The Shakespeare Story-Book

The Dowerless Daughter

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 and business, 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.

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 forfeit his 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 dowerless daughter, 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.

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.