King Lear

I only worship what’s natural, not what’s manmade. Why should I let myself be tortured by manmade social customs that deprive me of my rights simply because I was born twelve or fourteen months later than my older brother? Why do they call me “bastard” and “lowlife” when I’m just as gifted in mind and body as legitimate children? Why do they call us bastards “lowlifes”? Always “lowlife,” “bastard,” “lowlife,” “lowlife.” At least we bastards were conceived in a moment of passionate lust rather than in a dull, tired marriage bed, where half-sleeping parents monotonously churn out a bunch of sissy kids. All right then, legitimate brother Edgar, I have to have your lands. Our father loves me just as much as the legitimate Edgar. What a nice word that is, “legitimate”! Well, my legitimate Edgar, if this letter works and my plan succeeds, Edmund the lowlife will beat the legitimate. Look out, I’m on my way up. Three cheers for bastards!

Kent’s been banished just like that? And the King of France gone in a huff? And King Lear’s abdicated his authority, making his kingship a ceremonial title only? All this so suddenly?—Edmund, what’s going on? What’s the news?

(pocketing the letter) No news, my lord.

Why are you hiding that letter?

I don’t have any news to report, my lord.

What’s that paper you were reading?

It’s nothing, my lord.

No? Then why did you have to stick it in your pocket in such a hurry? If it were nothing, you wouldn’t need to hide it. Let’s see it. Come on, if it’s nothing, I won’t need glasses to read it.

Please, sir, I beg you. It’s a letter from my brother that I haven’t finished reading yet. But judging from the bit I have read, it’s not fit for you to see.

Give me that letter, sir.

Now I’ll offend you whether I give it to you or not. The problem is in what the letter says, as far as I can tell.

(taking the letter) Let’s see, let’s see.

I hope for my brother’s sake that he just wrote it to test my honor.

(reads)

”The custom of respecting the elderly makes it hard for the young and healthy to live well, and keeps us without our inheritance until we are so old we can’t enjoy our happiness anyway. The power of the elderly is starting to feel like a silly and foolish slavery to me, and they only enjoy that power because we let them have it.

Come talk to me about this. If our father were dead you’d receive half of his revenue forever, and you’d have my undying love,

Edgar.”

Hmm, what’s this, a conspiracy? “If our father were dead, you’d receive half of his revenue forever”—my son Edgar? How did he bring himself to write such a thing? How could he have even entertained these thoughts in his heart? How did you get this letter? Who delivered it?

Nobody delivered it, my lord. That’s what’s clever about it. It was tossed into the window of my room.

You’re sure the handwriting is your brother’s?

If he’d written nice things, I’d swear yes right away. But as it stands, I wish I could believe it wasn’t.

But it is his handwriting?

It’s his handwriting, my lord, but I hope he didn’t mean what he wrote.

Has he ever tested out these ideas on you before?

Never, my lord. But I’ve often heard him argue that when sons are at their prime and their fathers are declining, the sons should be their fathers’ guardians and manage their fathers’ money.

Oh, what a villain! That’s just what he said in the letter. Evil villain! Monstrous, hateful, bestial villain! Worse than a beast! Go look for him. I’ll arrest him. Horrid villain! Where is he?

I’m not sure, my lord. But it may be a good idea to restrain your rage until you find out exactly what he meant. If you go after him and then find out that you made a mistake, it would damage your reputation and greatly undermine his loyalty to you. I’ll bet my life that he only wrote this letter to gauge my love for you, and for no other reason.

Do you think so?

If you agree, I’ll hide you somewhere where you can eavesdrop on us talking about it, and hear how he feels with your own ears. You won’t have to wait longer than until tonight.

He can’t possibly be such a monster—

And I’m sure he isn’t.

—toward his own father who loves him so completely. Oh, God! Edmund, go find him. Gain his confidence for me, please. Manage him however you think best. I’d give up my rank and fortune to be free from my doubts.

I’ll find him right away, sir, and carry out the business as well as I can. Then I’ll let you know what’s happening.

These recent eclipses of the sun and moon don’t bode well for us. Though science can explain them away, disasters still come after eclipses. Love cools off, friendships break up, and brothers become enemies. Riots break out, civil war erupts, kings are betrayed, and the bond between father and son snaps. This wicked son of mine confirms the prediction —son against father. The king acts unnaturally—father against child. We’ve seen the best our age has to offer. Conspiracies, fakery, betrayal, and disorder are all that’s left until we die. Find out what this villainous Edgar is thinking, Edmund. You won’t lose any respect. Just do it carefully.—And to think that the noble and loyal Kent has been banished, for the crime of telling the truth! It’s strange, strange.

This is a classic example of the idiocy of the world: when we’re down and out—often because of our own excesses —we put all the blame on the sun, the moon, and the stars, as if they forced us to be bad, or the heavens compelled us to be villainous or stupid. As if we become thieves and traitors according to astrological signs or obey planetary influences to become drunks, liars, and adulterers! As if some universal power pushed us into evil deeds! What a sneaky trick it is for lustful mankind to blame our horniness on some star! My father and mother coupled when the demonic moon was descending, and I was born under the Big Dipper, so it’s inevitable that I’m rude and oversexed. Christ! I would have been what I am even if the most virginal star in the heavens had twinkled at my conception. Edgar—

and, speak of the devil, here he comes, right on cue. I’ve got to play the role and sigh like a poor beggar.—Oh, these eclipses predict such disorder. Fa, sol, la, mi.

Hello, brother Edmund. What are you thinking about so seriously?

I was thinking about what an astrologer predicted the other day. He wrote about what these eclipses mean.

Are you spending your valuable time on that?

Oh, I assure you the things he writes about are wretched —things like divisions between parents and children, death, famine, broken friendships, political rebellion, treason against the king and noblemen, exiled friends, dissolved armies, adultery, and I don’t know what else.

How long have you believed in astrology?

Come on. When was the last time you saw my father?

Why, last night.

Did you speak to him?

Yes, we talked for a couple of hours.

Did you leave on good terms? Did he express any dissatisfaction with you, either in his words or his face?

No, none at all.

Try to remember how you might have offended him, and try to avoid spending time with him until his anger has cooled a little. Right now he’s so angry that even if he harmed you physically, he’d still be raging.

Some villain has told lies about me.

That’s what I’m afraid of. I suggest you lay low until his rage cools a little. In the meantime, come home with me, and when the time is right I’ll take you to talk to him. Please go. Here’s my key. If you go outside, arm yourself.

Arm myself?

Brother, I’m giving you good advice. Arm yourself. I’d be a liar if I told you nobody wanted to hurt you. I’ve told you what I’ve seen and heard, but I’ve toned it down a lot. I’ve spared you you the full extent of the horror that threatens you. Now please go.

Will I hear from you soon?

I’ll help you through this business.

A gullible father and a brother who’s so innocent that he can’t suspect anyone else of wanting to hurt him—these are the two fools I need for my plan to work. I know exactly how to proceed. If I can’t have an estate by birthright, then I’ll get it by being clever. Any trick that works is good for me.