Gordon Bottomley

King Lear's Wife1

Many, many must die who long to live, Yet this one cannot die who longs to die: Even her sleep, come now at last, thwarts death, Although sleep lures us all half way to death.... I could not sit beside her every night If I believed that I might suffer so: I am sure I am not made to be diseased, I feel there is no malady can touch me — Save the red cancer, growing where it will.

O sweet Saint Cleer, and sweet Saint Elid too, Shield me from rooting cancers and from madness: Shield me from sudden death, worse than two death-beds; Let me not lie like this unwanted queen, Yet let my time come not ere I am ready — Grant space enow to relish the watchers' tears And give my clothes away and calm my features And streek my limbs according to my will, Not the hard will of fumbling corpse-washers.

Why are you here? Are you here for ever? Where is the young Scotswoman? Where is she?

O, Sire, move softly; the Queen sleeps at last.

Where is the young Scotswoman? Where is Gormflaith? It is her watch ... I know; I have marked your hours. Did the Queen send her away? Did the Queen Bid you stay near her in her hate of Gormflaith? You work upon her yeasting brain to think That she's not safe except when you crouch near her To spy with your dropt eyes and soundless presence.

Sire, midnight should have ended Gormflaith's watch, But Gormflaith had another kind of will And ended at a godlier hour by slumber, A letter in her hand, the night-lamp out. She loitered in the hall when she should sleep. My duty has two hours ere she returns.

The Queen should have young women about her bed, Fresh cool-breathed women to lie down at her side And plenish her with vigour; for sick or wasted women Can draw a virtue from such abounding presence, When night makes life unwary and looses the strings of being, Even by the breath, and most of all by sleep. Her slumber was then no fault: go you and find her.

It is not strange that a bought watcher drowses; What is most strange is that the Queen sleeps Who would not sleep for all my draughts of sleep In the last days. When did this change appear?

We shall not know — it came while Gormflaith nodded. When I awoke her and she saw the Queen She could not speak for fear: When the rekindling lamp showed certainly The bed-clothes stirring about our lady's neck, She knew there was no death, she breathed, she said She had not slept until her mistress slept And lulled her; but I asked her how her mistress Slept, and her utterance faded. She should be blamed with rods, as I was blamed For slumber, after a day and a night of watching, By the Queen's child-bed, twenty years ago.

She does what she must do: let her alone. I know her watch is now: get gone and send her.

Is it a portent now to sleep at night? What change is here? What see you in the Queen? Can you discern how this disease will end?

Surmise might spring and healing follow yet, If I could find a trouble that could heal; But these strong inward pains that keep her ebbing Have not their source in perishing flesh. I have seen women creep into their beds And sink with this blind pain because they nursed Some bitterness or burden in the mind That drew the life, sucklings too long at breast. Do you know such a cause in this poor lady?

There is no cause. How should there be a cause?

We cannot die wholly against our wills; And in the texture of women I have found Harder determination than in men: The body grows impatient of enduring, The harried mind is from the body estranged, And we consent to go: by the Queen's touch, The way she moves — or does not move — in bed, The eyes so cold and keen in her white mask, I know she has consented. The snarling look of a mute wounded hawk, That would be let alone, is always hers — Yet she was sorely tender: it may be Some wound in her affection will not heal. We should be careful — the mind can so be hurt That nought can make it be unhurt again. Where, then, did her affection most persist?

Old bone-patcher, old digger in men's flesh, Doctors are ever itching to be priests, Meddling in conduct, natures, life's privacies. We have been coupled now for twenty years, And she has never turned from me an hour — She knows a woman's duty and a queen's: Whose, then, can her affection be but mine? How can I hurt her — she is still my queen? If her strong inward pain is a real pain Find me some certain drug to medicine it: When common beings have decayed past help, There must be still some drug for a king to use; For nothing ought to be denied to kings.

For the mere anguish there is such a potion. The gum of warpy juniper shoots is seethed With the torn marrow of an adder's spine; An unflawed emerald is pashed to dust And mingled there; that broth must cool in moonlight. I have indeed attempted this already, But the poor emeralds I could extort From wry-mouthed earls' women had no force. In two more dawns it will be late for potions.... There are not many emeralds in Britain, And there is none for vividness and strength Like the great stone that hangs upon your breast: If you will waste it for her she shall be holpen.

Shatter my emerald? My emerald? My emerald? A High King of Eire gave it to his daughter Who mothered generations of us, the kings of Britain; It has a spiritual influence; its heart Burns when it sees the sun ... Shatter my emerald! Only the fungused brain and carious mouth Of senile things could shape such thought ... My emerald!

Speak lower, low; for your good fame, speak low — If she should waken thus ...

There is no wise man Believes that medicine is in a jewel. It is enough that you have failed with one. Seek you a common stone. I'll not do it. Let her eat heartily: she is spent with fasting. Let her stand up and walk: she is so still Her blood can never nourish her. Come away.

I must not leave her ere the woman comes — Or will some other woman ...

No, no, no, no; The Queen is not herself; she speaks without sense; Only Merryn and Gormflaith understand. She is better quiet. Come ...

My emerald!

I have not slept; I did but close mine eyes A little while — a little while forgetting ... Where are you, Merryn? ... Ah, it is not Merryn ... Bring me the cup of whey, woman; I thirst ... Will you speak to me if I say your name? Will you not listen, Gormflaith? ... Can you hear? I am very thirsty — let me drink ... Ah, wicked woman, why did I speak to you? I will not be your suppliant again ... Where are you? O, where are you? ... Where are you?

Mother, were you calling? Have I awakened you? They said that you were sleeping. Why are you left alone, mother, my dear one?

Who are you? No, no, no! Stand farther off! You pulse and glow; you are too vital; your presence hurts ... Freshness of hill-swards, wind and trodden ling, I should have known that Goneril stands here. It is yet dawn, but you have been afoot Afar and long: where could you climb so soon?

Dearest, I am an evil daughter to you: I never thought of you — O, never once — Until I heard a moor-bird cry like you. I am wicked, rapt in joys of breath and life, And I must force myself to think of you. I leave you to caretakers' cold gentleness; But O, I did not think that they dare leave you. What woman should be here?

I have forgot ... I know not ... She will be about some duty. I do not matter: my time is done ... nigh done ... Bought hands can well prepare me for a grave, And all the generations must serve youth. My girls shall live untroubled while they may, And learn happiness once while yet blind men Have injured not their freedom; For women are not meant for happiness. Where have you been, my falcon?

I dreamt that I was swimming, shoulder up, And drave the bed-clothes spreading to the floor: Coldness awoke me; through the waning darkness I heard far hounds give shivering aery tongue, Remote, withdrawing, suddenly faint and near; I leapt and saw a pack of stretching weasels Hunt a pale coney in a soundless rush, Their elfin and thin yelping pierced my heart As with an unseen beauty long awaited; Wolf-skin and cloak I buckled over this night-gear, And took my honoured spear from my bed-side Where none but I may touch its purity, And sped as lightly down the dewy bank As any mothy owl that hunts quick mice. They went crying, crying, but I lost them Before I stept, with the first tips of light, On Raven Crag near by the Druid Stones; So I paused there and, stooping, pressed my hand Against the stony bed of the clear stream; Then entered I the circle and raised up My shining hand in cold stern adoration Even as the first great gleam went up the sky.

Ay, you do well to worship on that height: Life is free to the quick up in the wind, And the wind bares you for a god's descent — For wind is a spirit immediate and aged. And you do well to worship harsh men-gods, God Wind and Those who built his Stones with him: All gods are cruel, bitter, and to be bribed, But women-gods are mean and cunning as well. That fierce old virgin, Cornish Merryn, prays To a young woman, yes and even a virgin — The poorest kind of woman — and she says That is to be a Christian: avoid then Her worship most, for men hate such denials, And any woman scorns her unwed daughter. Where sped you from that height? Did Regan join you there?

Does Regan worship anywhere at dawn? The sweaty half-clad cook-maids render lard Out in the scullery, after pig-killing, And Regan sidles among their greasy skirts, Smeary and hot as they, for craps to suck. I lost my thoughts before the giant Stones ... And when anew the earth assembled round me I swung out on the heath and woke a hare And speared it at a cast and shouldered it, Startled another drinking at a tarn And speared it ere it leapt; so steady and clear Had the god in his fastness made my mind. Then, as I took those dead things in my hands, I felt shame light my face from deep within, And loathing and contempt shake in my bowels, That such unclean coarse blows from me had issued To crush delicate things to bloody mash And blemish their fur when I would only kill. My gladness left me; I careered no more Upon the morning; I went down from there With empty hands: But under the first trees and without thought I stole on conies at play and stooped at one; I hunted it, I caught it up to me As I outsprang it, and with this thin knife Pierced it from eye to eye; and it was dead,

Untorn, unsullied, and with flawless fur. Then my untroubled mind came back to me.

Leap down the glades with a fawn's ignorance; Live you your fill of a harsh purity; Be wild and calm and lonely while you may. These are your nature's joys, and it is human Only to recognise our natures' joys When we are losing them for ever.

But why Do you say this to me with a sore heart? You are a queen, and speak from the top of life, And when you choose to wish for others' joys Those others must have woe.

The hour comes for you to turn to a man And give yourself with the high heart of youth More lavishly than a queen gives anything. But when a woman gives herself She must give herself for ever and have faith; For woman is a thing of a season of years, She is an early fruit that will not keep, She can be drained and as a husk survive To hope for reverence for what has been; While man renews himself into old age, And gives himself according to his need, And women more unborn than his next child May take him yet with youth And lose him with their potence.

But women need not wed these men.

We are good human currency, like gold, For men to pass among them when they choose.

Father ... Father ... Father ... Are you here? Merryn, ugly Merryn, let me in ... I know my father is here ... I want him ... Now ... Mother, chide Merryn, she is old and slow ...

My little curse. Send her away — away....

Father... O, father, father... I want my father.

Hush; hush — you hurt your mother with your voice. You cannot come in, Cordeil; you must go away: Your father is not here ...

He must be here: He is not in his chamber or the hall, He is not in the stable or with Gormflaith: He promised I should ride with him at dawn And sit before his saddle and hold his hawk, And ride with him and ride to the heron-marsh; He said that he would give me the first heron, And hang the longest feathers in my hair.

Then you must haste to find him; He may be riding now ...

But Gerda said she saw him enter here.

Indeed, he is not here ...

Let me look ...

You are too noisy. Must I make you go?

Mother, Goneril is unkind to me.

Go, go, thou evil child, thou ill-comer.

Though she is wilful, obeying only the King, She is a very little child, mother, To be so bitterly thought of.

Because a woman gives herself for ever Cordeil the useless had to be conceived (Like an after-thought that deceives nobody) To keep her father from another woman. And I lie here.

Hard and unjust my father has been to me; Yet that has knitted up within my mind A love of coldness and a love of him Who makes me firm, wary, swift and secret, Until I feel if I become a mother I shall at need be cruel to my children, And ever cold, to string their natures harder And make them able to endure men's deeds; But now I wonder if injustice Keeps house with baseness, taught by kinship — I never thought a king could be untrue, I never thought my father was unclean.... O mother, mother, what is it? Is this dying?

I think I am only faint ... Give me the cup of whey ...

There is too little here. When was it made?

Yester-eve ... Yester-morn ...

Unhappy mother, You have no daughter to take thought for you — No servant's love to shame a daughter with, Though I am shamed — you must have other food, Straightway I bring you meat ...

It is no use ... Plenish the cup for me ... Not now, not now, But in a while; for I am heavy now ... Old Wynoc's potions loiter in my veins, And tides of heaviness pour over me Each time I wake and think. I could sleep now.

Then I shall lull you, as you once lulled me.

The owlets in roof-holes Can sing for themselves; The smallest brown squirrel Both scampers and delves; But a baby does nothing — She never knows how — She must hark to her mother Who sings to her now. Sleep then, ladykin, peeping so; Hide your handies and ley lei lo.

The lish baby otter Is sleeky and streaming, With catching bright fishes Ere babies learn dreaming; But no wet little otter Is ever so warm As the fleecy-wrapt baby 'Twixt me and my arm. Sleep big mousie...

Be quiet ... I cannot bear it.

Why did you leave the Queen? Where have you been? Why have you so neglected this grave duty?

This is the instant of my duty, Princess: From midnight until now was Merryn's watch. I thought to find her here: is she not here?

I found the Queen alone. I heard her cry your name.

Your anger is not too great, Madam; I grieve That one so old as Merryn should act thus — So old and trusted and favoured, and so callous.

The Queen has had no food since yester-night..

Madam, that is too monstrous to conceive: I will seek food. I will prepare it now.

Stay here: and know, if the Queen is left again, You shall be beaten with two rods at once.

"Open your window when the moon is dead, And I will come again. The men say everywhere that you are faithless, The women say your face is a false face And your eyes shifty eyes. Ah, but I love you, Gormflaith. Do not forget your window-latch to-night, For when the moon is dead the house is still."

Lady, what do you read?

I read a letter, Sire.

A letter — a letter — what read you in a letter?

Your words to me — my lonely joy your words ... "If you are steady and true as your gaze " —

Pest! You should not carry a king's letters about, Nor hoard a king's letters.

No, Sire.

Must the King also stand in the presence now?

Pardon my troubled mind; you have taken my letter from me.

Wait, wait — I might be seen. The Queen may waken yet.

You have been long in coming: Was Merryn long in finding you?

Did Merryn ... Has Merryn been ... She loitered long before she came, For I was at the women's bathing-place ere dawn ... No jewel in all the land excites me and enthralls Like this strong source of light that lives upon your breast.

Wear it within your breast to fill the gentle place That cherished the poor letter lately torn from you.

Did Merryn at your bidding, then, forsake her Queen?

You must not, ah, you must not do these masterful things, Even to grasp a precious meeting for us two; For the reproach and chiding are so hard to me, And even you can never fight the silent women In hidden league against me, all this house of women. Merryn has left her Queen in unwatched loneliness, And yet your daughter Princess Goneril has said (With lips that scarce held back the spittle for my face) That if the Queen is left again I shall be whipt.

Children speak of the punishments they know. Her back is now not half so white as yours, And you shall write your will upon it yet.

Ah, no, my King, my faithful.. Ah, no.. no.. The Princess Goneril is right; she judges me: A sinful woman cannot steadily gaze reply To the cool, baffling looks of virgin untried force. She stands beside that crumbling mother in her hate, And, though we know so well — she and I, O we know — That she could love no mother nor partake in anguish, Yet she is flouted when the King forsakes her dam, She must protect her very flesh, her tenderer flesh, Although she cannot wince; she's wild in her cold brain, And soon I must be made to pay a cruel price For this one gloomy joy in my uncherished life. Envy and greed are watching me aloof (Yes, now none of the women will walk with me), Longing to see me ruined, but she'll do it ... It is a lonely thing to love a king ...

Goldilocks, when the crown is couching in your hair And those two mingled golds brighten each other's wonder, You shall produce a son from flesh unused — Virgin I chose you for that, first crops are strongest — A tawny fox with your high-stepping action, With your untiring power and glittering eyes, To hold my lands together when I am done, To keep my lands from crumbling into mouthfuls For the short jaws of my three mewling vixens. Hatch for me such a youngster from my seed, And I and he shall rein my hot-breathed wenches To let you grind the edges off their teeth.

Life holds no more than this for me; this is my hour. When she is dead I know you'll buy another Queen — Giving a county for her, gaining a duchy with her — And put me to wet nursing, leashing me with the thralls. It will not be unbearable — I've had your love. Master and friend, grant then this hour to me: Never again, maybe, can we two sit At love together, unwatched, unknown of all, In the Queen's chamber, near the Queen's crown And with no conscious Queen to hold it from us: Now let me wear the Queen's true crown on me And snatch a breathless knowledge of the feeling Of what it would have been to sit by you Always and closely, equal and exalted, To be my light when life is dark again.

Girl, by the black stone god, I did not think You had the nature of a chambermaid, Who pries and fumbles in her lady's clothes With her red hands, or on her soily neck Stealthily hangs her lady's jewels or pearls. You shall be tiring-maid to the next queen And try her crown on every day o' your life In secrecy, if that is your desire: If you would be a queen, cleanse yourself quickly Of menial fingering and servile thought.

You need not crown me. Let me put it on As briefly as a gleam of Winter sun. I will not even warm it with my hair.

You cannot have the nature of a queen If you believe that there are things above you: Crowns make no queens, queens are the cause of crowns.

Then I will take one. Look.

Come here, mad thing — come back! Your shadow will wake the Queen.

Hush, hush! That angry voice Will surely wake the Queen.

Go back; bear back the crown: Hang up the crown again. We are not helpless serfs To think things are forbidden And steal them for our joy.

Hush, hush! It is too late; I dare not go again.

Put down the crown: your hands are base hands yet. Give it to me: it issues from my hands.