Ophelia

by Lisa Klein

  Horatio bowed and took his leave of me, saying he would carry my greetings to Hamlet.

  Soon I realized that I was greatly mistaken in believing Hamlet and his mother to be alike in their passions. It was only three weeks after King Hamlet’s burial, and the flowers of summer were in their fullest bloom when the news blew through Elsinore like an icy wind. Those who heard it first were numb with disbelief. Some were certain it was a wicked rumor and were afraid to repeat it. Others declared openly that it was an insult to the prince and to King Hamlet’s memory. But they vouched for the terrible truth of the news, for the new king himself boasted of it.

  Gertrude would marry King Claudius.

  Chapter 13

  The news stunned me at first. How could this have happened? I thought back on the preceding weeks. When, since her husband’s death, had Gertrude ever conversed privately with Claudius? Had grief for King Hamlet weakened her mind? Was her choice of Claudius free or compelled? The matter was beyond my understanding. I gently pried into Elnora’s thoughts, looking for an explanation. But she seemed afflicted with the same malady that depressed Gertrude’s spirits.

  “I am not well, Ophelia; do not trouble me. As for the queen, I do not know her mind. She is worthy to be a king’s wife; what else should she be?” Elnora closed her eyes and waved me away. Even when I offered to fetch a tonic, she only shook her head and would say no more.

  Thinking that the worldly Cristiana might understand Gertrude’s behavior, I mused aloud to her as we sat stitching, “How could the queen marry the brother of her dead husband?”

  Cristiana only laughed bitterly.

  “How little you know of men, and of the queen, your mistress!” she said, as if she were privy to some deeper knowledge. But she did not share it with me, and I doubted that she understood any more than I did.

  I was still perplexed as I helped Gertrude prepare for her wedding. Elnora sniffed constantly as she fitted Gertrude’s dress of gray satin. Whether it was sentiment or rheumy eyes that troubled the old woman, I could not tell. As I fixed pearls in her hair and brushed carmine on her pale cheeks, the queen was impassive and did not meet my eye. So distant was she, living in her country of sorrow, that I dared not question her.

  The wedding feast was a pretense of celebration. Tables sagged under the weight of venison, roast pig, smoked fish, and every kind of vegetable and desirable fruit. An army of servants clad in bright blue livery for the new king bore jugs of posset and poured spiced wine in pewter goblets stamped with the seal of Claudius. Ladies and courtiers wore their finest silks and jewels, and musicians sounded their tabors, drums, and lutes. Beneath the finery, however, many held themselves in restraint and hid their disapproval, though drunkenness made others loud and careless.

  Gertrude smiled and danced with a reserved grace, but I could see that she veiled her pain behind her cool eyes. Toward her new husband she displayed a tame submission I had not seen before, while Claudius strutted like a proud and possessive cock.

  Hamlet stood near the entrance to the hall, his arms crossed in defiance. He was alone. From his cap to his boots, his clothing was inky black, and his pale face seemed lined with cares. In both his dress and his manner, he disdained all festivity. I saw him frown darkly, and though he reminded me of a cloud about to burst, I decided to brave the storm and speak to him.

  When I was sure my absence would not be noted, I slipped behind the pillars that girded the hall, keeping to the shadows until I stood beside Hamlet. He did not look at me, nor did he greet me, but he stored, as if restless, and sighed profoundly. Claudius raised his cup to Gertrude and drank. Then with his wine-dark lips he kissed her on the curve of her breast just above the embroidered fabric of her bodice. She turned her head to the side, whether to permit him the gesture or to avoid seeing it I could not tell. Her face was now directed toward the dark corner where Hamlet and I stood, but her gaze was impassive and unseeing. I saw Hamlet’s scowl deepen.

  “There is disease in Denmark. My father is not two months dead, his flesh still clings to his bones, and yet my mother takes a new husband. Indeed it is the cold funeral meats that furnish today’s wedding table,” he said bitterly, speaking more to himself than to me.

  I fumbled for words befitting the strange circumstance, for the wedding had followed with improper haste upon the king’s funeral. “Truly, I am sorry for your father’s death,” I said with earnest feeling.

  Hamlet did not acknowledge my speaking. Nor did he walk away or bid me leave, so I stayed.

  “Claudius not only wears my father’s crown, but he weds my father’s wife!” he said in a tone of disbelief. “I always said he was a thief. And my mother! To forsake my father, who was like Hyperion, the sun god, and bind herself to this demon! Where is her judgment, where is her reason?” He appealed to me as if I had an answer. “They are gone!” He flung his hands wide apart.

  “The queen is much changed,” I murmured. “I do not understand it myself.”

  “Look now, Ophelia. You see how she hangs on him? It is unnatural. Is there no shame in her? No strength, only womanly frailty?”

  Though I shared his confusion, I rose to Gertrude’s defense.

  “You are unjust, my lord,” I said gently. “We women are not all frail. I for one am strong and true.” I touched his cheek, turning his face. His eyes were wet and betrayed his anguish. “Test me, Hamlet! I would not fail you.”

  He reached up and pressed my hand against his cheek.

  “Dearest Ophelia, I have so longed for you.” He sighed deeply, with a shudder that stirred his whole body. “Let us leave this scene of shame and seek out a quieter place.” He took my arm and, looking around to be sure we were not being watched, guided me out of the hall through its vast doors.

  “Shall we go to our cottage in the woods?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, it is too far. I cannot wait so long.” Instead he led me up the stairs to the guardroom outside the king’s chambers. No one was there. I followed Hamlet through a maze of corridors to a far tower in a wing of the castle where I had never been. We felt our way up the winding stairs of the dark tower until we emerged onto a deserted parapet overlooking the field and the river below.

  It was near dusk. The warm air blew wisps of damp fog about us. The anger in Hamlet’s face had melted away, leaving only sadness. I waited for him to speak.

  “Now we are alone. What is it you would say to me?” I asked.

  “Nothing, Ophelia. Words have no meaning. I would have only silence.”

  So without speaking, we gazed over the parapet to the fields and hills beyond Elsinore. The mist crept over them and they grew cloudy and insubstantial. Soon we could not see the ground. Then Hamlet spoke.

  “What is a man’s life but a prelude to his death?” Hamlet’s voice was flat, without feeling. The words, as they left his mouth, were scattered by the wet wind. “And what is death but a long sleep, a most welcome forgetfulness.”

  “You are weary with grief, my lord. Let me fix you a sleeping draught.”

  “After the sleep of death, we waken eternally,” Hamlet continued as if I had not spoken. “But in what land?”

  “Who can tell?” I said lightly. “For no one returns from there to tell us tales.”

  “Thus the fear of that future makes us pause in the present,” he said, leaning on the stone ledge that was cold and slicked with damp. The stone face of Elsinore was sheer and high. Suddenly realizing where his thoughts tended, I seized his hands in mine.

  “My lord, do not dwell on such things! In time, all that lives must die. It was your father’s time, but your time has not yet come.” I went on desperately, trying to turn his mind from dire thoughts to loving ones. “In due season all that lives returns to dust, making the earth fecund with life. Smell how the air tonight is pregnant with the flowers’ blooms and their bee-sought sweetness.” I drew the night’s thick air deep into my lungs.

  “My senses are black and unfeeling; my mind is dull and stupid
. My hopes of advancement are dashed,” Hamlet said with bitterness.

  “So you are not the King, but you are still the Prince of Denmark.”

  “I am nothing.”

  “You are my Jack, and I am your Jill. Do you remember?” I said to lighten his mood and curtsied, playing the shepherdess.

  “That was child’s play. Now my father is dead, and I am no longer young,” he said despairingly.

  I looked up at Hamlet’s noble countenance, his wide, intelligent brow now furrowed with grief. “I wish I had a glass where you could see yourself. For you put me in mind of the psalm: ‘You have made man a little lower than the angels, you have crowned him with glory and honor, you put all things under his feet’”

  “But the very ground has been taken from beneath me,” Hamlet said.

  My eyes were wet with tears. I fell to my knees before him.

  “Hamlet, you are a piece of God’s work, the glory of Denmark, and my beloved,” I whispered.

  He knelt, too, and his arms came around me. We clung to each other as if we would save ourselves from drowning.

  “No, Ophelia. You are the marvelous work, so noble in your reason.” His hands cupped my face. “The beauty of the world.” His voice broke with emotion as his fingers traced the outline of my lips. “You, too, remind me of a divine song, for you are fearfully and wonderfully made, and most curiously wrought.” His fingers on my side numbered my ribs. Beneath my skirts they found the scars on the backs of my legs. Gently he lowered me to the earth.

  There, with the cold stone at my back and my arms about his neck, I tasted the salt of his tears and I consoled him with all the strength of my body. I understood that grief and love were close cousins, for from his loss Hamlet finally spoke the words I had longed to hear.

  “I vow to love you most truly and forever,” he whispered in my ear.

  “And I you. Hamlet, I am yours.”

  We then confirmed our vows with the deed of love itself.

  Chapter 14

  Within days of the wedding, the guests who had traveled to Elsinore departed and quiet returned, but little peace. My own thoughts were at war within me as I pondered what Hamlet and I had done. I had given him my most valuable gift, one that could never be taken back.

  “It is nothing, for ‘tis common enough that a girl gives her maidenhead to a man,” said a worldly voice in my head. It resembled Gertrude commenting upon a tale of love.

  “This is no common delight, but a true and lasting love,” countered a voice from a book of courtly ideals.

  “You are ruined and undone by this sin!” a puritan’s voice rebuked. The face of Elnora came to my mind’s eye, lamenting the waste of all her teaching.

  “No, you are made new by love. A maid no more, but born a woman,” said a wiser, more generous voice.

  “What’s done is done and cannot be undone,” came a stern voice like my father’s.

  “Ah, but what am I to do next?” I wondered aloud.

  “Pray that this secret does not come to light,” counseled the worldly voice, and ruefully I agreed.

  As I debated with myself, a summons came from my father. I wondered what it could mean, for he had ignored me for many months. When I reached his chambers, he was bustling to and fro securing boxes and bundles for my brother’s return to France. From the way he tugged at his beard and hemmed in his throat, I knew he had other matters on his mind. I should have knelt before him, but I felt disinclined to show this respect. After all, he had neglected his duty to me. So I stood before the table, waiting for him to speak.

  Across from me, my father leaned on the table and asked in a low voice, “What have you observed lately of the queen and Claudius?”

  “Nothing, my lord.” It was the truth.

  “Don’t act so innocent, child! Have I not taught you to look closely about you?” he asked, his voice sharp.

  “Yes, Father, I keep my eyes guarded,” I said, pretending humility. But he seized my chin and lifted it, forcing me to look in his eyes.

  “Many think it strange that Claudius has wed his brother’s widow with such haste. Tell me what is said in secret among you ladies,” he demanded.

  Now I was suspicious of my father. What knowledge did he seek and on whose behalf? In fact I knew nothing, for we ladies spoke with caution where our mistress was concerned. I judged it safest to defend Gertrude.

  “Why may she not choose her husband? She is accustomed to being the wife of a king and would not be content with less,” I said, echoing what I had heard Elnora say before.

  Mindful of deeper matters, my father did not mark the defiant tone of my words.

  “Some say she was false to King Hamlet,” he whispered, leaning closer.

  The idea struck me with honor.

  “I have seen nothing!” I said. Then I countered boldly, “Why? What do you know?”

  My father started back in surprise and pursed his lips. Instead of speaking again, he shook his finger at me, turned, and swept out of the room just as my brother entered it. Laertes fell against a pile of boxes to avoid colliding with him.

  I stifled a laugh. But I was glad to see my brother and hoped he would speak kindly to me. He looked fine in a russet traveling cloak thrown over his embroidered doublet. His silk hose set off his strong legs. With his stride he gave the air of a man even more intense and combative than he had been as a boy.

  I came out from behind the table and reached out in a tentative way, inviting an embrace. Laertes grasped my hands briefly, holding me away from him.

  “Dear sister, before I take my leave I have advice you must heed.” His tone spoke of business. I drew back, hurt.

  “It regards Prince Hamlet. I have learned that you often meet him in secret, wearing a rustic disguise. I doubt your silly games are merely innocent,” he said.

  Speechless, I looked down to hide the sudden flush that came over my face. How had Laertes discovered our love?

  “Hamlet’s blood is hot, and you are fair. Perhaps he says he loves you now, but do not believe him. He cannot choose you, for he is subject to his birth. Nor is your will your own.”

  I did not wish to hear this irksome lecture.

  “Why may I not choose my love? Who will prevent me?” I asked, thrusting my chin out, as I used to do when we argued as children.

  “You know that is a foolish question. Our father will decide whom you will marry and when. Or I will, when he grows infirm.”

  I did not dare to argue with Laertes further, lest he trap me into admitting my love for Hamlet. But I would not grant his point.

  “You cannot control me,” I said, crossing my arms and determining to stay silent.

  Then my brother changed his manner and began to plead with me.

  “Dear Ophelia, my reputation is also at stake in this matter. Consider the loss to your honor���and to our family’s name���if you believe Hamlet’s songs of love and open your chaste treasure to him.”

  Were spirits and spies the witnesses while Hamlet and I made love on the battlement? No, for if we had been seen, Laertes would know his warning came too late. With my finger I prodded his chest.

  “You, dear brother, take this advice of me. Tend to your own honor, and I will tend to mine. Do not show me the steep and thorny way to virtue, while you take the primrose path of ease.”

  He laughed in derision. I wanted to throw myself at him and scratch his face. Why should men be allowed freedoms that were deemed sinful for women to take?

  At that moment, our father stumbled into the room, waving his arms to hasten Laertes’ departure. He flung out all his favored maxims as if strewing flowers after my brother.

  “This above all, be true to yourself, and then you cannot be false to any man,” he cried to Laertes’ departing back.

  What empty words these were coming from my father, a man so used to fitting his form to the mold of power that he had no true shape of his own! I noticed for the first time how his back was becoming bent with age and
the hair on his head was wispy. I saw him dab at his eyes and sigh like a fond father as Laertes finally disappeared. Had he ever shed any tears for me? Had he loved my mother and wept when she died? Would he have been different had she lived? I longed to ask him these questions, but I had not the courage.

  “Ophelia, what did Laertes say to you?”

  “Something touching on the Lord Hamlet,” I said lightly. “It was nothing important.”

  “I hear that you have been most free and bounteous, giving your private time to him. What is between you?” His brows were pulled together in a single line, his eyes intent upon my face.

  Did Laertes and my father conspire against me? What my brother knew, my father must also know. I would speak the truth and not provoke him further.

  “Prince Hamlet has bestowed on me some signs of love,” I said, choosing my words with care. I dared to hope that because he had loved my mother, perhaps he could be made to understand my love.

  “What signs? Tell me now,” he said, as if he were coaxing candy from my fist.

  “Letters, tokens, and true promises,” I said, bringing my hands to my heart in the hope that my evident joy would move him.

  “And you believe his tenders of affection?” he said with scorn. In his presence I felt small and insecure. Doubts began to prick me that Hamlet was sincere.

  “I do not know, my lord, what I should believe,” I said, my voice trembling from the effort to control it. I felt the familiar vexation at my father rise within me.

  “Then listen to me. Set your price much higher. In short, tender yourself more dearly, or you’ll tender me a fool!” He held his forearms in imitation of a mother cradling a baby.

  I gasped, shocked by my father’s rude mockery of my virtue.

  “He has pledged his love to me in most honorable fashion,” I said, drawing my dignity about me like a torn cloak. Tears began to sting my eyes.

  “Do not believe his vows! They are traps to catch a woodcock!” he fairly shouted at me.