Ophelia (16 page)

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 of 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 would 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."

How reckless and foolish Hamlet was to make this threat, if he knew that Claudius listened! I saw that revenge was still at the front of his mind, overthrowing all thoughts of love. On my knees, I fiercely cried out, "No!" My cry echoed from the four walls before melting into silence. Hamlet slowly shook his head from side to side, and a look of great anguish twisted his features. I saw tears come into his eyes, then spill down the side of his nose, but he made no move to wipe them away. He stepped backward, yet reached out his hand toward me. It seemed that he debated whether to hold me or to thrust me away.

"To a nunnery—go, and quickly, too. Farewell!" He spoke in a low and pleading tone. Then he spun on his heel and dashed away, leaving me alone.

Hysteria rose within me, and I cried out between sobs, "His noble mind is overthrown. Why, oh why did I grant him my love? I am undone!" My lament subsided into bitter tears that left me shaking as if all my limbs would come loose from my body.

Claudius approached with my father, who protested, "I still believe his grief sprang from neglected love."

"Quiet, Polonius!" Claudius thundered. "Love? His thoughts do not tend that way." His face flushed blood red. "No, this is a dangerous melancholy, and it bears close watching," he said as he turned his angry gaze upon me.