King Lear characters analysis
King Lear
Lear is perhaps Shakespeare's finest
creation in what may be called the art of historical perspective. The old king
speaks out from a large fund of vanishing recollections, and in his present we
have the odor and efficacy of a remote and varied past. The play forecasts and
prepares, from the outset, that superb intellectual ruin where we have
"matter and impertinency mix'd, reason in madness"; the earlier
transpirations of the character being shaped and ordered with a view to that
end. Certain presages and predispositions of insanity are manifest in his
behavior from the first, as the joint result of nature, of custom, and of
superannuation. We see in him something of constitutional rashness of temper,
which, moreover, has long been fostered by the indulgences and flatteries
incident to his station, and which, through the cripplings of age, is now
working loose from the restraints of his manlier judgment. He has been a wise
and good man, strong in reason, in just feeling and rectitude of purpose, but
is now decidedly past his faculties; which, however, as often happens, is
unapparent to him save as he feels it in a growing indisposition to the cares
and labors of his office. So that there is something of truth in what Goneril
says of him; just enough to make her appear the more hateful in speaking of it
as she does: "The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then
must we look from his age to receive not alone the imperfections of
long-engraff'd condition, but therewithal the unruly way wardness that infirm
and choleric years bring with them." [I, i, 288-292.] He is indeed full of
inconstant starts and petty gusts of impatience, such as are excusable only in
those who have not yet reached, and those who have plainly out lived, the
period of discretion and self-restraint.
These growing infirmities of nature and
time are viewed by his children with very different feelings. The two elder are
inwardly glad of them. They secretly exult in the decays and dilapidations of
his manhood as incapacitating him for his office, and so speeding their hopes
of the inheritance. They know it is his disease to be gratified with such
hollow and hyperbolical soothings as would else be the height of insolence. And
so in the name of duty they study to inflame the waywardness that provokes
their scorn. They crave reasons for persecuting him, and therefore will say
anything, will do anything, to pamper the faults which at once prompt and seem
to justify their contempt of him. In a word, it is their pleasure to bring oil
to his fire, that he may the sooner be burnt out of their way.
With Cordelia all this is just reversed.
The infirmities of a beloved and venerated father are things which she does not
willingly see; when she sees, she pities them; and in a true filial spirit
never thinks of them but as a motive to greater tenderness and respect. That
his mind is falling out of tune, inspires her with the deeper reverence: she
would rather go mad herself than see him do so. Partly from a conscious
purpose, but more from an instinct of dutiful affection, she tries to assuage
and postpone his distemper with the temperate speech of simple truth ; duty and
love alike forbidding her to stimulate his disease with the strong waters of
fleering and strained hyperbole. Then too a fine moral tact seems to warn her
that the medicine of reason must be administered to the dear old man in very
gentle doses, else it will but feed his evil. And her treatment is well adapted
to keep his faculties in tune, but that her holy purpose is baffled by the
fulsome volubility of her sisters.
The first two speeches of the play make
clear that the division of the kingdom has already been resolved upon, the
terms of the division arranged, and the several portions allotted. This fact is
significant, and goes far to interpret the subsequent action, inasmuch as it
infers the trial of professions to be but a trick of the king's, designed,
perhaps, to surprise his children into expressions which filial modesty would
else forbid. Lear has a morbid hungering after the outward tokens of affection;
he is not content to know that the heart beats for him, but craves to feel and
count over its beatings. The passion is indeed a selfish one, but it is the
selfishness of a right-generous and loving nature. Such a diseased longing for
sympathy is not the growth of an unsympathizing heart; and Lear naturally looks
for the strongest professions where he feels the deepest attachment. "I
loved her most, and thought to set my rest on her kind nursery," such is
his declared preference for Cordelia. And the same thing comes out still more
forcibly when, hearing him speak of her as
Unfriended,
new-adopted to our hate,
Dower'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath, [I, i, 197-198],
the King of France replies,
This is most strange,
That she, that even but now was your best object,
The argument of your praise, balm of your age,
Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
So many folds of favour! [I, i, 207-212.]
And the same doting fondness that suggested the device makes Lear angry at its
defeat; while its success with the first two heightens his irritation at its
failure with the third. Thwarted of his hope where he has centred it most and
held it surest, his weakness naturally flames out in a transport of rage. Still
it is not any doubt of Cordelia's love, but a dotage of his trick that frets
and chafes him. For the device is a pet with him. And such a bauble of strategy
would have had no place in his thoughts had he been of a temper to bear the
breaking of it. Being thus surprised into a tempest of passion, in the disorder
of his mind he at once forgets the thousand little daily acts that have
insensibly wrought in him to love Cordelia most, and to expect most love from
her. His behavior towards her, indeed, is like that of a peevish, fretful
child, who, if prevented from kissing his nurse, falls to striking her.
How deeply the old king, in this spasm of wilfulness, violates the cherished
order of his feelings, appears in what follows, but especially in his shrinking
soreness of mind as shown when the Fool's grief at the loss of Cordelia is
mentioned. The sense of having done her wrong sticks fast in his heart, and
will not let him rest. And his remorse on this score renders him the more
sensitive to the wrongs that are done him by others. He could better endure the
malice of his other daughters, but that it reminds him how deeply he has sinned
against her love who has ever approved herself his best. Hence, when Goneril is
stinging her ingratitude into him, he exclaims,
O most small fault,
How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show!
Which like an engine wrench'd my frame of nature
From the fix'd place ; drew from my heart all love,
And added to the gall. [I, iv, 255-259.]
In the delineation of Lear the most impressive thing is the effect and progress
of his passion in redeveloping his intellect. For the character seems designed
in part to illus trate the power of passion to reawaken and raise the faculties
from the tomb in which age has quietly inurned them. And so in Lear we have, as
it were, a handful of tumult embosomed in a sea, gradually overspreading and
pervading and convulsing the entire mass.
In his conscious fulness of paternal love,
Lear confides unreservedly in the piety of his children. The possibility of
filial desertion seems never to have entered his thoughts; for so absolute is
his trust, that he can hardly admit the evidence of sight against his cherished
expectations. Bereft, as he thinks, of one, he clings the closer to the rest,
assuring himself that they will spare no pains to make up the loss. Cast off
and struck on the heart by another, he flies with still greater confidence to
the third. Though proofs that she too has fallen off are multiplied upon him,
still he cannot give her up, cannot be provoked to curse her; he will not see,
will not own to himself the fact of her revolt.
When, however, the truth is forced home,
and he can no longer evade or shuffle off the conviction, the effect is indeed
terrible. So long as his heart had something to lay hold of and cling to and
rest upon, his mind was the abode of order and peace. But now that his feelings
are rendered object less, torn from their accustomed holdings, and thrown back
upon themselves, there springs up a wild chaos of the brain, a whirling tumult
and anarchy of the thoughts, which, till imagination has time to work, chokes
down his utterance. Then comes the inward, tugging conflict, deep as life,
which gradually works up his imaginative forces, and kindles them to a
preternatural resplendence. The crushing of his aged spirit brings to light its
hidden depths and buried riches.
Thus his terrible energy of thought and
speech, as soon as imagination rallies to his aid, grows naturally from the
struggle of his feelings, a struggle that seems to wrench his whole being into
dislocation, convulsing and upturning his soul from the bottom. Thence
proceeds, to quote Hallam, "that splendid madness, not absurdly sudden, as
in some tragedies, but in which the strings that keep his reasoning powers
together give way one after the other in the frenzy of rage and grief."
In the transition of Lear's mind from its
first stillness and repose to its subsequent tempest and storm; in the hurried
revulsions and alternations of feeling, the fast-rooted faith in filial virtue,
the keen sensibility to filial ingratitude, the mighty hunger of the heart,
thrice repelled, yet ever strengthened by repulse ; and in the turning-up of
sentiments and faculties deeply embedded beneath the incrustations of time and
place; in all this we have a retrospect of the aged sufferer's whole life; the
abridged history of a mind that has passed through many successive stages, each
putting off the form, yet retaining and perfecting the grace of the preceding.
LEAR'S INSANITY
It is significant that experts in mental
diseases consult and quote King Lear as though it were the history of an
actual case of insanity. Essays and treatises on the subject are numerous.1
That Shakespeare should have entered so perfectly into the consciousness of
insanity as thus to project, not a mere likeness of the thing, but the very
thing itself, is one of the mysteries of his genius.2 No philosophy
has yet explained or begun to explain the secret of it. To be sure, the same
holds true of his other representations of madness; but this of Lear is in some
respects the most wonderful of them all, for it is the resurgence of a decayed
intellect, with the faculties wrenched into unhingement, and thrown into
exorbitancy, by the fearful violence that has evoked them from their repose.
The methods used for the recovery of the
old king anticipate those employed as the result of modern scientific study and
experience. In a note on the Doctor's reply to Cordelia, IV, iv, 11-15, Dr.
Kellogg says: "This reply is significant, and worthy of careful attention,
as embracing a brief summary of almost the only two principles recognized by
modern science, and now carried out by the most eminent physicians in the treatment
of the insane." So again with regard to the Doctor's directions for
preventing a relapse, Dr. Brigham remarks that, "although near two
centuries and a half have passed since Shakespeare wrote this, we have very
little to add to his method of treating the insane as thus pointed out. To
produce sleep, to quiet the mind by medical and moral treatment, to avoid all
unkindness, and, when the patients begin to convalesce, to guard, as he
directs, against everything likely to disturb their minds and cause a relapse,
is now considered the best and nearly the only essential treatment."
Cordelia
In the trial of professions, there appears
something of obstinacy and sullenness in Cordelia's answer, as if she would
resent the old man's credulity to her sisters' lies by refusing to tell him the
truth. But, in the first place, she is considerately careful and tender of him;
and it is a part of her religion not to feed his dotage with the intoxications
for which he has such a morbid craving. She understands thoroughly both his
fretful waywardness and their artful hypocrisy; and when she sees how he drinks
in the sweetened poison of their speech, she calmly resolves to hazard the
worst rather than wrong her own truth to cosset his disease. Thus her answer
proceeds, in part, from a deliberate purpose of love, not to compete with them
in the utterance of pleasing falsehoods.
In the second place, it is against the
original grain of her nature to talk much about what she feels, and what she
intends. They love but little who can tell how much they love, or who are fond
of prating about it. Love is apt to be tongue-tied, and its best eloquence is
when it disables speech. It is the beautiful instinct of true feeling to embody
itself sweetly and silently in deeds, lest from showing itself in words it
should turn to matter of pride and conceit. A sentimental coxcombry is the
natural issue of a cold and hollow heart.
It is not strange, therefore, that Cordelia
should make it her part to "love and be silent." Yet she is not one
whom it is prudent to trifle with, where her forces are unrestrained by awe of
duty. She has indeed a delectable smack of her father's quality, as appears in
that glorious flash of womanhood when she so promptly switches off her higgling
suitor:
Peace be with Burgundy!
Since that respects of fortune are his love,
I shall not be his wife. [I, i, 241-243.]
Mrs. Jameson rightly says of Cordelia that "everything in her lies beyond
our view, and affects us in such a manner that we rather feel than perceive
it." And it is very remark able that, though but little seen and heard,
she is nevertheless a sort of ubiquity. All that she utters is but about a
hundred lines, yet her speech and presence seem to fill a large part of the
play. It is in this remoteness, this gift of presence without appearance, that
the secret of her power mainly consists. Her character has no foreground; she
is all perspective, self-withdrawn, so that she comes to us rather by
inspiration than by vision. Even when she is before us we rather feel than see
her; so much more being meant than meets the eye, that we almost lose the sense
of what is shown, in the interest of what is suggested. Thus she affects us
through finer and deeper susceptibilities than consciousness can grasp, as if
she at once both used and developed in us higher organs of communication than
the senses, or as if her presence acted in some mysterious way directly on our
life, so as to be most operative within us when we are least aware of it. The
effect is like that of a voice or a song kindling and swelling the thoughts
that prevent our listening to it.
What has been said of Cordelia's affection
holds true of her character generally. For she has the same deep, quiet reserve
of thought as of feeling, so that her mind becomes conspicuous by its
retiringness, and draws the attention by shrinking from it. What Cordelia knows
is so bound up with her affections that she cannot draw it off into expression
by itself; it is held in perfect solution, so to speak, with the other elements
of her nature, and nowhere falls down in a sediment, so as to be producible in
a separate state. She has a deeper and truer knowledge of her sisters than any
one else about them; but she knows them by heart rather than by head, and so
can feel and act, but not articulate, a prophecy of what they will do. Ask her,
indeed, what she thinks on any subject, and her answer will be that she thinks,
nay, she cannot tell, she can only show you what she thinks. For her thinking
involuntarily shapes itself into life, not into speech ; and she uses the
proper language of her mind when, bending over her "child-changed
father," she invokes restoration to "hang his medicine on her
lips"; or when, kneeling before him, she entreats him to "hold his
hands in benediction o'er her." She remembers with inexpressible sorrow
the curse he had pronounced upon her, for a father's curse is a dreadful thing
to a soul such as hers, and her first concern is to have that curse replaced
with a benediction.
All which shows a peculiar fitness in Cordelia
for the part she was designed to act, which was to exemplify the workings of
filial piety, as Lear exemplifies those of paternal love. To embody this
sentiment, the whole character in all its movements and aspects is made
essentially religious. For filial piety is religion acting under the sacredest
of human relations; and religion is a life, and not a language; and life is the
simultaneous and concurrent action of all the elements of our being. Which is
perfectlyillustrated in Cordelia, who never thinks of her piety at all, because
her piety keeps her thoughts engaged upon her father.
Goneril and Regan
The characters in King Lear fall into
strongly contrasted groups of good and evil beings; and as the main action of
the drama is shaped by the energy of evil, it is natural to begin with those in
whom that energy prevails.
There is no accounting for the conduct of
Goneril and Regan but by supposing them possessed with a strong original
impulse of malignity. The main points of their action were taken from the old
story. Character, in the proper sense of the term, they have none in the
legend; and the dramatist invested them with characters suitable to the part
they were believed to have acted.
Whatever of soul these beings possess is all
in the head; they have no heart to guide or inspire their understanding, and
but enough of understanding to seize occasions and frame excuses for their
heartlessness. Without affection, they are also without shame; there being
barely so much of human blood in their veins as may suffice for quickening the
brain without sending a blush to the cheek. With a sort of hell-inspired tact,
they feel their way to a fitting occasion, but drop the mask as soon as their
ends are reached, caring little or nothing for appearances after their
falsehood has done its work. There is a smooth, glib rhetoric in their
professions of love, unwarmed with the least grace of real feeling, and a
certain wiry virulence and intrepidity of mind in their after-speaking, that is
very terrible. No touch of nature finds a response in their bosoms; no
atmosphere of comfort can abide their presence: we feel that they have somewhat
within that turns the milk of humanity to venom, which all the wounds they can
inflict are but opportunities for casting.
The subordinate plot of the drama serves the
purpose of relieving the improbability of their behavior. Some have indeed
censured this plot as an embarrassment to the main one, forgetting, perhaps,
that to raise and sustain the feelings at any great height there must be some
breadth of basis. A degree of evil which, if seen altogether alone, would
strike us as superhuman, makes a very different impression when it has the
support of proper sympathies and associations. This effect is in a good measure
secured by Edmund's independent concurrence with Goneril and Regan in
wickedness. It looks as if some malignant planet had set the elements of evil
astir in many hearts at the same time; so that "unnaturalness between the
child and the parent" were become, it would seem, the order of the day.
Besides, the agreement of the sister fiends
in filial ingratitude might seem, of itself, to argue some sisterly attachment
between them. So that, to bring out their characters truly, it had to be shown
that the same principle which unites them against their father will, on the
turning of occasion, divide them against each other. Hence the necessity of
setting them forth in relations of such a kind as may breed strife between
them. In Edmund, accordingly, they find a character wicked enough, and
energetic enough in his wickedness, to interest their feelings; and because
they are both alike taken with him, therefore they will cut their way to him
through each other's life. And it is noteworthy that their passion for him
proceeds mainly upon his treachery to his father, as though from such
similarity of action they inferred a congeniality of mind. For even to have
hated each other from love of anyone but a villain, and because of his
villainy, had seemed a degree of virtue in beings such as they are.
There is so much sameness of temper and
behavior in these two she-tigers that we find it somewhat difficult to
distinguish them as individuals; their characteristic traits being, as it were,
fused and run together in the heat of a common malice. Both are actuated by an
extreme ferocity; which, however, up to the time of receiving their portions,
we must suppose to have been held in check by a most artful and vigilant
selfishness. And the malice of Goneril, the eldest, appears still to be under
some restraint, from feeling that her husband is not in sympathy with her. For
Albany, though rather timid and tardy in showing it, remains true to the old
king; his tardiness probably springing, at least in part, from a reluctance to
make a square issue with his wife, who, owing to her superiority of rank and
position, had somewhat the advantage of him in their marriage. Regan, on the
other hand, has in Cornwall
a husband whose heart beats in perfect unison with her own against her father;
and the confidence of his sympathy appears to discharge her malice entirely
from the restraints of caution, and to give it a peculiar quickness and
alertness of action. Near the close of the king's last interview with them, we
have the following:
GONERIL. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance
From those that she calls servants or from mine?
REGAN. Why not, my lord ? If then they chanc'd to slack you,
We could control them. 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.
LEAR. I gave you all.
REGAN. And in good time you gave it.
LEAR. Made you my guardians, my depositaries;
But kept a reservation to be follow'd
With such a number. [II, iv, 237-247.]
This passage is quoted mainly to draw attention to the concentrated wolfishness
of heart in those few words, "And in good time you gave it," snapped
out in reply to the pathetic appeal, "I gave you all." Human speech
cannot be more intensely charged with fury. And this cold, sharp venom of retort
is what chiefly discriminates Regan from Goneril; otherwise they seem too much
like repetitions of each other to come fairly within the circle of nature, who
never repeats herself. Yet their very agreement in temper and spirit renders
them the fitter for the work they do. For the sameness of treatment thence
proceeding is all the more galling and unbearable forasmuch as it appears the
result of a set purpose, a conspiracy coolly formed and unrelentingly pursued.
That they should lay on their father the blame of their own ingratitude, and
stick their poisoned tongues into him under pretence of doing him good, is a
further refinement of malice not more natural to them than tormenting to him.
It is indeed difficult to conceive how creatures could be framed more apt to
drive mad any one who had set his heart on receiving any comfort or kindness
from them.
For the behavior of Regan and Goneril after
the death of Cornwall, and their final
transports of mutual fierceness, Shakespeare prepares us by the moralizing he
puts into the mouth of Albany:
That nature which contemns its origin
Cannot be border'd certain in itself. [IV, ii, 32-33.]
meaning, apparently, that where the demon of
filial ingratitude reigns, there the heart is ripening for the most unnatural
crimes, so that there is no telling what it will do, or where it will stop. The
action of Goneril and Regan, taken all together, seems the most improbable
thing in the drama. It is not easy to think of them otherwise than as
instruments of the plot; not so much ungrateful persons as personifications of
ingratitude.
Kent
Kent, King Lear's loyal and selfless companion, is one of Shakespeare's most
cherished creations. "Kent
is, perhaps, the nearest to perfect goodness in all Shakespeare's characters,
and yet the most individualized." (Complete Works of Samuel Coleridge,
Vol. IV, edited by W.G.T. Shedd, Harper and Bros., New York: 1884, pp.
138).
Edgar
Edgar, the banished son of Gloucester
and brother to the villain Edmund, is the primary character in the sub-plot of King
Lear. The dutiful Edgar is much like Cordelia and suffers throughout the
play due to his father's transgressions. Unlike Cordelia, however, Edgar
remains alive at the end of the drama, and becomes King of Britain
Edmund
For the union of wit and wickedness, Edmund
stands next to Richard and Iago. His strong and nimble intellect, his manifest
courage, his energy of character, and his noble person, prepare us on our first
acquaintance to expect from him not only great undertakings, but great success
in them. The circumstances of our first meeting with him, the matter and manner
of Gloucester's talk about him and to him, go far to explain his conduct; while
the subsequent outleakings of his mind in soliloquy let us into his secret
springs of action. With a mixture of guilt, shame, and waggery, his father,
before his face, and in the presence of one whose respect he craves, makes him
and his birth a theme of gross and wanton discourse; at the same time drawing
comparisons be tween him and "another son some year elder than this,"
such as could hardly fail at once to wound his pride, to stimulate his
ambition, and to awaken his enmity. Thus the kindly influences of human
relationship and household ties are turned to their contraries. He feels himself
the victim of a disgrace for which he is not to blame; which he can not hope to
outgrow; which no degree of personal worth can efface; and from which he sees
no escape but in the pomp and circumstance of worldly power.
Always thinking, too, of his dishonor, he is
ever on the watch for signs that others are thinking of it; and the jealousy
thence engendered construes every show of respect into an effort of courtesy, a
thing that inflames his ambition while chafing his pride. The corroding
suspicion that others are perhaps secretly scorning his noble descent while
outwardly acknowledging it, leads him to find or fancy in them a disposition to
indemnify themselves for his personal superiority out of his social debasement.
The stings of reproach, being personally unmerited, are resented as wrongs; and
with the plea of injustice he can easily reconcile his mind to the most wicked
schemes. Aware of Edgar's virtues, still he has no relentings, but shrugs his
shoulders, and laughs off all compunctions with an "I must"; as if
justice to himself were a sufficient excuse for his criminal purposes.
With "the plague of custom" and
"the curiosity of nations" Edmund has no compact; he did not consent
to them, and therefore holds himself unbound by them. He came into the world in
spite of them; perhaps he owes his gifts to a breach of them; may he not, then,
seek to thrive by circumventing them? Since his dimensions are so well compact,
his mind so generous, and his shape so true, he prefers nature as she has made
him to nature as she has placed him, and freely employs the wit she has given,
to compass the wealth she has withheld. Thus our free-love philosopher appeals
from convention to nature; and, as usually happens in such cases, takes only so
much of nature as will serve his turn. For convention itself is a part of
nature, it being no less natural that men should grow up together in families
and communities than that they should grow up severally as individuals.
There is not in Edmund, as in lago, any
spontaneous or purposeless wickedness. Adventures in crime are not at all his
pastime; they are his means, not his end; his instruments, not his element. He
does not so much make war on duty, as bow and shift her off out of the way,
that his wit may have free course. He deceives others, indeed, without scruple,
but then he does not consider them bound to trust him, and tries to avail
himself of their credulity or criminality without becoming responsible for it.
He is a pretty bold experimenter, rather radical in his schemes, but this is
because he has nothing to lose if he fails, and much to gain if he succeeds.
Nor does he attempt to disguise from himself, or gloss over, or anywise
palliate, his designs ; but boldly confronts and stares them in the face, as
though assured of sufficient external grounds to justify or excuse them.
As Lear wanders 
