that Othello was not yet arrived, and for anything he knew he was well, and would be there shortly; and even as he spoke, the guns on the citadel thundered a greeting to a friendly sail.

Like a spider who has woven its web, Iago watched his victims; he gloated over the idle chatter between Cassio and Desdemona, and marked, as they laughed and talked together, how the young man smiled and bowed, and often kissed his fingers with an air of gallantry.

“Ay, smile upon her, do,” he sneered to himself; “if such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenancy, it had been better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft.... Very good; well kissed! an excellent courtesy! ’tis so, indeed!”

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