by Lisa Klein
Ophelia
a novel
LISA KLEIN
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Two
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Part Three
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Conversation with Lisa Klein
Reading Group Guide Questions for Discussion
A Reading List From Ophelia
About the Author
Awards and Acclaim for Ophelia
Imprint
To my parents,
Jerry and Mary Klein
Prologue
St. Emilion, France
November 1601
My lady:
I pray this letter finds you in a place of safety. I write in brief, for few words are best when they can bring only pain.
The royal court of Denmark is in ruins. The final fruits of evil have spilled their deadly seeds. At last, King Claudius is dead, justly served his own poison. Hamlet slew him with a sword envenomed by the king himself. Queen Gertrude lies cold, poisoned by a cup the king intended for Hamlet. It was the sight of his dying mother that spurred Hamlet’s revenge at last.
But the greatest grief is this: Your brother, Laertes, and Prince Hamlet have slain each other with poisoned swords. I have failed in the task you set me. Now Fortinbras of Norway rules in our conquered land.
Forgive Hamlet, I beg you. With his dying words he charged me to clear his wounded name. Believe me, before the lust for revenge seized his mind, he loved you deeply.
Also forgive, but do not forget,
Your faithful friend and seeker,
Horatio
The letter leaves me stunned, dazed with fresh pain so that I cannot even rise from my bed.
I dream of Elsinore Castle, a vast stone labyrinth. At its center, the great banquet hall, warmed by leaping fires, where courtiers passed like lifeblood through a heart, where King Hamlet and Queen Gertrude reigned, the mind and soul that held the whole body together. Now all fire and all flesh are but cold ashes.
I dream of my beloved, the witty, dark-haired Prince Hamlet, before he was taken from me by madness and death.
In my mind’s eye the green orchards of Elsinore appear, ripe with sweet pears and apples that bent the branches and offered themselves to our hands. The garden where we first kissed, fragrant then with sharp rosemary and soothing lavender, now lies blasted and all withered.
Through my dream gurgles the fateful brook where I swam as a child and where the willow boughs skimmed the water’s surface. There I met my watery end and began life anew.
I see myself and Hamlet on the mist-shrouded battlements, where an unseen ghost witnessed our embracing, then turned Hamlet’s mind from love to vengeance. I see the fearsome face of Claudius, Hamlet’s uncle, who murdered his father and married his mother, my dear queen Gertrude, whom he poisoned.
Alas, my Hamlet is dead! And with him all of Elsinore ruined, like Eden after man’s fall.
I, Ophelia, played a part in this tragedy. I served the queen. I sought to steer the prince’s course. I discovered dangerous secrets and fell afoul of the tyrant Claudius. But how did it come to this end, the death of all my world? Guilt consumes me, that I should live while all are lost. That I could not divert the fated course.
I cannot rest while this history remains untold. There is no peace for me while this pain presses upon my soul. Though I have lived only sixteen years, I have known a lifetime of sorrow. Like the pale moon, I wane, weary of seeing the world’s grief, and I wax again, burdened with life. But like the sun, I will dispel the darkness about me and cast a light upon the truth. So I take up my pen and write.
Here is my story.
Part One
Elsinore, Denmark
1585-1601
Chapter 1
I have always been a motherless girl. The lady Frowendel died giving birth to me, depriving also my brother, Laertes, and my father, Polonius, of her care. I had not so much as a scrap of lace or a remembered scent of her. Nothing. Yet by the miniature framed portrait my father carried, I saw that I was the living image of my mother.
I was often sad, thinking I had caused her to die and therefore my father could not love me. I tried not to vex or trouble him further, but he never gave me the attention I desired. Nor did he dote on Laertes, his only son. He cast his gaze everywhere but on our faces, for he was ambitious to be the king’s most valued and secret informant.
We lived in the village of Elsinore in a fine house, timber-framed with mullioned windows. Laertes and I played in the garden my mother had kept, the beds growing wild after her death. I often hid among tall rosemary bushes, and all day I would carry the pungent scent about me. On hot days we swam in Elsinore’s river where it meandered through a nearby wood, and we captured frogs and salamanders on its grassy banks. When we were hungry we stole apples and plums from the marketplace and darted away like rabbits when the vendors shouted after us. At night we slept in a loft beneath the eaves, where on cold nights the smoke from the kitchen fires rose and hovered beneath the rafters, warming us.
On the first floor of our house was a shop where ladies and gentlemen of the court sent their servants to buy feathers, ribbons, and lace. My father disdained shopkeepers as unworthy and low, but he consorted with them and curried favor with the customers, hoping to overhear court gossip. Then, wearing a doublet and hose in high fashion, he would hasten down the broad way to join the throng of men seeking positions in King Hamlet’s court. Sometimes we would not see him for days and we worried that he had abandoned us, but he always returned. Then he would carry on excitedly about some opportunity certain to befall him, or he would be silent and moody. Laertes and I would peek through the broken panel of his chamber door and see him bent over a small pile of money and papers, shaking his head. We were certain that we would be ruined, and we wondered, lying awake in our loft, what would happen to us. Would we become like the orphan child we often saw in the village streets, begging for bread and eating scraps of meat like a wild animal?
My father’s anxious office-seeking consumed our family’s fortunes, the remains of my mother’s dowry. But he did manage to hire a tutor for Laertes, a bookish, black-capped man.
“A girl should not be idle, for then the devil may do his work in you,” my father said to me. “Therefore study with Laertes and take what benefit you may from it.”
So from the time I could babble and my brother could
reason, we spent hours in daily study. We read the Psalms and other verses from the Bible. I marveled at the Book of John, with its terrible revelations of angels and beasts loosed at the end of time. I loved to read about ancient Rome, and I was quicker than my brother to find the lessons in the fables of Aesop. Soon I could cipher as well as he. I also learned to bargain with Laertes, who disliked all study.
“I will translate these Latin letters for you, if you will first give me your cake,” I would offer, and he would gladly consent. Our father praised Laertes’ schoolwork, but when I showed him my neat rows of numbers, he only patted my head as if I were his dog.
Laertes was my constant companion and my only protector. After our lessons, we joined the children playing barley-break in the dusty streets and on the village green. Being small, I was easily captured and made to stand in the circle that was called hell, until I could catch someone else and be freed or until Laertes took pity on me. Once Laertes saved me from a dog that seized my leg in its teeth and raked my back with its claws. He beat the dog senseless and wiped the blood from me with his shirt while I clung to him in terror. My wounds healed and my father told me to be comforted, for the scars would not be seen until after I had taken a husband. But for years, even the sight of a lapdog in a lady’s arms made me quiver with fear.
Surely I must have had nurses who tended to me, though I remember none of their names or faces. They were careless of me, leaving me to roam freely like a pet goat. I had no one to mend my torn clothes or to lengthen my skirts as I grew. I remember no tender words or scented kisses. My father sometimes made me kneel while he put his hand on my head when he rattled off a blessing, but his was a heavy hand, not the gentle touch I desired. We were a family living without a heart, a mother, to unite us.
My father found employment before we became destitute. He chanced to discover some intelligence relating to Denmark’s enemy, King Fortinbras of Norway. For this he was honored with the position of minister to King Hamlet. From the way my father spoke of his reward, it seemed he would be placed at the right hand of God himself, and we would henceforth live a glorious life.
I was but a child of eight and Laertes was twelve when we moved from the village to Elsinore Castle. For the occasion I received a new set of clothing and a blue cap woven with beads for my unruly hair. Laertes and I skipped alongside the cart that earned our goods. I was full of excited chatter.
“Will the castle look like heaven, such as Saint John saw? Will it have towers sparkling with gold and bright gems?” I asked, but my father only laughed and Laertes called me stupid.
Soon the stark battlements of Elsinore rose against the blue sky. As we drew nearer, the castle appeared more vast than the entire village, and the sun itself was not able to brighten its gray stone walls. Nothing shone or sparkled. The countless dark windows serried close together like ranks of soldiers. As we passed beneath the shadow of the gates into the courtyard, my disappointment deepened into a fearful dread. I shivered. Reaching for my father’s hand, I grasped no more than the edge of his cloak, its folds fluid as water.
Chapter 2
Two small rooms at ground level near the gatehouse served as our new quarters. Compared to our airy house that rose above the village streets, the castle rooms felt close, dark, and damp. The only furnishings were an oak chair, three stools, and a cupboard. To this my father added our few possessions that were fine enough for our mean castle lodgings: some embroidered cushions, goosefeather bedding, and pieces of silver plate. Our windows overlooked the stables, not the busy courtyard with its many diversions. But my father rubbed his hands in delight, for even these lowly quarters proved his good fortune.
“I will rise in the king’s favor and wear a fur-lined cape, and the king will tell me his most private business,” he said with certainty.
At the first banquet we attended at court, I was too excited to eat. Everything was new and amazing. King Hamlet seemed like a giant to me with his vast chest and great beard. His voice was like the crack of thunder. Prince Hamlet, who was then about fourteen, sprang about the hall with much silliness and some grace, his dark hair flying wildly about his head. I was so delighted that I, too, began to dance. Queen Gertrude came up to me and, laughing, chucked me under the chin. I smiled back at her.
Then I saw a clown in bright fantastical garb cavorting about the room. He wore a peaked cap with jingling bells and a suit of motley. It seemed that he and Hamlet were imitating each other’s antics. Overcome with sudden shyness, I retreated to my father’s side.
“That’s my pretty girl,” my father said. “The queen noted you. Go, dance some more.” But I would not move.
I watched the clown, who reminded me of a firework sizzling and sparking. Though I could not hear his jokes, I heard the king roar with laughter and cough until his face grew purple and he began to choke. He half rose from his seat, and a guard pounded the king’s back until ale spewed from his mouth. Then the jester seized his own throat and fell to the ground, his limbs twitching in a pantomime of death. Prince Hamlet joined the charade, tugging upon the jester until he rebounded like a tennis ball and jumped upon the king’s table, where he commenced singing.
“Who is he? Why does he act so strangely?” I asked my father.
“His name is Yorick, and he is the king’s own jester. Like an idiot or a madman, he can mock the king without fear of punishment. His antics are nothing,” he said with an idle wave of his hand.
I watched as Yorick helped Hamlet turn a somersault before the queen, who clapped to see him tumble head over heels.
“The young prince is the apple of his mother’s eye,” murmured my father to himself.
“Why? Does she want to eat him?” I asked innocently.
“No, foolish girl; it means she dotes on the boy!” he replied.
For a moment I was envious of Hamlet. But I, too, felt my eyes drawn to him, and after that night, I watched for the prince everywhere at Elsinore. I knew that with his lively ways, he would make a fine playfellow. Laertes thought so, too. When one of his companions announced Hamlet’s coming, my brother hastened to the courtyard and I followed upon his heels. Indeed, Hamlet drew the youngsters of the court like a magnet draws pieces of iron, and he was kind enough not to disdain our admiration. I watched as he demonstrated tricks and sleights of hand he learned from Yorick, but I never dared to speak to him.
Hamlet had a companion, a fellow with reddish locks and lanky limbs, who accompanied him everywhere. Horatio was as still as Hamlet was active, as silent as Hamlet was talkative. While Hamlet rousted with the younger boys, with Horatio he would converse seriously. Horatio would smile when Hamlet smiled and nod his head when Hamlet nodded. Like a shadow, he always hovered near the prince.
I was ten years old when I first spoke to Prince Hamlet. It was his birthday, and Hamlet, together with the king and queen, was parading through the countryside and village. With my father and Laertes I stood among the crowd inside the courtyard of Elsinore, awaiting Hamlet’s return. I hopped from foot to foot with excitement. In one hand I clutched a bouquet of pansies tied with a white ribbon. Their purple-hooded yellow faces began to droop in the sun, so I shielded them with my other hand. Then the cry went up, “The prince comes!”
“Arrogant young pups!” muttered my father through clenched teeth as two youths pushed in front of us. “Always taking the place of their betters.”
“He cannot see us now!” I cried. “Please, Father, lift me up.” With much grunting and groaning he complied, elbowing the youths away as he lifted me to his shoulder. Now I could see all the way to the gates of Elsinore.
Musicians and attendants led the way as Hamlet passed through the gates on a gray mount with a black braided mane. Courtiers and well-wishers waved and cheered, throwing flowers and offering gifts to the young prince as he passed. Proud of its burden, the horse tossed its head and capered, while Hamlet acknowledged the crowd with grand gestures. The king and queen rode in a more stately manner behind him, alte
rnately frowning and smiling at his antics. I leaned forward eagerly. My father gripped my legs to keep his balance.
“Huzzah, huzzah!” shouted Laertes. The red-haired Horatio was beside him, slapping his thighs to add to the din as Hamlet drew near.
I waved my hand with its bouquet of flowers and cried, “Pansies for the prince!”
“Louder, child,” said my father as he stepped closer to the passing procession. At that moment Hamlet drew up on his horse and reached out to grip Horatio’s hand and salute Laertes. I cried out in French this time, trying to draw his attention to me.
“Pensee pour le prince.”
Perhaps it was my pathetic look and pleading voice that stirred the queen’s mercy, for she called to Hamlet.
“Attend the little one!”
I was indignant at being regarded as “little.” Had the queen looked more closely, she would have seen that I was in fact too big to ride on my father’s shoulders. But I was desperate to be seen.
Obedient to his mother, Hamlet looked about. I thrust out my bouquet. The frail blooms trembled on their thin stalks. He saw me, and when our eyes met I gave him my most engaging smile.
