Ophelia

by Lisa Klein

  When this rage was spent, I considered my changed position at court. Fortune, which had favored me, even to the height of marrying a prince, now turned her wheel to grind me down. I did not have a father’s protection. Gertrude no longer favored me. Laertes was away, seemingly unaware of our father’s death. And my husband had abandoned me to uncertainty and grief. I was alone in the world.

  That night I slept in fits, unable to separate dreaming from waking. I imagined my father’s voice crying in his death throes. In my mind, a tram of ghostlike figures flitted in the corridors of Elsinore, followed by the figure of Claudius, cruelly bent upon his evil course. I heard footsteps approach and pause outside my door. The iron latch rattled and the hinges creaked. I leaped up with a scream, threw myself against the door, and the heavy footsteps retreated.

  When I opened the door the hall was black and seemed empty, but a familiar sour smell of onions and ale hung in the air. It had been no dream. I had been visited by the drunken Edmund. But why? Was his old grudge now grown into a jealous passion that he would satisfy? Or had Claudius dispatched him to do me harm? Surely Edmund had seen me flee the king’s chamber on the night my father was killed. He would have told Claudius, who would then know that I was present when my father found the poison vial. Did he think that I now had the vial?

  I knew that I was in grave danger. Shivering and sweating at once, I struggled to control the fearful frenzy rising in me. I wished that I were not alone, without a father or husband to help me. I wanted to flee, but knew not where to go. I wished that I were anyone but Ophelia, victim of mischance and evil.

  Chapter 25

  I have seen a hunted deer run from the open field and take cover in a shadowed bower, panting among the tangled bushes and brambles that she prays will keep her unseen. I knew I must likewise hide myself and deceive the hunter. I searched within my trunk for something to conceal me. I pulled out kirtles, caps, and bodices, the gilded prayer book and a cracked looking glass Gertrude had given me. There was my father’s cloak that he had thrown over me on the night he was killed. Within its folds I kept the miniature of my mother and the Janus-faced token Hamlet gave me that night we met in the maze. It was all I had left of my husband, finally my trunk held two books I had rescued from the queen’s hand and my book of herbal lore. My possessions were scant indeed.

  I held up the cracked glass and considered my distorted image. I almost did not recognize myself. My face was gaunt, with deep and dark shadows beneath my eyes. My hair was dull, unwashed, and tangled. I sniffed my skin and my smock and wrinkled my nose. I smelled like a creature unfit for the company of men. What has become of me? I wondered with growing alarm. I dropped the minor and it broke in two pieces. I am no longer myself. Who am I? asked the desperate voice within me.

  I held up the rustic gown in which I was married to Hamlet, but laid it aside. I would never wear it again! Instead I took my best skirt, the one embroidered at the hem with intricate gold threads. I would have no further need of such proud finery. A plan was beginning to take shape in my mind. With some effort, using my hands and teeth, I tore the rich skirt to rough tatters. I donned this ruined garment and a bodice and took up my willow basket. I would test whether I might slip away from Elsinore under the guise of a poor woman, a mere herb-gatherer. Leaving off my shoes, I emerged from my chamber.

  When she saw me, Cristiana cried out, “Look what she has done to her best skirt! Surely she has gone mad!”

  Her reaction startled me. Am I mad? I wondered. “I have every reason to be so,” I said as I passed by her.

  Elnora stood up, peered at me, then gasped.

  “Where do you think you are going, Ophelia?”

  “Denmark’s diseased,” I said. “Let us find a cure.”

  They did not stop me as I descended the stairway and left the castle, but they followed at a distance.

  The late September air only hinted at the coming cold. I wandered along the highway leading to the village and paused at the edges of fields, filling my basket with herbs and flowers. I watched as the men gathered wheat into sheaves and the women, with bent backs, gleaned the shorn fields. The only sounds were the swish of scythes, the shouts of men, and the cries of birds fighting for bits of gram. I took a dim, remembered pleasure in being out of doors on so lovely a day, though it was clouded by my recent anguish.

  My steps were slow, my way meandering. I noticed that Elnora looked pained and leaned heavily on Cristiana, who pleaded with her to return to the castle. I had not rubbed liniment into her joints for many days, and I felt a pang of guilt. Remembering Cristiana’s honor at my appearance, I thought that the guise of madness might serve me well. So I danced a few steps, conversed with myself, and laughed at nothing. I pretended not to see them watching me. I hoped they would think that I had lost my wits through grief.

  After a time, I noticed they no longer followed me. Pricked by a sudden fear in finding myself alone, I hastily returned to the castle by the main road where many people traveled. The late afternoon sun beat upon me. I thirsted, like the wilted flowers in my basket. My feet were bruised and bled from many small cuts. The dry grass of the fields had scratched my legs. I felt a perverse pleasure in these pains, for they distracted me from my misery.

  But that night I permitted Elnora to rub the juice of violets and pansies onto my inflamed cuts to relieve the pain. I lay back limply, enjoying the touch of her fingers, and let myself be cared for. She fretted over me, saying, “Ophelia, I fear your brain is overheated and the vapors have made you ill. Do you know me?”

  “I do; a dear motherlike creature you are. But I do not know myself.”

  The next day I prepared to go out again. I wanted to be seen and to test the limits of my prison. Moreover, I did not feel safe in my room at Elsinore, alone.

  “Must we follow her again?” I heard Cristiana complain to Elnora.

  “No, the poor girl is no danger to herself or others. And I fear my feet will not hold me up today. Let her go. Perhaps nature will help to cure her grief,” replied Elnora sadly.

  At Elnora’s insistence, I wore a coif to keep the sun from my head and a large kerchief to cover my shoulders. I also put on shoes to protect my sore feet. I was not mad, for I had the sense to care for myself. I carried some bread in my basket. Avoiding the solitary paths, I gathered berries and ate them slowly so my stomach would not rebel. My garments trailed through brambles, and my feet stirred up dust that settled over me and parched my throat with every breath. Melancholy thoughts drifted through my mind. What is man but dust? What is woman but a clay vessel, easily broken?

  In the afternoon, I haunted the busy outer courtyard of the castle. There I discovered that I could be visible to the world, yet unseen. I swept the ground idly with a bundle of rushes. I wove garlands of fragrant gillyflowers and fading hedge roses, draping them about me. I hummed ditties and murmured to myself and pretended to weep. These were the actions I expected a simple woman distracted by grief might display. I had never observed such a creature, for, whether from shame or fear, I had ignored the madmen and the poor who lived among us. So, too, was I overlooked. Those who passed by gave me a wide berth. I drew some brief and pitying looks, but no one spoke to me. Some boys threw rotten apples at me. They struck the pavement, releasing their cidery scent.

  Then I saw Claudius enter the courtyard with some of his councillors and guards. I froze in fear, like the deer when she smells the dogs. Claudius looked around him, frowning with suspicion, as if he sensed an assassin lurking. I dared not even lift my hand to draw my coif over my forehead. Claudius passed near enough to me that I could have flung my basket at his head, but he took no notice of me at all. Giddy with relief, I felt myself to be invisible. Boldly I called out to old men who resembled my father, but they hurried away from me, crossing themselves as if to ward off something evil. I felt dazed and weak but had no desire for food.

  Young men in their stylish doublets and fine hose all reminded me of Hamlet. Strutting without care
and bowing to the ladies, they sent my thoughts flowing to tunes of false love.

  “Young men will do’t, if they come to’t;

  By Cock, they are to blame.

  Quoth she, ‘Before you tumbled me,

  You promised me to wed.’”

  I found myself singing aloud this song that filled my head like the buzz of a trapped fly. But no one heeded me. The tune would not go away, even when I struck at the air with my hand. Was I mad? If so, how could I recall the words so clearly? I altered my voice and sang the man’s part:

  “So would I have done, by yonder sun,

  If thou hadst not come to my bed.”

  I found myself weeping true tears, not feigned ones. Regret and remorse welled up within me. Why had I ever believed Hamlet’s false promises of love? I was a stupid girl, as my father said I was. I remembered him saying once, “Only a foolish man will wed her who comes easily to his bed.”

  “You were wrong, Father. Hamlet did many me Then he was a fool …. I’ll give you a fool!”

  I found that I had spoken this conversation aloud and a man had stopped to take notice of my words. He earned a cloak and bundle like a traveler. It was Horatio. I saw by the look of surprise and dismay on his face that he recognized me. He began to approach me, but at that moment a crowd of people passed between us. Among them was Gertrude, attended by an aged gentleman and a young lady I did not know. At once I was angry that Gertrude should flourish while I was neglected and miserable! I longed to confront her.

  “Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?” I found myself crying in a loud voice. The queen stopped, as if obeying my call, and the lady and gentleman with her. Boldly I drew nearer, but I did not look in her eyes. I gazed just beyond her, as Hamlet had once looked beyond me into the vacant air.

  Gertrude stepped back and took the gentleman’s arm.

  “I will not speak with her,” she said, turning from me.

  “Her speech is nothing. She is a harmless creature,” said the white-haired gentleman in a reassuring tone. The young lady-in-waiting looked on in horror. Was this the new favorite of whom Cristiana spoke?

  “Do not fear to look on me, lady. All will be well with you,” I said to the girl. No doubt the words frightened her even more than my wild looks.

  Meanwhile Horatio had come forward and was speaking quietly in Gertrude’s ear. She nodded, and her expression softened somewhat. She greeted me, though with hesitation.

  “How now, Ophelia?”

  To that I replied with a song, to remind her of my dead father.

  “He is dead and gone, lady,

  He is dead and gone.

  At his head a grass green turf,

  At his heels a stone.”

  I wished to torment her, I admit. The look of alarm on her face pleased me. When she reached out, I retreated, spurning her tentative touch. I felt no shame to see her face cloud over with tears as she went on her way.

  “Good night, sweet ladies, good night! Come, my coach!” I called as if I were Gertrude with all the court at my command. How grand it was to disdain the queen herself without fear of consequence! I waved away Horatio, who was about to speak to me. I decided I would not be ruled by anyone, neither a husband nor a father nor reason itself.

  Absorbed in my rebellious thoughts, I did not mark where my wandering steps took me and found myself in the foyer where I had lately suffered Hamlet’s rejection. I leaned against a column and let the stone chill my burning cheek. The wave of my defiance began to ebb.

  “Cold, cold comfort!” I sobbed, feeling all my losses anew.

  The sound of footsteps startled me from my sad reverie. The image of Edmund’s scarred face flashed in my mind, and like an animal, I was suddenly alert to danger. But I had no weapon, only my hands and my swift feet. Should I fight or should I flee? Before I could do either, I was seized from behind and I screamed. A firm hand was clapped over my mouth, and I fainted.

  Chapter 26

  When I opened my eyes, I found myself in a dusty, unused room that proved to be a large wardrobe. I was seated on a pile of old linens and Horatio’s arm supported me. His face hovered over mine as he dabbed my cheeks and forehead with a cloth. I sat up and drew away from him, suddenly conscious of my dirty hair, soiled hands, and torn clothing.

  “What happened to me?” I asked, confused.

  “Forgive me,” Horatio begged with a look of distress. “I am sorry to frighten you. I needed to restrain you, for I did not relish a fight.” Though he smiled, it did not erase the worry that creased his brow. “Are you hurt?”

  I shook my head and smiled to show my relief.

  “I am glad to see you, Horatio. I thought it was my enemy attacking me.”

  Horatio looked at me questioningly, but I felt too weak to begin to explain Edmund’s menacing ways.

  “My lady Ophelia, I grieve to see you so changed. I have been away, seeking news of Hamlet, or I would have …” His words trailed off.

  “Good Horatio,” I said hastily. “I am not as I seem. I wear this guise of madness for a purpose. I may put it on and take it off at will.”

  “So said Hamlet, but his deeds have made me doubt that.” He looked at me wanly. “What is the meaning in your madness?”

  “Ah, I prove the common belief that a woman, being weaker in body and mind than a man, will easily run mad when stricken by grief.”

  “Your mind is as strong as any man’s. Why seek to prove what is not true?” Horatio demanded.

  “It is a useful lie. For you see that I, a poor, simple creature without reason, am harmless and hence safe from harm,” I explained. It seemed clear to me, but Horatio was doubtful.

  “From the scene I just witnessed, your madness makes you feared by Denmark’s powers.”

  “What is there to fear from me?” I shrugged. “Denmark will shun me, and I will be alone as I wish.”

  Horatio would not let me win the argument.

  “Learn from Hamlet’s example that madness, like a lodestone, draws danger to itself!” he said as loudly as he dared in our secret room. “You deceive yourself. You are not safe.”

  I began to see the reason in Horatio’s words, which gave me pause for a moment.

  “Then I will leave Elsinore, with its dangers and deceptions, and live a humble life,” I said. “I will find some obscure village or cottage in the woods.”

  “Claudius would not leave you be,” Horatio said, shaking his head. “For you are Hamlet’s wife.”

  “He does not know we are married. Or does he?” I asked, suddenly fearful.

  “I have said nothing. But it may be that Hamlet let it slip before he was sent away. We have seen how indiscreet his madness makes him. And Claudius has spies everywhere.”

  “There is no proof of our wedding. Words were spoken. That is all. And words vanish on the wind,” I said bitterly.

  “Still, you are a threat to Claudius; you will be found by him.”

  “Bah! He did not recognize me today though he passed within a stone’s throw. That tyrant should not flatter himself that I would take his life, for I do not value it at a pin’s worth.” My words were sharp with scorn.

  “I also have no care for Claudius’s life, but I fear for yours,” said Horatio.

  “Look at me. I am nothing,” I said, suddenly despairing again. “From nothing can nothing be taken away.”

  “You are wrong, Ophelia. But I am in no mood for scholarly disputation.”

  “My father was killed as if he were a rat. My life, too, is worth no more than a beast’s.”

  “God knows, it is natural to mourn your father, but do not let your grief destroy your reason,” pleaded Horatio, taking my hand in his.

  “It is not my father’s death that grieves me most, but the coldness of my husband.” I cried, unable to stop my tears. My only comfort was a small one, the pressure of Horatio’s hand upon mine.

  “No one saw, as I did, the private hell Hamlet endured, knowing that he had killed, unwittingly, th
e father of his new bride,” Horatio said, his intense brown eyes focused on me. “I know he went to you to beg your mercy.”

  I remembered Elnora’s report of the desperate Hamlet at my door.

  “He came to beg my mercy only? Or my love as well?” I asked, hope battling with fear.

  “Would you have granted both?” Horatio’s gaze was direct. I owed him the truth, though I did not wish to face it myself.

  “I could forgive a man who killed my father by mistake, but love him as a husband? By God, Horatio, I do not know!” I cried, flinging up my hands. “I will go and live a solitary life; disappear and be Hamlet’s wife���no more!” The final words broke from me like a sob and I rose to my feet, meaning to exit the scene.

  Horatio blocked my way and would not let me leave.

  “Ophelia, such a course would be vain and dangerous. Claudius is more canny that you know. For proof, I have important news from Hamlet.”

  News! This would stay me. Horatio reached into his doublet and produced a letter. He spoke with great urgency.

  “Read here how Claudius sent Hamlet to England, not for his safety, but to his death! Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were dispatched as well, carrying letters to seal his doom. But he has escaped and foiled their foul plans. He writes that I should join him with as much speed as I would flee death.”

  Here indeed was a new twist. I scanned the letter, written in Hamlet’s familiar hand. It brought me awake like cold water splashed on my face. Claudius’s purpose was darker than I had imagined; he had ordered the death of Hamlet, his nephew and son. I knew he had poisoned a king. He may have had my father killed. Why should he spare me? A foolish beast I was, to think that madness would shelter me. I was only making myself easier prey for the wolf.

  “We were right, Ophelia, to fear the consequences of Hamlet’s play. You and I are in danger if we stay at Elsinore. Escape with me and we will join Hamlet,” Horatio pleaded.