Ophelia

by Lisa Klein

  Edmund escorted the ambassadors to the door, then returned to the king’s side and stood, unmoving. My father stepped forward and began a speech as stuffed with words as an actor’s coat is stuffed with bombast to make him fat. Finally Gertrude interrupted him and bade him come to his point.

  “My liege and madam, I have found the cause of Hamlet’s lunacy,” he declared. “He is distempered in his brain���mad, that is, out of his mind, and the cause is this. I have a daughter, you know. Ophelia is her name. He, Hamlet, your son, is mad with love for���my daughter!”

  Holding my breath, I observed Gertrude’s response. She sat upright and her eyes grew wide with interest. I longed to read her thoughts. Would she be angry with me? Then she gave a little nod, as if she had known. Claudius, his face like a stone, revealed nothing.

  “Have I ever been wrong in my advice, my lord? Have I ever said ‘This is so’ when it was not?” My father fairly cringed in his effort to convey an attitude of humble service. “Believe me, I have not.”

  Without replying, Claudius waved impatiently for my father to proceed. So with a flourish, he produced his proof, the letter. He read it aloud, pronouncing each phrase of the sonnet with elaborate gestures.

  In my hiding place, I laughed, almost revealing myself. My father had seemingly swallowed the bait Hamlet had fashioned. Was the king deceived as well?

  Claudius leaned forward and questioned my father in a low voice. I considered how canny my father was, despite being a fool. He did not show his delight that Hamlet was in love with me, for then Claudius might suspect his ambitions. Instead, I heard him assure the king that he had kept his virtuous but unworthy daughter away from the most noble prince.

  “It is this denial,” he announced, “that has plunged the prince deep into the melancholy of love. Fasting, brooding, sighing, and disordered dress are its most infallible signs.”

  The king pressed his jeweled forefinger to his fleshy lips, contemplating his next move. My father waited with an expectant air. No doubt he hoped that Claudius would regard me as the cure to Hamlet’s madness. Then he, the wise Polonius, would be advanced for his good counsel.

  I, too, awaited the king’s move, like his pawn on a chessboard. I wished and prayed to hear Claudius say, Let him court her. There is no harm in it. I give my consent.

  What would Hamlet wish? Did he want to love me openly, or did he plan to use our love to cloak his darker purpose?

  And what of Gertrude? She pressed her bosom against Claudius’s arm and murmured in his ear. She smiled at my father, so it seemed she favored us. But Claudius stood up, drawing away from Gertrude’s touch.

  “I will find where truth is hidden,” he said darkly, tapping the letter.

  My father was prepared. “I will produce a stronger proof. Let us set my daughter in Hamlet’s way, and we will secretly observe their meeting.”

  Claudius, liking this plan, nodded in agreement.

  Before their interview was fully ended, I was on my way to find Hamlet. I had to tell him of Claudius’s doubt and warn him of their plan. I searched high and low until my breath grew labored, but I found the castle strangely deserted.

  Near the king’s guardroom I nearly met my father head-on, but I hid myself in the shadows just in time. He scratched his head and muttered strangely as he passed.

  “Still harping on my daughter! He calls me a fishmonger? He knows me not. Truly, he is mad.”

  His meaning was a mystery I had no time to consider.

  A distant fanfare sounded, announcing an arrival at the castle. When I reached the gatehouse windows, I saw below a throng of lords, ladies, and servants cheering and waving. A painted cart piled high with trunks rolled into the courtyard, pulled by a weary nag in bright trappings. A tram of curious villagers followed. A young fellow somersaulted backward from the cart to the sound of drumming, while a fat man wearing a red jerkin and bells on his trousers danced a jig, and another played the tabor.

  The crowd parted to make way for Hamlet, who was accompanied by Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. How quickly they had followed the queen’s instructions, finding Hamlet before I did! I silently cursed them, for I knew they would cling to him like leeches.

  Hamlet greeted the young tumbler with an embrace and welcomed all the men, slapping their backs and shaking their hands.

  A troupe of actors had come to Elsinore.

  Chapter 19

  The arrival of the actors put Hamlet into a merry mood. Indeed, everyone at court was cheered by the prospect of several nights of singing, juggling, and playacting, for who did not wish to forget for a time King Hamlet’s suspicious death and the strange marriage of Claudius and Gertrude? I also welcomed the chance to see the plays of this famed troupe, which had not visited Elsinore in several years.

  Hamlet spent every hour in the players’ company and I longed to join them. I imagined the lively scene, the actors and Hamlet devising a comedy to lighten the mood at Elsinore. Perhaps I would suggest something witty that would please them and be added to their play. Three times during the day I looked for a message from Hamlet, an invitation to join them, but I was disappointed. I spent the night alone and miserable in my room. Hamlet seemed to have forgotten me.

  The next day I decided to linger near the place where the actors gathered and hope to gain Hamlet’s attention. After some searching, I found them rehearsing in the castle foyer, Hamlet directing their actions. My father sat on a stool, observing Hamlet’s behavior while pretending to watch the actors. Seeing my father, I groaned inwardly. It would not suit our game for me to be seen looking for Hamlet. I fell back into the shadows to watch unseen.

  “Suit the word to the action and the action to the word,” Hamlet instructed his men, like a tutor before a class of students. “Do not overstep the bounds of nature.”

  The actors, poised in their places, paid close heed. They knew their fortune depended upon his pleasure.

  “Come, give me a passionate speech,” Hamlet directed, vaulting onto the trestle table that served as a prop. There he crouched and twisted his face into a fierce expression. “Give me the speech of Pyrrhus, who with arms black as his purpose, sought vengeance on old Priam!”

  The first player, the one with the large belly, nodded with vigor and rubbed his hands, ready for action. He cleared his throat and spoke with a deep bass rumble as he stalked forward, his right hand raised and thrusting an imaginary sword.

  “Well spoken,” said my father, clapping. He fell silent as Hamlet glared at him.

  “No, do not saw the air too much with your hand!” Hamlet ordered to the player. He was irritated and jumpy, like a firework throwing off sparks.

  ” ‘Tis my sword, seeking its mark,” the actor protested. Then Hamlet seized the player’s invisible sword, broke it in half, and cast it to the ground. The players laughed nervously.

  “You must temper your passion to suit the scene!” Hamlet said with an intensity that made the veins in his temples stand out. In a strange passion himself, he seemed desperate to control the players, their every movement and word. “Begin again,” he ordered, and this time, the player’s sinister tone made my very skin prickle.

  “Excellent, excellent,” murmured Hamlet.

  “This is too long,” complained my father, wiping his brow with a cloth.

  With a sudden wave of his hand, Hamlet ended the rehearsal. The players began to gather their props, but they were not quick enough for Hamlet. With growing vexation, he swore at them until they ran away like startled sheep, leaving their costumes behind. My father followed the actors, shaking his head.

  Wary of approaching Hamlet, I hid myself beneath a nearby table covered with a long carpet. I was bewildered by the seeming madness that possessed him. Unlike our playful plot to deceive the king and my father, this device that Hamlet rehearsed had a dark and serious purpose I could not fathom.

  Hamlet was now alone, or so he believed himself to be. He picked up Priam’s breastplate and helmet from the heap o
f costumes left by the actors and contemplated them. This was my chance to come forward. I would behave as if I had happened upon him by accident. By his familiar smile, I would be assured of his love. Then I would warn him that Claudius and my father planned to spy upon our next meeting.

  But I hesitated, and the opportunity was lost, for Hamlet threw the helmet to the ground with a curse. The clash of metal on stone echoed in the empty chamber.

  “Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!” he cried, seizing his forehead in his hands. His face was twisted with agony. Was he rehearsing the role he meant to play at that night’s entertainment?

  No, for he spoke to himself, not to an imagined audience. I held my breath and strained to hear his words. The speech of Pyrrhus had moved him greatly, and he lamented that the actor’s passion was greater than his own. But I had never seen Hamlet speak and move with wilder emotion. He plucked at his chin and grabbed his throat. He called himself a coward and a dull rascal. He beat his fist against his palm and railed against a bloody, bawdy villain���Claudius, no doubt.

  I was sweating and my own breath came in quick pants. With shame I realized that I was spying on my husband like some low, suspicious wife. But how else could I hope to understand this man who was so near to me and yet such a stranger? Moreover, I had trapped myself beneath the table and could neither approach Hamlet nor retreat without being seen. Nothing remained but to observe, in secret, his private and deep distress.

  Hamlet’s mood shifted, like a violent storm whose fury is spent. Now he appeared calm and deliberate, as if making a plan. I caught only the words the play’s the thing, before he dashed from the room.

  I crawled from under the table, bringing the carpet and the table down upon my head in my haste. By the time I freed myself and righted the table, Hamlet had disappeared and not even his footsteps echoed in the empty foyer.

  Chapter 20

  The following day the king performed his plot to test the cause of Hamlet’s madness. I was an unwilling player but could not choose to quit the scene. Claudius led me to the stage, the broad foyer where Hamlet often passed and the very place where I had watched him instruct the players. My father directed me to return Hamlet’s gifts and speak nothing that would encourage his attentions. Gertrude tended to my costume, smoothing my hair and tucking a sprig of fresh rosemary in my bodice.

  “I do hope it is your many beauties that are the cause of Hamlet’s wildness,” she said, appraising my dress and figure with an approving smile. Her voice was low so that Claudius could not overhear.

  “Thank you, my lady,” was the only reply I could manage.

  “I pray your virtues will restore him, that honor may come upon you both,” she whispered. She pressed into my hand a Book of Hours with a tooled leather cover and gilded pages. “Keep this,” she said before Claudius sent her away.

  That honor may come upon you both. Did these words mean that she would approve our marriage? It occurred to me, with the force of a revelation, that since Hamlet was now my husband, Gertrude was already my mother. And, alas, I could acknowledge neither! When I raised my eyes from the book, the queen had disappeared.

  Claudius and my father stood with their heads together, conversing in whispers.

  Then my father turned to me and said with an impatient gesture, “Walk there, and read.”

  My reluctant steps took me to the center of the wide foyer, where I waited, a hook baited to catch Hamlet unawares. At the sound of footsteps approaching on the stones, hope and dread battled within me. I saw Claudius and Polonius steal like silent ghosts behind an arras. Hamlet appeared at the far end of the foyer, conversing with himself in his new and strange fashion. I could not make out what he said. I bowed to my prayer book and read the words without comprehending them.

  My thoughts were in turmoil. How would Hamlet treat me, coming upon this unexpected scene? Would he feign the role of a suffering lover, on the chance that we would be seen? Or would he be naturally affectionate, believing me alone? I saw him pause in his reflections, and as he approached me I tried to warn him with my eyes that we were being watched.

  “The fair Ophelia,” Hamlet said by way of greeting. “In your prayers, remember my sins.” His black hair was wild and his eyes were darkly circled. I wanted to reach out and smooth his hair, but I restrained my hand and only returned his greeting.

  “Good my lord, how does your honor?”

  “Well, I thank you. Rosencrantz bade me come this way. I guessed I would find you here, though I was surprised at your choice of a messenger,” he said.

  “I did not send for you, my lord,” I said evenly. Then I added, in a whisper, “It was Claudius.” But I must have spoken too softly, for Hamlet did not seem to hear me. He turned and looked all about as if he sought something that were lost or hidden, then rested his gaze on me with an inquiring look.

  With trembling fingers I lifted a bundle of letters from around my neck and held it out by its satin string. I felt the force of Claudius’s secret gaze compelling me to speak the words I abhorred.

  “Since you are here, I desire to return these remembrances to you.”

  He looked at me strangely. “I gave you nothing,” he said lightly.

  “You gave me yourself. Was that nothing?” I murmured, praying that Claudius and my father would not overhear.

  “I did not. It was not,” said Hamlet loudly and with an offended tone.

  His words confused me and his eyes were veiled. Did he deny our marriage, or was he playing our game? What should I say now? The silence grew heavy. The stone walls seemed to press in on us. The arras that hid my father and Claudius barely stared. Then, in the distance, a dove uttered a mournful note that resounded like the call of my own heart.

  “My lord,” I began, “you know you gave me these gifts, and with them sweet and gentle words.” How his denial pained me! “But take them back, for rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.” I thrust the letters upon him, that were such a treasure to me. He took them and threw them to the ground.

  “Are you honest?” He shot the words at me like barbed arrows.

  I flinched, wounded by the question. The last time we met, he called me his true and honest wife. How could he doubt my faithfulness? I gazed at him, bidding all my love to show forth in my eyes.

  “Do I not seem honest to you?”

  “Seem?” finally he looked at me. Cold suspicion narrowed his eyes. “Indeed, you seem honest, but do you act so?”

  “No, my lord���I mean yes,” I said. “My actions are true.” I felt confused and trapped by his tricky words.

  “Ha!” he cried as if he had proved something to himself.

  Why did Hamlet torment me without cause? I would bear it no more but vex him in return.

  “I am not like your weak mother, who was false to your father, as you yourself have charged,” I hissed in a low voice.

  Hamlet’s frown deepened and his dark eyes searched my face. “Are you fair?” he demanded.

  What did he mean? He knew I did not paint my face, as other ladies did. I lifted my hands to my cheeks, inviting him to look upon what he had so often praised.

  “I once loved you,” he admitted, reaching toward me with his hand. Then he withdrew it and denied himself. “I loved you not.”

  The words fell, one by one, as lightly as leaves from a dead tree, and I was left, like winter’s branches, bare and defenseless.

  “Then I was deceived!” I cried, the words catching painfully in my throat. I began to doubt that this was my husband. Was the scene of our wedding in the woods a false dream? Was I mad?

  “Get yourself to a nunnery. Go!” His face twisted in disdain as he retreated from me.

  Stunned, I made no move to leave. It was Hamlet who was mad. The words he shouted at me made no sense. Why should he send me to a convent? This was surely some cruel joke of his.

  Then Hamlet’s tone shifted, and he spoke as if he summed up all the sorrows of life.

  “Why wo
uld you be a breeder of sinners?” he wailed, rolling his words into a great wave of anguish.

  “What sin have I bred?” I begged for an answer, riding my own wave of grief at his cruel rejection. “What have I borne besides this unjust abuse?”

  My question was lost in Hamlet’s fresh torrent. He raged against his birth. He said he loathed mankind, for men were all knaves and women deceivers.

  Then, interrupting himself, he asked, “Where is your father?” He peered at me in suspicion.

  “Somewhere. About. I don’t know,” I stuttered. It no longer mattered that he and Claudius were watching us. Yet perhaps Hamlet knew, and he was performing for their benefit. In this scene that I unwillingly played, I understood nothing of my role.

  “To a nunnery!” he cried again, his voice echoing from the stone walls of the vast foyer. “Go! Or if you will marry, marry a fool, for wise men know what monsters you will make of them!”

  “You have made yourself a monster!” My voice broke with tears I could not control. “Indeed, I hardly know you.”

  Hamlet did not reply. Instead he uttered a decree that came like a thunderclap out of the storm of his language.

  “I say, we will have no more marriage!”

  I sank to the floor, weak with disbelief.

  “Would you disown me, your honest and true Ophelia?” I whispered.

  “Those that are married already”���Hamlet paused, and I gazed up at him with a remnant of hope. He did not look at me, but with a loud voice, he cast his words wide about���“all but one shall live.”