The storm took over, a phenomenon of nature, but even as it did so, the image of Lear extended and became what seemed mountain-tall. The storm of his emotions matched the storm of the elements, and his voice gave back to the wind every last howl. His body lost substance and wavered with the wind as though he himself were a storm cloud, contending on an equal basis with the atmospheric fury. Lear, having failed with his daughters, defied the storm to do its worst. He called out in a voice that was far more than human:
The Fool interrupts, his voice shrilling, and making Lear’s defiance the more heroic by contrast.
He begs Lear to make his way back to the castle and make peace with his daughters, but Lear doesn’t even hear him. He roars on:
The Duke of Kent, Lear’s loyal servant (though the King in a fit of rage has banished him) finds Lear and tries to lead him to some shelter. After an interlude in the castle of the Duke of Gloucester, the scene returns to Lear in the storm, and he is brought, or rather dragged, to a hovel.
And then, finally, Lear learns to think of others. He insists that the Fool enter first and then he lingers outside to think (undoubtedly for the first time in his life) of the plight of those who are not kings and courtiers.
His image shrank and the wildness of his face smoothed out. His head was lifted to the rain, and his words seemed detached and to be coming not quite from him, as though he were listening to someone else read the speech. It was, after all, not the old Lear speaking, but a new and better Lear, refined and sharpened by suffering. With an anxious Kent watching, and striving to lead him into the hovel, and with Meg Cathcart managing to work up an impression of beggars merely by producing the fluttering of rags, Lear says:
“Not bad,” said Wilbur, eventually. “We’re getting the idea.
Only, Meg, rags aren’t enough. Can you manage an impression of hollow eyes? Not blind ones. The eyes are there, but sunken in.”
“I think I can do that,” said Cathcart.
It was difficult for Willard to believe. The money spent was greater than expected. The time it had taken was considerably greater than had been expected. And the general weariness was far greater than had been expected. Still, the project was coming to an end.
He had the reconciliation scene to get through-so simple that it would require the most delicate touches. There would be no background, no souped-up voices, no images, for at this point Shakespeare became simple. Nothing beyond simplicity was needed.
Lear was an old man, just an old man. Cordelia, having found him, was a loving daughter, with none of the majesty of Goneril, none of the cruelty of Regan, just softly endearing.
Lear, his madness burned out of him, is slowly beginning to understand the situation. He scarcely recognizes Cordelia at first and thinks he is dead and she is a heavenly spirit. Nor does he recognize the faithful Kent.
When Cordelia tries to bring him back the rest of the way to sanity, he says:
Cordelia tells him she is and he says:
All poor Cordelia can say is “No cause, no cause.”
And eventually, Willard was able to draw a deep breath and say, “We’ve done all we can do. The rest is in the hands of the public.”
It was a year later that Willard, now the most famous man in the entertainment world, met Gregory Laborian. It had come about almost accidentally and largely because of the activities of a mutual friend. Willard was not grateful.
He greeted Laborian with what politeness he could manage and cast a cold eye on the time-strip on the wall.
He said, “I don’t want to seem unpleasant or inhospitable, Mr.-uh-but I’m really a very busy man, and don’t have much time.”
“I’m sure of it, but that’s why I want to see you. Surely, you want to do another compu-drama.”
“Surely I intend to, but,” and Willard smiled dryly, “ King Lear is a hard act to follow and I don’t intend to turn out something that will seem like trash in comparison.”
“But what if you never find anything that can match King Lear?”
“I’m sure I never will, but I’ll find something. “ “I have something. “
“Oh?”
“I have a story, a novel, that could be made into a compudrama.”
“Oh, well. I can’t really deal with items that come in over the transom.”
“I’m not offering you something from a slush pile. The novel has been published and it has been rather highly thought of.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be insulting. But I didn’t recognize your name when you introduced yourself.”
“Laborian. Gregory Laborian.”
“But I still don’t recognize it. I’ve never read anything by you. I’ve never heard of you.”
Laborian sighed. “I wish you were the only one, but you’re not. Still, I could give you a copy of my novel to read.”
Willard shook his head. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Laborian, but I don’t want to mislead you. I have no time to read it. And even if I had the time-I just want you to understand-I don’t have the inclination.”
“I could make it worth your while, Mr. Willard. “ “In what way?”
“I could pay you. I wouldn’t consider it a bribe, merely an offer of money that you would well deserve if you worked with my novel.”
“I don’t think you understand, Mr. Laborian, how much money it takes to make a first-class compu-drama. I take it you’re not a multimillionaire.”
“No, I’m not, but I can pay you a hundred thousand globodollars.”
“If that’s a bribe, at least it’s a totally ineffective one. For a hundred thousand globo-dollars, I couldn’t do a single scene.”
Laborian sighed again. His large brown eyes looked soulful. “I understand, Mr. Willard, but if you’ll just give me a few more minutes-” (for Willard’s eyes were wandering to the time-strip again.)
“Well, five more minutes. That’s all I can manage really. “
“It’s all I need. I’m not offering the money for making the compu-drama. You know, and I know, Mr. Willard, that you can go to any of a dozen people in the country and say you are doing a compu-drama and you’ll get all the money you need. After King Lear, no one will refuse you anything, or even ask you what you plan to do. I’m offering you one hundred thousand globo-dollars for your own use.”
“Then it is a bribe, and that won’t work with me. Good-bye, Mr. Laborian.”
“Wait. I’m not offering you an electronic switch. I don’t suggest that I place my financial card into a slot and that you do so, too, and that a hundred thousand globo-dollars be transferred from my account to yours. I’m talking gold, Mr. Willard.”
Willard had risen from his chair, ready to open the door and usher Laborian out, but now he hesitated. “What do you mean, gold?”
“I mean that I can lay my hands on a hundred thousand globo-dollars of gold, about fifteen pounds’ worth, I think. I may not be a multimillionaire, but I’m quite well off and I wouldn’t be stealing it.
It would be my own money and I am entitled to draw it in gold. There is nothing illegal about it. What I am offering you is a hundred thousand globo-dollars in five-hundred globo-dollar pieces-two hundred of them. Gold, Mr. Willard.”
Gold! Willard was hesitating. Money, when it was a matter of electronic exchange, meant nothing. There was no feeling of either wealth or of poverty above a certain level. The world was a matter of plastic cards (each keyed to a nucleic acid pattern) and of slots, and all the world transferred, transferred, transferred.
Gold was different. It had a feel. Each piece had a weight. Piled together it had a gleaming beauty.
It was wealth one could appreciate and experience. Willard had never even seen a gold coin, let alone felt or hefted one. Two hundred of them!
He didn’t need the money. He was not so sure he didn’t need the gold.