by John Marsden
If I were anything else, if I had a heart, and the guts to match it, I would have scattered the insides of this treacherous king across the fields to fatten the crows. That traitor. That bastard. That bloody, bawdy villain, remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, and vile. And all I can do, with my father come from heaven and hell or somewhere in between, telling me to take revenge, is to wallow in words. Muttering and cursing and bellowing.
Well, at least I have a plan now. I have heard that guilty creatures faced with a reenactment of their crimes fall on their knees and confess. I’ll have these actors play something like the murder of my father in front of my uncle tomorrow night. I’ll watch him, I’ll study him, and if he so much as blanches or trembles, I’ll know the truth, and I’ll know my course of action.
After all, I still cannot be certain what I saw that night. Was it my father? Did it tell me the truth? Or was it some fiend sent to lie and confuse and do evil? The devil can take any shape he wants, including that of my father. And while I am so sad about his passing, the devil has the perfect chance to take advantage of me.
That is what holds me back. It is a terrible thing to be a coward, but it is not so bad to be prudent. Well, tomorrow shall tell the next chapter of my story.
The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll test the conscience of the king!
The performance started late. The servants were supposed to take out all the tables from the state dining hall after dinner, but the head butler said it was nothing to do with him; furniture moving wasn’t his job; his responsibilities ended with clearing the meal. And apparently no one had told the comptroller of the royal household, who was in charge of entertainment, and the deputy housekeeper, who looked after the reception rooms, was laid up with pleurisy, so in the end Hamlet and a couple of guards and the manager of the troupe did it themselves.
By the time the chairs were arranged and two curtains hung, it was ten o’clock.
Outside, the wind had become blustery, with gusts of real wildness. The Danish flag was nearly ripped from its pole on the western tenement, and tiles were blown from the castle roof. There were some who did not bother to return to the dining hall but stayed in their rooms with a bottle of wine, or a pack of cards, or a few friends for a gossip. Afterward, when they heard, they regretted their inertia.
The actors were brought in from the anteroom, which had been assigned them for dressing. Hamlet had been furious as he moved tables and chairs, but now anxiety was his dominant emotion again. The actors became aware of his tension when he started to coach them in their craft. Much as they liked him and appreciated his patronage, they were not necessarily keen to have him tell them how to do their jobs. But he was a prince and they were commoners; indeed, in many places they were treated as little better than beggars or riffraff. Hamlet was almost alone among the nobility of Denmark in his respect for them.
“Do the speech as I taught it to you,” he urged them. “For that matter, do all the speeches with expression. If you just rattle off your lines like you’re reciting a list of groceries, as I’ve seen some actors do, I might as well fetch the cooks from the kitchen to read them. And don’t be extravagant. The more passionate the scene, the more subtle should be your gestures. The contrast between the whirlwind of passion and the moderation of gesture is what gives a scene its smoothness. How I hate to hear some fellow on a stage ranting and raving! Let the words do the work. You need not bellow like a cow giving birth, or stride up and down in a frenzy. I would have an actor like that whipped for trying to out-Thor the god of thunder himsel-”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” one of the actors said.
Hamlet hesitated at the man’s tone. “I was only joking about the whipping.”
“Yes, Highness.”
Hamlet shook his head. “Suit the action to the words and the words to the action. Your task is to hold up a mirror to nature. If you give a scene more tragedy than nature has given it, or more sentimentality, or more drama, you have ruined it. I have seen actors, even famous ones, who in imitating men or women do such a poor job that I started to wonder whether they were in fact human, or perhaps some lower form of life created not by nature but by one of nature’s incompetent assistants.”
“I hope we do a little better than that, Highness,” said the leader of the troupe.
“Do a lot better! A whole lot better! And, by the way, whoever plays the clown, make sure not to laugh at your own jokes! There are always a few fools in the audience who find that amusing, but when such an actor steals the scene, important lines are lost. It shows pitiful ambition on his part. Anyway, enough. Go behind the curtains; make yourselves ready.”
They trickled away. As they went out to the right, Horatio came in from the left. Hamlet was warmed to see him. “Horatio, dear Horatio, the most just man I ever met.”
“Hamlet, no,” Horatio protested.
“Oh, I’m not flattering you. What would be the point? You don’t have any wealth, except your good spirits, to feed and clothe you. But I tell you this, Horatio: since I was old enough to judge between the people of my acquaintance, you are the one to whom I’ve always turned. I respect the way you’ve handled the good things that come to you as much as the way you’ve dealt with adversity. Blessed are those who have good judgment! Blessed are those who do not allow fortune to play them like they are a trumpet, letting her decide what notes she will sound! Give me the man who is not a slave to passion, and he will be the blood of my heart, as you are mine, Horatio.”
Horatio blushed with pleasure. His affection for Hamlet was deep and genuine, but much as they met on terms as equal as could be found between prince and commoner, Horatio had been aware from earliest childhood of the uncrossable social gulf between them. He could not help being flattered to be told that he was the closest to the popular and beautiful prince, the man who would one day be king.
With a hand around Horatio’s shoulder, Hamlet walked him to the other end of the room. He spoke more confidentially. “Now, pay close attention. In a few minutes the actors will begin the play. There is a scene set in an orchard, and it portrays the murder of a king. I want you, when it comes to that scene, to study my uncle closely. Watch him with the eyes of your soul. I tell you this, Horatio: the ghost who visited me on that dreadful night brought me a story which may have come from the devil, as we speculated, for he told of a devilish act. I hope to find out some truth tonight. When my uncle sees the actors onstage, he may be looking at a mirror to the past. That is what we have to establish.”
“Hamlet, I tremble to hear your words. You seem to be hinting at the unthinkable.”
“You must think the unthinkable, old friend, as I have done since that night on the terrace.”
So, there it was again, the reference to the event that was still veiled from Horatio. He stood, deeply troubled, and lost in thought. At heart he knew he had no choice but to do as his friend and royal master asked, but he feared the consequences. After a moment he gave Hamlet a little smile.
“Very well, I will do as you say. I will watch the king so closely that if he steals anything during the play and I don’t see it, I’ll pay for whatever he stole.”
“Well said, good friend. Treasonous, but witty. Quick, they are coming. To your place.”
Polonius led Claudius and Gertrude into the room, making sure all was ready for them. Ophelia followed close behind. The king was full of beer and cheer, beaming at Hamlet. “How is our nephew and our son?” he asked.
“Why, I forgot to ask them, last time I saw them,” Hamlet said. “But I believe they would say that they were well, though perhaps a little empty from eating air stuffed with promises.”
The king, determined not to be annoyed, smiled briefly, without humor. “I have nothing to do with that answer, Hamlet,” he said. “Those words are not for me; they are not mine.”
“No, nor mine either, now,” Hamlet said. “They have left my body and my mouth and are gone. It may be that they have no owner at all.” He put his hea
d around the side of the makeshift curtain and whispered into the darkness. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“Very good. Remember all that I told you.”
“We will, Your Royal Highness.”
Hamlet faced the audience again. At least sixty people from around the castle had gathered for the show. Mostly lords and ladies-in-waiting; the king’s cronies and Gertrude’s confidantes; old Voltimand, who had once been chancellor; Polonius with his children, Laertes and Ophelia; the inseparable Rosencrantz and Guildenstern; Reynaldo; Their Majesties’ secretaries and other high-placed court officials; a few army officers — most of them seemed uninterested, some were probably drunk, and a couple were undoubtedly deaf.
In a corner at the back of the room, in darkness, stood those of the domestic staff who wished to attend: footmen, maids, kitchen hands, even a couple of young gardeners. Garath, their overseer, had let them go, but it was against his better judgment. To him, those who worked outside should stay outside, and those who worked inside could stay inside and get on with their games.
Ophelia sat in the front row. Behind her, leering over her shoulder, was Osric, the lean young farmer, his tall frame pinched into a tight wooden chair. He was laughing immoderately at some quip of Claudius’s. “That’s rich, Your Majesty,” he called out. “Oh, that’s very rich.”
“Too much cider,” Hamlet thought. He gathered himself up. “Ladies and gentlemen, the play is about to begin. The name — well, I am calling it The Mousetrap. But don’t take that too literally. It is the story of a murder done in Vienna. Gonzago is the name of the duke, and his wife is Baptista. It’s a nasty story, but what if it is? It won’t affect us. Let the pained horse cringe when the saddle goes on him again: we are still unridden. We are all innocents here. Now be silent, please, so that these good fellows who have come so far can entertain us.”
He led the audience in a meager round of clapping, which petered out as soon as Hamlet stopped.
“Come and sit by me, Hamlet,” Gertrude called.
“No, mother, here’s a more attractive bush where a man can pitch his tent.” One of the servant girls giggled immoderately from the dark rear of the room and got a quick smack from a housekeeper. Hamlet strode to where Ophelia sat. He ignored the empty seat on her left and instead crouched beside her. “May I put myself between your legs?” he whispered.
The beautiful girl blushed. “No, my lord.”
“I meant, sit on the floor here, in front of you.”
“No, my lord.”
Polonius leaned across and muttered to the king, “He’s in love with her, all right.”
But neither of the young people heard him. Hamlet was too engrossed in flirting with Ophelia. “When I talked about pitching a tent,” he asked her teasingly, “did you think I meant in the country?”
She either did not understand or refused to play the game. “I thought nothing, my lord.”
Hamlet sighed theatrically. “And going between your legs, what did you think I had in mind?”
“Again, I say nothing, my lord.”
“You are right. And it’s a pretty piece of scenery to have between a maiden’s legs.”
“What is, my lord?”
“Nothing. Though there are some things I would not like to find. Indeed, a nothing can be a something, and the nothing something can be sweet indeed. As can the something nothing. But the something something — ah, I could tell you a story I heard of Rosencrantz in Copenhagen, and how one night he found a something something where he expected to find a something nothing.”
Ophelia could not help giggling, earning a glare from Polonius and a “shhh” from Gertrude. While the two young people were whispering, the play had begun, but so far all was in mime. Now a new actor took the stage and launched into a long speech, which quickly bored both Hamlet and Ophelia. They resumed their surreptitious conversation.
“You are in a good mood tonight, my lord,” murmured Ophelia.
“What should I do but be merry? Look at my mother, and her cheerful face. And it’s only two hours since my father died. Obviously there’s no reason for anyone to be sad about anything.”
“Oh no! It has been a long time since the king died, my lord.”
“A long time? A long time, you say? Well, then, let the devil wear the black, for I’ll get out my party clothes. A long time! And not forgotten yet! There must be hope that the memory of a great man may outlive him by a few years, then. If he’s so greedy that he wants more, then he’d better build a pyramid and put his name on it.”
“Ssssssshhhhhhhh,” hissed the queen.
Hamlet lapsed into silence again, leaning against Ophelia.
He always comes back to the same obsessions, she thought. Why can’t he let it go? Why can’t he just enjoy life?
By the time Ophelia could work out the story of the play, it was well advanced, although she soon decided it was too wordy. Ophelia’s intelligence was that of instinct and emotion; Hamlet’s was of books and science. The actor playing a king who has been married to his queen a long time tells her that he feels his life will soon be over. He starts to speak of the husband who will replace him when he is gone. At this point the queen becomes violently emotional and swears that she won’t be marrying anybody else. She strides around the stage, waving her arms, and declaiming so quickly that it is hard to understand the words.
Ophelia yawned. Whatever the boy playing the queen was using for bosoms was not working very well; they were slipping down his front. Ophelia looked at Hamlet. The light from the fireplace reflecting from his white hair made it shine like the halos of the holy family in the paintings. Was that sacrilege, she wondered, to compare Hamlet to Christ? Would it be too flirtatious of her to stroke his hair? She knew what her father would say. Polonius would already be furious at the way they were sitting. She could expect a stinging lecture tonight, and banishment to her room for a few days probably, as well. Why couldn’t he understand how she felt? Why did he have to be so horrible and strict . . . Not like other girls’ fathers.
Ophelia decided she had better not run her hand through Hamlet’s hair. Not yet, anyway. A glance from the tiniest corner of her eye gave her the sense that Polonius was watching. She dared not look at him directly. Instead, she turned her attention back to the stage.
There the queen was still proclaiming her love for her husband. “I would kill my husband a second time,” she vowed, “were I to marry someone else after you have gone. Earth shall not feed me, nor heaven give me light, games shall not amuse me, nor sleep give me rest, if I bestow my attention on anyone but you. I would rather live as a hermit in a cave than be with another man.”
Ophelia whispered to Hamlet, “She takes a long time to say she loves him.”
“A woman’s love lasts no longer than her words,” he whispered.
She sat back, angry. Is that all he thought of women, then? Would he treat her love as mere trash? Did he not understand the power of the lifelong gift she had for him?
The young boy playing the role of the queen finally came to a halt. He stood in the center of the stage and announced, with an impressively deep voice, “Let my life be nothing but strife, if once a widow, I become a wife!”
His bosom had settled at a point just above his navel.
Hamlet, whom Ophelia decided may have had too much beer, called out to the queen, “What do you think, Mother?”
“What do I think? I think the more people talk about love, the less they feel it.”
But suddenly Claudius was interrupting both them and the play. “Is this thing some sort of insult to Her Majesty and me?” he demanded.
Ophelia stiffened, wishing then that she had paid more attention to the discussion onstage.
Gamely the actors struggled on, as Hamlet replied to his uncle, “No, no, it’s all a joke. Relax, sir. There’s no offense in the world.”
Onstage the king was “asleep” on a grassy bank, a rather unreliable-looking prop co
vered with a green blanket and a scattering of flowers. Prowling around him was a new character. No sooner did Ophelia wonder who he was than Hamlet whispered, “That’s Lucianus, nephew to the king.”
Ophelia whispered back, “You make a good commentator, my lord.”
The nephew came to the front of the stage. Ophelia felt the excitement quivering through Hamlet. She wondered at the cause. Could it be her? What strange creatures men were. What powerful passions they seemed to feel. She felt intense passions too, but men seemed hot and cold, whereas she was always hot. It never occurred to her that Hamlet was trembling with the tension of a first-time author who is about to hear his lines uttered in front of an audience.
Glaring first at the audience and then at the recumbent king, the nephew made his evil intentions clear.
“There he sleeps, in mortal bliss,
but I am like a serpent’s hiss.
I carry here venom profound,
gathered from this very ground.
Infected by my evil vice,
every bite will poison twice.
Pour it into this one here,
through the medium of his ear!
End at last his virtuous life,
so I can carry off . . .”
Before the actor was able to carry out his attack on the sleeping king, Hamlet leaped to his feet in wild excitement. “He poisons him in the garden to get the estate! He poisoned him, I tell you. He poured it in his ear! He murdered him in the garden, murdered him, and stole his wife. Stole everything he owned.”
