Hamlet: a novel Part 3

Hamlet and Ophelia were the only constants. They never went away. Within the walls of the great gray castle, they had no one but each other. Ophelia lived and breathed Hamlet. She disappeared into Hamlet. She gave herself to him in every way but the one she wanted. If Hamlet smiled and spoke to her, she was happy. If he frowned or appeared not to notice her, she did not want to live. There was nothing to do in the castle, no new people, an angry king and a fretful queen, grumbling mumbling muttering servants, tired old men and boring young ones. Hamlet was the salmon in the river, the balloon on the breeze, the new moon silvering the sky. He was quickness and light, a shadow on a wall, an illusion, a dream, a fancy. He was a glimpse, nothing solid. How could she anchor her boat to a wave? Yet that was what she wanted.

Hamlet's behavior was becoming more and more odd. Even the soldiers whispered about it. He was so beautiful that no one wanted to notice. Illness of that kind was for others, not for the beautiful or the rich or the royal. It seemed impossible. Yet he spoke in a way that often made no sense: if he entered a conversation, his words jumped and skipped and went backward, or a year forward.

It made people uncomfortable and made Ophelia angry and miserable. He needed her; she could help him. If he took the comfort she alone could give, then he would wax, not wane; he would laugh and spring around and be the powerful, potent prince he had once promised to become. He would be the full moon, shining so strongly over the land that all would kneel before him, and she, she would be content as his Venus, the brightest star in the sky, but only a star.

She would give him everything; didn't he understand that? Did she have to spell it out for him? That was the one thing she could not do. He could have it, but she would not be whorish. He must find it himself and then, expecting resistance, he would be moved and delighted and grateful to find her open. Oh, how open she would be! Everything would be his. She would be his. Let him use her as the means to his fulfillment. Did he not understand the gift that lay waiting and panting and bleeding and ready?

She was huge with her readiness and openness and generosity. Did he not understand that she lay naked on her bed every night, made huge by her willingness? How could he, at the top of the tower, in his room made of stone, not feel the waves of her openness radiating through the castle? Wouldn't the servants toss restlessly in their sleep as the waves flowed into them? Would not the animals in their pens grunt and groan with uneasy recognition? How, then, could a prince, the most beautiful boy in the land, the boy strung as sensitively as a violin, not be drawn to her, drawn to her room, by the energy with which she shone for him?

"Do you believe ghosts?" Hamlet asked.

Horatio was back at Elsinore, after his first period of military service. He stood a lot taller but had lost weight; perhaps because of the poor food the soldiers were given, perhaps because he was growing so fast. With him was Laertes, cool and aloof now, patronizing to the younger men, and resentful that he was not still in London.

Hamlet was pleased to see Laertes, delighted to see Horatio. He eyed his friend affectionately, noting the new confidence in his posture, the easy way he wore his clothes. Horatio's mushroom-brown hair was cut short, and he had the stubble of a beard, but his honest dark eyes held the same regard and loyalty for Hamlet as they always had.

The two of them went walking down a long wide strip of gra.s.s, each with a racquet. They had invented a game that all the young officers had picked up and now played with eager devotion. It was simple enough - hitting a hard little ball they'd made by binding a stone with thin cord. The aim was to get it into holes they'd drilled in the ground, five holes in all.

Horatio paused at his friend's question. Staring down at the wet gra.s.s, he shook his head, puzzled. "Do I believe in ghosts? Haven't we already had this conversation?"

"No, not 'Do you believe in ghosts?' I said, 'Do you believe ghosts?'"

"I don't follow you."

"You should, Horatio, you should. But my question is, if a ghost tells you something, can it be believed?"

"I don't know." Horatio had found his ball, and he lined up his next shot. He was getting more interested now. Perhaps Hamlet was about to talk about that extraordinary night on the battlements, the night that remained a dark spot between them. The night that had triggered a new Hamlet, a changed Hamlet.

Horatio hit his ball. It flew for a couple of long moments, then hit a tree and dropped to the ground. He turned back to Hamlet.

"I don't know," he said again, but slowly, now taking the question seriously. "Where are ghosts sent from? If from the devil, then it would be reasonable to disbelieve everything they say. I hope you're not suggesting we should trust Satan's emissaries."

They walked on.

"Yes, but having escaped the devil's clutches for a while," Hamlet said, "they might speak the truth. Perhaps they slip away from the underworld in order to do so. After all, do they not generally encourage virtue in those to whom they appear?"

"The stories seem to have it that way," Horatio admitted. "I've never heard of a ghost telling someone to do wrong. But what is the difference between a ghost and an evil spirit? Haven't we gone past your ball?"

"Have we? I can't remember where it landed."

"Near that alder, no?"

They combed through the gra.s.s with their racquets. Hamlet, however, did not seem to have his mind on the job. "And," he said, "it is also possible that the ghost has come from nowhere, because he has not yet gone anywhere. Suppose he is condemned to walk the earth's mantle for a time? He is under the influence of neither divinity nor Satan."

"Is that what he told you?" Horatio asked boldly, meeting the prince's eye.

Hamlet blushed but did not answer. Instead he pressed Horatio harder. "If it were so, would you believe such a ghost?"

"I might. If I were convinced that the thing meant me no harm."

"Hmmm. So it comes down to that. It always comes down to that."

"To what?"

"Oh, to oneself, always to oneself. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio, or in mine, but somehow we are expected to make it all intelligible, to carve statues from air and make books from bark. It is too much. This is the proper work of G.o.ds, and we are not G.o.ds; indeed, all our human errors come from the vain belief that we are."

"Here's your ball," Horatio said.

Hamlet dreamed of Ophelia. He had hard dreams of her, and soft ones. He dreamed in prepositions: beside, with, on top of, under, in, out. The dreams were unbearable sometimes; they sent him crazy, but he could not stop them, nor did he want to. There were times when he went to the corridor that ran to her room, but it always seemed something thwarted him, or conditions were not right, and on more than one occasion he b.u.mped into her father. It was as though Polonius lurked near her bedroom, ubiquitous, insidious, and obsequious. "Why, Highness, taking the night air? Such a fragrant night, is it not? Would you care to share a sherry?"

On these occasions, Hamlet, struggling not to blush, as anxious to repudiate the sherry as he was to obscure his greed for the beautiful Ophelia, tried to pretend it was mere coincidence that found him in this part of the castle, and he went away furious at his loss of dignity. Behind him he left the old man, triumphant, rampant, smug with the knowledge that once more he had chased away the c.o.c.ky young invader. The fortress remained inviolate. Behind her door Ophelia tossed and turned and moaned, not hearing the stubborn men outside.

But the night came when Hamlet went right to the door of her bedroom, penetrated the outermost chamber and stood with hand upon the k.n.o.b, knowing that if he opened this, the final door . . . what? He realized that he knew nothing of what would happen. Breathing painfully, he tried to imagine Ophelia starting up from her bed, with pale fingers to her throat, frightened but perhaps also . . . what? If she cried for help, if she screamed, if she flung accusations at him, if she complained of him the next day, if she ran from him in fear, if she fainted, if she coldly told him to leave, if she became ill with loathing at the sight of him . . .

Feeling faint himself, he turned the k.n.o.b but somehow could not push against the reluctant door to open it. He gripped tightly, disgusted at his lack of resolve. Polonius was not the problem this time. The old man was nowhere to be seen. The problem had to be in himself. He knew what he wanted, but he could not take it. Then he heard the noise of someone coming down the corridor. Ark. He made a sound like a crow. Letting go of the k.n.o.b, he slunk back and hid behind a harpsichord, like a thief. Laertes entered the chamber, soft but sure. Leaving at dawn to return to London, he had come to say good-bye. He went straight to the bedroom door, opened it, and, with the complete confidence that only a brother can possess toward a sister, went inside.

Hamlet groaned and writhed and wailed and gnashed his teeth. He wanted the insouciance of a brother and the ardor of a lover. He crept away down the long, lonely, empty corridor, climbed back up to his cold tower room, with nothing but his own hands to hug him, nothing but himself to keep him warm.

Everyone in Elsinore welcomed the news that a well-known troupe of actors had arrived at the castle. It was unusual to see them so far from their homes. Normally they performed at a theater at the other end of the country, but now business was poor and they were reduced to shuffling their way around Denmark town by town. This appearance at the residence of the royal family was the last of their tour.

Hamlet had seen them frequently. He knew them well. They were favorites of his. Watching them approach, however, from his position on the parapet, he was at first too distracted by his own confusion to wonder what entertainment they brought. There is more tragedy here than they could show us on a stage, he thought. Here at Elsinore the play becomes real, the drama haunts us every moment of our lives.

Suddenly he changed his mind. He jumped up from his squatting position with an acrobatic leap and went looking for them.

The members of the group were milling around in the main entrance hall, waiting for lodgings to be found, rooms to be made ready. Hamlet counted eleven, all men and boys, the oldest a rosy-cheeked fellow who could have been seventy or more, the youngest a pair of twelve-year-olds. The boys were hired to play the female roles. Any other arrangements, involving the use of unchaperoned girls or women, would have been unseemly.

Hamlet stood in the shadows for a few minutes, watching with affection, before the manager of the little company saw him and came to him with hands outstretched and words pouring from his mouth.

Hamlet smiled and shook both his hands. "You are welcome, masters, welcome all. I am glad to see you. Welcome, good friends." He moved among them, shaking more hands. "My old friend, your face is fringed since I saw you last. Now you have bearded me in my own lair. Ah, young Felix, you will not be playing the role of a lady much longer if you keep growing at this rate. My word, your voice will soon betray you. Claudio, you have not aged a whit. Braybar, what a fine Romeo you were. What entertainment have you brought us, good sirs?"

"We plan to perform The Murder of Gonzago, G.o.d willing, and may it please Your Royal Highness."

"Ah! Most suitable. You've brought it to the right place." Hamlet caught sight of Polonius scurrying through the hall on one of his errands. Polonius always looked as though he were on the way from somewhere important to somewhere even more important. But Hamlet, in a tone he did not often use, arrested the old man just as he was about to vanish down a corner corridor. "Polonius! I need you."

Polonius swerved and trotted straight to the prince without missing a beat. "Highness, I am ever at your service."

"Then kindly find some lodgings for these fine fellows. Be generous to them, for they are the ones who tell the stories of our times. Never mind getting a good epitaph after you're dead if you got a bad report from this lot while you're still alive."

"Highness, I will arrange their accommodation, though it is not part of my normal duties. It really falls within the province of the comptroller of the household. But I will treat them as they deserve, depend upon it."

"As they deserve! You will have to do better than that! Treat every man as he deserves and no one'll escape a whipping. Treat them with as much honor and dignity as you'd treat yourself, Polonius. If you treat a man better than he deserves, why, then, the more admirable your generosity."

Polonius, not quite so unruffled now, bowed and nodded to the actors to follow him. But Hamlet held back the manager, waiting until the others had gathered their bits and pieces and shuffled off after Polonius. An idea had come to him while he was organizing their welcome to Elsinore. "Tell me, my friend," he said, when they were alone together. "You mentioned The Murder of Gonzago."

"I did, Highness, but we can do Romeo and Juliet if that is your wish. It's not a bad bit of work, although a bit far-fetched. Or we have a new comedy, a satiric piece, rather short, but most diverting, judging by the reactions we got in the south, where we -"

"No, no, The Murder of Gonzago is an excellent choice. But tell me, if I wrote a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, you could learn that and insert it in the play, could you not?"

Rather startled, the actor was nevertheless good enough at his craft to show no emotion. "Certainly, if that is what Your Highness wishes."

"Good. Then, for now, follow the others. Mention nothing of this to the old man Polonius. I'll write the speech and deliver it to you by dinnertime. We can have the play tomorrow night."

"Very good, Your Royal Highness."

And off he went, leaving the prince with his thoughts, which tumbled around in his mind, busy as a line of laundry in a windstorm. What can I say for myself? Hamlet wondered. I, who have done nothing? What can I say in my defense? I have seen these actors stand upon a stage and make themselves weep over the dead children of Hecuba. Real tears come out of their eyes! Hecuba, who lived, if she lived at all, two thousand years ago! Hecuba, who was turned into a dog and drowned. What's Hecuba to them or they to Hecuba? Yet the tears run down their faces as they ponder her fate! If they can do that in a play, what would they do if they had real cause for pa.s.sion? What would any of them do?

By G.o.d, if they were in my situation, they would weep. They would drown the stage with tears and burn the audience with the fire of their words. They would make the guilty mad and appall the innocent. The eyes and ears of the spectators would fill to overflowing. And yet, here I am, and what do I do? Why, that's easy. I play games with a racquet and a ball. A king has his kingdom and his life stolen away, and I am silent. My father is murdered, and I sit down to table with his murderer. What does that make me? A coward, nothing else. One who has the liver of a pigeon.

If I were anything else, if I had a heart, and the guts to match it, I would have scattered the insides of this treacherous king across the fields to fatten the crows. That traitor. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d. That b.l.o.o.d.y, bawdy villain, remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, and vile. And all I can do, with my father come from heaven and h.e.l.l or somewhere in between, telling me to take revenge, is to wallow in words. Muttering and cursing and bellowing.

Well, at least I have a plan now. I have heard that guilty creatures faced with a reenactment of their crimes fall on their knees and confess. I'll have these actors play something like the murder of my father in front of my uncle tomorrow night. I'll watch him, I'll study him, and if he so much as blanches or trembles, I'll know the truth, and I'll know my course of action.

After all, I still cannot be certain what I saw that night. Was it my father? Did it tell me the truth? Or was it some fiend sent to lie and confuse and do evil? The devil can take any shape he wants, including that of my father. And while I am so sad about his pa.s.sing, the devil has the perfect chance to take advantage of me.

That is what holds me back. It is a terrible thing to be a coward, but it is not so bad to be prudent. Well, tomorrow shall tell the next chapter of my story.

The play's the thing, wherein I'll test the conscience of the king!

The performance started late. The servants were supposed to take out all the tables from the state dining hall after dinner, but the head butler said it was nothing to do with him; furniture moving wasn't his job; his responsibilities ended with clearing the meal. And apparently no one had told the comptroller of the royal household, who was in charge of entertainment, and the deputy housekeeper, who looked after the reception rooms, was laid up with pleurisy, so in the end Hamlet and a couple of guards and the manager of the troupe did it themselves.

By the time the chairs were arranged and two curtains hung, it was ten o'clock.

Outside, the wind had become bl.u.s.tery, with gusts of real wildness. The Danish flag was nearly ripped from its pole on the western tenement, and tiles were blown from the castle roof. There were some who did not bother to return to the dining hall but stayed in their rooms with a bottle of wine, or a pack of cards, or a few friends for a gossip. Afterward, when they heard, they regretted their inertia.

The actors were brought in from the anteroom, which had been a.s.signed them for dressing. Hamlet had been furious as he moved tables and chairs, but now anxiety was his dominant emotion again. The actors became aware of his tension when he started to coach them in their craft. Much as they liked him and appreciated his patronage, they were not necessarily keen to have him tell them how to do their jobs. But he was a prince and they were commoners; indeed, in many places they were treated as little better than beggars or riffraff. Hamlet was almost alone among the n.o.bility of Denmark in his respect for them.

"Do the speech as I taught it to you," he urged them. "For that matter, do all the speeches with expression. If you just rattle off your lines like you're reciting a list of groceries, as I've seen some actors do, I might as well fetch the cooks from the kitchen to read them. And don't be extravagant. The more pa.s.sionate the scene, the more subtle should be your gestures. The contrast between the whirlwind of pa.s.sion and the moderation of gesture is what gives a scene its smoothness. How I hate to hear some fellow on a stage ranting and raving! Let the words do the work. You need not bellow like a cow giving birth, or stride up and down in a frenzy. I would have an actor like that whipped for trying to out-Thor the G.o.d of thunder himsel-"

"Yes, Your Royal Highness," one of the actors said.

Hamlet hesitated at the man's tone. "I was only joking about the whipping."

"Yes, Highness."

Hamlet shook his head. "Suit the action to the words and the words to the action. Your task is to hold up a mirror to nature. If you give a scene more tragedy than nature has given it, or more sentimentality, or more drama, you have ruined it. I have seen actors, even famous ones, who in imitating men or women do such a poor job that I started to wonder whether they were in fact human, or perhaps some lower form of life created not by nature but by one of nature's incompetent a.s.sistants."

"I hope we do a little better than that, Highness," said the leader of the troupe.

"Do a lot better! A whole lot better! And, by the way, whoever plays the clown, make sure not to laugh at your own jokes! There are always a few fools in the audience who find that amusing, but when such an actor steals the scene, important lines are lost. It shows pitiful ambition on his part. Anyway, enough. Go behind the curtains; make yourselves ready."

They trickled away. As they went out to the right, Horatio came in from the left. Hamlet was warmed to see him. "Horatio, dear Horatio, the most just man I ever met."

"Hamlet, no," Horatio protested.

"Oh, I'm not flattering you. What would be the point? You don't have any wealth, except your good spirits, to feed and clothe you. But I tell you this, Horatio: since I was old enough to judge between the people of my acquaintance, you are the one to whom I've always turned. I respect the way you've handled the good things that come to you as much as the way you've dealt with adversity. Blessed are those who have good judgment! Blessed are those who do not allow fortune to play them like they are a trumpet, letting her decide what notes she will sound! Give me the man who is not a slave to pa.s.sion, and he will be the blood of my heart, as you are mine, Horatio."

Horatio blushed with pleasure. His affection for Hamlet was deep and genuine, but much as they met on terms as equal as could be found between prince and commoner, Horatio had been aware from earliest childhood of the uncrossable social gulf between them. He could not help being flattered to be told that he was the closest to the popular and beautiful prince, the man who would one day be king.

With a hand around Horatio's shoulder, Hamlet walked him to the other end of the room. He spoke more confidentially. "Now, pay close attention. In a few minutes the actors will begin the play. There is a scene set in an orchard, and it portrays the murder of a king. I want you, when it comes to that scene, to study my uncle closely. Watch him with the eyes of your soul. I tell you this, Horatio: the ghost who visited me on that dreadful night brought me a story which may have come from the devil, as we speculated, for he told of a devilish act. I hope to find out some truth tonight. When my uncle sees the actors onstage, he may be looking at a mirror to the past. That is what we have to establish."

"Hamlet, I tremble to hear your words. You seem to be hinting at the unthinkable."

"You must think the unthinkable, old friend, as I have done since that night on the terrace."

So, there it was again, the reference to the event that was still veiled from Horatio. He stood, deeply troubled, and lost in thought. At heart he knew he had no choice but to do as his friend and royal master asked, but he feared the consequences. After a moment he gave Hamlet a little smile.

"Very well, I will do as you say. I will watch the king so closely that if he steals anything during the play and I don't see it, I'll pay for whatever he stole."

"Well said, good friend. Treasonous, but witty. Quick, they are coming. To your place."

Polonius led Claudius and Gertrude into the room, making sure all was ready for them. Ophelia followed close behind. The king was full of beer and cheer, beaming at Hamlet. "How is our nephew and our son?" he asked.

"Why, I forgot to ask them, last time I saw them," Hamlet said. "But I believe they would say that they were well, though perhaps a little empty from eating air stuffed with promises."

The king, determined not to be annoyed, smiled briefly, without humor. "I have nothing to do with that answer, Hamlet," he said. "Those words are not for me; they are not mine."

"No, nor mine either, now," Hamlet said. "They have left my body and my mouth and are gone. It may be that they have no owner at all." He put his head around the side of the makeshift curtain and whispered into the darkness. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Your Royal Highness."

"Very good. Remember all that I told you."

"We will, Your Royal Highness."

Hamlet faced the audience again. At least sixty people from around the castle had gathered for the show. Mostly lords and ladies-in-waiting; the king's cronies and Gertrude's confidantes; old Voltimand, who had once been chancellor; Polonius with his children, Laertes and Ophelia; the inseparable Rosencrantz and Guildenstern; Reynaldo; Their Majesties' secretaries and other high-placed court officials; a few army officers - most of them seemed uninterested, some were probably drunk, and a couple were undoubtedly deaf.

In a corner at the back of the room, in darkness, stood those of the domestic staff who wished to attend: footmen, maids, kitchen hands, even a couple of young gardeners. Garath, their overseer, had let them go, but it was against his better judgment. To him, those who worked outside should stay outside, and those who worked inside could stay inside and get on with their games.

Ophelia sat in the front row. Behind her, leering over her shoulder, was Osric, the lean young farmer, his tall frame pinched into a tight wooden chair. He was laughing immoderately at some quip of Claudius's. "That's rich, Your Majesty," he called out. "Oh, that's very rich."

"Too much cider," Hamlet thought. He gathered himself up. "Ladies and gentlemen, the play is about to begin. The name - well, I am calling it The Mousetrap. But don't take that too literally. It is the story of a murder done in Vienna. Gonzago is the name of the duke, and his wife is Baptista. It's a nasty story, but what if it is? It won't affect us. Let the pained horse cringe when the saddle goes on him again: we are still unridden. We are all innocents here. Now be silent, please, so that these good fellows who have come so far can entertain us."

He led the audience in a meager round of clapping, which petered out as soon as Hamlet stopped.

"Come and sit by me, Hamlet," Gertrude called.

"No, mother, here's a more attractive bush where a man can pitch his tent." One of the servant girls giggled immoderately from the dark rear of the room and got a quick smack from a housekeeper. Hamlet strode to where Ophelia sat. He ignored the empty seat on her left and instead crouched beside her. "May I put myself between your legs?" he whispered.

The beautiful girl blushed. "No, my lord."

"I meant, sit on the floor here, in front of you."

"No, my lord."

Polonius leaned across and muttered to the king, "He's in love with her, all right."

But neither of the young people heard him. Hamlet was too engrossed in flirting with Ophelia. "When I talked about pitching a tent," he asked her teasingly, "did you think I meant in the country?"

She either did not understand or refused to play the game. "I thought nothing, my lord."