Hamlet Page 6

  Is he drunk or mad? Ophelia wondered, frightened. She did not understand what was happening, but she felt the ferocity of the moment. Leaning forward, she saw the king stirring to his feet. She whispered to Hamlet, “My lord, I think the king is offended.”

  “Stop the play!” Claudius shouted, trembling with rage and fear.

  “What?” Hamlet exulted. “Frightened by false fire? It’s only a play, after all.”

  Behind Ophelia, Osric struggled to get out of his seat. “Shame, shame,” he brayed.

  Gertrude was standing. “Are you all right, my lord?” she begged her husband.

  “Stop the play,” Polonius called.

  All was confusion. The actors had already melted back behind the curtains, where their manager was cursing Hamlet. “He’s dropped us right in it,” he muttered. “Hurry back and pack your bags, lads. Pack everything. We might have to do a fast exit.”

  “Give me some light,” roared the king. “Fetch a light.”

  “Lights, lights,” Polonius called to no one in particular. A candle was brought from the rear of the hall, and more candles were lit from it. The king was stumbling about like a wounded bear. He walked right over Osric, who had fallen forward, narrowly missing Ophelia, and was lying facedown on the floor. “Shame, shame!” he called again, feeling the king’s heavy boot in his back. Then he vomited.

  Claudius could now see a clear path to the door. The servants, trying to flee, had to stand back; they bowed low as he passed, hoping he would not see their faces. The two young gardeners were scared out of their wits. They both had the same thought: Old Garath was right. Should have listened to old Garath. He knows a thing or two, that one.

  Claudius was out the door. Hamlet, listening, heard the clatter of his heavy boots on the staircase. The king was followed closely by Gertrude, then Polonius, who forgot his daughter in his haste to catch up with the king. Ophelia hovered for a minute, her eyes fixed on Hamlet, before she too fled. The others took their cue and made hurried departures. Though no one understood what had happened, there was a strong feeling that it would be best to lie low and stay away. So off they scurried. In a remarkably short time, Hamlet and Horatio were left alone.

  There was complete silence behind the curtain. “Well, well,” Hamlet gloated. “Do you think I could get a job writing for actors, if all else goes sour for me?”

  “Half a job, perhaps,” said Horatio.

  “Oh, a full one, I think. I wrote that whole speech about the serpent. And it got a better reaction than the rest of the play put together.”

  “It didn’t make sense,” Horatio objected. “How is a serpent supposed to gather venom from the ground?”

  “Don’t be so literal. It’s poetry. It isn’t supposed to make sense. But oh, Horatio, did you see the king’s face?”

  “I did indeed.”

  “The ghost knew what he was talking about, all right. Did you see Claudius’s reaction to the talk of poisoning?”

  “I did, though I wish I could say I did not.”

  “Now my path becomes clearer. But hello, who’s this? Why, a couple of good fellows. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, if I’m not mistaken. A pair of fiddlers, are you not? Let’s have some music from you.”

  The two courtiers, both of whom had become rather stout in recent times, looked hot and flustered. Hamlet’s greeting threw them into an even worse state. “Your Royal Highness, we are not fiddlers,” Rosencrantz began.

  “No, indeed,” Guildenstern agreed. “The king, sir, the king . . .”

  “Yes, what of the king? Let us hear news of the king.”

  Hamlet was still in a wild state. Horatio, who had once seen an overexcited colt run into a fence and kill himself, wanted to calm him before he did something truly dangerous. Committed an act that could not be recalled. No act can be recalled, but Hamlet looked ready to precipitate a landslide, without a thought as to who might be buried in its path.

  “Good sir, let me have a word with you,” Rosencrantz tried again.

  “Not only a word, my dear fellow, you can have an entire book. And you may pick the topic.”

  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern glanced at each other. Their lips flickered in a silent signal: He’s hopeless — what can be done with him?

  Hamlet did not notice, but loyal Horatio did.

  “The king is in the throne room,” Rosencrantz said, “and is much distempered.”

  “With drink?” asked Hamlet.

  “Sir!” Guildenstern took a step backward.

  “No, no, his blood pressure . . . he is in a fit,” Rosencrantz said.

  “That sounds serious. Roll him on his side and make sure he does not swallow his tongue. I would do it myself, but he might misunderstand my intentions.”

  Guildenstern tried a different tack. “And the queen, sir, your mother . . .”

  “Yes, she is. Thank you for letting me know.”

  “Your Royal Highness, please, could you allow us to deliver our message? It is very difficult when Your Highness speaks in this manner.”

  “I will tame myself. Commence.”

  Both men took deep breaths and looked at each other again. It seemed to be decided that Rosencrantz would begin.

  “The queen, in great affliction of spirit, has sent us to you . . .”

  “And you are welcome.”

  But now Guildenstern had had enough. Normally the quieter of the two, he felt he had lost enough dignity in front of Horatio, and so stood upon the little he had left. “Your Royal Highness,” he said coldly, “you tell us we are welcome, but your courtesy is not of the right breed. If it pleases you to make us a straightforward answer, we will carry out your mother’s wishes; if not, you must give us permission to withdraw, and that will be the end of our business.”

  To the surprise of everyone, Hamlet answered calmly, in the lilting voice he used to chat to servants about their babies, or diplomats about their hats. “Gentlemen, I cannot.”

  “W-what, sir?” Guildenstern stammered.

  Horatio, for some reason that he did not understand himself, felt a sudden surge of care for Hamlet. He eased a little closer to the prince.

  “I cannot give you a plain answer. My mind is diseased. I am ill. However, I will answer you as best I can, so go ahead — if you have a message from my mother, as you seem to, then deliver it.”

  “Then, sir,” Rosencrantz said nervously. “She says that your behavior amazes and astonishes her.”

  “Oh, wonderful son, who can astonish a mother. But is there a sequel to this? I can hardly believe you have come here to tell me just that.”

  It was Guildenstern’s turn again. “She would like to see you in her apartment before you go to bed.”

  “She is not likely to see me in her apartment after I go to bed. That would be a strange state of affairs.” Hamlet had danced away again, back to the edge of the precipice. “But palace life these days is nothing but strange affairs. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern looked aghast, fearing they were about to hear terrible words that would make them partners in some sort of conspiracy. “I beg you, Your Royal Highness,” they said in perfect harmony.

  “Well, that makes it unanimous,” Hamlet said. “Anyway, I would obey any summons from the queen, even if she were only one-tenth of the mother she is. Have you any further business with me?”

  “Highness,” said Rosencrantz, wheedling now. He reached out a hand as if to take the prince by the shoulder. “You loved me once.”

  “And still do,” said Hamlet, unflinching.

  “Then, please, why do you behave like this? You have been lost to your friends, to those who love you. Where is the sweet prince who was once such a merry companion?”

  You didn’t know him too well, Horatio thought.

  And Hamlet had an almost identical reaction: If that’s all they knew of me, they knew little indeed.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I lack prospects.”

  �
�But you will inherit one day! The king has always spoken of you as the one who will replace him. How can you say you lack prospects?”

  Hamlet shrugged. “Amid the growing grass, the horse can still starve.” He picked up a flute and handed it to Guildenstern. “Play this for me,” he said.

  “Highness,” said Guildenstern, putting his hands behind his back, “I cannot.”

  “Please?”

  “Sir, I can’t!”

  “I beg you.”

  “It is not possible, Your Highness, believe me. I don’t know how!”

  “Go on.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start. I have never learned music.”

  “Oh, you’re making too much fuss. There’s nothing to it. It’s as easy as lying. Use your fingers and thumb to cover these holes — give it breath with your mouth, and it will make the most beautiful music. Look, here are the stops.”

  “But I can make no harmony. I don’t have the skill.”

  “Why, then, look at what you are doing to me. You would play upon me as though I am a flute, you think you know my stops, you would sound me from the lowest notes to the highest . . . yet here is this little flute, which contains much excellent music, and which you cannot make speak. By God, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, try as you might to reach my heart, you cannot play upon me, sir!”

  Both Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were unable to respond. As they looked at each other in consternation, Polonius appeared silently behind them. He seemed to have shrunk in the space of an evening. Hamlet had always thought of him as old, but now he looked ninety. Huddled into his robes with just his dry, wrinkled little head protruding, he called to Hamlet. “Highness, the queen would like to speak to you, as soon as possible.”

  Hamlet stared at him. “Do you see the cloud through the window there?” he asked. “The one that looks like a camel?”

  Polonius made a pretense of looking through the window. Outside was black as a grave. “Indeed, it is like a camel,” he said.

  “Actually, I think it’s like a rabbit.”

  “Yes, now that you mention it, it does have the shape of a rabbit.”

  “Or a whale?” Hamlet asked.

  “Very like a whale.”

  “Then I will come to my mother in the next ten minutes.”

  “I will tell her, Your Royal Highness.”

  Polonius withdrew. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern took advantage of the moment to go with him. Hamlet nodded to Horatio, who gave a slight bow and followed the others.

  Hamlet was left alone, his mind still whirling with the excitement of the evening and the success of his plot. He felt that events were now about to accelerate toward a terrible climax. Gazing out the same window that Polonius had glanced at, he noticed the extreme darkness. The wind was still pulling at the building and rattling the shutters. It’s the witching time of night, he thought. When graves yawn open and hell itself exhales diseases and decay. Now is my opportunity. Now I could commit bitter acts, of a kind that daylight would fear to look upon. Now my sword can become a serpent. Now I could drink hot blood. But first, I will go to my mother.

  He drew a deep breath and straightened up.

  Oh heart, he told himself, do not lose your nature. Let me not be evil, think evil, or act from evil thoughts. I will say what I want to say to my mother, but I will do nothing violent toward her. With her, my tongue and my soul shall contradict each other. I will speak daggers to her but use none. However much I shame her with words, I shall do nothing shameful to her.

  He left the room.

  There had been a day in their childhood when Ophelia saw the timidity of Hamlet. It was in April, the weakest month. He picked up Horatio and Ophelia one morning, when the two boys were nearly twelve and Ophelia nearly eleven, and led them from the southern wing back to his tower, down the final steps and out of the castle. They ran through the western gate, yelling cheek at the young Dutch guard, whom they liked, and on into the village.

  Hamlet went this way often enough. The people here admired him and stopped what they were doing when they saw him coming, left their work, moving forward eagerly. Some clapped; a few girls called his name; half a dozen boys ran down the hill after the young prince and his friends.

  Hamlet, however, paused for nothing and no one until they were in the forest. By then Horatio was nearly fifty meters behind and Ophelia was white in the distance, a goose perhaps, a bird struggling for her life.

  Hamlet stopped and watched her. He seemed fascinated with her today.

  “What are we doing?” Ophelia asked when she caught up to them and had finished panting.

  “I don’t know. Looking for the monster? Searching for dragons? I felt possessed by the running urge.”

  Horatio looked cross. “I thought we were doing something special.”

  Hamlet ignored him and smiled at Ophelia. “We are. Maybe. Who knows?”

  They walked on, calm now, chatting only of the here and now, the faint track to the left, the spider scuttling across their path, the piece of bark patterned like the king’s personal standard.

  “Do you know this road?” Horatio asked the prince.

  “No. But I imagine it leads to Eligah.”

  “I went there when I was little, with my father. But I don’t think we came this way. Anyway, we were in a carriage. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

  “What’s Eligah?” asked Ophelia from behind them.

  “A village. They make cheese, mostly. Haven’t you heard of Eligah cheese?”

  She didn’t answer.

  A thumping from the left hinted at a wild boar, and the three children walked closer together, looking eagerly and anxiously from side to side. Only a few weeks earlier a baby had been taken by a boar, or so it was believed, and the villagers were still trying to hunt the beast down. But the forest was quiet and the road clear.

  Soon it became monotonous, and Horatio, who liked everything to have meaning and purpose, almost suggested turning back. But a glance at Hamlet’s face dissuaded him. The young prince was intent on something. He looked more like a jungle hunter than a boy traveling through the woods in Denmark.

  They walked for nearly two hours and reached the outskirts of Eligah. Now Horatio became more interested. Here was an interruption; here was the quickness that comes only with people. The village was larger than he remembered, with an ancient bridge just ahead of them and a tall church spire in the distance. On both sides of the track were pig and dairy farms, the tiniest farms Horatio had ever seen. He began to wonder if he had ever been here at all.

  To his frustration, however, Hamlet stopped.

  “Time we were heading back,” he announced.

  “But why have we come all this way?” Horatio objected. Already he was sulking, knowing that his wishes would not prevail. It was not just that Hamlet was a prince; it was also that Horatio was not quite strong enough.

  “How would you like it,” Ophelia said shrewdly, “if you couldn’t go anywhere without people making a fuss of you? He’s entitled to some privacy.”

  “But you don’t know if that’s what he’s thinking,” Horatio said.

  “Don’t talk about him as if he’s not here.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what you were just doing.”

  Hamlet watched the squabble with interest, smiling slightly. He had nothing more to say, though, and started walking back along the clear, wide track. Horatio was baffled. Why had they come here? Had there been no reason after all?

  At that moment there was a cry from Hamlet’s left and slightly behind him. Horatio and Ophelia stood frozen, listening and staring. Hamlet seemed to need no time to study the situation. At the first sound he was already running, and in a moment had passed them.

  He has the reflexes of a dog, Horatio thought, grudgingly, admiringly, enviously. Then he followed his prince.

  Hamlet had dashed through a screen of trees as though they were not there and was already out
of sight. When Horatio burst through the same line of young elms, he saw Hamlet stooping over a dark shape on the ground. Horatio first thought this was the baby taken by the boar but then realized that was not possible; the baby had disappeared three weeks ago.

  There seemed to be no danger. The boy ran to Hamlet’s side and stood with him looking down at the creature. It was not a baby but a badger, wounded in some wild attack, by a wolf perhaps. Its snout had been half torn off its face. It was an old badger, with a graying muzzle, as much as could be seen of it through the blood. Its teeth, exposed in its distress, were worn and stained.

  With the arrival of Horatio, and then Ophelia, the badger stirred and tried to drag itself away, on three wobbly legs, the fourth trailing behind, so impotent that for a moment Horatio thought it was a stick the badger had caught in its fur. The creature struggled about ten meters and collapsed again. It lay there waiting in fear for the end. Until then death had meant nothing more than the avoidance of pain; now the creature understood oblivion.

  “Better finish him off,” Horatio said to Hamlet.

  The prince drew his sword, a short weapon, as befitted boys of their age, but sharp enough. The three of them had followed the badger and now they stood over it once more, watching its heaving flanks and tiny eyes, listening to its grunting breath.

  “Do it,” Ophelia said urgently. “I can’t stand it. Poor thing.”

  Hamlet held the handle of his sword. He had not yet fully withdrawn it from its scabbard. Horatio realized that he was hesitating, that perhaps he was not yet ready to use it. Some boys were like that, but he’d never imagined Hamlet might be one of them. He didn’t know what to say but thought he should say something. Wisely, though, he held his tongue.

  “Go on,” Ophelia said again. “It’s all right. It’s the only thing to do. Look at its face. It can’t survive.”

  “I . . .” Hamlet said. “I don’t think it’s big enough.”

  “Of course it is,” Ophelia said. She had not yet understood the problem. Hamlet could not do it in front of anyone, only on his own. “Please, Hamlet. The pain it is . . . you must put it out of its misery. Nothing in such pain should live.”