From The Norton Shakespeare:
KING LEAR
You have, King James told his eldest son a few years before Shakespeare wrote King Lear,
a double obligation to love God: first because He made you a man, and
second because he made you "a little God to sin on his Throne, and rule
over other men." Whatever the realities of Renaissance
kingship—realities that included the stem necessity of compromise,
reciprocity, and restraint—the idea of sovereignty was closely linked to
fantasies of divine omnipotence. From his exalted height, the sovereign
looked down upon the tiny figures of the ordinary mortals below him.
Their hopes, the material conditions of their miserable existence, their
names, were of little interest, and yet the king knew that they too
were looking back up at him. "For Kings being public persons," James
uneasily acknowledged, are set "upon a public stage, in the sight of all
the people; where all the beholders' eyes are attentively bent to look
and pry in the least circumstance of their secretist drifts." Under such
circumstances, the sovereign's dream was to command, like God, not only
unquestioning obedience but unqualified love.
In King Lear,
Shakespeare explores the dark consequences of this dream not only in
the state but also in the family, where the Renaissance father
increasingly styled himself "a little God." If, as the play opens, the
aged Lear, exercising his imperious will and demanding professions of
devotion, is "every inch a king," he is also by the same token every
inch a father, the absolute ruler of a family that conspicuously lacks
the alternative authority of a mother. Shakespeare's play invokes this
royal and paternal sovereignty only to chronicle its destruction in
scenes of astonishing cruelty and power. The very words "every inch a
king" are spoken not by the confident figure of supreme authority whom
we glimpse in the first moments but by the ruined old man who perceives
in his feverish rage and madness that the fantasy of omnipotence is a
fraud: "When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me
chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding, there I
found'em, there I smelt 'em out. Go to, they are not men o' their words.
They told me I was everything; 'tis a lie, I am not ague-proof"
(4.5.98-102; all quotations, except where noted, are from The Tragedy of King Lear).
"They
told me I was everything": Shakespeare's culture continually staged
public rituals of deference to authority. These rituals—kneeling,
bowing, uncovering the head, and so forth—enacted respect for wealth,
cast, power, and, at virtually every level of society, age, Jacobean
England had a strong official regard fro the rights and privileges of
age. It told itself that, by the will of God and the natural order of
things, authority gravitated to old men, and it contrived to ensure that
this proper, sacrified arrangement of society be everywhere respected.
"'Tis
a lie": Shakespeare's culture continually told itself at the same time
that without the control of property and the threat of punishment, any
claim to authority was chillingly vulnerable to the ruthless ambitions
of the young, the restless, and the discontented. The incessant,
ritualized spectacles of sovereignty have a nervous air, as if no one
quite believed all the grand claims to divine sanction for the rule of
kings and fathers, as if those who ruled both states and families
secretly feared that the elaborate hiararchical structure could vanish
like a mirage exposing their shivering, defenseless bodies, King Lear
relentlessly stages this horrifying descent toward what the ruined
King, contemplating the filthy, naked body of a mad beggar, calls "the
thing itself": "Unaccomodated man is no more but such a poor, bare,
forked animal as thou art" (3.4.95-97). Lear and the Earl of Gloucester,
another old man whose terrible fate closely parallels Lear's,
repeatedly look up at the heavens and call upon the gods for help, but
the gods are silent. The despairing Gloucester concludes that the
universe is actively malevolent—"As flies to wanton boys are we to
th'gods / They kill us for their sport" (4.1.37-38)—but the awful
silence of the gods may equally be a sign of their indifference or their
nonexistence.
The
story of King Lear and his three daughters had been often told when
Shakespeare undertook to make it the subject of a tragedy. The play,
performed at court in December 1605, was probably written and first
performed somewhat earlier, though not before 1603, since it contains
allusions to a book published in that year. The book is Samuel
Harsnett's Declaration of Egregious Popish Impostures, a florid
piece of anti-Catholic propaganda from which Shakespeare took the
colorful names of the "foul fiends" by whom the mad beggar claims to be
possessed. Thus scholars generally assign Shakespeare's composition of King Lear to 1604-5, shortly after Othello (c. 1603-4) and before Macbeth (c. 1606): an astounding succession of tragic masterpieces.
King Lear first appeared in print in a quarto published in 1608 entitled M. William Shak-speare His Historie, of King Lear; a substantially different text, entiled The Tragedie of King lear
and grouped with the other tragedies, was printed in the 1623 First
Folio. From the eighteenth century, when the difference between the two
texts was first noted, editors, assuming that they were imperfect
versions of the identical play, customarily conflated them, blending
together the approximately one hundred Folio lines not printed in the
quarto with the approximately three hundred quarto lines not printed in
the Folio and selecting as best they could among the hundreds of
particular alternative readings. But there is a growing scholarly
consensus that the 1608 text of Lear represents the play as
Shakespeare first wrote it and that of the 1623 text represents a
substantial revision. (See the Textual Note for further discussion.)
Since this revision includes significant structural changes as well as
many local details, the two texts provide a precious opportunity to
glimpse Shakespeare's creative process as an artist and the
collaborative work of his theater company. Accordingly, the Norton Shakespeare prints The History of King Lear and The Tragedy of King Lear
on facing pages; in addition, a modern conflated version of the play
follows, so that readers will be able to judge for themselves the
effects of the familiar editorial practice of stitching together the two
texts.
When King Lear
was first performed, it may have struck contemporaries as strangely
timely in the wake of a lawsuit that had occurred in late 1603. The two
elder daughters of a doddering gentleman named Sir Brian Annesley
attempted to get their father legally certified as insane, thereby
enabling themselves to take over his estate, while his youngest daughter
vehemently protested on her father's behalf. The youngest daughter's
name happened to be Cordell, a name uncannily close to that of Lear's
youngest daughters, Cordelia, who tries to save her father from the
malevolent designs of her older sisters.
The
Annesley case is worth invoking not only because it may have caught
Shakespeare's attention but also because it directs our own attention to
the ordinary family tensions and fears around which King Lear,
for all of its wildness, violence, and strangeness, is constructed.
Though the Lear story has the mythic quality of a folktale
(specifically, it resembles both the tale of Cinderella and the tale of a
daughter who falls into disfavor for telling her father she loves him
as much as salt), it was rehearsed in Shakespeare's time as a piece of
authentic British history from the very ancient past (c. 800 B.C.) and
as an admonition to contemporary fathers not to put too much trust in
the flattery of their children: "Remember what happened to old King
Lear. . ." In some versions of the story, including Shakespeare's, the
warning centers on a decision to retire.
Retirement
has come to seem a routine event, but in the patriarchal, gerontocratic
culture of Tudor and Stuart England, it was generally shunned. When
through illness or extreme old age it became unavoidable, retirement put
a severe strain on the politics and psychology of deference by driving a
wedge between status—what Lear at society's pinnacle calls "the name
and all th'addition to a king" (1.1.134)—and power. In both the state
and the family, the strain could be somewhat eased by transferring power
to the eldest legitimate male successor, but as the families of both
the legendary Lear and the real Brian Annesley showed, such a successor
did not always exist. In the absence of a male heir, the aged Lear,
determined to "shake all cares and business" from himself and confer
them on "younger strengths," attempts to divide his kingdom equally
among his daughters so that, as he puts it, "future strife / May be
prevented now" (1.1.37-38, 42-43). But this attempt is a disastrous
failure. Critics have often argued that the roots of the failure lie in
the division of the kingdom, that any parceling out of the land on a map
would itself have provoked in the audience an ominous shudder, as it is
clearly meant to do when the rebels spread out a map in anticipation of
a comparable division in 1 Henry IV. Early seventeenth-century
audiences had reason to fear the dissolution of the realm into competing
fragments. But the focus of Shakespeare's tragedy seems to lie
elsewhere: Lear's folly is not that he retires or that he divides his
kingdom—the play opens with the Earl of Glucester and the Earl of Kent
commenting without apparent disapproval on the scrupulous equality of
the shares—but rather that he rashly disinherits the only child who
truly loves him, his youngest daughter.
Shakespeare
contrives moreover to show that the problem with which his characters
are grappling does not simply result from the absence of a son and heir.
In his most brilliant and complex use of a double plot, he intertwines
the story of Lear and his three daughters with the story of Gloucester
and his two sons, a tale he adapted from an episode in Sir Philip
Sidney's prose romance Arcadia. Gloucester has a legitimate heir,
his elder son Edgar, as well as an illegitimate son, Edmond, and in
this family the tragic conflict originates not in an unusual manner of
transferring property from one generation to another but rather in the
reverse: Edmond seethes with murderous resentment at the disadvantage
entirely customary for someone in his position, both as a younger son
and as what was called a "base" or "natural" child. "Thou, nature, art
my goddess," he declares:
Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom and permit
The curiosity of nations to deprive me
For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines
Lag of a brother? Why 'bastard'? Wherefore 'base'?
(1.2.1-6)
For
Edmond, the social order and the language used to articulate it are
merely arbitrary constraints, obstacles to the triumph of his will. He
schemes to tear down the obstaclesby playing on his father's fears,
cleverly planting a forged letter in which his older brother appears to
be plotting against his father's life. The letter's chilling sentences
express Edmond's own impatience, his hatred of the confining power of
custom, his disgusted observation of "the oppression of aged tyranny,
who sways not as it hath power but as it is suffered"(1.2.48-49).
Gloucester is predictably horrified and incensed; these are, as Edmond
cunningly knows, the cold sentiments that the aged fear lie just beneath
the surface of deference and flattery. The forged letter reflects back
as well on the scene in which Gloucester himself has just participated: a
scene in which everyone, with the exception of the Earl of Kent, has
tamely suffered a tyrannical old man to banish his youngest daughter for
her failure to flatter him.
Why
does Lear, who has already drawn up the map dividing the kingdom, stage
the love test? In Shakespeare's principal source, an anonymous play
called The True Chronicle History of King Lear (published in 1605
but dating from 1594 or earlier), there is a gratifyingly clear answer.
Leir's strong-willed daugher Cordella has vowed that she will only
marry a man whom she herself lovers. Leir wishes her to marry the man he
chooses for his own dynastic purposes. He stages the love test,
anticipating that in competing with her sisters Cordella will declare
that she loves her father best, at which point Leir will demand that she
prove her love by marrying the suitor of his choice. The stratagem
backfires, but its purpose is clear.
By
stripping his character of a comparable motive, Shakespeare makes
Lear's act seem stranger, at once more arbitrary and more rooted in deep
psychological needs. His Lear is a man who has determined to retire
from power but who cannot endure dependence. Unwilling to lose his
identity as an absolute authority, both in the state and in the family,
he arranges a public ritual—"Which of you shall we say doth love us
most?" (1.1.49)—whose aim seems to be to allay his own anxiety by
arousing it in his children. Since the shares have already been
apportioned, Lear evidently wants his daughters to engage in a
competition for his bounty without having to endure any of the actual
consequences of such a competition; he wants, that is, to produce in
them something like the effect of theater, where emotions run high and
their practical effects are negligible. But in this absolutist theater
Cordelia refuses to perform. "What shall Cordelia speak? Love and be
silent" (1.1.60). When she says "Nothing," a word that echoes darkly
through the play, lear hears what he most dreads: emptiness, loss of
respect, the extinction of identity. And when, under further
interrogation, she declares that she loves her father "according to my
bond" (1.1.91), Lear understands these words too to be the equivalent of
"nothing."
As
Cordelia's subsequent actions demonstrate, his youngest daughter's bond
is in reality a sustaining, generous love, but it is a love that
ultimately leads her to her death. Here Shakespeare makes an even more
startling departure not only from The True Chronicle History of King Leir but from all his known sources. The earliest of these, the account in Geoffrey of Monmouth's twelfth-century Historia Regum Britanniae, sets the pattern repeated in John Higgins's Mirror for Magistrates (1574 edition), William Warner's Albion's England (1586), Raphael Holinshed's Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland (2nd ed., 1587) and Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene
(1590, 2.10.27-32): the aged Lear is overthrown by his wicked daughters
and their husbands, but he is restored to the throne by the army of his
good daughter's husband, the King of France. The story then is one of
loss and restoration: Lear resumes his reign, and when, "made ripe for
death" by old age, as Spenser puts it, he dies, he is succeeded by
Cordelia. The conclusion is not unequivocally happy; in all of the known
cronicles, Cordelia rules worthily for several years, and then, after
being deposed and imprisoned by her nephews, in despair commits suicide.
But Shakespeare's ending is unprecedented in its tragic devastation.
When in Act 5 Lear suddenly enters with the lifeless body of Cordelia in
his arms, the original audience, secure in the expectation of a very
different resolution, must have been doubly shocked, a shock cruelly
reinforced when the signs that she might be reviving—"This feather
stirs. She lives" (5.3.239)—all prove false. Lear apparently dies in the
grip of the illusion that he detects some breath on his daughter's
lips, but we know that Cordelia will, as he says a moment earlier, "come
no more. / Never, never, never, never, never"(5.3.283-84).
Those
five reiterated words, the bleakest pentameter line Shakespeare ever
wrote, are the climax of an extraordinary poetics of despair that is set
in motion when Lear disinherits Cordelia and when Gloucester credits
Edmond's lies about Edgar. King Lear has seemed to many modern
readers and audiences the greatest of Shakespeare's tragedies precisely
because of its anguished look into the heart of darkness, but its vision
of sufering and evil has not always commanded unequivocal admiration.
In the eighteenth century, Samuel Johnson wrote, "I was many years ago
so shocked by Cordelia's death that I know not whether I ever endured to
read again the last scenes of the play till I undertook to revise them
as an editor." Johnson's contemporaries preferred a revision of
Shakespeare's tragedy undertaken in 1681 by Nahum Tate. Finding the play
"a Heap of Jewels, unstrung, and unpolisht," Tate proceeded to restring
them in order to save Cordelia's life and to produce the unambiguous
and happy triumph of the forces of good.
Only
in the nineteenth century was Shakespeare's deeply pessimistic
ending—the old generation dead or dying, the survivors shaken to the
core, the ruling families all broken with no impending marriage to
promise renewal—generally restored to theatrical performance and the
tragedy's immense power fully acknowledged. Even passionate admirers of King Lear,
however, continued to express deep uneasiness, repeatedly noting not
only its unberably painful close but also what Johnson first called the
"improbability of Lear's conduct" and Samuel Taylor Coleridge termed the
plot's "glaring absurdity." Above all, critics questioned whether the
tragedy was suitable for the stage. Coleridge compared the suffering
Lear to one of Michelangelo's titanic figures, but the grandeur invoked
by the comparison led his contemporary Charles Lamb to conclude flatly
that "Lear is essentially impossible to be represented on stage." "To
see Lear acted," Lamb wrote, "to see an old man tottering about the
stage with a walking stick, turned out of doors by his daughters in a
rainy night, has nothing in it but what is painful and disgusting." In
such a view, King Lear could only be staged successfully in the
imagination; there alone would Lear's passion be perceived not like
ordinary human suffering but rather, in the marvelous characterization
of another Romantic critic, William Hazlitt, "like a sea, swelling,
chafing, raging, without bound, without hope, without beacon, or
anchor." In the theater of the mind, Shakespeare's play could assume
its true, stupendous proportions, enabling the reader to grasp its
ultimate meaning. That meaning, the great early twentieth-century critic
A. C. Bradley wrote, is that we must "renounce the world, hate it, and
lose it gladly. The only real thing in it is the soul, with its courage,
patience, devotion. And nothing outward can touch that." Splendid, but
what about the body?
A succession of brilliant stage performances and, more recently, films has not only belied the view that King Lear
is intractable but also underscored the crucial importance in the play
of the body. If Shakespeare explores the extremes of the mind's anguish
and the soul's devotion, he nerver forgets that his characters have
bodies as well, bodies that have needs, cravings, and terrible
vulnerabilities. When in this trageddy characters fall from high
station, they plunge unprotected into a world of violent storms,
murderous cruelty, and physical horror. The old King wanders raging on
the heath, through a wild night of thunder and rain. Disguised as Poor
Tom, a mad beggar possessed by demons, Gloucester's son Edgar enacts a
life of utmost degradation: "Poor Tom, that eats the swimming frog, the
toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his
heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cowdung for salds, swallows the
old rat and the ditch-dog, drinks the green mantle of the standing pool"
(3.4.115-19). Gloucester's fate is even more terrible: betrayed by his
son Edmond, he is seized in his own house by Lear's reptilian daughter
Regan and her husband, Cornwall, tied to a chair, brutally interrogated,
blinded, and then thrust bleeding out of doors.
Mortal anguish in King Lear,
then, is closely intertwined with physical anguish; the terrifying
forces that are released by Lear's folly crash down upon both body and
soul just as the storm that rages on the heath seems at once an
objective event and a symbolic representation of Lear's innermot being.
The greatest expression of this intertwining in the play is Lear's
madness, which brings together a devastating loss of identity, a
relentless, radical assault on the hypocrisies of authority, and a
demented, nauseated loathing of female sexuality. The loathing
culminates in a fit of retching—"Fie, fie, fie; pah, pah!"—followed by
Lear's delusional attempt to find a physical remedy for his psychic
pain: "Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, sweeten my
imagination" (4.5.123-24). In fact, relief from the chaotic rage of
madness comes in the wake of a deep, restorative sleep and a change of
garments.
The body in King Lear
is a site not only of abject misery, nausea, and pain but of care and a
nascent moral awareness. In the midst of his mad ravings, Lear turns to
the shivering Fool and asks, "Art cold?" (3.2.67). The simple question
anticipates his recognition a few moments later that there is more
suffering in the world than his own.
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en
Too little care of this.
(3.4.28-33)
And
if the world seems largely unjust and indifferent to human suffering,
there are nonetheless throughout the play constant manifestations of
generosity of body as well as soul. "Help me, help me!" cries the
frightened Fool, to which Kent (disguised in order to serve the King who
has banished him) says simply, "Give me thy hand" (3.4.39-40). "What
are you?" says the blind Gloucester to the son he has unjustly
disinherited, to which the son, also in disguise, replies similarly,
"Give me your hand" (4.5.213, 216). (In a moving moment from The History of King Lear,
absent from the Folio version, two of Gloucester's servants not only
react with horror to their master's blinding but also resolve to assist
him: "Go thou. I'll fetch some flax and whites of eggs / To apply to his
bleeding face. Now heaven help him! [14.103-4].) Such signs of goodness
and empathy do not outweigh the harshness of the physical world of the
play, let alone cancel out the vicious cruelty of certain of its
inhabitants, but they do qualify its moral bleakness.
It is possible to detect in King Lear
one of the great structural rhythms of Christianity: a passage through
suffering, humiliation, and pain to a transcendent wisdom and love.
Lear's initial actions were blind and selfish, but he comes to
acknowledge his folly and, in an immensely poignant scene, to kneel down
before the daughter he has wronged. Gloucester too learns that he was
blind, even when his eyes could see, and he passes, by means of Edgar's
strange description of the imaginary cliff, from suicidal despair to
patien resignation. "Men must endure / Their going hence even as their
coming hither," Edgar wisely counseled his father. "Ripeness is all"
(5.2.9-11). For a time, evil seems to flourish in the world, but the
wicked do not ultimately triumph. The sadistic Duke of Cornwall is
fatally wounded by his own morally upright servant, Edmond is killed by
the brother he had tried to destroy, the loathsome Oswald is clubbed to
death trying to murder Gloucester, one wicked sister poisons the other
and then kills herself. Against self-interest and in the face of
intolerable pressure, goodness shines forth. The earl of Kent, banished
by the rash Lear, dons a disguise in order to serve his king and master,
and there are comparable acts devoted service and self-sacrificing love
from Edgar, Cordelia, and that remarkable figure the Fool. In one of
the comic masterpieces of the sixteenth century, The Praise of Folly,
the great Dutch humanist Erasmus used the fool as an emblem of the
deepest Christian wisdom, revealed only when the pride, cruelty, and
ambition of the world are shattered by a cleansing laughter.The
shattering in King Lear is tragically violent and deadly, but the presence of the truth-telling Fool seems to point toward a comparable revelation.
Yet King Lear,
set in a pagan world, resists the redemptive optimism that underlies
the Christian vision (an optimism that led Dante to call his poem of
damnation and salvation The Divine Comedy). The Fool's
unnervingly perceptive observations sound far more corrosive than
loving—he is, in Lear's words, "a bitter fool" (1.4.122)—and he
disappears altogether in the third act. His moments of insight and those
of all the other characters in the play are radically unstable, like
brilliant flashes of lightning in a vast, dark landscape. Hence, for
example, Lear's recognition of his folly in banishing Cordelia for her
"most small fault" (1.4.228) is immediately followed by his hideous
cursing of Goneril. His moving acknowledgement of the suffering of the
poor naked wretches is immediately followed by his inability to see the
poor naked wretch before him in any terms but his own: "Didst thou give
all to thy two daughters, /And art thou come to this?" (3.4.47-48). And
his appeal to patient resignation—"When we are born, we cry that we are
come / To this great stage of fools" (3.5.172-173)—is immediately
followed by a mad fantasy of revenge: "The kill, kill, kill, kill, kill,
kill!" Every time we seem to have reached firm moral ground, the ground
shifts, and we are kept, as Johnson observed, in "a perpetual tumult of
indignation, pity, and hope." There are moments of apparent resolution:
"Let's away to prison," says Lear to the weeping Cordelia, when they
are captured by the enemy. "We two alone will sing like birds i'th'cage"
(5.3.8-9). But a more terrible fate lies before them. "Some good I mean
to do," says the dhying Edmond, "despite of mine own nature"
(5.3.217-18). But his attempt to send a reprieve and therefore in some
measure to reedeem himself comes too late. The play's nightmarish events
continually lurch ahead of intentions, and even efforts to say "I have
seen the worst" are frustrated.
The
tragedy is not only that the intervals of moral resolution, mental
lucidity, and spiritual calm are so brief, continually giving way to
feverish grief and rage, but also that the modest human understandings,
moving in their simplicity, cost such an enormous amount of pain. Edgar
saves his father from despair but also in some sense breaks his father's
heart. Cordelia's steadfast honesty, her refusal to flatter the father
she loves, is admirable but has disastrous consequences, and her attempt
to save Lear only leads to her own death. For a sublime moment, Lear
actually sees his daughter, understands her separateness, acknowledges
her existence—
Do not laugh at me;
For as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child, Cordelia—
but it has taken the destruction of virtually his whole world for him to reach this recognition (4.6.61-63).
An
apocalyptic dream of last judgment and redemption hovers over the
entire tragedy, but it is a dream forever deferred. At the sight of the
howling Lear with the dead Cordelia in his arms, the bystanders can only
ask a succession of stunned questions:
KENT Is this the promised end?
EDGAR Or image of that horror?
(5.3.237-38)
Lear's
own question a moment later seems the most terrible and the most
important: "Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, / And thou no
breath at all?" (5.3.281-82). It is a sign of King Lear's
astonishing freedom from orthodoxy that it refuses to offer any of the
conventional answers to this question, anwers that largely serve to
conceal or deflect the mourner's anguish. Shakespeare's tragedy asks us
not to turn away from evil, folly, and unbearable human pain but, seeing
them face-to-face, to strengthen our capacity to endure and to love.
Stephen Greenblatt
—oOo—
