“_Cor._ Nothing my lord.
_Lear._ Nothing?
_Cor._ Nothing.
_Lear._ Nothing can come of nothing: speak again.
_Cor._ Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty
According to my bond; nor more, nor less.”
There is something of disgust at the ruthless hypocrisy of her sisters,
and some little faulty admixture of pride and sullenness in Cordelia’s
“Nothing;” and her tone is well contrived, indeed, to lessen the glaring
absurdity of Lear’s conduct, but answers the yet more important purpose of
forcing away the attention from the nursery-tale, the moment it has served
its end, that of supplying the canvas for the picture. This is also
materially furthered by Kent’s opposition, which displays Lear’s moral
incapability of resigning the sovereign power in the very act of disposing
of it. Kent is, perhaps, the nearest to perfect goodness in all
Shakespeare’s characters, and yet the most individualised. There is an
extraordinary charm, in his bluntness, which is that only of a nobleman,
arising from a contempt of overstrained courtesy, and combined with easy
placability where goodness of heart is apparent. His passionate affection
for, and fidelity to, Lear act on our feelings in Lear’s own favour:
virtue itself seems to be in company with him.
_Ib._ sc. 2. Edmund’s speech:—
“Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take
More composition and fierce quality
Than doth,” &c.
Warburton’s note upon a quotation from Vanini.
Poor Vanini!—Any one but Warburton would have thought this precious
passage more characteristic of Mr. Shandy than of atheism. If the fact
really were so (which it is not, but almost the contrary) I do not see why
the most confirmed theist might not very naturally utter the same wish.
But it is proverbial that the youngest son in a large family is commonly
the man of the greatest talents in it; and as good an authority as Vanini
has said—“incalescere in venerem ardentius, spei sobolis injuriosum esse.”
In this speech of Edmund you see, as soon as a man cannot reconcile
himself to reason, how his conscience flies off by way of appeal to
nature, who is sure upon such occasions never to find fault, and also how
shame sharpens a predisposition in the heart to evil. For it is a profound
moral, that shame will naturally generate guilt; the oppressed will be
vindictive, like Shylock, and in the anguish of undeserved ignominy the
delusion secretly springs up of getting over the moral quality of an
action by fixing the mind on the mere physical act alone.
_Ib._ Edmund’s speech:—
“This is the excellent foppery of the world! that, when we are
sick in fortune (often the surfeit of our own behaviour), we make
guilty of our disasters, the sun, the moon, and the stars,” &c.
Thus scorn and misanthropy are often the anticipations and mouth-pieces of
wisdom in the detection of superstitions. Both individuals and nations may
be free from such prejudices by being below them, as well as by rising
above them.
_Ib._ sc. 3. The Steward should be placed in exact antithesis to Kent, as
the only character of utter irredeemable baseness in Shakespeare. Even in
this the judgment and invention of the poet are very observable;—for what
else could the willing tool of a Goneril be? Not a vice but this of
baseness was left open to him.
_Ib._ sc. 4. In Lear old age is itself a character,—its natural
imperfections being increased by life-long habits of receiving a prompt
obedience. Any addition of individuality would have been unnecessary and
painful; for the relations of others to him, of wondrous fidelity and of
frightful ingratitude, alone sufficiently distinguish him. Thus Lear
becomes the open and ample play-room of nature’s passions.
_Ib._—
“_Knight._ Since my young lady’s going into France, Sir; the
fool hath much pined away.”
The Fool is no comic buffoon to make the groundlings laugh,—no forced
condescension of Shakespeare’s genius to the taste of his audience.
Accordingly the poet prepares for his introduction, which he never does
with any of his common clowns and fools, by bringing him into living
connection with the pathos of the play. He is as wonderful a creation as
Caliban;—his wild babblings, and inspired idiocy, articulate and gauge the
horrors of the scene.
The monster Goneril prepares what is necessary, while the character of
Albany renders a still more maddening grievance possible—namely, Regan and
Cornwall in perfect sympathy of monstrosity. Not a sentiment, not an
image, which can give pleasure on its own account is admitted; whenever
these creatures are introduced, and they are brought forward as little as
possible, pure horror reigns throughout. In this scene and in all the
early speeches of Lear, the one general sentiment of filial ingratitude
prevails as the main-spring of the feelings;—in this early stage the
outward object causing the pressure on the mind, which is not yet
sufficiently familiarised with the anguish for the imagination to work
upon it.
_Ib._—
“_Gon._ Do you mark that, my lord?
_Alb._ I cannot be so partial, Goneril,
To the great love I bear you.
_Gon._ Pray you content,” &c.
Observe the baffled endeavour of Goneril to act on the fears of Albany,
and yet his passiveness, his _inertia_; he is not convinced, and yet he is
afraid of looking into the thing. Such characters always yield to those
who will take the trouble of governing them, or for them. Perhaps the
influence of a princess, whose choice of him had royalised his state, may
be some little excuse for Albany’s weakness.
_Ib._ sc. 5.—
“_Lear._ O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven!
Keep me in temper! I would not be mad!”
The mind’s own anticipation of madness! The deepest tragic notes are often
struck by a half sense of an impending blow. The Fool’s conclusion of this
act by a grotesque prattling seems to indicate the dislocation of feeling
that has begun and is to be continued.