Ophelia

by Lisa Klein

  I had wanted to be the author of my tale, not merely a player in Hamlet’s drama or a pawn in Claudius’s deadly game. But what had I gained in devising my own death and escaping from Elsinore? An unfamiliar life, hemmed about with secrets. A doubtful future, containing only one certainty: that I would become a mother, a role for which I had no earthly preparation. What would become of us���my little girl or boy and its ignorant mother? What if I did not love the child who would remind me of my greatest grief, the loss of its father’s love?

  I did not want to face these questions that thrust themselves on me. Instead, I dwelled in the happier days of my past. When I heard footsteps in the hall or a knock at my door, I remembered Hamlet coming into my room, his blue eyes flashing with wit, mischief, or desire. When the sun spilled through my window, its weak warmth made me think of the sunny gardens where, hidden behind the tall foxgloves, Hamlet and I had embraced as lovers not yet troubled or torn apart by madness.

  One evening as I stoked this memory like a fire against November’s chill, a knock sounded at my door. I opened it to admit Isabel. Her eyes shone and her step was quick and stealthy. In her hand she earned a letter.

  “A white-haired man came to the gate bearing this letter, as he said, ‘for the young traveler who had sought aid at the convent.’ I knew at once whom he meant, and I accepted the letter on Mother’s behalf. But may the saints forgive me, and I believe they will,” she said, crossing herself, “for I did not take it to her, but brought it here directly.” She held out the letter, as if offering a key that might unlock my silence. “The messenger would not stay for a reply, but disappeared into the night,” she added.

  My habit of suspicion made me hesitate. Was this a trick? A mistake? Who would have written to me? My heart contracted with fear as I considered that Claudius had discovered my hiding place and now would toy with me, as a cat does a mouse. But hope and courage moved me to take the letter from Isabel’s hand. Turning it over, I saw that it bore the name “Philippe L’oeil.” The seal was unbroken. It must be from Horatio! My heart leaped at the longing so soon fulfilled by mere wishing. With impatient, shaking hands I broke the seal in order to devour the good tidings I had waited to hear.

  The letter bore, alas, Horatio’s news of the death of Hamlet and the ruin of all Denmark. The final fruits of evil have spilled their deadly seeds… . It was the sight of his dying mother that spurred Hamlet’s revenge at last… . Laertes and Prince Hamlet have slain each other… . I have failed in the task you set me… . Forgive Hamlet… he loved you deeply. Horatio’s words filled my veins with sorrow and touched my heart like the quickest poison, bringing blackness like the oblivion of death.

  Part Three

  St. Emilion, France

  1601-1602

  Chapter 37

  Outside, the wind whips the bare-branched trees; it whistles through the cracks in the stone walls, chills my body, and reaches all my bones and inner parts. My heart is cracked; no, it is broken in pieces, like an earthen bowl dropped from a great height. Hamlet is dead. Gertrude and Laertes are slam. I have no husband, mother, brother, or father in the world. I have no home, for I am cut off from Denmark forever. I am like a severed branch flung by a storm from the trunk of a great, dying tree. That Claudius is also dead gives me little comfort now.

  At night, frightful dreams awaken me. In my mind I see the face of Hamlet, his blue eyes reflecting my image like a watery glass. Then his body folds over a sharp blade in the hands of my brother. In their eyes, blood pools. I see myself lying in a tomb beside my father’s sheeted body where the worms feed. Then I dream that I am falling into deep water, and I cannot swim but awaken gasping for air. Like an uneasy ghost, I rise from my pallet and pace up and down the corridor to shake the fearsome visions. And like the spirits who roam the night, I return before the dawn.

  When sleep finally overcomes me, the morning light creeps through my narrow window and forces my weary eyes open again. The sun’s faint warmth restores my hope, assures me that I am safe now. In its light, the tragedy at Elsinore seems only an invention of my grief-oppressed brain. Then I remember reading Horatio’s letter, and despair, like a cold wind, dispels the momentary peace. But I cannot find the letter, though I turn every stone, every page, every fold of cloth in my tiny cell. I must have destroyed it so that no one would learn what I wish to keep hidden.

  Every day, closeted in my stone cell, I write. A sister named Marguerite, who is as beautiful as the golden-faced flower for which she is named, has brought me pen and ink.

  “To pen a letter if you desire. And to please our Lord and Mother Ermentrude by recording your daily devotions,” she says, and leaves.

  I write neither devotions nor letters. To whom would I address them? Rather, I write of my life, beginning with my earliest memories and including all events leading to my late woes. I secrete the pages in my mattress. One day I will give them to my child. I discover that writing is like applying leeches to my mind, curing its grief and drawing out humors that cloud my understanding.

  The chapel bell rings throughout the day and night, calling the nuns to constant prayer. I sigh, put down my pen, and let the clamor drive away my thoughts. I will at least observe the rules of this place. As there is nothing else to read, I take up my book of prayers, the gift from Gertrude. I read: Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise your name. Hamlet once said that Denmark was a prison. Now he is free of the world’s prison. My prison is my own mind, where dark thoughts and sorrows shackle my soul. Praise is beyond me. For what is left to worship that is not destroyed? I once praised my lord Hamlet, turning his name on my tongue like the bread of life itself. Was that a sin? And was Hamlet’s death my punishment?

  I fall asleep in the midst of these vain prayers, and when I awaken, my knees ache from the cold stone floor and my hands are numb. What has stirred me? I start up, sensing a presence at my door. It is only Marguerite, a cool Madonna with her ivory face framed by its white veil. Her hand resting on the latch, she regards me with suspicion. Have I cried out in my sleep? Did I, unaware, name Hamlet or the king?

  “Mother Ermentrude asks that you mark this receipt for the gold in your purse, which she has put into safekeeping,” she says, holding out a document and a pen. “As her secretary, I make this request.”

  I hesitate, suspecting a ruse to get me to sign my name and reveal myself. Then I take the document and sign Philippe L’oeil, the name I traveled under. When Marguerite takes the paper from me, she does not study my signature.

  “I saw that the coins bore the seal of Denmark’s king,” she says. Her gaze probes me.

  I had not considered how easily my connection to Elsinore might be uncovered. But I return Marguerite’s gaze without flinching.

  “I pray you, do not accuse me of dishonesty,” I say, disguising my fear with careful words. I wonder if my speech also bears a Danish stamp.

  Marguerite draws her full lips into a thin, tight line.

  “The Lord protects the innocent,” she says, then leaves as silently as she came.

  The scene unsettles me. What did Marguerite mean? I am suddenly afraid, though Claudius can no longer touch me. Alas, the habit of fear dies hard, and perhaps I will never trust anyone again. With these distressing thoughts, I toss upon my bed until I fall asleep.

  Into my restless sleep a figure in white intrudes. It comes to me like a soul freed from the bonds of flesh. But it touches me and calls me lady. I open my eyes, and Isabel stands before me.

  “Good evening, lady. Will you eat?”

  “I will not.” Since the news came from Horatio, food turns to ashes in my mouth.

  Isabel sets the food down despite my refusal. She waits. The scent of fresh hot bread stirs my hunger. So I take a bite, and another, and soon I have eaten it all and drunk the soup, too. I am compelled to live almost against my will.

  “Shall you speak to me today? Are you well enough?” Her brown eyes in her round face
are full of compassion. “Please tell me your name, that I may call you by it,” she pleads.

  “Please, do not ask, for I fear … ” I shake my head, and the tears gather in my eyes.

  Isabel, her brow knit in concern, strokes my hair. It is still short and unevenly shorn, a reminder of my recent trials. Only a nun would crop her hair so close to her head. Or a young woman who wants to be taken for a man. But Isabel does not demand to know why I have done this. Her touch is gentle, softening my hardness. I realize that I long to be spoken to by my name. Surely to say it would not reveal my secrets.

  “I am Ophelia.”

  “O-phel-i-a. The sound of it is sweet,” Isabel says, caressing with her voice the unfamiliar syllables of my name. “Philippe L’oeil! Now I understand! How clever you are to disguise your name so.” She thinks for a moment. “Ophelos is Greek for ‘help,’ for which you have come here. And phil is a word meaning ‘loving’; you are loved by God,” she says, pleased by this interpretation.

  “You are learned, Isabel.”

  “I have a little learning,” she admits. “And you understand French perfectly, do you not?”

  I nod, unable to deceive her in this. But she does not press me further.

  “I do not like to study,” she says, shaking her head, “but Mother Ermentrude is a great patron of learning. Our library has many treasures. One day I will show you.”

  “I would be grateful,” I say, unable to hide my eagerness.

  Isabel bids me good night, and I am alone again. When she comes the next day, she brings clean bedding and clothing. I bury my face in their folds, inhaling the crisp scent of outdoors.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  “That is the work of Therese, who is most diligent in the laundry,” she says.

  From my window I have watched a girl with halting steps spread the wet linens on shrubs, rocks, and fences. She works, not knowing my misery, and I watch, not knowing hers.

  “Tell me, how did she become crippled?” I ask, thinking of the childhood wounds on my own legs. Though long healed, the smooth, whitish scars still ache with the cold.

  “She has been lame since her birth. Her father, being a poor man, sent her to work for us, for he knew that with such a defect, she would never marry,” says Isabel, as if beginning a story.

  “She works, while you pray?”

  “She is only a servant who earns her bread and board here, yet she prays with more fervor than any nun.”

  “Alas, I am of no use. I neither pray nor work,” I say, not able to disguise my bitterness. I rise and look out from the window, where I see Therese struggling to carry a heavy basket.

  “Do not say such things,” Isabel says gently. “You are our guest. By the rule of our order, we give aid to those in need. Soon, you will be well again.”

  I watch Therese in silence. Her breath crystallizes in the cold air. Suddenly she drops the basket and falls to her knees, her face to the ground. Her body shakes.

  “Look, she is hurt!” I cry.

  “She is not,” says Isabel calmly. “Most likely she is having a vision of the Lord. They come upon her and sometimes she loses her senses. She will recover without our aid.”

  “I, too, suffer unwanted dreams,” I murmur, feeling a thread of sympathy draw me to the suffering girl.

  “Yes, I know.”

  Startled, I look up at Isabel.

  “I have heard you cry out in your sleep,” she explains. “A dream can be a fearful thing, but a vision of our Lord is what every sister desires for herself. So many envy Therese while others doubt that she sees Christ and deny that the blood on her hands is his.”

  “Blood on her hands?” I echo, wondering what evil Therese has committed.

  “Yes. It may be the blood of Christ’s wounds, or it may be the effect of the hard work she does.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I do not know. It is not for me to judge such matters,” says Isabel, but I sense disapproval in her tone.

  Bloody hands. A sign of the Lord’s favor���and a mark of guilt. I look at my hands; they are white. My conscience protests that the deaths were not my fault. My love for Hamlet was no sin. Our promises were holy, spoken before heaven. But Hamlet said the same of his revenge! Alas, I do not wish to entertain these unwelcome thoughts now, so I push them from my mind.

  “How did you come to St. Emilion?” I ask Isabel.

  “You will not answer my questions, yet I should answer you?” she chides, but with a smile, revealing a gap in her front teeth.

  “My father is a duke, and my mother was a servant, a wet nurse to his children. She died of smallpox when I was an infant. The duke presented me to the nuns as an oblate, with a purse that would have been my dowry. He did so to atone for his sins. I have never spoken to him.”

  “I am sorry,” I say, feeling tears spring to my eyes. Isabel, like me, is motherless.

  “Be not sad for me! I am at peace. I took my vows two years ago. Now I know I shall die in this place,” she says. Her cherublike face shines with joy.

  I do not have Isabel’s faith that welcomes everything, even Death, with joy. I have fought Death, and illness and despair have sapped all my strength. Yet I feel my desire for life like a rope knotted and coiled within me. Now Isabel has taken hold of its end in her small, strong, and patient hands.

  Chapter 38

  I look forward to Isabel’s visits as I once looked forward to reading with Gertrude in her chamber. She brings me books from the convent library: a history of the wars in France, and a volume of the English poet Chaucer, containing The Legend of Good Women and The Tale of Troilus and Criseyde, translated into French. I put these aside for when I am alone.

  Isabel loves to talk, perhaps more than she loves to pray. Her bright voice fills my room like the music of a lute, and she is like a troubadour with her tales, though none are bawdy or bad. Sometimes her stones are interrupted by calls to prayer or work, but the next day she easily picks up the thread again.

  “Do you not think that Mother Ermentrude is beautiful?” she asks, eager to begin a story.

  “Yes,” I say, for I have seen, even from a distance, that her nose is fine and her skin like whitest alabaster. “Why did she never marry?”

  “Ah,” Isabel begins, as if sounding a note on her instrument. “She was the youngest of five daughters of a wealthy baron and his wife. All his wealth was spent on dowries for her sisters. He could not make a good marriage for her, so he gave her up to the convent when she was a young girl.”

  “But did her mother agree to the baron’s decision? Did she not fight to keep her daughter?” I ask.

  “Perhaps, but what can a mother do? A daughter is her father’s property,” Isabel says without bitterness.

  I do not say what I feel���that no mother, while she lived, would willingly part from her daughter.

  “Now she has lived here some thirty years, and she has been prioress for ten years,” Isabel continues. “The baron’s influence helped her to the position. But her father is now dead and her brother is an enemy of Count Durufle, our convent’s patron. She is mother to us all, by the grace of God.” Here Isabel crosses herself, then adds, “And the goodwill of the count, and the dispensation of the bishop. We pray for her always.”

  I sigh to think of the insecure state of women, who must always abide the earthly authority of men.

  “An even better story is that of Sister Marie. Her father betrothed her to an elderly merchant, but her mother defied her husband and used her own dowry to bring Marie to this convent.”

  “So the mother did defend her daughter,” I remark.

  “Yes, her husband abused her cruelly, for she would not say where she had taken Mane. He was also a drunkard. One day, he stumbled into a puddle and drowned! She sold his chandlery and with the money she returned here and begged to be taken as an oblate.”

  “Why should she beg?”

  “She was not a noblewoman. Her husband made candles and h
er father was only a poor blacksmith. But her purse was fat, and that settled it!”

  “Is Marie still among you?”

  “No, for she fell ill one winter and died before she was twenty.” Isabel dabs her eye with her fingertip, moved by the sad thought.

  Alas, I think, even a mother’s courage cannot keep her child from all danger.

  “What became of her mother?” I ask.

  “Why, she is Sister Angelina, our dear cook! She rails against men, but we pay her no mind, for she is an angel in the kitchen. She feeds our bodies, while Mother Ermentrude feeds our souls.”

  I think about Angelina’s sacrifice for her daughter, its ending in loss, her grief. Before sunset, I walk in the small graveyard that nestles against the chapel’s north face. On the gate I read words from a psalm: My flesh also shall rest in hope. I find the stone marking Mane’s grave. A rosebush grows there, its leaves withered by frost. The sight does not sadden me, for I know the bush will bloom again next year. At this hour, in this gray month, Nature utters no sound, and in this resting place my own heart is also silent.

  The next day when Isabel comes, I am curious for another story.

  “Tell me about Sister Marguerite, whose beauty is like the golden flower she is named for.”

  Isabel frowns and lifts her shoulders in a shrug.

  “I know little of Marguerite. She is the secretary of Mother Ermentrude and privy to all her business. She is most secret, and excells in piety among us,” she says. “Though you see how proud is her manner.” Then she leans forward and speaks in confidence, “I confess I do not love her as I ought in charity!”