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.
[Illustration: “There she stands”]
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.