_Letter from Goneril, Daughter of King Lear, to her sister Regan_
I have writ my sister.
_King Lear_, Act I, Scene iv.
THE PALACE, _November_.
Dearest Regan,
I am sending you this letter by Oswald. We have been having the most
trying time lately with Papa, and it ended to-day in one of those
scenes which are so painful to people like you and me, who _hate_
scenes. I am writing now to tell you all about it, so that you may be
prepared. This is what has happened.
When Papa came here he brought a hundred knights with him, which is a
great deal more than we could put up, and some of them had to live in
the village. The first thing that happened was that they quarrelled
with our people and refused to take orders from them, and whenever one
told any one to do anything it was either--if it was one of Papa’s
men--“not his place to do it”; or if it was one of our men, they said
that Papa’s people made work impossible. For instance, only the day
before yesterday I found that blue vase which you brought back from
Dover for me on my last birthday broken to bits. Of course I made a
fuss, and Oswald declared that one of Papa’s knights had knocked it
over in a drunken brawl. I complained to Papa, who flew into a passion
and said that his knights, and in fact all his retainers, were the most
peaceful and courteous people in the world, and that it was my fault,
as I was not treating him or them with the respect which they deserved.
He even said that I was lacking in filial duty. I was determined to
keep my temper, so I said nothing.
The day after this the chief steward and the housekeeper and both my
maids came to me and said that they wished to give notice. I asked them
why. They said they couldn’t possibly live in a house where there were
such “goings-on.” I asked them what they meant. They refused to say,
but they hinted that Papa’s men were behaving not only in an insolent
but in a positively outrageous manner to them. The steward said that
Papa’s knights were never sober, that they had entirely demoralized the
household, and that life was simply not worth living in the house; it
was _impossible_ to get anything done, and they couldn’t sleep at night
for the noise.
I went to Papa and talked to him about it quite quietly, but no sooner
had I mentioned the subject than he lost all self-control, and began
to abuse me. I kept my temper as long as I could, but of course one
is only human, and after I had borne his revilings for some time,
which were monstrously unfair and untrue, I at last turned and said
something about people of his age being trying. Upon which he said
that I was throwing up his old age at him, that I was a monster of
ingratitude--and he began to cry. I cannot tell you how painful all
this was to me. I did everything I could to soothe him and quiet him,
but the truth is, ever since Papa has been here he has lost control
of his wits. He suffers from the oddest kind of delusions. He thinks
that for some reason he is being treated like a beggar; and although he
has a hundred knights--a hundred, mind you! (a great deal more than we
have)--in the house, who do nothing but eat and drink all day long, he
says he is not being treated like a King! I do hate unfairness.
When he gave up the crown he said he was tired of affairs, and meant
to have a long rest; but from the very moment that he handed over the
management of affairs to us he never stopped interfering, and was cross
if he was not consulted about everything, and if his advice was not
taken.
And what is still worse is this: ever since his last illness he has
lost not only his memory but his control over language, so that
often when he wants to say one thing he says just the opposite, and
sometimes when he wishes to say some quite simple thing he uses _bad_
language quite unconsciously. Of course we are used to this, and
_we_ don’t mind, but I must say it is very awkward when strangers
are here. For instance, the other day before quite a lot of people,
quite unconsciously, he called me a dreadful name. Everybody was
uncomfortable and tried not to laugh, but some people could not contain
themselves. This sort of thing is constantly happening. So you will
understand that Papa needs perpetual looking after and management. At
the same time, the moment one suggests the slightest thing to him he
boils over with rage.
But perhaps the most annoying thing which happened lately, or, at
least, the thing which happens to annoy me most, is Papa’s Fool. You
know, darling, that I have always hated that kind of humour. He comes
in just as one is sitting down to dinner, and beats one on the head
with a hard, empty bladder, and sings utterly idiotic songs, which make
me feel inclined to cry. The other day, when we had a lot of people
here, just as we were sitting down in the banqueting-hall, Papa’s Fool
pulled my chair from behind me so that I fell sharply down on the
floor. Papa shook with laughter, and said: “Well done, little Fool,”
and all the courtiers who were there, out of pure snobbishness, of
course, laughed too. I call this not only very humiliating for me,
but undignified in an old man and a king; of course Albany refused to
interfere. Like all men and all husbands, he is an arrant coward.
However, the crisis came yesterday. I had got a bad headache, and was
lying down in my room, when Papa came in from the hunt and sent Oswald
to me, saying that he wished to speak to me. I said that I wasn’t well,
and that I was lying down--which was perfectly true--but that I would
be down to dinner. When Oswald went to give my message Papa beat him,
and one of his men threw him about the room and really hurt him, so
that he has now got a large bruise on his forehead and a sprained ankle.
This was the climax. All our knights came to Albany and myself, and
said that they would not stay with us a moment longer unless Papa
exercised some sort of control over his men. I did not know what to
do, but I knew the situation would have to be cleared up sooner or
later. So I went to Papa and told him frankly that the situation was
intolerable; that he must send away some of his people, and choose for
the remainder men fitting to his age. The words were scarcely out of
my mouth than he called me the most terrible names, ordered his horses
to be saddled, and said that he would shake the dust from his feet and
not stay a moment longer in this house. Albany tried to calm him, and
begged him to stay, but he would not listen to a word, and said he
would go and live with you.
So I am sending this by Oswald, that you may get it before Papa arrives
and know how the matter stands. All I did was to suggest he should send
away fifty of his men. Even fifty is a great deal, and puts us to any
amount of inconvenience, and is a source of waste and extravagance--two
things which I cannot bear. I am perfectly certain you will not be able
to put up with his hundred knights any more than I was. And I beg you,
my dearest Regan, to do your best to make Papa listen to sense. No one
is fonder of him than I am. I think it would have been difficult to
find a more dutiful daughter than I have always been. But there is a
limit to all things, and one cannot have one’s whole household turned
into a pandemonium, and one’s whole life into a series of wrangles,
complaints, and brawls, simply because Papa in his old age is losing
the control of his faculties. At the same time, I own that although I
kept my temper for a long time, when it finally gave way I was perhaps
a little sharp. I am not a saint, nor an angel, nor a lamb, but I do
hate unfairness and injustice. It makes my blood boil. But I hope that
you, with your angelic nature and your tact and your gentleness, will
put everything right and make poor Papa listen to reason.
Let me hear at once what happens.
Your loving
GONERIL.
_P.S._--Another thing Papa does which is most exasperating is to
throw up Cordelia at one every moment. He keeps on saying: “If only
Cordelia were here,” or “How unlike Cordelia!” And you will remember,
darling, that when Cordelia was here Papa could not endure the sight
of her. Her irritating trick of mumbling and never speaking up used
to get terribly on his nerves. Of course, I thought he was even rather
unfair on her, trying as she is. We had a letter from the French Court
yesterday, saying that she is driving the poor King of France almost
mad.
_P.P.S._--It is wretched weather. The poor little ponies on the heath
will have to be brought in.