Come back, come back; the things I have not done
Beat in upon my brain from every side:
I know not where to put myself to bear them:
If I could have you now I could act well.
My inward life, deeds that you have not known,
I burn to tell you in a sudden dread
That now your ghost discovers them in me.
Hearken, mother; between us there 's a bond
Of flesh and essence closer than love can cause:
It cannot be unknit so soon as this,
And you must know my touch,
And you shall yield a sign.
Feel, feel this urging throb: I call to you. Come back.
Gormflaith, still crowned, enters by the garden doorway.
Gormflaith.
Come back! Help me and shield me!
She disappears through the curtains.
Goneril has sprung to her feet at the first sound of Gormflaith's voice.
Lear enters by the garden doorway, leading Gormflaith by the hand.
Lear. What is to do?
Goneril, advancing to meet them with a deep obeisance.
O, Sir, the Queen is dead: long live the Queen.
You have been ready with the coronation.
Lear.
What do you mean? Young madam, will you mock?
Goneril.
But is not she your choice?
The old Queen thought so, for I found her here,
Lipping the prints of her supplanter's feet,
Prostrate in homage, on her face, silent.
I tremble within to have seen her fallen down.
I must be pardoned if I scorn your ways:
You cannot know this feeling that I know,
You are not of her kin or house; but I
Share blood with her, and, though she grew too worn
To be your Queen, she was my mother, Sir.
Gormflaith.
The Queen has seen me.
Lear.
She is safe in bed.
Goneril.
Do not speak low: your voice sounds guilty so;
And there is no more need—she will not wake.
Lear.
She cannot sleep for ever. When she wakes
I will announce my purpose in the need
Of Britain for a prince to follow me,
And tell her that she is to be deposed....
What have you done? She is not breathing now.
She breathed here lately. Is she truly dead?
Goneril.
Your graceful consort steals from us too soon:
Will you not tell her that she should remain—
If she can trust the faith you keep with a queen?
She steps to Gormflaith, who is sidling toward the garden doorway, and, taking her hand, leads her to the foot of the bed.
Lady, why will you go? The King intends
That you shall soon be royal, and thereby
Admitted to our breed: then stay with us
In this domestic privacy to mourn
The grief here fallen on our family.
Kneel now; I yield the eldest daughter's place.
Why do you fumble in your bosom so?
Put your cold hands together; close your eyes,
In inward isolation to assemble
Your memories of the dead, your prayers for her.
She turns to Lear, who has approached the bed and drawn back the curtain.
What utterance of doom would the king use
Upon a watchman in the castle garth
Who left his gate and let an enemy in?
The watcher by the Queen thus left her station:
The sick bruised Queen is dead of that neglect.
And what should be the doom on a seducer
Who drew that sentinel from his fixt watch?
Lear.
She had long been dying, and she would have died
Had all her dutiful daughters tended her bed.
Goneril.
Yes, she had long been dying in her heart.
She lived to see you give her crown away;
She died to see you fondle a menial:
These blows you dealt now, but what elder wounds
Received them to such purpose suddenly?
What had you caused her to remember most?
What things would she be like to babble over
In the wild helpless hour when fitful life
No more can choose what thoughts it shall encourage
In the tost mind? She has suffered you twice over,
Your animal thoughts and hungry powers, this day,
Until I knew you unkingly and untrue.
Lear.
Punishment once taught you daughterly silence;
It shall be tried again.... What has she said?
Goneril.
You cannot touch me now I know your nature:
Your force upon my mind was only terrible
When I believed you a cruel flawless man.
Ruler of lands and dreaded judge of men,
Now you have done a murder with your mind
Can you see any murderer put to death?
Can you—
Lear. What has she said?
Goneril.
Continue in your joy of punishing evil,
Your passion of just revenge upon wrong-doers,
Unkingly and untrue?
Lear. Enough: what do you know?
Goneril.
That which could add a further agony
To the last agony, the daily poison
Of her late, withering life; but never word
Of fairer hours or any lost delight.
Have you no memory, either, of her youth,
While she was still to use, spoil, forsake,
That maims your new contentment with a longing
For what is gone and will not come again?
Lear.
I did not know that she could die to-day.
She had a bloodless beauty that cheated me:
She was not born for wedlock. She shut me out.
She is no colder now.... I'll hear no more.
You shall be answered afterward for this.
Put something over her: get her buried:
I will not look on her again.