Authors: Lisa Klein
Ophelia (10 page)
Within a week of the celebration of King Hamlet's rule, Prince Hamlet returned to Wittenberg. We said farewell in the foyer near his chambers as the dusky shadows consumed the day's light. Our parting was hasty, the moments stolen from his hours with his mother and the king. He promised to write often, but I longed for dearer words from him.
"Do you love me?" I dared to ask at last.
"Do you doubt that I do?" he replied, parrying my question.
"I will not doubt, if you say so."
"I believe I have not heard you declare your love," he said, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Then you have not been listening to me," I replied lightly.
"Ah, let us end this vain discourse and let silence speak instead," Hamlet said, kissing me one last time.
After Hamlet was gone, I searched my memory of all our meetings. It was true. I had never said to him "I love you." Indeed, I did not know if what I felt could be called love. I only knew that Hamlet's absence left me bereft and confused.
Gertrude, too, grew moody and mournful without her son nearby. I attended her with renewed humility until she admitted me to her favor again. I knew she had forgiven me when she asked me to read to her a volume of love sonnets, which were said to be the latest fashion in England. As I read aloud it seemed that the poet, longing for his absent love, exactly summed up my own sorrows.
"He is gone, while I alone lay lingering here."
This could be my heart's refrain. I read another poem.
"Hope art thou true, or dost thou flatter me?"
Did Hamlet only flatter me with his attentions? I thought of my lowly birth. How did I dare to hope for Hamlet's love? There was little comfort for me in this poetry.
It was the sonnets that praised a lady's fair lips and eyes that made Gertrude wistful. She gazed in her minor, lamenting her increasing age and her declining beauty. I tried to lighten her mood.
"What woman would wish for coral lips and eyes like stars?" I asked. "Coral is hard and pitted, and stars are only faint specks on the dome of heaven."
"Tush, Ophelia, you lack a poet's sensibility," Gertrude chided. She picked up the book and read aloud as I brushed her hair.
"These amber locks, the nets that captured my heart."
She looked up and sighed. "Once I had such locks. Now my glass shows white hairs like wires growing from my head," she said.
"They gleam as silver threads amid the gold," I replied, twining the masses of hair into a single thick braid.
"Now you speak like a poet," she said. "And poets are all liars."
Gertrude would not be pleased, so I was silent.
"Fair is my love, and cruel as she is fair,"
Gertrude read. "Why is it, think you, that the mistress always disdains the poet who worships her?"
"Maybe she does not love him," I suggested. Gertrude was silent. Sometimes she posed such questions to teach me of love. "But what think you, my lady?"
"I think that she must be cruel if she wants to be loved," Gertrude explained. "For once a lady succumbs to the man's desire, he rejects her as unworthy of it."
Hearing this I grew concerned. Because I showed my love to Hamlet, would his ardor diminish? Was love like a hunger, easily satisfied by feeding? Or did it grow by what it fed on? Should I have withheld my kisses and thus increased his appetite for them?
But to Gertrude I only said, "Perhaps the lady waits for the poet to marry her before granting him anything."
"No, they will never marry! It is the nature of love not to be satisfied so easily," she said bitterly.
"Then the poet does not lie, for thwarted love is the subject of all these sonnets," I said lightly.
"I concede the argument, Ophelia," Gertrude said with a weary wave of her hand. "Now rub my temples with this oil and let me sleep."
Alas, Gertrude's discontent could not be eased by my attentions. She and the king argued in her chamber, their voices audible but not their words. I sometimes saw her eyes swollen with tears. I wondered if it was Claudius who sowed a bad seed between them. While the king grew gray and serious with the burdens of government, Claudius, with his brown beard, was still vigorous and lusty. His red lips were moist and his black eyes bold and piercing. Ladies seemed flattered by his attention, but the mere thought of being touched by his fleshy hands made me shudder. Fortunately he left me alone, as game too small for his ambitious appetites. But he often made Gertrude laugh and blush. Perhaps in his presence she imagined herself young and beautiful again, the sonnet lady desired by a man who could not have her.
I hoped to read of Hamlet's longing for me in his letters, but they were nothing like sonnets of love. One May afternoon, I sat near a window at the west end of the queen's gallery, trying to decipher the tortured wit of his latest letter.
My love, inflame me no more, lest you consume all my wit and betray my will. Let men not censure my name that I call your love, that for which I rise and fall.
These words I read over and over, but could make little sense of them. Was this the true passion of a lover in defiance of men or the complaint of a scholar plagued by false passion? Hamlet, absent from me, grew a mystery to me, a masked god with two faces, both of which hid yet another self.
How should I reply to this strange sentiment? An idea came to me as I looked out over the king's orchard. Not five months ago, Hamlet and I had admired the gold-red apples there. Now the trees were thick with blossoms. I would write a sonnet describing the petals, white and rose-colored, that fluttered to the ground, borne upon the warming breeze. Not knowing the intent of Hamlet's letter, I would take care not to express my longing for him.
As I wrote and blotted many phrases, lamenting my dull wits, Gertrude appeared at the door of her chamber, looking fretful.
"Ophelia! It grows late. Has the king summoned me yet?" she asked.
"No, my lady, I have received no word," I replied, rising. "Perhaps he is especially weary this day." It was the king's habit, after dining at midday, to rest in his orchard.
"Mark the time!" Her tone was urgent but her voice quivered. "Attend here," she ordered, hastening away. I waited, as bid, wondering at her agitation. Cristiana resumed her needlework as if nothing were amiss. Elnora, whose eyes were too weak to see her stitches, merely sat with some unsewn pillow covers in her lap and closed her eyes.
I returned to composing my poem. Was it possible to rhyme
blossom
with
bosom?
Would Hamlet consider the verse clever or merely forced? Perhaps, I thought, I should forego the nonsense of rhyme.
While I was entertaining these trivial thoughts, a momentous and terrible event was unfolding close by. Sudden screams pierced the quiet and startled me so that I dropped my pen, blotting my words with smeared ink. The screaming echoed from the walls as if a horde of demons shrieked from the stones. I rose from my seat but could not move farther, feeling my feet rooted to the stones beneath them.
Elnora jerked to her senses.
"Oh, what a frightful dream I have had! Beyond all imagining!" Her breath came in short, quick bursts. "I must be bled of these black humors!"
Having relented a moment, the screams resumed. And the words that came to my ears amid the cries made my blood stop in my veins.
"Help! The king is dead! Help, oh!"
Cristiana began to tremble and mew like a cat. Elnora fainted. I tried to revive her by tapping her cheeks, then eased her bulky form onto its side and left her to recover.
"The king is dead?" I whispered, the words making no sense to my mind. "How can such a thing be true?" I flung open the window and leaned upon the ledge to see guards running helter-skelter in the orchard, their pikes and swords in hand. They shouted and beat the trees, looking for the thief who stole the king's life, but no murderer was found there. Petals fell from the branches like a late, wet snowfall.
That night it was reported that a serpent had stung King Hamlet and its venom had instantly paralyzed his heart. I was doubtful of this official word. I had never heard of poisoned snakes around Elsinore, nor had I read of any such creatures in Denmark. Then a rumor arose that those who had seen the body in the orchard noticed a loathsome crust like a leprosy covering the skin. It was whispered that the king had been murdered as he slept and the false traitor had fled to Norway. Another suspicion grew, too terrible to be spoken aloud, that the unknown murderer was still in Denmark, even at Elsinore among us.
That night I dreamed of the king's pale and bloodless corpse sprinkled with innocent white and pink blossoms. A black and mighty whirlwind arose, scattering the flowers and cracking the trees, carrying screams upon its currents and making the very stones of the castle shudder. I knew in my heart that goodness had been murdered and that a reign of evil had begun at Elsinore.
Elsinore, Denmark
May-November 1601
When the earth quakes, mountains fall and rivers alter their courses. With King Hamlet's death, the state of Denmark was in a like manner shaken to its foundations and chaos took the place of order. Greed, suspicion, and fear ruled all hearts. Edmund's father seized the king's treasury, and the lords contended for control. Laborers refused to work, merchants cheated their customers, and brigands ran at large. No one knew his place in this disordered and kingless country.
Gertrude also left her queenly seat, making two thrones vacant. Overcome with grief, she closeted herself like a nun and received no one for weeks. She lay in the dark of her bedchamber or knelt in her oratory, praying until her knees were stiff. Elnora and I ministered to her with the juice of bitter roots and crushed flowers to purge her foul humors and ease the pains in her head. But the queen remained as dull as a stone. One day, hearing a crash from her chamber, I entered to find her in a frenzy. A pile of books lay on the floor, and one by one she flung them from the open window as she wept with hysteria. I was horrified at the sight and ran to close the window.
"Please, my lady, stop!" I pleaded.
"Alas, it is over and done with! Love is nothing but folly," she cried.
I seized her hands in mine and led her to her bed.
"Oh, do not say such things. I know how you loved the king," I murmured, trying to soothe her.
"You are but a child! You know nothing of a queen's desires," she said bitterly, thrusting me away.
I did not take offense, considering her grief, but stayed by Gertrude's side until her raving ceased and she fell asleep. Then I removed the remaining volumes to my own chamber. In the garden the next day, I found the book of sonnets, torn in half, its damp pages scattered among the herb beds.
Meanwhile, Denmark was like a ship without a rudder. Lords and councillors met in secret in the king's state rooms until late at night and argued openly in the great hall. Foremost was the question of who should succeed King Hamlet. In many countries the king's son inherited the crown, but this was not the law in Denmark. Some called for Prince Hamlet to be elected, despite his youthfulness. Others argued that Denmark needed a more warlike king to challenge Norway, which stood poised to strike our leaderless state. Gertrude, all queenliness drained from her veins, cared nothing for these matters. She refused all appeals and, like a black-veiled prophetess, declared Denmark cursed. But Claudius was everywhere at once, serious with seeming grief for his brother. His eyes, not clouded with drink but clear of purpose, were fixed on the captaincy of this reeling ship. At last the lords agreed, though with much ill will, to elect Claudius as king.
King Hamlet's body was interred beneath the floor of Elsinore's chapel, near his father's bones and those of his father's father. At the funeral, Gertrude, wrapped in black veils, followed her husband's coffin. She walked alone, with no man to guide her steps. Elnora cried loudly. I felt some sadness for the king's passing, but even greater pity for Gertrude, bowed by the weight of her loss. What would it be like to lose a husband of so many years, I wondered.