Ophelia (19 page)

"Hamlet's intent was only to protect me. My dear son. Pity his madness! Poor Ophelia, forgive him and forgive me!"

With a loud wail, Gertrude fell to the floor before me. It was a dreadful scene, like something acted in a tragedy. Denmark's queen lay begging at my feet. Hamlet, my husband, had slam Polonius, my father. What mistaken revenge was this? Was all of nature's order turned topsy-turvy? I shrank into Elnora's arms, shaking from the awful news, unable even to speak. Weakened by the expense of her passion, Gertrude allowed Cristiana to lead her away.

I never saw my father's body. Claudius arranged a quick and secret burial, and I was not told of it. Nor was Laertes present, for he was abroad. I wept and raged against the king when I found my father was in the cold ground. Elnora tried to calm me by saying that Hamlet, not the king, was to blame, but I cried all the more. So she prepared draughts of barley water, lettuce juice, and poppy seeds and poured them in me, promising they would bring sleep and forgetfulness. But nothing could make me forget the terrible truth that my father was dead at the hands of my husband. My dreams were frightful, full of ghostly figures that resembled my father. Sometimes the person of Death visited me, and I beat it with my fists and begged for it to depart, waking myself. I found Elnora's arms around me, and though I must have bruised her with my thrashing, she did not complain.

Though I had felt little love for my father, sadness like the constant tide swept over me, leaving me limp. Guilt mingled with my despair as I thought of how I had fled into the dark while he faced Claudius's guard, protecting me. I wondered if I had misjudged his love. Then I would become angry that he had placed himself in danger. Why had he been in the queen's chamber, spying on her and Hamlet? Were his ambitions without any bounds? In death, as in life, my father remained a mystery to me.

I also despaired because Hamlet had not come to me. Fear and shame, I was sure, kept him away. I felt like one who dwelt alone in the farthest Antipodes of the earth, where the sun's heat and light could not dispel the cold and darkness.

One day I heard Cristiana and Elnora whispering outside my room and I crept to the door to listen.

"It is said that Hamlet cried out I
see a rat!
before running Polonius through with his sword," Elnora said. "The rats at Elsinore are not so big! The prince is surely mad."

"And then to hide the body while it was yet warm and bloody? He would not tell Rosencrantz and Guildenstern where it was, saying only that it was being eaten by worms," said Cristiana with a shudder in her voice. Was this gossip true? I did not want to believe that Hamlet could be so cold and remorseless in his actions. I returned to my bed, buried my head beneath my covers, and wept.

Finally I asked Elnora, "Do you think that Prince Hamlet regrets his rash deed? He should express some sorrow for my loss, at least."

"For what he has done, he ought to seek your pardon on his knees," she said with vehemence, then added, "I must not say such a thing, for he is still the son of my queen." She sat down beside me and took my hand. "The prince did try to see you the day after your father's death. But for your safety I would not let him pass," she said. "When he persisted, I said the door was locked and the king alone held the key. Yes, that was a lie, but surely a pardonable one."

"Why did you prevent him? For I would have heard from his own lips why he killed my father!"

"Hear me out, Ophelia. When I told him to leave, the prince acted so desperate and mad, I said that I would call the guard or lay hands on him myself if he tried to touch you."

I sighed and buried my head in my hands. I could not blame Elnora for trying to protect me. Who could guess what Hamlet's intentions were? To beg my mercy, or to harm me? To declare his love, or to vent his hate? What did it matter now?

"Then he sent his man Horatio, who had a message for your hand alone. Suspecting his purpose, I gave him the same treatment."

"But Horatio is as harmless as a lamb, and a most honorable man," I wailed, full of regret. He would have brought truthful news of Hamlet, but now I would never hear it.

"So it is Hamlet's friend you favor! Perhaps he will try again to see you," Elnora said with a hopeful smile. But Horatio did not come again.

Nor did Gertrude visit me. Like her son, she remained silent and cold. With recent griefs of her own, she did not wish to share mine, I thought bitterly. Still, her abandonment added to my hurt. I even longed for my brother, despite his rudeness to me when we last parted.

Cristiana sometimes relieved Elnora, bringing me food for which I had no taste. A bowl of sweet figs, which I usually relished, gave off a sickly smell that turned my stomach, and I pushed them away. Indeed I had never felt so strangely before.

"They are not poisoned, if that is what you fear," said Cristiana, eating the figs herself.

I did not mind Cristiana's presence, for at least she held her tongue, perhaps out of respect for my loss. And I guarded my own, not wanting to give her matter for gossip. But one day she appeared in tears and needed no invitation to tell her woes.

"Gertrude is moody, for she and Claudius argue about the prince. So to cheer herself, she has taken on a new favorite, the niece of an ambassador. Now she will not let me wait on her."

Cristiana's worries seemed petty to me, but I had not the will to be sharp with her.

"To kings and queens we are like lutes," I said. "They play us for our flattering songs, and when we are out of tune or they are fretted, they cast us aside."

Cristiana fowned at me as if considering whether I had lost my reason.

"It is a manner of speaking, something a poet might write," I said wearily, waving my hand. The next day she came with the news that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had left Elsinore.

"They are gone, their destination a mystery," she said in her usual manner of investing idle news with importance. "It is some secret errand for the king, which if they perform well"—she paused, waiting for me to look up. Her eyes were bright with pleasure—"Rosencrantz will be allowed to marry me!" She noted my surprise. "It is true. The king has promised, and the queen also gives her consent."

I had been about to say that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were mere puppets, not men, but I thought better of it. I would let Cristiana have her happiness.

Then Elnora came to report that Hamlet had sailed to England.

"Wherefore?" I cried aloud, stunned by the thought that he had deserted me.

"It was the king's order. Most likely, for Hamlet's own safety." She looked at me carefully. "Lest Polomus's death be charged to him as murder."

"Murder! Who dares to call him a murderer?" I cried in horror. Elnora made shushing noises and reached out as if to soothe me. "Did Horatio go with him?" I asked, pretending calm.

"No; it was the king's pleasure to send Hamlet alone," she said.

Hamlet's sudden departure was strange and unwelcome news. My hope that we would be reconciled grew dim, and I was filled with new regrets. Perhaps Hamlet would have forgotten his hate, even taken me to England with him, had he learned of my new suspicion. Lately my breasts and belly ached, though my bleeding had failed to commence. My stomach was easily sickened. Perhaps this discomfort was due to grief. But might I be carrying Hamlet's child? Alas, now he would never know of it! Full of doubt and confusion, I decided to put this uncertain matter from my mind.

"Be thankful!" Elnora interrupted my thoughts. "Though his poor mother is distraught at his departure, you will have nothing more to fear from that madman." Thinking to reassure me, she frowned to see my tears start up.

I brooded continually over the timing of Hamlet's departure and its meaning. Had we but spoken after my father's death, he would know that I had seen evidence—the poison vial—that could convict Claudius, bringing a just revenge that would leave Hamlet's own hand unbloodied. I doubted that Claudius would send Hamlet away simply to protect him from justice in my father's death. Who besides the king could charge Hamlet with the crime? And Claudius would never dare to bring Gertrude's son to trial. He had a darker purpose in sending him away. Would he now take my husband's life?

Then I thought about my father's death, growing more certain that it involved foul play. I did not doubt that Hamlet's sword mistook its mark for Claudius. I supposed that Claudius had sent my father to spy upon Gertrude and her son in the bedchamber, knowing that the wild Hamlet would expect the king—and not my poor father—to be lurking there. How could loyal Polonius refuse the king's command? I thought of his distress after my scene with Hamlet in the foyer. He knew he had overstepped his ambitions in bringing Hamlet's madness to light, rousing Claudius's suspicions. He feared for himself and for me. Was my father, as he crouched behind the arras, yet another unwilling player in a drama contrived by Claudius? Did he even suspect his fate? Was Hamlet, too, an actor in Claudius's malevolent plot, forced into the role of villain on the stage of his mother's room?

I shook my head, unwilling to believe such machinations could be possible. Were my ideas as wild as Hamlet's ghost-driven revenge fantasies? Why should the king wish to kill my foolish and insignificant father?

The answer, I knew, lay in the discovery of the poison vial. The knowledge of it put my father in danger. Had he found the evil proof on his own, or was he sent by Claudius to destroy the evidence of the foul murder? Ruefully I considered that the truths I sought had died with him, and the only other person who could shed light on these questions, Hamlet, was himself a mystery. I wept to recall how he spurned me and abused my love, and I rebuked myself for trusting him. Bitterness rose in me at the thought of his rash deed, stabbing blindly at a curtain on the mere hope that it concealed the king. I beat my fists into my bed in helpless fury that I could not comprehend Hamlet's behavior.

When this rage was spent, I considered my changed position at court. Fortune, which had favored me, even to the height of marrying a prince, now turned her wheel to grind me down. I did not have a father's protection. Gertrude no longer favored me. Laertes was away, seemingly unaware of our father's death. And my husband had abandoned me to uncertainty and grief. I was alone in the world.

That night I slept in fits, unable to separate dreaming from waking. I imagined my father's voice crying in his death throes. In my mind, a tram of ghostlike figures flitted in the corridors of Elsinore, followed by the figure of Claudius, cruelly bent upon his evil course. I heard footsteps approach and pause outside my door. The iron latch rattled and the hinges creaked. I leaped up with a scream, threw myself against the door, and the heavy footsteps retreated.

When I opened the door the hall was black and seemed empty, but a familiar sour smell of onions and ale hung in the air. It had been no dream. I had been visited by the drunken Edmund. But why? Was his old grudge now grown into a jealous passion that he would satisfy? Or had Claudius dispatched him to do me harm? Surely Edmund had seen me flee the king's chamber on the night my father was killed. He would have told Claudius, who would then know that I was present when my father found the poison vial. Did he think that I now had the vial?

I knew that I was in grave danger. Shivering and sweating at once, I struggled to control the fearful frenzy rising in me. I wished that I were not alone, without a father or husband to help me. I wanted to flee, but knew not where to go. I wished that I were anyone but Ophelia, victim of mischance and evil.

Chapter 25

I have seen a hunted deer run from the open field and take cover in a shadowed bower, panting among the tangled bushes and brambles that she prays will keep her unseen. I knew I must likewise hide myself and deceive the hunter. I searched within my trunk for something to conceal me. I pulled out kirtles, caps, and bodices, the gilded prayer book and a cracked looking glass Gertrude had given me. There was my father's cloak that he had thrown over me on the night he was killed. Within its folds I kept the miniature of my mother and the Janus-faced token Hamlet gave me that night we met in the maze. It was all I had left of my husband, finally my trunk held two books I had rescued from the queen's hand and my book of herbal lore. My possessions were scant indeed.

I held up the cracked glass and considered my distorted image. I almost did not recognize myself. My face was gaunt, with deep and dark shadows beneath my eyes. My hair was dull, unwashed, and tangled. I sniffed my skin and my smock and wrinkled my nose. I smelled like a creature unfit for the company of men.
What has become of me?
I wondered with growing alarm. I dropped the minor and it broke in two pieces. I
am no longer myself. Who am I?
asked the desperate voice within me.

I held up the rustic gown in which I was married to Hamlet, but laid it aside. I would never wear it again! Instead I took my best skirt, the one embroidered at the hem with intricate gold threads. I would have no further need of such proud finery. A plan was beginning to take shape in my mind. With some effort, using my hands and teeth, I tore the rich skirt to rough tatters. I donned this ruined garment and a bodice and took up my willow basket. I would test whether I might slip away from Elsinore under the guise of a poor woman, a mere herb-gatherer. Leaving off my shoes, I emerged from my chamber.