Ophelia

by Lisa Klein

  Moreover, I was reminded daily that my favor at the court of Elsinore was unlikely and precarious.

  “Your father is a nobody, and you are nothing, Ophelia,” Cristiana taunted me. “I cannot fathom what the queen sees in you. Ha!” She laughed lightly.

  I said nothing in my defense. I was still angry that my father seemed careless of me, and I was ashamed of our family’s poor estate. Why indeed should Gertrude keep me?

  The answer soon came to me. When the queen learned that I had been schooled in Latin and French, she bade me read aloud as she and her ladies worked on their embroidery. One of Gertrude’s favorite books was The Mirror of the Sinful Soul, which, she told us, was written by Margaret, the queen of Navarre in France. Reading aloud and translating as I read, I was glad to exercise my mind and tongue again. Though I still performed my lowly duties, I dared to hope that my status at court was improving.

  Gertrude knew that her other ladies disliked these pious exercises. They would frown at me for reading prayers and meditations when they preferred to gossip. But when Gertrude recited the devotions, they bowed and crossed themselves and seemed to pay close heed.

  “We shall observe our likenesses in this mirror and reflect on our sins,” she said, touching the book lightly. “I would be remiss in my duty, I fear, if I did not look after your spiritual welfare.” Her words and tone almost conveyed apology.

  I soon discovered that Gertrude’s piety hid a secret pleasure. One evening she called me to her chamber. Her hair was loose, and its ripples shone in the candlelight. She wore a nightgown clasped at the bodice with jeweled buttons. Kneeling as if for prayer, she dismissed Cristiana, who set down the basin of scented water she earned.

  “My tired eyes hinder my devotions,” she said. “Ophelia shall read the scripture to me.”

  Cristiana glared at me like the proverbial green-eyed monster. I was struck at that moment with the unbelievable thought that she was jealous. I had no time to dwell on the discovery, however, for the queen was demanding my attention. Cristiana slipped out, closing the door, and I stood by, waiting. Gertrude rose to fetch a small book from a high shelf and returned to a cushioned settee, motioning for me to sit at her feet. I sat, as noiseless as a cat. The book she handed me resembled her other devotional books. It was called the Heptameron, and I saw that it was also written by the pious queen Margaret.

  I opened the book to where a ribbon lay between the pages. I began to read aloud and found to my shame that this was no book of prayer. I blushed and my voice was barely above a murmur as I read the tale of a noble woman seduced from her foolish husband by a handsome knave. Elnora would punish me for reading such a book! She would forbid me even to touch its binding! But night after night, Gertrude and I spent an hour or more in such devotions, reading tales of love and desire. Then the queen would return the book to its place and wish me good night. I would go to my room heavy with guilt yet consumed by curiosity.

  One night when I had finished reading, Gertrude gave me some trinkets���a pearled comb for my hair and a small looking glass with a crack. I knelt and thanked her. Then, made bold by her show of kindness, I dared to ask a question.

  “My lady, you are the queen. Why do you read this book in secret?”

  Gertrude sighed.

  “Good Ophelia,” she said, “the king is a godly and proper man.” She fingered a miniature painting of him she wore on a ribbon about her neck. “He would be grieved to know that I read such tales, which men say are not fit for a lady’s ear.”

  “And because I am no lady, they will not harm me?” I said.

  Gertrude laughed, a musical sound, like chimes.

  “You are both wise and witty, Ophelia. Your words are saved and spent in good measure. Moreover, you are honest. I know you can be trusted not to gossip about my taste for romance.”

  “I, too, have developed a liking for these stories,” I confessed, “for it pleases me to read of clever women who find love.”

  “You have the spirit of a lady, Ophelia. Though you were not born to high estate, you will rise to greatness,” said Gertrude, kissing my forehead lightly.

  I almost wept at her touch, which lingered like a memory. Were my mother’s lips this soft?

  “Why am I so favored?” I whispered.

  “Because Elnora is a puritan and Cristiana is vain and foolish,” she said, misunderstanding me. It was the kiss, more than the reading, that I treasured. “You, Ophelia, are sensible, but unschooled in matters of love and passion. It is necessary to learn the ways of the world and the wiles of men, so that you may resist them. So read freely, my dear.”

  I was surprised that Gertrude, who had not seemed to notice me at all, in truth understood me well. So at her bidding I read much, though in secret, and the stones completed my courtly education. While I learned the importance of virtue from Elnora’s conduct books, Gertrude’s romances held out the delights of love and the means to achieve them. I imagined and longed for the time when I would be old enough to enjoy such pleasures.

  At times, however, I doubted the use of some story or another. One night I read to Gertrude about a jealous official who killed his wife with poisoned salad greens because she had taken a young lover. The tale made Gertrude merry, but I did not share her mirth.

  “What, are you a puritan who will not laugh?” she chided.

  “No, but it disturbs me to read that the woman’s wrongdoing led her husband to kill her. She was more weak than wicked,” I said.

  “This is fiction, Ophelia, not a true history. Often we love to read of deeds and desires we would not dare to perform ourselves. That is the pleasure of a tale like this.”

  “But I cannot believe that men and women would do such wicked things in the name of love,” I said.

  “Oh, but they do, and they will,” she replied in a knowing way, and that ended our conversation.

  With my eyes opened by Gertrude’s wisdom, my ears attended more closely to the gossip of Cristiana and the other ladies. I found it to be true that life at Elsinore was much like the stones Gertrude and I shared. Men and women alike sought ample delights with fewest sorrows. But while ladies desired to satisfy themselves in love, it was the lure of power that most tempted men.

  My father, I realized, was among those men. It was knowledge he wanted, some secret intelligence that he could use for his gain. I began to be wary of him when he would visit me in company, wearing the mask of a loving father. For when he took me aside, his questions were pointed.

  “My girl, what news from the queen’s inner chamber?”

  “None, my lord,” I said, discretion guarding my tongue.

  “Is Lord Valdemar preferred before me? Speak!” he demanded.

  “I cannot tell, my lord.” Truly, I knew little of Elnora’s husband.

  “You cannot tell?” he said mockingly. “Rather, you must tell me all you know. It is your duty as my daughter.”

  I was silent. I dared not remind him of his duty as a father to love and protect me. But I could not hide my resentment.

  “I begin to see that you put me in the queen’s service not for my own benefit,” I said, “but to be your spy.”

  “Ungrateful girl!” he sputtered, and I thought for a moment he would strike me. “From where you are placed, you can see far and wide. And if you are clever,” he said, tapping his head with a fingertip, “even greater advancement is yours. Now cease your foolishness and answer me. How does the queen spend her private hours?”

  I decided to risk his wrath. I did not tell him about the stones we read, but turned and walked away.

  “Ophelia, come back!” he demanded, and I heard the fury in his voice. But I did not obey or even look back. I realized that I loved Gertrude and would keep her secrets forever.

  Chapter 6

  After four years in the queen’s household, I had learned the art of being a lady. By the time I was fifteen, my shape was that of a woman. I almost matched my mistress Queen Gertrude’s height, and I imitated
her carnage, even the tilt of her head.

  “Nature produced you, but nurture has perfected you,” Gertrude often said with pride, as though I were her creation, carved from an unlikely piece of wood. Her words tempered somewhat the sting of Cristiana’s criticism and the coolness of the other ladies. Unlike them, I was not the daughter of an earl or a duke or the cousin of a European prince. I knew they considered me unworthy of my place. I had no true friend at court, except Elnora.

  I did take some of my father’s advice to heart, for he was not stupid. I was careful and observant, and my reputation for honesty and secrecy began to advance me in the queen’s favor. When the king came to Gertrude’s chamber to dine, I was given the honor of attending them. At first I was terrified to be so near the king, but soon I realized he was mortal like any man. I filled his cup and heard him belch and removed his plate with the meat half gnawed from the bones.

  Gertrude behaved lovingly toward her husband. She would stroke his hoary hair and tease him that it was no longer black like his son’s. The king in turn spoke sweetly to Gertrude, calling her his turtledove and gazing on her in a way that made me ache. When their talk touched on matters of state, it was in low tones, for the king never failed in his discretion. However, one night I overheard an argument concerning Claudius, the king’s younger brother. His lustfulness was the subject of court gossip, along with reports of his drunken carousing in the great hall. The king was angry at some recent transgression of his, the nature of which I could not discern.

  “He defies me on purpose and drives me to madness,” complained the king, while Gertrude sought to soothe his choler.

  “Pity your brother, for he is a man of great desires and disappointments.”

  “Pah! You are too soft. He needs only two things: a wife to rem him in and his own bloody kingdom to rule,” the king growled in reply. It was the only time I had heard the king and queen disagree.

  When they were ready to retire, I would bring sweet wine and clean linens, trim the candlewicks, and withdraw, locking the doors behind me. In the morning the king would be gone and I would assist Gertrude as she washed and dressed. Curious, I looked for signs that love had changed her in some way, but she seemed to me only heavy-eyed and tired. Her inward self was veiled from me.

  I believed that King Hamlet and Queen Gertrude loved each other and were true. Also I believed that the king’s ministers were loyal and the queen’s ladies honest. But over time I realized that the court of Elsinore was a lovely garden where serpents hid in the grass. Many who seemed true were false. The fever of ambition drove men and women alike to seek advancement, even by deceit and betrayal. They swiftly rose on Fortune’s turning wheel, and then as swiftly fell to their rum. One of Gertrude’s ladies lost her position when she was found to be with child by the king’s chief minister. She fled to a cousin’s house in the country, disgraced, while the minister kept his post and was deemed a generous man for acknowledging his son. Even I could see that the lady was very unjustly treated.

  Favor was like a rose, glorious in bloom but fleeting, and hiding the thorn below its flower. The wicked often found favor, not the virtuous and humble. Elnora might be an exception, but Cristiana proved the rule, as did her suitors Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. These men had been dismissed with disgrace from the army of the Norwegian king Fortinbras for some unknown betrayal. Now employed by King Hamlet, they flaunted their rich clothes and gay manners, the fruits of their treason. They were alike as twins in their desire for favor with the king and with the ladies. Wooed by both men, Cristiana favored Rosencrantz, I think, but each was greeted with the same coy laugh and the same broad view of her bosom straining beneath its artfully loosened bodice.

  I wondered how much Cristiana knew of the passions of love. All about me I watched amours unfold as in the bawdy French tales I read with Gertrude. In the great hall ladies and gentlemen drank until their talk grew ribald. Passing a darkened stairway, I might stumble upon lovers grasping hands, touching lips, or more. I begged their pardon, but they only laughed at my embarrassment. Loudly, Elnora lamented the decline of honor in men and virtue in women.

  “There is too much singing and dancing, such lightness as loosens the restraints of virtue,” she complained, her white curls quivering. “When I was young we held to the courtly ways, but nowadays the world is running all to rum.”

  I understood why Gertrude called Elnora a puritan. Though I doubted much that lovers’ behavior had changed so much in forty years, I did not contradict Elnora.

  “Be moderate in your desires, Ophelia. Bridle your tongue, and lock up your chaste treasure,” Elnora warned. She peered at me as if searching for faults. “I trust you will give no one cause to gossip about you. You are an honorable girl.”

  Despite Elnora’s praise, I felt more cautious than virtuous. I spoke little, not because I found silence to be a superior virtue, but because I satisfied my curiosity by listening, observing, and reading. Sometimes I wished I had been born a man, so I could have been a scholar. At least Gertrude approved my habit of studying and allowed me to read whatever I wished. Once I had devoured the vast Herball, I hungered for more than the knowledge of common things that grew beneath me. I read about the distant countries of the Indies and fantastic creatures discovered by voyagers on land and in the sea. Laertes was now studying in France, and I pored over maps of Europe, marking the cities described in the letters he sometimes wrote to me. My envious fingers traced the routes my brother and Hamlet traveled in France, Germany, and the Netherlands.

  I longed for distant and unknown places, but even more I longed to know about love. I kept certain books hidden in my locked trunk, reading them late at night by the flame of a candle. In secret I devoured The Art of Love, for all the moralists condemned it as a dangerous book. I imagined visiting the wicked country of Italy, where the men are taught to overcome virgins and the women know many freedoms. Reading the poet Ovid, I learned that no one can resist love, for water wears the sharpest stone smooth, and even the hardest ground at last crumbles before the plow.

  From the books I read, my knowledge of love was vast, but my experience of it was naught. I pondered this paradox as I lay at night upon my narrow, solitary bed. When would I find love?

  Chapter 7

  While I read books about love in the confines of Elsinore Castle, the wide world was Hamlet’s school. He studied at the great German university and sailed to England and France with Horatio. He was away from Denmark for many months at a time, and Gertrude was always melancholy in his absence. Only a letter bearing news of his return would gladden her, and she would celebrate his homecoming with all the ceremony of a holiday or saint’s festival. Great stores of provisions were delivered for feasting, musicians were summoned, and new livery brightened the guards and soldiers. At the prince’s coming, excitement stirred Elsinore to its darkest corners.

  When Hamlet arrived one summer, dark-skinned from some adventure upon the seas, Gertrude embraced him and petted him as if he were still a boy. At her bidding, I brought them wine and delicacies in her chamber. So absorbed was she in her son that she did not even look my way. Hamlet did not greet me, nor did our eyes meet. I was disappointed yet relieved, for I would have blushed and stammered had he spoken to me. Perhaps, I thought, he did not recognize me. I had changed much in four years. Hamlet, now twenty-two, was no taller, though more sinewy, and he seemed more intense than before. Experience had carved new expressions in his features and given him a worldly manner.

  Gertrude was jealous of her son’s company and spent many hours with him, laughing at his clever stories and hearing tales of his journeys. Sometimes the king joined them, and I saw Hamlet’s father grow dark with disapproval at their lightness. But in the presence of their subjects, King Hamlet and Queen Gertrude were yoked to each other in rule and in love, bestowing all their pride on their son. Prince Hamlet shone with his own glory, and courtiers arranged themselves around him like the smaller lights in the heavens around their sun. I s
ighed and wished for his light to fall on me.

  Soon my desire was rewarded. One day I lounged idly in the long gallery that led to Gertrude’s privy chambers. Cristiana sat plying her needle in the sun that streamed through high windows and slanted across the floor, then spilled through the arches and into the great hall below. On the walls between the arches hung tapestries woven with scenes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, tales of gods and humans transformed by love.

  I mused on the portrayal of Diana the huntress. Her bow rested on the ground while she bathed, half hidden in the pool. I recalled the day so long ago when I was swimming in the brook, free as a fish, and Hamlet came upon me. I studied the goddess in the tapestry. Her eyes were downcast, and her hair, woven in gold thread, covered her breasts, but her round hip and thigh were naked. Spying on Diana from the bushes was the hunter Actaeon, unaware of the grim fate awaiting him.

  Cristiana picked up my needlework, some linen garment I cared nothing for.

  “Your stitches are too long. You are simply lazy,” she said, and tossed it aside.

  I met her criticism with my own harsh words.

  “My stitches would be finer if my needle were half as sharp as your nose,” I said.

  Elnora slept in a chair, her own needlework in her lap. Our voices did not even cause her to stir. Like an old cat, she slept more and more, some days awakening only to move into a new patch of sun and fall asleep again. I got up to fetch my Herball, for I had meant to try a new mixture of herbs for her latest pains. As usual Cristiana seized the opportunity to mock my habit of study.