Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I
desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the
use of mine own house; charged me on pain of perpetual displeasure,
neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way sustain him.
Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me on pain of perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way sustain him.
Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me on pain of perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way sustain him.
Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this un
Edmund's aside at the end of 3-3 is compact to the point of being almost abstract: 'This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me that which my father loses — no less than all of it.' The language is transactional, as if Edmund is running a ledger. His father's property, position, and safety are assets that can be transferred by a single act of disclosure. Edmund does not appear to feel what most people would feel at this moment — the crossing of a final boundary. He is consistent with his soliloquy in Act 1: he has rejected filial obligation as a social fiction. Nature is his goddess; power is its reward. Gloucester's mercy toward Lear is, from Edmund's perspective, simply Gloucester making a fatal error. Edmund's job is to profit from it.
Most savage and unnatural!
Most savage and unnatural!
Most savage and unnatural!
Most savage and unnatural!
Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the Dukes,
and a worse matter than that: I have received a letter this
night;—’tis dangerous to be spoken;—I have locked the letter
in my closet: these injuries the King now bears will be revenged
home; there’s part of a power already footed: we must incline to
the King. I will look him, and privily relieve him: go you and
maintain talk with the Duke, that my charity be not of him
perceived: if he ask for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. If I
die for it, as no less is threatened me, the King my old master
must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund;
pray you be careful.
Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the Dukes, and a worse matter than that: I have received a letter this night;—’tis dangerous to be spoken;—I have locked the letter in my closet: these injuries the King now bears will be revenged home; there’s part of a power already footed: we must
Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the Dukes, and a worse matter than that: I have received a letter this night;—’tis dangerous to be spoken;—I have locked the letter in my closet: these injuries the King now bears will be revenged home; there’s part of a power already footed: we must
Go to; say you nothing. There is divisio
Gloucester has just been deceived by Edmund about Edgar — he banished his loyal son on Edmund's fabricated evidence. Now he turns to Edmund again, this time to confide the most dangerous information he possesses. The dramatic cruelty is exquisite: Gloucester cannot know that Edmund is the wrong person to trust, because Edmund's manipulation of him over Edgar was so complete. He sees Edmund as the loyal son. In fact, the scene stages two kinds of blindness simultaneously: the outer blindness that is about to happen to Gloucester (physically, in 3-7) and the inner blindness that has already happened (his inability to see Edmund as he is). Both are versions of the same failure of sight. The play will force Gloucester to reach the truth about Edgar and Edmund only after the physical blinding — sight restored through its absence.
This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke
Instantly know; and of that letter too.
This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me
That which my father loses, no less than all:
The younger rises when the old doth fall.
This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke Instantly know; and of that letter too. This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses, no less than all: The younger rises when the old doth fall.
This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke Instantly know; and of that letter too. This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses, no less than all: The younger rises when the old doth fall.
This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Du
The Reckoning
A brief, lethal scene. Gloucester — moved by Lear's suffering, appalled by the treatment of an old man cast out in a storm — makes the decision that will cost him his eyes. He confides in Edmund, of all people: the son whose very existence proves Gloucester's earlier sin, the son who has just successfully displaced Edgar. The audience watches in horror as Gloucester trusts the one person in the world who will destroy him. Edmund's aside at the end is chilling in its efficiency: no hesitation, no guilt visible, just calculation. 'The younger rises when the old doth fall.' The catastrophe is already set in motion before Gloucester leaves the room.
If this happened today…
A manager, troubled by what's being done to someone who has been pushed out, tells a colleague in confidence: 'I've heard from people who want to put things right — I'm going to help.' The colleague nods sympathetically. As soon as the manager leaves, he picks up his phone. He's going straight to the people who pushed the man out. He's going to use this information to advance himself.