Authors: Lisa Klein
Ophelia (2 page)
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.
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, alternately 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.
"Thoughts for the prince. Pansies for you, my lord. Think of me," I said, my small voice striving to rise above the noise. I had chosen the words myself, wanting to show off my French, hoping to please my father by bringing attention to us. And I wanted to touch the hand of a prince.
But I was disappointed. Hamlet reached out and took the flowers, not touching my fingers nor marking my words. As he went on, I saw the pansies spill from his gloved hand and fall to the ground, where they were trodden by the feet of many horses and men. I must have sobbed aloud.
"Do not waste your tears, little girl," said Horatio. "We boys are ever careless of flowers."
"Yes, give us swords or sticks instead," laughed Laertes, pretending to spar with Horatio. Still I pouted.
"Look," Horatio said kindly, taking my hand. "Yours are not the only gifts Prince Hamlet neglects. He cannot carry so much at once."
Indeed I saw the ground strewn with dusty ribbons and crushed flowers wilting in his heedless wake.
I had been disappointed in my attempt to gain Hamlet's attention on his birthday. But soon thereafter, when I least wished for it, his notice fell upon me, causing me great embarrassment.
It was a busy market day in the village. Laertes and I were bickering. His companion, a dull-witted older boy by the name of Edmund, had thumbed his nose at me, putting me more out of temper. Suddenly a cart laden with bleating lambs rolled past, and one of the smallest creatures wiggled through the wooden bars of its cage and tumbled to the street. Finding itself suddenly free, the lamb trotted off. Laertes saw the chance for some sport and gave chase. A fast runner, he easily caught the lamb and pounced on it. Then Edmund ran up and began to poke it with a stick. The lamb's weak bleating roused my pity.