The Tragedy of King Lear
By William Shakespeare
Adapted by Masked Man 2
FADE IN:
INT. NIGHT: EDMUND'S CHAMBER, GLOUCESTER'S HOUSE
Soft music plays. Begin opening credits. Slow pan through a large bedchamber, dimly lit by a single candelabrum. Flashes of furnishings- an unmade four-poster bed, clothing (cloak, overcoat, boots, doublet and jerkin, sword belt) strewn all over the floor, a narrow casement window cracked open, long and heavy drapes half-drawn.
FADE TO:
INT. NIGHT: SMALL COUNCIL ROOM, LEAR'S CASTLE
An old man wearing a heavy ermine robe and crown stands at the head of a circular table with a large map of Britain behind him. This is LEAR. His shoulders are slumped, his gnarled hands braced against the table. He is tired, defeated, alone.
INTERCUT WITH CASTLE SHOTS:
INT. NIGHT: EDMUND'S CHAMBER, GLOUCESTER'S HOUSE
Center the camera on a large, polished desk, bare apart from the candelabrum, a half-used ream of fine quality paper in an ornate wooden box, an inkwell, a sheet of paper before a ringed hand. Music turns dark as a quill pen is dipped into the ink and the hand begins to write. We see the camera pan up to a face in extreme CU- the line of lashes, the curve of a cheek, the bristle of a mustache, parted lips. This is EDMUND, writing the false letter.
EDMUND
(voice-over, continuing after "of the world" to be read over the following shots)
This is the excellent foppery of the world: that when we are sick in fortune- often the surfeits of our own behavior- we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, the stars, as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance, drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence, and all that we are evil in by a divine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of stars! (A pause) Though the wisdom of nature can reason thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide; in cities mutinies, in countries discords, palaces treason. The bond cracked between son and father, father and daughter. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves.
INT. NIGHT: GREAT HALL, LEAR'S CASTLE
GONERIL, matronly, proud, clad in stately black, enters ahead of her solemn-faced husband ALBANY. REGAN, in black and green, is crushed into a kiss by her husband CORNWALL. The two exchange a smoldering look before CORNWALL nods and moves to stand beside ALBANY, facing an empty throne. REGAN joins GONERIL beside it. GONERIL whispers something in REGAN'S ear.
INT. NIGHT: STABLES, GLOUCESTER'S HOUSE
GLOUCESTER, dressed to ride, strides inside. A STABLEHAND leads two horses to him, tilts his head as if to ask, "shall I fetch a third?" GLOUCESTER glances in the direction of the house offscreen, face grim and set.
INT. NIGHT: GREAT HALL, LEAR'S CASTLE
CORDELIA, gently and demurely, clad in soft blue, enters the chamber and moves to stand beside her sisters, keeping a slight distance from them. Her shoulders hunch inward as they cast brief, contemptuous glances her way. Behind her come BURGUNDY and FRANCE, who stand stiffly opposite ALBANY and CORNWALL. FRANCE shifts his weight, looks longingly over at CORDELIA. BURGUNDY stares straight ahead.
EXT. NIGHT: ROAD FROM GLOUCESTER'S HOUSE
GLOUCESTER and EDMUND ride in silence away from the house, into a rolling mist as clouds obscure the moon.
INT. NIGHT: GREAT HALL, LEAR'S CASTLE
KENT strides through the hall's double doors, giving the sisters and gathered men a reassuring glance before turning worried eyes to the throne. Slow CU on his face.
INT. NIGHT: EDGAR'S CHAMBER, GLOUCESTER'S HOUSE
This shot is disorientingly out of focus, closing in briefly on the lines of hands or body but never revealing more than a sliver of a face. The chamber is almost completely dark; a small window is open and the drapes and shutters are thrown wide, permitting the last vestige of moonlight through- just enough to see the slight figure of EDGAR sprawled in a window seat. One hand drifts shakily over the windowsill, trembling fingers lazily tapping the air as though they played an invisible piano, or flicked at insects. The other hand lifts a bottle. Unsteady CU on a stubbled throat, swallowing, before the bottle slips down the frame to crash, in slow motion, onto the floor.
INT. NIGHT: SMALL COUNCIL ROOM, LEAR'S CASTLE
LEAR stands before the room's double doors, clutching his scepter, debating whether or not to leave. He takes one deep, shuddering breath before bursting open the doors.
INT. NIGHT: EDGAR'S CHAMBER, GLOUCESTER'S HOUSE
We hear a breath of something that might be a sob or a laugh or both, and EDGAR curls sharply in on himself, like he has heard the faraway slam of the door. A lone wolf howls outside.
FADE TO BLACK
TITLE SCREEN: THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEAR
INT. NIGHT: GREAT HALL, LEAR'S CASTLE
The hall tableau is identical to how it was before, but now GLOUCESTER stands beside KENT, sans cloak. In the corner of the frame we see it is with EDMUND, who hands it, and his own, to a SERVANT. We also see CORNWALL shifting restlessly, looking impatient, but smug. ALBANY, beside him, simply looks weary, unable to meet the cold, sharp gaze of GONERIL. GLOUCESTER and KENT speak quietly to each other.
FOCUS ON CONVERSATION:
KENT
I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.
GLOUCESTER
It did always seem so to us, but now in the division of the kingdoms it appears not which of the Dukes he values most, for-
EDMUND, through with the SERVANT, moves over to KENT and GLOUCESTER, cutting the latter off.
KENT
Is not this your son, my lord?
GLOUCESTER
His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge. I have so often blushed to acknowledge him that now I am brazed to't.
KENT
I cannot conceive you!
GLOUCESTER
Sir, this young fellow's mother could, whereupon she grew round-wombed and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. But I have a son by order of law, some year elder than this, who is yet no dearer in my account. Though came this knave saucily into the world before he was sent for, there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged.
KENT
I cannot wish thy fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.
GLOUCESTER
Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?
EDMUND
No, my lord.
GLOUCESTER
My lord of Kent. Remember him hereafter as my honorable friend.
EDMUND
My services to your lordship.
KENT
I must love you, and sue to know you better.
A fanfare of trumpets. Pan to LEAR, entering the hall with a train of GENTLEMEN and KNIGHTS. LEAR crosses to sit on his throne. The FOLLOWERS merge into the shadows along the back of the hall. The SERVANT brings LEAR a map, which he unfurls onto a low table before the throne.
LEAR
Here will we express our darker purposes. Know that we have divided in three our kingdom, and 'tis our fast intent to shake all cares and business off our state, confirming them on younger years while we unburdened crawl toward death. Tell me, my daughters, which of you shall we say doth love us most, that we our largest bounty may extend where merit doth most challenge it? Goneril, our eldest born, speak first.
GONERIL
Sir, I do love you more than words can wield the matter; dearer than eyesight, space, or liberty; beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; no less than life; with grace, health, beauty, honor, as much as child e'er loved; a love that makes breath poor and speech unable.
CUT TO:
CORDELIA'S face in CU
CORDELIA
(voice-over)
What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent.
PAN OUT:
LEAR
Of all these bounds even from this line to this, with shadowy forests and with champaigns riched, with plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads we make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue be this perpetual.
GONERIL gives ALBANY a small, satisfied look. REGAN makes a moue of discontent.
LEAR
What says our second daughter? Dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall- speak.
REGAN
Sir, I am made of that same mettle as my sister, and prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love- only she comes too short, that I profess myself an enemy to all other joys, and find I am alone felicitate in your dear highness' love.
CUT TO:
CORDELIA'S face in CU
CORDELIA
(voice-over)
Then poor Cordelia- and yet, not so, for I am sure my love's richer than my tongue.
PAN OUT:
LEAR
To thee and thine hereditary ever remain this ample third of our kingdom, no less in space, validity, and pleasure than that confirmed on Goneril.
LEAR turns to CORDELIA. The scene is silent, the shot focused on father and daughter, everyone else blurring into the background. The look on LEAR'S face is one of tender hope and pride. CORDELIA is stoic, just barely managing to hide her fear.
LEAR
But now our joy, although the last, not least in our dear love: what can you say to win a third more opulent than your sisters'?
CORDELIA
Nothing, my lord.
LEAR
Nothing?
CORDELIA
Nothing.
LEAR
Nothing can come of nothing.
CORDELIA
Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave my heart into my mouth. I love your majesty according to my bond: no more, nor less.
LEAR
How, how, Cordelia?
CORDELIA
Good my lord, you have begot me, bred me, loved me. I return those duties back as are right fit- obey you, love you, and most honor you.
ZOOM OUT:
Why have my sisters husbands if they say they love you all? Haply when I shall wed, that lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry half my love with him, half my care and duty.
LEAR
But goes this with thy heart?
CORDELIA
Ay, good my lord.
LEAR
So young, and so untender?
CORDELIA
So young, my lord, and true.
LEAR
Thy truth then be thy dower; for by the sacred radiance of the sun, the mysteries of Hecate and the night, by the operation of the orbs from whom we do exist and cease to be, here I disclaim all my paternal care, propinquity, and property of blood. As a stranger to my heart and me hold thee from this for ever!
KENT has been growing steadily more distressed as this progresses, as have BURGUNDY, FRANCE, GLOUCESTER, and ALBANY. GONERIL, REGAN, CORNWALL, and EDMUND are unmoved.
KENT
Good my liege-
LEAR
Peace, Kent- come not between a dragon and his wrath. (to CORDELIA)Hence, and avoid my sight!
CORDELIA turns aside, silent tears welling in her eyes.
I loved her most, and thought to set my rest on her kind nursery. So be my grave my peace as I here give her father's great heart from her.
The shot encompasses all in the frame once more as LEAR settles his gaze on CORNWALL and ALBANY.
LEAR
Cornwall and Albany, with my two daughters' dowers digest the third. I do invest you jointly in my power and the large effects that troop with majesty. Ourself by monthly course, with reservation of a hundred knights by you to be sustained, shall our abode make with you by due turns. Only...we shall retain the name and all additions to a king. The sway, revenue, and execution of the rest, belovéd sons, be yours; which to confirm, this crownet part betwixt you.
KENT
Royal Lear, whom I have ever honored as my king, loved as my father, followed as my master-
LEAR
The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft.
KENT
Let it fall, rather- be Kent unmannerly when Lear is mad. What wilt thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall dread to speak when power to flattery bows? To plainness honor's bound when majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom, and in thy best consideration check this hideous rashness. Answer my life judgement, thy youngest daughter does not love thee least.
LEAR
Kent, on thy life, no more!
KENT
My life I never held but as a pawn, to wage against thine enemies, nor fear to lose it, thy safety being the motive.
LEAR
Out of my sight!
KENT
See better, and let me still remain the true blank of thine eye.
LEAR
Now, by Apollo-
KENT
Thou swear'st thy gods in vain.
LEAR stands abruptly, robes swirling as he flies for KENT, ready to strike, shouting his next lines as ALBANY and FRANCE step in as if to restrain him. KENT stumbles back, steadied by GLOUCESTER.
LEAR
Vassal! Recreant!
KENT
Do! Kill thy physician! And the fee bestow upon the foul disease!
The tableau is a tense one. KENT and LEAR have locked eyes, both incensed, both trembling- LEAR from rage, KENT from the strain of restraint. FRANCE and ALBANY, flanking LEAR, look uneasy. GLOUCESTER, one hand on KENT'S arm, looks vaguely faint.
KENT
(quietly, desperately)
Revoke thy doom, or whilst I can vent clamor from my throat I'll tell thee thou dost evil.
LEAR
Hear me; on thy allegiance hear me! Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow, and with strayed pride come between our sentence and our power, our potency made good take thy reward: five days we do allot thee for provision to shield thee from the disasters of the world, and on the sixth to turn thy hated back upon our kingdom. If on the seventh day thy banished trunk be found in our dominions, the moment is thy death.
KENT, and others, stare in disbelief.
LEAR
Away! By Jupiter, this shall not be revoked!
KENT
Why, fare thee well, King; since thus thou wilt appear, friendship lives hence, and banishment is here.
KENT turns his back on LEAR and walks over to CORDELIA, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face him.
KENT
The gods to their protection take thee, maid, that rightly thinks, and hast most justly said.
Still holding CORDELIA, KENT turns to GONERIL and REGAN, comforting gaze turning hard and cold.
KENT
And your large speeches may your deeds approve, that good effects may spring from words of love.
KENT turns to face all assembled.
KENT
Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu. He'll shape his old course in a country new.
KENT strides out of hall, unaccompanied. There is a beat of silence while LEAR haltingly retakes his throne and CORDELIA discreetly wipes away tears. GLOUCESTER glances first to her, then to LEAR, and then to BURGUNDY. LEAR, seeing this, is seemingly startled awake from a stupor.
LEAR
My lord of Burgundy. We first address towards you. What in the least will you require in present dower with our daughter, or else cease your quest of love?
BURGUNDY
Royal majesty, I crave no more than what your highness offered; nor will you tender less.
LEAR
Right noble Burgundy, when she was dear to us we did hold her so; but now her price is fallen. Sir, there she stands. If aught within that little seeming substance, with our displeasure pieced, may fitly like your grace, she's there, and she is yours.
BURGUNDY
I know no answer.
LEAR
Will you with those infirmities she owes, unfriended, new adopted to our hate, dowered with our curse and strangered with our oath, take her or leave her?
BURGUNDY
Pardon me, royal sir. Election makes not up in such conditions.
LEAR
The leave her be, sir, for I tell you all her wealth.
The camera pans from the grim, set face of LEAR to a crestfallen, but silent CORDELIA. BURGUNDY watches then both for a beat, then stands and bows his head to LEAR. He moves to take CORDELIA by the hand, kissing it lightly.
BURGUNDY
I am sorry, then, that you have so lost a father that you must lose a husband.
BURGUNDY gives a last bow to the room, and walks out: slowly, but without a backward glance. LEAR turns to FRANCE, eyes burning with contempt.
LEAR
For you, great King, I would not from your love make such a stray to match you where I hate, therefore beseech you to avert your liking a more worthier way than on a wretch whom nature is ashamed to acknowledge hers.
CORDELIA
I yet beseech your majesty, if for I want that glib and oily art to speak and purpose not- since what I well intend, I'll do't before I speak- that you acknow it is no vicious blot, no unclean action or dishonored step that hath deprived me of your grace and favor, but even the want of that for which I am richer- a still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue as I am glad I have not, though not to have it hath lost me in your liking.
LEAR
Go to, go to. Better thou hadst not been born than not to have pleased me better.
FRANCE
Is it no more but this- a tardiness in nature, that leaves the history unspoke that it intends to do?
FRANCE rises, and takes CORDELIA by the hand.
FRANCE
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; thee and thy virtues here I seize upon. Be it lawful, I take up what's cast away. (Quietly) Gods, gods, 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect my love should kindle to inflamed respect. (More firmly, pitching his voice at LEAR) Thy dowerless daughter, King, thrown to my chance, is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France.
LEAR
Thou hast her, France. Let her be thine, for we have no such daughter.
LEAR strides from his throne, followed quickly by FOLLOWERS and ALBANY. Various glances are exchanged: GONERIL eyes her departing husband with contempt; REGAN and CORNWALL look long and cool into each other's eyes before the latter turns to follow LEAR's entourage; GLOUCESTER gazes back at CORDELIA, face unreadable, before turning away. The last to leave is EDMUND, who moves with self-assured grace after his father. He is watched, hawk-like, by both GONERIL and REGAN. Finally, only the sisters and FRANCE remain. CORDELIA meets her sisters' eyes, gaze solemn, but steady.
CORDELIA
Ye jewels of our father, with washed eyes Cordelia leaves you.
CORDELIA steps forward, and the frame narrows, zooming claustrophobically in on the three sisters in a triangular tableau: two against one.
CORDELIA
I know well what you are, but like a sister am most loath to call your faults as they are named. Use well our father. To your professèd bosoms I commit him.
REGAN
Prescribe not us our duty.
GONERIL
Let your study be to content your lord, who hath received you at fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted, and well are worth the worst that you have wanted.
CORDELIA
Time shall unfold what pleated cunning hides, who covert faults at last with shame derides. Well may you prosper.
FRANCE
Bid thy sisters farewell, Cordelia, though unkind. Thou losest here, a better where to find.
FRANCE puts his arm around CORDELIA'S shoulders as they exit the hall. GONERIL and REGAN are left alone, faces unreadable.
FADE TO:
INT. NIGHT: GONERIL'S CHAMBER, LEAR'S CASTLE
GONERIL is seated at a vanity table, clad only in her shift, brushing her hair. The mirror reflects her tired face, as well as the large, elegant bed taking up most of the opposite wall. ALBANY is lying face-down on it, heavy blankets bunched lightly around his waist, wearing only a thin shirt; he appears to be deeply asleep.
The chamber door creaks loudly as it is nudged open; the slim figure in the doorway, silhouetted by the candle it holds, hisses softly, while GONERIL sets her brush down, casting a glance from the door to the bed in obvious irritation. ALBANY shifts slightly, but does not wake up. REGAN, clutching a shawl around her shoulders, also in night clothes, steps carefully into the chamber, chastened, but with eyes burning indignantly. She takes a seat in the vanity stool as GONERIL rises to throw a look at her husband, and turns to look at her sister expectantly.
GONERIL
(sighing, speaking softly)
I think our father will hence tonight.
REGAN
That's most certain, and with you. Next month with us.
GONERIL moves to stand behind REGAN, beginning to brush her hair.
GONERIL
You see how full of changes his age is. The observation we have made of it hath been little.
REGAN
He always loved our sister most, and with what poor judgement he hath now cast her off appears too grossly.
GONERIL
'Tis the infirmity of his age; yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.
REGAN
The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash.
GONERIL
Then must we look to receive from his age not alone the imperfection of long-engrafted condition, but therewithal unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them. Pray, let's hit together. If our father carry authority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us.
REGAN
We must do something, and i'th' heat.
GONERIL
We shall further think on't.
GONERIL finishes REGAN'S hair and gently caresses the top of her head. REGAN leans into the touch for a moment, before heaving herself up. The sisters exchange a charged glance before REGAN turns to pad quietly out, leaving her candle on the vanity. GONERIL lazily, almost dreamily, bends to blow it out. The last thing we see is her profile in extreme CU before the screen goes dark, cut through with a single trail of wafting smoke.
FADE TO:
INT. DAY: EDMUND'S CHAMBER, GLOUCESTER'S HOUSE
Though it is daylight outside, EDMUND'S chamber is still fairly dark. The desk has been cleared; the letter is tucked into EDMUND'S belt, and EDMUND himself is leaning far back in his chair, lazily twirling his dagger between his fingers. A large family tree is spread open on the desk, just beyond his crossed feet; during the following soliloquy, beginning with "thou, nature," he plays with the dagger and intermittently throws it at the tree before rocking forward to retrieve it.
EDMUND
Thou, nature, art my goddess. To thy law my services are bound. (Toss: the dagger has clipped the edge of the scroll, missing any names by a long shot. EDMUND reaches forward to recover it, disgusted.) Wherefore should I stand in the plague of custom and permit the curiosity of nations for that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines lag of a brother? Why 'bastard'? Wherefore 'base,' when my dimensions are as well compact, my mind as generous, and my shape as true as honest madam's issue? Why brand they us with 'base, baseness, bastardy- (Toss: it hits the line between GLOUCESTER'S name and his father's)- who in the lusty stealth of nature take more composition and fierce quality than doth within a stale, dull-eyed bed go to the creating a whole tribe of fops, got 'tween sleep and wake? (Toss: it hits EDMUND'S own name, which looks hastily, messily added, as though EDMUND drew it there himself) Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund as to th' legitimate. Well, my legitimate, I must have your land. If this letter speed and my invention thrive, Edmund the base shall top the legitimate. I grow. I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards! (Toss: it hits EDGAR'S name, obscuring it from view even in CU)
INT. DAY: HALLWAY OUTSIDE LIBRARY, GLOUCESTER'S HOUSE
GLOUCESTER rounds a corner and strides into the hall; in the background, a SERVANT can be seen exiting with his cloak. A very faint whistling can just be made out, which grows louder as he speaks.
GLOUCESTER
(muttering to himself)
Kent banished thus, and France in choler parted, and the King gone tonight, subscribed his power, confined to exhibition- all this done upon the gad?
EDMUND, reading the letter, saunters into the hallway from his room offscreen. He pulls up short upon sighting GLOUCESTER, stopping his whistling abruptly, and hurriedly shoves the letter in his pocket.
GLOUCESTER
Edmund, how now? What news?
EDMUND
(hurriedly, feigning nervousness)
So please your lordship, none.
GLOUCESTER
(with growing suspicion)
Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter?
EDMUND
I know no news, my lord.
GLOUCESTER
No? What needs that terrible dispatch of it into your pocket? The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself.
EDMUND
(lowering his head in contrition)
I beseech you, sir, pardon me. It is a letter from my brother that I have not all o'er-read; for so much as I have perused, I find it not to your liking.
GLOUCESTER
Give me the letter, sir.
EDMUND
I shall offend either to detain or to give it. The contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame.
GLOUCESTER
Let's see.
EDMUND
(handing GLOUCESTER the letter with great reluctance)
I hope, for my brother's justification, he wrote this but as an assay or taste of my virtue.
GLOUCESTER
(reads aloud over voice-overs of EDMUND and EDGAR, whispering the words)
'This policy of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times, keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways not as it hath power but as it is suffered. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever and live the beloved of your brother.' Hmm...conspiracy…? 'Sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue'- my son! Had he a hand to write this, a heart and brain to breed it in? (Fixes EDMUND with a severe look) You know the character to be your brother's?
EDMUND
If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his, but in respect of that, I would fain think it were not-
GLOUCESTER
It is his.
EDMUND
It is his hand, my lord, but I hope his heart is not in the contents.
GLOUCESTER
Hath he never heretofore sounded you in this business?
EDMUND
Never, my lord...but I have often heard him maintain it to be fit that, sons at perfect age and fathers declining, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage the revenue.
GLOUCESTER
(with growing rage)
O villain, villain- his very opinion in the letter! Abhorred villain, unnatural, detested, brutish villain- worse than brutish! Abominable villain! Where is he?
EDMUND
I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you to suspend your indignation against my brother till you can derive from him better testimony of his intent, you should run a certain course; where if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honor and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him he hath wrote this to feel my affection to your honor, and to no further pretence of danger.
GLOUCESTER
He cannot be such a monster.
EDMUND
Nor is not, sure.
GLOUCESTER
To his father- heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out, wind me into him. I would unstate myself to be in a due resolution.
EDMUND
I shall seek him, sir, presently: convey the business as I see means, and acquaint you withal.
GLOUCESTER
(darkly musing)
These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us…. Find out this villain, Edmund. It shall lose thee nothing. Do it carefully.
GLOUCESTER and EDMUND stand apart for one tense moment before GLOUCESTER pulls EDMUND to him in a rough embrace. He then turns away, shaking his head and muttering to himself once more as he disappears down the hall.
GLOUCESTER
And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished, his offence honesty! Strange, strange.
EDMUND watches his father leave, smirking once he is out of sight. He turns and enters the dimly lit, dark-wooded library, leaving the door only slightly ajar. Whistling once again, he wanders over to one of the shelves and pulls out a book at random. It is a book of astrology. He flips through it disinterestedly as he leans against an armchair, pausing at a star map that he begins to trace with his fingers. He speaks slowly, musingly.
EDMUND
My father compounded with my mother under the dragon's tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows I am rough and lecherous. (Snorts a laugh) Fut! I should have been that I am had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing. I-
He is interrupted by the quiet squeaking of the door. EDGAR steals carefully into the room, his eyes downcast; he does not notice EDMUND. His clothing is dark, his movements almost hesitant. There is something uneasy in his demeanor that should manifest itself as a sort of nervous tension. A slow, predatory smile breaks over EDMUND'S face as he turns to another page near the end of the book.
EDMUND
(voice-over)
And pat he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy. My cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o' Bedlam. (Aloud) -O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! (Sings, softly) Fa, sol, la, mi….
EDGAR jumps upon hearing EDMUND'S voice, but relaxes almost immediately as he crosses to EDMUND'S side. EDMUND throws a casually affectionate arm across his shoulders before turning his head to study his book with rapt attention.
EDGAR
How now, brother Edmund? (Peers at the book, then at EDMUND'S face) What serious contemplation are you in?
EDMUND
(seriously)
I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses.
EDGAR
(somewhat skeptical)
Do you busy yourself with that?
EDMUND
I promise you, the effects he writ of succeed unhappily, as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent, death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities, divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against king and nobles, needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what!
EDGAR opens his mouth to speak, but is abruptly cut off. EDMUND snaps his book shut, tosses it carelessly onto a nearby couch, and takes EDGAR by the shoulders, facing him, at once concerned and urgent. As EDMUND gets more animated in his following speech, EDGAR gets quieter, more fearful.
EDMUND
Come, when saw you my father last?
EDGAR
...The night gone by.
EDMUND
Spake you with him?
EDGAR
Two hours together.
EDMUND
Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him by word or countenance?
EDGAR
None at all.
EDMUND
Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him, and at my entreaty forbear his presence till some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure, which at this instant so rageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would scarce allay.
EDGAR
(in slow shock)
Some villain hath done me wrong.
EDMUND
(leads EDGAR to the door)
That's my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging. Pray ye, go! (Pulls a spare key from a cord around his neck and presses it into EDGAR'S hand) There's my key. If you do stir abroad, go armed.
EDGAR
Armed, brother-?
EDMUND
Brother, I advise you to the best. I am no honest man if there be any good meaning towards you. (Pulls EDGAR close to whisper in his ear) I have told you what I have seen and heard but faintly: nothing like the image and horror of it. (Pulls back to speak more loudly) Pray you, away.
EDGAR
(turns to leave, then turns back and grabs desperately for EDMUND'S hand)
Shall I hear from you anon?
EDMUND
(clasps EDGAR'S hand strongly)
I do serve you in this business.
EDMUND pulls EDGAR in again and kisses him on the lips. They are locked in this tableau for but a moment- EDMUND stock-still, EDGAR trembling violently- before EDGAR turns and runs towards EDMUND'S chamber. EDMUND watches him go, then slides down the wall, laughing almost to the point of tears, wiping first his lips, then his eyes. Zoom in for a close CU.
EDMUND
A credulous father, and a brother noble, whose nature is so far from doing harms that he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty my practices ride easy. I see the business. Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit. All with me's meet that I can fashion fit.
EDMUND, still in CU, reaches inside his shirt and pulls out the cord. A pendant is on it: a rough-hewn wooden cross, strung upside down, with something resembling a stag's antler branching off of the bottom of it. EDMUND gently caresses this as his laughter lowers to a soft chuckle, and his eyes drift skyward.
FADE TO:
INT. DAY: ALBANY'S STUDY, ALBANY'S CASTLE
GONERIL is seated at ALBANY'S desk, rifling through sheafs of documents. None of them seem particularly interesting, but occasionally she will hand one to the liveried and bespectacled OSWALD, standing at her shoulder with a self-assured, easy grace that seems out of place on a servant. They work silently for awhile. When GONERIL speaks, it is out of the blue; OSWALD nearly drops the paper he is perusing before regaining his composure.
GONERIL
Did my father strike my gentleman for the chiding of his fool?
OSWALD
Ay, madam.
GONERIL
(sighs exasperatedly, slams a paper down in frustration)
By night and day he wrongs me. Every hour he flashes into one gross crime or other. I'll not endure it. (GONERIL glances out the window, face hard and set) When he returns from hunting I will not speak with him.
A ruckus of noise can be heard from outside: hunting horns, the barking of dogs, the stamping of horses' hooves, the shouts of men. OSWALD turns his attention from the window to GONERIL, but she stands and places a hand on his chest before he can speak.
GONERIL
Put on what weary negligence you please, you and your fellow servants. If you come slack of your former services you shall do well; the fault of it I'll answer. If he dislike it, let him to our sister, whose mind and mine I know in that are one. Remember what I tell you.
OSWALD
Well, madam.
GONERIL
And let his knights have colder looks among you. What grows of it, no matter. Advise your fellows so. (OSWALD nods; the noise outside grows louder, as the hunting party begins to move inside) Go prepare for dinner.
OSWALD bows, grazing GONERIL'S fingertips with his lips as he does so; the look on his face is one of horror, shock, and rapt pleasure. He strides from the room, snapping something to a few SERVANTS hovering outside the door. GONERIL watches him go, running her thumb absently, contemptuously, over her kissed fingers. The voice of LEAR can be heard offscreen; GONERIL'S face grows cold and angry as she hears it.
LEAR
(offscreen)
Let me not stay a jot for dinner! Go you, sir, get it ready!
SLOW CU:
GONERIL sits hurriedly at the desk, scrabbling for a pen and ink, sifting furiously through drawers for a fresh sheet of paper. Her next lines are muttered to herself.
GONERIL
I'll write straight to my sister to hold my course. Idle old man! Still would manage those authorities that he hath given away! Now, by my life, old fools are babes again, and must be used with checks as flatteries, when they are seen abused.
GONERIL, having found paper, inks the pen and sets it down. We see her write "dear sister" before the screen goes dark.
FADE TO:
EXT. DAY: BACK OF STABLES, ALBANY'S CASTLE
KENT has darkened his grey hair and beard to black. His beard is longer, his face newly sunburnt. Music plays over this sequence; we do not hear the words he speaks to a plainly dressed STABLEHAND. A bargain of sorts is in negotiation; KENT gives the STABLEHAND a few coins, and glances warily about as the other man begins to unwrap his cloak.
FADE TO:
INT. DAY: ARMORY, ALBANY'S CASTLE
The KNIGHTS disarm in a ruckus of laughter, talking, shouting, and some singing; no distinct words can be made out. A drinking game seems to be starting in one corner of the armory. There are few SERVANTS in the space; those that are do not seem inclined to help the KNIGHTS in any way.
FADE TO:
INT. DAY: GREAT HALL, ALBANY'S CASTLE
KENT is now wearing the STABLEHAND'S cloak and old clothing, looking every inch the rough commoner. He is alone but for a bustle of SERVANTS preparing a meal; the sounds of LEAR and his men can faintly be heard from the courtyard outside. He is mumbling words to himself, in various tones and accents. The camera tracks him as he wanders the room in this manner, unheeded by the SERVANTS. He eventually pauses by the double doors, pensive.
KENT
If but as as well I other accents borrow that can my speech diffuse, my full intent may carry through itself to that full issue for which I razed my likeness.
LEAR
(offscreen)
Where's my fool, ho?
KENT freezes, draws in a breath. His hand finds his pocket and pulls an old pendant from it; cupped in his fist, it is invisible to us. He holds it close to his mouth as he speaks.
KENT
Now, banished Kent, if thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemned, so may it come thy master, whom thou lov'st, shall find thee full of labour.
The doors open with a bang to admit LEAR and his newly-disarmed entourage. LEAR himself is dressed for the hunt, bereft of his royal vestments and walking with more of a spring in his step. His hair is wild, his eyes bright, his hands rubbing together agitatedly.
LEAR
I think the world's asleep. Seeing KENT in the doorway, he stops abruptly. How now, what art thou?
KENT
(voice disguised)
A man, sir.
LEAR
What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us?
KENT
I do profess to be no less than I seem, to serve him truly that will put me in trust, to love him that is honest, to converse with him that is wise and says little, to fear judgement, to fight when I cannot choose, and to eat no fish.
LEAR
What art thou?
KENT
A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the King.
LEAR
If thou be as poor for a subject as he is for a king, thou'rt poor enough. What wouldst thou?
KENT
Service.
LEAR
Who wouldst thou serve?
KENT
You.
LEAR
Dost thou know me, fellow?
KENT
No, sir, but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.
LEAR
What's that?
KENT
Authority.
LEAR
What services canst do?
KENT
I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it, and deliver a plain message bluntly. That which ordinary men are fit for I am qualified in; and the best of me is diligence.
A pause as LEAR and KENT exchange a long, charged look. LEAR seems to be searching for something even he cannot name in KENT'S eyes, while KENT remains, perhaps with a bit of a struggle, impassive, with the peasant guise's bluff, self-assured plainness. At last, LEAR, evidently satisfied with what he sees, nods and takes KENT by the arm.
LEAR
Follow me. Thou shalt serve me, if I like thee no worse after dinner. (LEAR glances around, and a SERVANT pointedly turns his back- LEAR does not notice) Dinner, ho, dinner! (LEAR turns back to KENT) I will not part from thee yet.
Another SERVANT enters with a stack of empty trenchers, looking a bit lost. LEAR, catching sight of him, hurries haltingly over, dragging KENT with him.
LEAR
Where's my knave, my fool? Go you and call my fool hither.
The SERVANT sets his trenchers down and gapes a bit, before KENT moves to lead him away. OSWALD, weary irritation seaming his face, strides into the hall and glances around, letting his gaze touch and pass LEAR before moving to speak quietly to the young BOYS bearing wine for the knights. When LEAR turns to address him, he ignores the words.
LEAR
You, you, sirrah! Where's my daughter?
OSWALD
(turning indolently around)
So please you-
OSWALD turns back to the boys for a moment before leaving in the direction of the kitchens. LEAR stares after him, dumbfounded.
LEAR
What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back! (KENT reenters with the SERVANT, and LEAR turns to them) How now, where's that mongrel?
KENT
He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.
LEAR
Why came not the slave back to me when I called him?
SERVANT
(nervously)
Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner he would not.
LEAR
Would not?
SERVANT
My lord, I know not what the matter is, but to my judgement your highness is not entertained with that ceremonious affection as you were wont. There's a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general dependants as in the Duke and your daughter.
LEAR
Sayest thou so?
SERVANT
I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken, for my duty cannot be silent when I think your highness wronged.
LEAR
Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception. I have perceived a most faint neglect of late, which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness. I will look further into't. But where's this fool? I have not seen him these two days.
SERVANT
Since my young lady's gone into France, sir, the fool hath much pined away-
LEAR
No more of that, I have noted it. Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with her, and call hither my fool.
The SERVANT bows and turns to exit the hall; he is caught and briefly cuffed by OSWALD when he reaches the door. OSWALD turns away and begins to stride back through the hall, once again paying LEAR and KENT no heed.
LEAR
O, you, sir, you, come hither. (OSWALD pauses dramatically in his step and turns back to LEAR, suppressing a sigh) Who am I, sir?
OSWALD
My lady's father.
LEAR
My lady's father? My lord's knave, you whoreson dog, you slave, you cur!
OSWALD
I am none of these, my lord, I beseech your pardon.
LEAR
Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?
Without warning, LEAR flashes out a hand, catching OSWALD across the mouth. A bit of blood is drawn. OSWALD, putting one shaking hand up to cover the wound, stumbles back from LEAR as he tries desperately to regain his composure.
OSWALD
I'll not be struck, my lord-!
KENT puts out a foot to trip the retreating OSWALD, who goes sprawling, sputtering indignantly and gaping at KENT. KENT then kicks him, as LEAR moves closer, fascinated.
KENT
Nor tripped neither, you base football-player. (A pause- the only sound made by any of the three is OSWALD'S labored breathing) Away, sir. If you will measure your lubber's length again, tarry; but away if you have wisdom.
OSWALD rises gingerly, eyeing KENT as though he expects to be struck again. His exit is hasty, a flighty retreat, all semblance of cold aloofness gone from his demeanor. LEAR, obviously impressed, clasps KENT strongly on the shoulder.
LEAR
Friendly knave, I thank thee. Thou serv'st me, and I'll love thee. There's earnest of thy service.
LEAR hands KENT a few coins bearing his own image. During the above dialogue, another figure has entered through the kitchens, causing a bit of a stir that, as yet, has gone unnoticed by LEAR and KENT- this is the FOOL. He is dressed in ragged motley, and wears a hooded, heavily patched brown cloak with a felt coxcomb sewn to the top of the hood. Bells are strung to his wrists, a bauble carved in his likeness is stuck into his belt, and a tabor, with a pipe tied to it, is slung over his shoulder. He is juggling several grapes in one hand, eating them out of the air as they come down. With his free hand, he deftly unties his cloak as he approaches KENT from behind.
FOOL
Let me hire him, too! (The FOOL taps KENT on the shoulder, making him jump, and thrusts the cloak towards him) Here's my coxcomb.
LEAR
How now, my pretty knave, how dost thou?
FOOL
(to KENT)
Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.
KENT
Why, fool?
FOOL
Why? Why, for taking one's part that's out of favor. Nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou'lt catch cold shortly. There, take my coxcomb. Why, this fellow has banished two on's daughters and done the third a blessing against his will. If thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb. (A pause as the FOOL turns to LEAR, as though seeing him for the first time) How now, nuncle? Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters.
LEAR
Why, my boy?
FOOL
If I gave them my all living I'd keep my coxcombs myself. There's mine; beg another off thy daughters.
LEAR
Take heed, sirrah- the whip.
FOOL
Truth's a dog must to kennel. He must be whipped out when Lady Brach may stand by the fire and stink.
LEAR
A pestilent gall to me!
FOOL
(to KENT)
Sirrah, I'll teach thee a speech.
KENT
Do.
FOOL
(to LEAR)
Mark it, nuncle. (The FOOL turns back to KENT) 'Have more than thou showest, speak less than thou knowest, lend less than thou owest, ride more than thou goest, learn more than thou trowest, set less than thou throwest. Leave thy drink and thy whore, and keep in-a-door, and thou shalt have more than two tens to a score.'
KENT
This is nothing, fool.
FOOL
Then 'tis like the breath of an unfee'd lawyer; you gave me nothing for it. (To LEAR) Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?
LEAR
Why, no, boy. Nothing can be made of nothing.
FOOL
(to KENT)
Prithee, tell him so much the rent of his land comes to. He will not believe a fool.
LEAR
A bitter fool.
FOOL
Dost know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet one?
LEAR
No, lad. Teach me.
FOOL
(sings, possibly accompanies himself on the tabor or pipe)
'That lord that counselled thee to give away thy land, come, place him here by me; do thou for him stand. The sweet and bitter fool will presently appear, the one in motley here, the other found out there.'
LEAR
Dost thou call me fool, boy?
FOOL
All thy other titles thou hast given away. That thou wast born with.
KENT
(to LEAR)
This is not altogether fool, my lord.
FOOL
No, faith- lords and great men will not let me! If I had a monopoly out, they would have part on't, and ladies, too, they will not let me have all the fool to myself- they'll be snatching. Give me an egg, nuncle, and I'll give thee two crowns.
LEAR
What two crowns shall they be?
FOOL
Why, after I have cut the egg i'th' middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i'th' middle and gavest away both parts, thou borest thine ass o'th' back o'er the dirt. Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gavest thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so. (Sings)'Fools had ne'er less wit in a year, for wise men are grown foppish. They know not how their wits do wear, their manners are so apish.'
LEAR
When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?
FOOL
I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou madest thy daughters thy mother; for when thou gavest them the rod and puttest down thine own breeches…. (Sings) 'Then they for sudden joy did weep, and I for sorrow sung, that such a king should play bo-peep, and go the fools among.' Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie. I would fain learn to lie.
LEAR
An you lie, we'll have you whipped.
FOOL
I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are. They'll have me whipped for speaking true, thou'lt have me whipped for lying, and sometime I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind of thing than a fool...and yet I would not be thee, nuncle. Thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides and left nothing in the middle.
GONERIL stalks into the hall from within the castle proper, frowning. She moves as a woman with a purpose, remaining unmoved by the SERVANTS scrabbling to clear her path to LEAR.
FOOL
Here comes one of the parings.
LEAR
How now, daughter, what makes that frontlet on?
FOOL
Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning. Now thou art an O without a figure. I am better than thou art, now. I am a fool; thou art nothing. (GONERIL gives the FOOL a withering look) Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue; so your face bids me, though you say nothing. (Sings) 'Mum, mum, he that keeps neither crust nor crumb, weary of all, shall want some.' That's a shelled peascod.
GONERIL
Not only, sir, this your all-licensed fool, but other of your insolent retinue do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth in rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir, I had thought by making this well-known unto you to have found a safe redress, but now grow fearful, by what yourself too late have spoke and done, that you protect this course, and put it on by your allowance. If you should, the fault would not scape censure, nor the redress sleep which in the tender of a wholesome weal might in their working do you that offence, that else were shame, that then necessity must call discreet proceedings.
FOOL
(to LEAR)
For, you trow, nuncle, (sings) 'the hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long that it had its head bit off by its young; so out went the candle, and we were left darkling.'
LEAR
(to GONERIL)
Are you our daughter?
GONERIL
Come, sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom whereof I know you are fraught, and put away these dispositions that of late transform you from what you rightly are.
FOOL
May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? (Sings) 'Whoop, jug, I love thee!'
LEAR, seemingly seized by a sudden fury, stalks haltingly away from GONERIL, moving towards the center of the hall. The SERVANTS eye him warily, as does KENT, who moves forward as if to help, and pauses, unease evident in his every movement. Only the FOOL seems unconcerned; he brings out his bauble and makes it mimic LEAR'S pacing and spasmodic movements, an inexplicably serene look on his face.
LEAR
Does any here know me? This is not Lear. Does Lear walk thus, speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either his motion weakens, or his discernings are lethargied- sleeping or waking, ha? 'Tis not so. Who is it that can tell me who I am?
FOOL
Lear's shadow.
LEAR
I would learn that, for by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge and reason I should be false persuaded I had daughters!
FOOL
Which they will make an obedient father.
LEAR
(abruptly, to GONERIL)
Your name, fair gentlewoman?
GONERIL
Come, sir, this admiration is much of the savour of other your new pranks. I do beseech you understand my purposes aright, as you are old and reverend, should be wise. Here you do keep a hundred knights and squires, men so disordered, so debauched and bold that this our court, infected with their manners, shows like a riotous inn or brothel. The shame itself doth speak for instant remedy. Be thou desired, by her that else will take the thing she begs, a little to disquantity your train, and the remainder that shall still depend to be such men may besort your age, that know themselves and you.
LEAR
Darkness and devils! (Turns, enraged, to his KNIGHTS) Saddle my horses, call my train together!- (To GONERIL)Degenerate bastard, I'll not trouble thee. Yet have I left a daughter.
The hall is in turmoil. The KNIGHTS that exit brush harshly past a few of the SERVANTS on their way out, and the two groups seem very close to fighting outright. The FOOL laughs softly, a sound that nearly escapes notice, one of either fear or madness or both. He then attaches himself to the wary KENT. In the midst of the noise, ALBANY enters from the castle proper, making for GONERIL and LEAR with an expression both alarmed and wearily, resignedly subdued. He, too, goes unnoticed.
GONERIL
You strike my people, and your disordered rabble make servants of their betters!
LEAR
Woe that too late repents-! (LEAR spies ALBANY, and rounds on him in a fury) O, sir, are you come? Is it your will that we- prepare my horses! (Two KNIGHTS exit hastily) Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, more hideous when thou show'st thee in a child than the sea-monster-!
ALBANY
(quietly)
Pray, sir, be patient-
LEAR
(to GONERIL)
Detested kite, thou liest! My train are men of choice and rarest parts, that in the most exact regard support the worships of their name. O most small fault, how ugly didst thou in Cordelia show, that wrenched my frame of nature from the fixed place, drew from my heart all love, and added to the gall! O Lear, Lear, Lear! Beat at this gate that let thy folly in and thy dear judgements out!-
ALBANY
My lord, I am guiltless as I am ignorant of what hath moved you.
LEAR
It may be so, my lord. Hark, nature, hear: dear goddess, suspend thy purpose if thou didst intend to make this creature fruitful. Dry up her organs of increase, and from her derogate body never spring a babe to honour her. If she must teem, create her child of spleen, that it may live and be a thwart disnatured torment to her. Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, with cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks, turn all her mother's pains and benefits to laughter and contempt, that she may feel- (A pause, as LEAR stares at GONERIL long and hard, contempt washing over the horror on his face) That she may feel how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child. -Go, go, my people! Away!
LEAR turns and strides out of the hall, followed by KENT and the rest of the KNIGHTS. Of LEAR'S train, only the FOOL remains; he whistles softly, wandering over to the door and dithering there, frowning at LEAR'S retreating form, invisible to us. GONERIL gives the stunned SERVANTS an icy glare, startling them back into work. ALBANY turns to GONERIL in consternation.
ALBANY
Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?
GONERIL
Never afflict yourself to know the cause, but let his disposition have that scope that dotage gives it.
As GONERIL speaks, LEAR stumbles back inside, looking both confused and enraged. Within the shadow of the door, the FOOL hums decisively.
LEAR
What, fifty of my followers at a clap? Within a fortnight?
ALBANY
What's the matter, sir?
LEAR
I'll tell thee. (To GONERIL) Life and death! I am ashamed that thou hast power to shake my manhood thus, that these hot tears, that break from me perforce and should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee! Untented woundings of a father's curse pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes, beweep this cause again I'll pluck you out and cast you, with the waters that you make, to temper clay. Is't come to this? Yet have I left a daughter who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable. When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails she'll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find that I'll resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off forever; thou shalt, I warrant thee!
LEAR storms out again, muttering to himself. The FOOL, once again, stays behind, watching GONERIL and ALBANY with poorly disguised fascination.
GONERIL
Did you mark that?
ALBANY
I cannot be so partial, Goneril, to the great love I bear you-
GONERIL
Content you, sir. What, Oswald, ho! (GONERIL catches sight of the FOOL, and whirls toward him, lifting a hand as though to strike) You, more knave than fool, after your master!
FOOL
(bowing cheekily and skipping backwards out the door)
Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry, take the fool with thee. (Sings) 'A fox when one has caught her, and such a daughter should sure to the slaughter, if my cap would buy a halter. So, the fool follows after.'
GONERIL
This man hath good counsel- a hundred knights? 'Tis politic and safe to let him keep a hundred knights, yes, that on every dream, each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, he may enguard his dotage with their powers and hold our lives in mercy- Oswald, I say!
ALBANY
(to himself)
Well, you may fear too far.
GONERIL, of course, has heard this, and the look she gives ALBANY is venomous. ALBANY seems to wilt under her gaze, casting his eyes downward in resignation.
GONERIL
Safer than trust too far. Let me still take away the harms I fear, not fear still to be taken. I know his heart. What he that uttered I have writ my sister. If she sustain him and his hundred knights when I have showed th' unfitness-
During the above speech OSWALD slinks back into the hall, looking rather like a kicked dog. He sports a split lip from his altercation with LEAR and KENT, and his steward's chain has snapped. GONERIL, unaware of the occurrence of the fight, cannot mask her surprise for a moment. ALBANY appears to take no notice of OSWALD'S entrance.
GONERIL
How now, Oswald? What, have you writ that letter to my sister?
OSWALD
Ay, madam.
GONERIL
Take you some company, and away to horse. Inform her full of my particular fears, and thereto add such reasons of your own as may compact it more. Get you gone, and hasten your return.
OSWALD bows in silence before exiting the hall, shouting something indistinct as he makes for the stables. GONERIL watches him leave, then turns to ALBANY with an appraising look. A beat of silence passes between them.
GONERIL
My lord, this milky gentleness and course of yours, though I dislike not, yet under pardon you're much ataxed for want of wisdom than praised for harmful mildness.
ALBANY
How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell. Striving to better aught, we mar what's well.
GONERIL
Nay, then-!
ALBANY
Well, well, th'event.
FADE TO:
INT. DAY: STABLES, ALBANY'S CASTLE
LEAR'S KNIGHTS, most of them re-armored, are saddling their horses. Some, just outside, prepare a cart. There is much noise as the train hastily makes ready to leave.
FADE TO:
EXT. DAY: OUTER GATE, ALBANY'S CASTLE
LEAR, KENT, and the FOOL are gathered just outside the gate, watching the KNIGHTS begin to make their way down the high road from ALBANY'S castle. The FOOL plays softly upon his pipe as LEAR hands a packet of letters to KENT.
LEAR
Go you before to Gloucester with these letters. Acquaint my daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there before you.
KENT
I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter.
KENT, having taken the letters, bows with a fist over his heart before striding up the rough terrain to meet the long line of KNIGHTS, one of whom is leading a riderless horse behind him. The camera pans out briefly to catch KENT mounting this horse and spurring it into a gallop, overtaking the line, before closing back in on the LEAR and the FOOL, who abruptly stops playing.
FOOL
If a man's brains were in his heels, were't not in danger of kibes?
LEAR
Ay, boy.
FOOL
Then, I prithee, be merry; thy wit shall ne'er go slipshod. (LEAR laughs) Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly, for though she's as like this as a crab is like an apple, yet I con what I can tell.
LEAR
What canst thou tell, my boy?
FOOL
She'll taste as like this as a crab doth to a crab. Thou canst not tell why one's nose stands in the middle of his face?
LEAR
No.
FOOL
Why, to keep one's eyes on either side 's nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.
LEAR
(abruptly)
I did her wrong; I will forget my nature. So kind a father!
FOOL
So kind, to give his house to his daughter, and leave his horns without a case.
LEAR
To take't again by force- monster ingratitude!
FOOL
If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'd have thee beaten for being old before thy time.
LEAR
How's that?
FOOL
Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
LEAR
(to himself)
O, let me be not mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad.
A KNIGHT, who has been driving the cart, makes his way over to LEAR. We see the cart stopped at the end of the train, in the shot's background.
LEAR
Be my horses ready?
KNIGHT
Ready, my lord.
LEAR
(to FOOL)
Come, boy.
LEAR begins to make his way up to the cart, irritatedly shoving off the KNIGHT when he tries to assist him in the climb. The FOOL, watching them, raises his eyebrows and waggles his head in mock defiance, then glances towards the lens of the camera. He does a double-take, as though surprised to see an audience behind it, but slowly smiles; however, the expression freezes and slips. It is as though he has sensed the audience laughing with him and is not at all pleased about the fact.
FOOL
(airily, with a note of warning)
She that is a maid now, and laughs at my departure, shall not be a maid long, except things be cut shorter.
The FOOL turns his back to the camera after holding its "gaze" for a poignant moment. He pulls out his pipe and begins to play as he saunters up the road to join LEAR at the cart, playing a more melancholy tune than before.
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