Ophelia

by Lisa Klein

  “A good, sound body. Strong of limb and well-proportioned,” she said, the tone of approval giving me some hope. She lingered over the smooth scars on my back and leg, and I told her how the dog had bitten me.

  “Well, do not be ashamed. Many a young lady has had all her beauty dimmed by smallpox. You are fortunate.”

  She took the measure of my height and spanned my middle with a tape, noting the numbers. She said I must have a wardrobe of linens and simple gowns suitable for my new position. I was excited by the prospect of new clothing to replace the worn and plain attire that I had long outgrown. I even began to hope that Elnora would be kind, if I did not trouble her much.

  But in the following days I was often sad, as if I had moved across the ocean, not merely across the courtyard of Elsinore. I missed my studies and the delights of following Laertes and his companions. Though I had joined the world of women, I still felt like a child, ignored and lost in this new realm. The court ladies, with their bright plumage and twittering voices, were like so many birds in a gilded cage. I was the plain robin among them, longing for freedom and unable to sing for the bars around me.

  Elnora told me that I must not be sulky and discontented. Daily she repeated this rule for me: “A lady must always aim to please���first, the queen she serves, and second, the man she will marry.” Then she would add, “It is only the child who may please itself. And you, Ophelia, are no longer a child.” Her scolding made me more unhappy, as if being a child were a fault I had committed and must atone for.

  Becoming a lady, I learned, was not easy. I was inept at my new lessons, especially with the needle. Gertrude’s ladies took pride in their needlework, but to me the thin, sharp steel was an instrument of torture. I pricked my clumsy fingers until they all bled and ruined yards of silk before I could master the simplest stitch. I would have been glad to sit for hours reading or writing, but I fidgeted all the while I sewed and sometimes wept with boredom.

  Still, I worked hard, glad for any faint scrap of praise from Elnora. I believed her goodwill would in turn lead to the queen’s favor. In this I tried to think like my father. I wished to be a dutiful daughter and not disgrace him by failing my lessons. So I labored with diligence at my music, in which a court lady must be accomplished. I had some success with the strings of the lute, but my fingers fumbled on the keys of the virginal. I found that singing came naturally to me, and Elnora praised my voice. So to cheer myself I would often make up ditties. Sometimes these brought a smile that wrinkled Elnora’s wide, round face.

  I also wanted to please the other ladies, particularly Cristiana, for she was close to my age and I wished for a friend. Cristiana was of high birth, for her father was the queen’s cousin. With her uncommon green eyes, she was almost a beauty, though her nose was overlong. Unlike me, she could be content stitching for hours, and she was proud of her needlework. Attached to her bodice and pressed against her bosom she wore a stomacher she had embroidered all over with ivy and butterflies. Even the queen had admired it. Cristiana could also limn with skill, painting lifelike birds and flowers and faces I could recognize as those of Gertrude and her ladies.

  “Would you paint my likeness?” I asked her one day. She looked down her nose at me, appraising me coolly.

  “I do not think so. There is nothing remarkable about your features,” she said, and went back to her work.

  Was I really so plain, I wondered. Another day I praised her needlework, thinking that flattery would soften her.

  “Please, will you guide my hand with this new stitch?” I asked, holding out my sampler. “Your work is so precise.”

  “Why, you will never master this work, for your fingers are fat and clumsy,” she said, waving my hand away.

  Another time I was learning a dance, a lively bransle, for all Gertrude’s ladies were expected to be graceful dancers. I practiced with vigor, relishing the fast thumping of my heart. It was almost like running and swimming, sports that I longed for.

  “Look at her!” Cristiana pointed me out to the others. “She leaps about like a goat. How unseemly! It would be better to put bells on her feet and have her dance at a country festival.” They laughed among themselves and agreed that I should be more restrained. That night, Elnora found me in tears.

  “What ails you now? Come, do not sulk. The bad humors will make you ill.”

  “Why does Cristiana so disdain me?” I cried. “How have I offended her?”

  Elnora sighed and lowered her large form onto a wide bench. She patted the seat next to her and I sat down, daring to lean lightly against her. She did not push me away.

  “Now that you are among us, Cristiana is no longer the lowliest, and with her little authority, she must torment you,” Elnora explained with a weary patience. “Have you seen hens in the yard peck at each other, each hen choosing the one that is just weaker than she is? So it is whenever a new lady-in-waiting joins the court. I have seen it more times than I can count in my twenty-five years with the queen.”

  I drew in my breath. “Twenty-five years!” I said. “More than twice the length of my own life.” I leaned a little more into her. “What else have you seen?”

  Elnora hesitated, considering whether to indulge me or send me on some fresh business. To sway her mind, I slipped a cushion behind her back, and gratefully, she settled into it.

  “Now I am old and tired,” she said, shaking her head. “But I was not always so. Once I was robust and pretty, though not so fair as the queen. That she chose me to wait upon her was an honor beyond my deserving. I remember how I wept with joy to see her married to King Hamlet. Then she was a mere slip of a girl, nobly born and a very paragon of virtue. She was not raised in the court, but in the finest convent in Denmark. The king said that he had married an angel, for purity and beauty were so perfectly joined in her. For his part, he was a man of the world and a warrior. He has been a wise king, and a good judge of men. He chose my most deserving husband, Lord Valdemar, from the ranks of all his nobles to be one of his privy counselors,” she said proudly.

  “And how did Lord Valdemar choose you?” I asked. Elnora smiled at the long-ago memory.

  “His father and my father were in battle together against Norway many years ago, and they pledged us to each other when my lord was still a stripling and I was at my mother’s breast,” she said.

  I longed to ask if she had been a mother, but I dared not. She, however, seemed to read my thoughts.

  “We were not blessed with babes, alas, and that is to my regret,” she said with a sigh. “But God’s will be done, whether I will or no,” she added briskly. “Instead I was blessed in tending to the queen through her confinements. More than one ended in grief, with babes born too soon. It is a perilous nine-month journey, you know, for both the mother and her child.”

  “I do know,” I whispered.

  “Then came Prince Hamlet, wailing and thrashing from the moment he first drew breath. Though he was as strong as a young oak tree, his mother feared an accident or sudden illness would befall him. She scarcely let him out of her sight. But while the queen rested, I would take the prince and let him tumble about in the meadow to roughen him up. Sometimes I pretended he was my own son, so easily did he make others love him. Now the boy gives no thought to old Elnora.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. Then she looked at me as if surprised by my presence. “I should not be telling you these things!” she said, scolding herself. “Sit straight, not like a slug. No, get up. Go, and dress your hair more neatly.”

  “I promise I can be discreet,” I said. I took her hand, with its puffed flesh and gnarled bones, between my own small hands, which were not, as Cristiana claimed, fat and clumsy. Then I got up and did as she bid me.

  I learned how to please Elnora so that she would treat me kindly. I did not tire her by chattering, as young ladies often do, but listened while she rambled around in her large memory. She told me about the dark times when Denmak waned with Norway and a long drought brought starvation to the
village and hunger to the castle. She told me how a strange plague once broke out, afflicting hundreds, Gertrude among them, and how she nursed the queen from the very brink of death to complete health again.

  I was surprised to discover Elnora’s deep knowledge of medicines and herbs. Courtiers and ladies came to her for love potions made of heartsease, another name for my beloved pansy flower. Those with rheumy lungs favored her simple but pungent mustard plaster. Because Elnora’s eyes were weak and her knees crippled, I helped her by digging roots and measuring tiny pinches of dried plants. I shadowed her like a familiar, doing her bidding and anticipating her wants.

  With Elnora I made my first visit to Mechtild, the wise woman whose skill in medicine was legendary at Elsinore. She was a mysterious and reclusive figure whom few had ever seen. She dwelt beyond the far side of the village, where I had never ventured. From time to time Elnora would visit her to purchase herbs that did not grow at Elsinore and medicines that only Mechtild knew how to make. I begged Elnora for permission to go along. Not only did I wish to meet this strange woman, but it had been months since I had left Elsinore and I longed to be in the woods again. One day she relented, and we set forth from the castle in a litter enclosed by curtains and borne by servants. Through the village we traveled, stopping at the edge of the woods. We would walk the final way to Mechtild’s cottage, for Elnora was secretive about her task. She leaned on my arm for support. I guided her around the rocks on the path and moved aside the brambles and branches that would snag her skirts.

  “Did I tell you about the time that Mechtild was charged with witchcraft?” Elnora asked, pausing to rest against a large rock. “Her accuser recanted after he was struck with mysterious boils. Some said these proved his charges, while others said they were God’s punishment for his wicked lies.”

  My eyes grew wide with wonder. “Is she a witch?” I asked. “I have read about those who practice the black arts.”

  “She is powerful, but not in the service of evil. Yet I would not deceive or cross her,” she said.

  Mechtild’s small house with its thatched roof huddled at the edge of the woods. In a clearing spread a vast garden teeming with familiar and exotic plants, the ingredients of all the vaned medicines and liniments favored at court. The wise woman came forth with slow steps to meet us. She looked more feeble than powerful, and hardly dangerous. At her side trotted a little black dog as wiry and wizened as she. I shrank from it until the little creature licked my hand in a friendly greeting, and I could not help but smile at it.

  “Do not fear, he will not harm you,” Mechtild said. Though bent almost double, she stared up at me with black eyes that seemed to know my past, while Elnora stated her business.

  “The queen has been troubled with sleepless nights of late. She wakens and cannot return to sleep, and her pulse beats fast. The barley water with crushed poppy no longer brings her ease.”

  Mechtild nodded wisely and beckoned for us to follow her into the garden. Its lush wildness embraced us, and strange scents greeted my nose. A black-stalked plant towered over us, its dark green leaves, broader than a man’s hand, sheltering purple bell-shaped flowers. Mechtild fingered these thoughtfully.

  “Nightshade, perhaps. A few berries only. Leaves, moistened in wine, applied to the temple.” The old woman murmured to herself, but my ears caught her words and fed them to my memory. “Not the mandrake, much too strong. Perhaps infused with a drop of henbane instead.” Having made her decision, she plucked some leaves and berries.

  “For you, my child,” Mechtild said, turning her sharp eyes on me, “I recommend the water of distilled strawberry, for it not only smooths the skin, it guards against the passions of the heart.”

  “I am a green girl. I know nothing of love,” I murmured, looking down at the dog.

  “Ah, but you soon will. No one who is at court can remain innocent in the ways of love. See that you mind your passions,” she said, holding up a bent forefinger to underscore her advice.

  I thought of the knavish Edmund and his dark desires. I remembered how I quivered when Hamlet pulled me from the brook and gazed on me. As Mechtild seemed able to pierce my mind, I wished to change the topic.

  “Have you something for Elnora?” I said. “Though she will not complain, I know that a pain in her side often troubles her, making her breathing difficult.”

  “Ophelia! That is not our purpose today,” Elnora said sharply, but her rebuke was a mild one.

  “Hmmm, a thoughtful girl. Cumin is what I advise. Rare and odorous. Not in your queen’s herb bed, I am sure. A poultice applied to the side. I will prepare it now.” She led us toward the cottage.

  Inside the small house, a large cupboard dominated the single room. Curious, I watched while Mechtild unlocked the doors to reveal all the tools of an apothecary. She drew out a mortar and pestle and began to grind seeds while Elnora tested the scale.

  Meanwhile my gaze was drawn to the topmost shelf of the cupboard. I stared at a row of dark vials, sealed in red wax, the labels bearing the symbol of a death’s head. I drew in my breath with an audible gasp that made Mechtild look up from her work.

  “Tincture of belladonna. Grams of opium. Henbane distilled. If ill-used, these bring death,” she explained soberly.

  “Tush, Ophelia, turn away your gaze lest you tempt evil,” said Elnora, crossing herself and pushing me away.

  Mechtild closed the cupboard door and turned the key. Removing it, she thrust it deep into her pocket, where the curve of her old body surely protected many secrets.

  Chapter 5

  Not long after our visit to Mechtild, I discovered a book that Elnora had laid aside, for her weak eyes no longer allowed her to read. As heavy as a small coffer of coins, it was entitled The Herball or General History of Plants. It was a treasure more valuable than gold to me. When I tired of my needlework, which was often, I pored over this book with ever growing fascination. I studied its precise drawings and stored in my memory the virtues and uses of all plants. I learned that peony taken with wine can relieve nightmares or melancholy dreams. When a mother delivers her babe, parsley seeds aid in bringing away the afterbirth cleanly. Rhubarb purges madness and frenzy. Fennel sharpens the sight and is an antidote to some poisons. All this and more I committed to memory. Soon Elnora began to rely on me to create new mixtures and tonics. I copied Mechtild’s cumin poultice and Elnora found relief from the pain in her side. She chided me less for my laziness and melancholy, and she allowed me more time to study and write.

  Since Elnora allowed me to study this book that so entranced me, I tried to please her by attending chapel services with her. She prodded me to attention when the preacher railed against pride and vanity. I also read the conduct books she prescribed to teach me morals, though I found them most tiresome. They all said that I must be silent, chaste, and obedient, or else the world would be turned topsy-turvy from my wickedness. I scoffed at this, suspecting the writer had no knowledge of women and even less liking for them. Another manual advised me to be silent, but not always so, that I might cultivate the art of witty but modest conversation that was the mark of a court lady. I preferred this book.

  However I had no occasion for witty discourse, except with myself. Sometimes as I worked, I imagined both parts of a conversation between a beautiful woman and her noble suitor. Or I contended in my mind against the ignorant writers who condemned women as frail and lacking in virtue. These exercises distracted my mind from the menial tasks that fell to me as the lowest of Gertrude’s ladies. I had to empty the queen’s close stool, which before had been Cristiana’s task. I also had to fetch large pitchers of water for Gertrude’s bath and empty the tub afterward, until my feet were swollen from running to the well and the latrines, and my arms ached.

  It was dismaying to be chosen like a new bauble and then forgotten, a mere passing fancy. Gertrude rarely spoke to me, but I gazed on her, my eyes drinking in her beauty. Her hair shone like oiled oakwood, and her gray eyes seemed to hide her soul.
She was still shapely and her face was unlined. Her ladies evermore praised her beauty, and she loved to be told that she was too young to be the mother of a grown prince. Like her, I dressed my hair in a long braid, which I sometimes tucked under a coif that I embroidered, rather crudely, with pansies. I longed to know if she approved of my dress and manner. It hurt me to think that she took no notice of my attempts to please her.

  Humility was a hard virtue for me to learn, for I did not like to be always meek, with downcast eyes. Though looking down one day, I made a startling discovery: New curves had appeared in my body. Small breasts rounded out my silk bodice. They began to ache and throb. One day my flowers commenced with a stream of bright blood and a sharp pain in my gut. I ran to Elnora.

  “I have hurt myself. I know not how,” I cried in a panic.

  She calmed me and wiped my tears. She brought me clean rags and explained how generation occurs. It amazed me that now my body was able to create a child, and it frightened me to think of the pain that lay in my future. It was like a sudden turn of fortune, to be thrust one day into womanhood.

  Now that I was a young woman, I determined to take more pride in my gowns and ornaments, even though they had been worn by other ladies first. I thought that my lace cuffs set off my white hands. The stiff ruff that was then in fashion framed my face to good effect, though the first time I wore it, Cristiana insulted me.

  “Your neck is so short, you resemble a bulldog!” she said mockingly.

  “And you have spots on your face you have neglected to paint over,” I countered, which made her fume silently. I had no need of paint, for my cheeks and lips were naturally bright, my skin softened by Mechtild’s strawberry water. This pleased me, and I became a little proud, but I believed that a measure of vanity was required of me as a woman of the court.

  I was now thirteen years old, an age at which many young women commenced courtships and some were already betrothed. Curious, I watched how men and women acted in each other’s presence. I practiced turning my head and shoulders in the manner I had seen one of the queen’s ladies use while conversing with a young lord. I wondered if Hamlet would find such a movement appealing. Seeing my reflection in a bowl of water or a looking glass, I thought how amazed Hamlet would be to see me transformed from a wild girl into a lady. But we had not met since the long-ago day by the brook. Hamlet had left for Germany to study at the university in Wittenberg. Surely his mind was too full for thoughts of me, and I had only a few idle minutes each day to think on him.