Ophelia

by Lisa Klein

  Carrying Hamlet in his basket, I hasten to Therese’s room, where the three Marys are gathered. Isabel sponges Therese’s forehead while Marguerite holds a useless spoon. Angelina prays, sitting on a stool. Beneath the blanket, Therese lies flat, just as when I left her.

  “Is she no better?” I ask in dismay.

  “I prayed for an Easter miracle,” says Isabel. “But God wills otherwise.”

  “She opens her eyes only to cry out to God, like a lost child. She does not see us here,” says Marguerite. Tears well in her green eyes like ice melted by the sun.

  I feel betrayed by my new hope. The bitter truth is that Therese will die, perhaps on this Easter day.

  “Why will God not save her? He brought his son, who was dead, to life again. Why can he not raise this sick woman from her bed?” I look into the faces of the sisters, not caring to hide my distress from them. They, too, are grieved and have no answers for me. I sink down on the foot of Therese’s bed and this time address my complaint to the heavens above. “I have tried to help her, God, but you are not helping me!”

  Isabel comes to me and rests her hand on my shoulder.

  “It is not your fault, Ophelia,” she says.

  “I wanted to see her grow healthy again. To cure her would have atoned for a broken promise in my past. I let down my dear Elnora, who was like a mother to me.” My failures weigh upon me like a yoke across my shoulders. But I must shake the burden off and do what good I can. “Marguerite, find a bolster and blankets to put behind her back. Fetch my medicine box, and bring Mother Ermentrude.”

  Marguerite lays down the spoon and complies without question. Lately her manner toward me has changed from one of pious disdain to an awed humility. Evidently she is persuaded that I am not a weak and sinful girl, but an honest widow and mother to a prince.

  I bend over Therese and examine her eyes and skin, feel her faint pulse.

  “Have you thought of a new remedy, some untried cordial?” Angelina asks, her voice inflected with hope.

  “No, the time for such treatment is past. I cannot cure her, but I believe we can ease her pain in dying.”

  Marguerite returns with Mother Ermentrude. She and Isabel lift Therese’s frail form into a sitting position and support her with blankets. Therese turns her head weakly from side to side, like a hungry baby or a bird in want of food. Mother Ermentrude begins to pray, fingering her beads.

  I do not know what I am doing; I only act as if I have a purpose. I pour some oil of rosemary steeped in cloves onto a cloth. I have read that its pungence can sometimes restore memory and speech. With the cloth I wipe Therese’s face.

  Her eyelids flutter open. She sees me and shakes her head slowly.

  “Jesus, come to me,” she says, her voice weak and plaintive. “Why does my Lord come no more?” Therese spreads her hands on her sunken chest.

  “Alas, she no longer has the vision of suckling the Christ child,” whispers Angelina. “And now she is in despair.”

  “I have nothing to give. See how I am withered. Oh, Jesus, have mercy on me.”

  Without thinking, moved by a will that is not my own, I turn and with one swift motion lift baby Hamlet from his basket and unwrap him. His arms and legs, freed from their swaddling, beat the air. I hold the infant upright before Therese. His eyes open wide in his rosy face and he waves his tiny fists.

  When Therese sees the infant, she smiles and her eyes shine like bright lamps revealing her very soul. With sudden strength, she leans forward and takes the baby in her bony arms, cradling him close to her. Tears spring from her dry eyes like water from the rock in the desert.

  “It is my salvation!” exclaims Therese. She strokes the baby’s smooth, warm flesh. She breathes deeply.

  “He smells of honey and roses and milk,” she murmurs, a look of ecstasy on her face.

  Inspired, Angelina begins to pray the words of the aged Simeon when he saw the child Jesus.

  “Lord now let thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which you have prepared before the face of all people, to be a light to lighten the nations���”

  Before Angelina is finished, Therese has died. Her head nods forward in the pose of a painter’s Madonna regarding her child. As I lift my baby from her limp arms, they fall open in her lap, palms facing upward.

  Isabel and Marguerite gasp. Mother Ermentrude crosses herself. I stand unmoving and speechless, while Angelina grabs my arm for support. Our eyes are fixed on the amazing sight. There, at the center of Therese’s hands, spring bright beads of blood.

  Chapter 48

  In the twilight of the Easter evening, the day’s strange events fill my thoughts. Already the nuns are saying that a miracle was manifested in Therese’s death. To call it so is beyond my weak belief. Yet I do not understand the appearance of the blood on Therese’s palms. Perhaps, I think, her own fingernails pierced the skin. I clench my hands as hard as I can and conclude that this would be impossible, especially considering Therese’s weakness. Yet such a flow of blood must be a natural wonder that physicians have surely witnessed and philosophers written of. I will read further, searching until I find an explanation that enlightens me.

  I am surprised that grief for Therese does not shake me, though the image of her lifeless body is fresh in my mind. How can I be sad, when she died in great joy? Instead I feel strangely calm. I have come to believe that God takes to himself those who are afflicted with madness. Perhaps he will not condemn them for holding his gift of life so lightly. That may mean my husband, Hamlet, rests in peace, and so I am comforted. No fears disturb my mind, but a peace envelopes me.

  The pressure of a firm hand on my shoulder startles me from this tranquil state. It is Marguerite, who has come in her usual stealthy way into my room. She carries a small writing case.

  “I knocked, but you did not hear me. I pray you, forgive me this intrusion. My business cannot wait,” she says, her voice both quiet and insistent. In her position, she is used to having her way.

  My first thought is that the bishop has already learned of Hamlet’s birth and has rendered a decision about my future. I have made no provisions for this day, but I will not be afraid.

  “Am I to be turned away from St. Emilion? Must I prepare to leave now?” I ask, sitting up and gathering Hamlet into my arms.

  “No, that is not the matter.”

  I am relieved somewhat, but still curious. Marguerite waits to be invited to stay. I nod my head toward the stool, inviting her to use it. When she is settled, she opens her writing box on her lap so that the sun’s failing rays fall upon it and takes up her pen.

  “It is my duty to record the events of this day and the testimony of eyewitnesses, for a report must be made to the bishop. I must start today, while the scene is still fresh in our memories. But my true aim is to publish Therese’s story to the world. This day’s wonders shall make our convent famous throughout France and Christendom,” she says with a grand sweep of her arm. Her eyes are bright with zeal.

  “Ah, a new story for your catalog of saints and sinners. What will be the moral of this tale?”

  “Pray do not mock me, Ophelia,” says Marguerite, with a semblance of her former haughty manner toward me. “Today we witnessed a miracle. For though the dead was not brought to life, a stony heart���my own���was softened and made a welcome bed for God’s grace. Perhaps others may be brought to a truer faith by hearing of Therese’s godly death.”

  Her evident sincerity makes me regret my light words.

  “There are, indeed, many strange things about this Easter day. But I doubt that I can help you, for I do not understand the meaning of it all.”

  “What is there to understand? A miracle must always be a mystery,” she says simply.

  “I do not believe in miracles. But I grant that there are things-events and beings, perhaps���beyond the reach of reason,” I say, turning my thoughts into words with difficulty. “Yet though our faculty of
reason be weak, it seldom descends into madness.” I shake my head, wondering what brought that affliction upon Hamlet and Therese. “Perhaps only some forms of madness spring from a diseased mind, while other types of madness may be divine in origin.”

  “Must I write that Therese was mad?” Marguerite asks, clearly dismayed.

  “No, that is hardly the sum of it.” Nor does it sum up Hamlet’s case, I think. I rest my chin in my hands, still musing. The silence grows until Marguerite breaks it with impatient words.

  “Come now, Ophelia, I cannot tell the story without your help. To begin, I must describe the means you used to treat Therese’s illness. Then an account of your friendship will follow. For you alone have treated her with true charity. I regret that I did not,” Marguerite says, glancing down and to the side. It is a coy motion I have seen in court ladies, but in her it passes for humility.

  “In a moment. But first you must know that I did not act purely out of charity. I wanted to prove my skill by curing Therese. I wanted to cheat Death of her.” It is easy now to admit my wrongs, even to this proud sister, for I no longer fear the consequences of speaking truth. “Marguerite, I have drank poison and almost drowned and was brined alive before I escaped from Denmark. This is no he, but truth,” I say, seeing her eyes grow wide. “I tell you for this reason: Because I was so desperate to preserve my life, I could not bear to see Therese choosing to die. It was my own will that I tried to force upon her, defying her washes and perhaps God’s as well. I confess that I have a long habit of disobedience,” I say with a wry smile. “Surely this is no fit matter for your holy tale.”

  Marguerite holds her pen still. I am relieved that she has written nothing of what I have said.

  “You did no wrong by trying to save her life,” she says softly.

  “But I failed!” I say, feeling anew the disappointment of being unable to cure Therese. “Indeed, I have not been able to preserve the life of anyone I have loved!” I realize that I have given voice to the essence of my loneliness. Tears spring from my eyes like a sudden shower and fall upon my sleeping child, whom I hold tight to my breast. “Now I would give my very life, to preserve his,” I say between sobs.

  “But that is it, Ophelia���the miracle of salvation!” Marguerite’s eyes shine with excitement.

  “What did I say? What do you mean?”

  “Christ gave his life to redeem us. Today, on Therese’s hands, we saw Christ’s blood. It is the sign that you are forgiven; I am forgiven. Now you are willing to give your life for another’s. That is the miracle of salvation! This is what I will write.” Breathless, she dips her pen in ink and begins to write rapidly.

  I am dazed by her words. The idea, that by Therese’s death I am forgiven, comes over me like the tide, lifting me with its gentle force and bearing me toward a solid shore. I see my griefs begin to sink below the waves, and I ride the crest in hope.

  The scratching of Marguerite’s pen has stopped. I see her gaze fixed on the wall as if on a minor that will reflect her inner self. I long to know her thoughts, the meaning of her manner toward me. How is it that she, whom I once hated, now listens without judgment to my sins and even persuades me that I have taken part in a miracle?

  “You say Therese’s death has changed your heart,” I begin. “But you were already changed. Before, you disdained me for a sinner. Since Hamlet’s birth, you have not been cruel to me, but mild in your manner, even kind. Why?”

  Marguerite grips her pen and her eyes meet mine for a moment, revealing anguish, before she looks away. Her ivory brow furrows in delicate lines.

  “Must I confess that I have been proud and vain and given to false judgments? God knows this, and so do you,” she says.

  “No, I am not a priest who wants to hear your sins. It is your story I long to know. Won’t you tell it to me?”

  Marguerite shakes her head. “My purpose is to write the life of Therese, and you are distracting me from it,” she says, sounding officious.

  “I will help you with that task. But first, I must have a story, for I am in the mood to hear one,” I say with a smile, meaning to coax her tale from her.

  “I see your plot,” she says with a wary, sideways look. “But I am not accustomed to speak of myself to anyone. Like you, I would conceal my past. Even Mother Ermentrude does not know it all.”

  “Let us be fair. You know my secrets, now let me know yours. It will lighten the burden to share it.” I feel the wall of her self-defense begin to crumble. “You may trust me, I assure you.”

  Marguerite sighs deeply, and then begins to speak.

  “One reason for my pride is that I was born to a prince of Sweden,” she says, laying down her pen. “I was called Margrethe. In the king’s court I was raised to the brink of womanhood. Then my father died and my mother grew sick with sorrow. It fell to my uncle, the king, to contract a marriage for me. His aim was to enhance Sweden’s fortunes, but he also sought a worthy man, for he said he washed me to be happy as well.”

  The only sound in the room is that of baby Hamlet sucking his fist. The chapel bells ring, calling us to evensong, but neither Marguerite nor I move.

  “I had many suitors, all chosen by my uncle. Some did not speak my language. Others were grizzled with age, and I cried to think of myself bound in marriage to an old man. One day there came to our court a prince whose youth and vigor made him a most fair suitor. He was handsome and ambitious, a worthy match for Sweden. I favored him, for he was fair of tongue, and by praising my beauty he persuaded me to grant him certain favors. Having conquered me in part, he pressed for full possession. When I denied him, he grew angry, saying that all my body would soon be his. He said he would not marry me, if I prized my virginity above his lordship. Still I refused him.”

  Tears spring to Marguerite’s eyes at the recollection. She wipes them with a napkin produced from her sleeve. “I believed I loved him, but I began to doubt that he would be a worthy husband. And then���I cannot bear to speak of this,” she whispers. “I am afraid.”

  “Go on. Be bold.” I remove her writing box from her lap and take her hand in mine.

  “One day he assaulted me as if I were a land to be invaded and seized. I fought to repel him and was nearly overcome, when by fortune a servant heard my cries and discovered us. I denounced this suitor to the king, but the prince denied his crime and instead impugned my virtue. He called me whore and spurned me.”

  “Fie upon him, wherever he is now!” I cry, remembering Hamlet’s similar words. “Why do these proud men cast their sins upon us? Go on.” But Marguerite needs no urging, for now she is caught up in telling her story.

  “When the prince refused to marry me, the king was angry at the loss of this alliance that he desired. My reputation rained, I was unfit for marriage with any man of rank. Forgetting his care for my happiness, my uncle sent me to St. Emilion, which he chose for its obscurity. He did not even send word of my mother’s death until months had passed.” She sighs, but she is no longer weeping.

  Marguerite’s is a story well suited for a book of sad romance, I think, remembering how I used to relish such tales.

  “When did these events occur?” I ask.

  “Some five years ago I came to this place, pretending to be a devout and willing postulant. And here I have held my maidenly purity to be the greatest virtue, for I preserved it from the wicked, and it is all I have left.” She spreads her empty hands and regards them.

  I have one more question to ask, to know the final piece of her life’s puzzle.

  “Marguerite, who was this vile prince, and what became of him?”

  Marguerite looks me in the eye. Her face is open and guileless, her beauty plain. Unblinking, she replies, “He is Fortinbras, Prince of Norway.”

  My hands fly to my face and a cry escapes me.

  “Yes, the same who now rules your Denmark,” she says grimly. “When you arrived, I saw the Danish coins in your purse, and I heard in your speech the accents of the Northern tong
ues. I raised my guard against you, for I did not know your purpose in coming or your allegiance in those kingdoms.”

  “And why did you tell me the tale of Agnes? Was it to frighten me?”

  “I did suspect you earned this babe, for it was rumored among us. And I was jealous, for the sisters embraced you, while I have been friendless here.”

  I only shake my head, still overwhelmed by her revelations.

  “Please, Ophelia, will you forgive me for being unjust and cruel?” she asks, not pleading but with a noble dignity. “For I see now that virginity is not the highest virtue of a woman.”

  “Please say no more, for I have forgiven you.” I hold up my hand to silence her. I am pondering these strange coincidences: that Marguerite’s abuser and the invader of Denmark are the same Fortinbras of Norway, and that she and I should discover each other. Perhaps it is not chance, but the work of some divinity that guides our unknowing steps to their ordained destination.

  Baby Hamlet now begins to fuss, and I pick him up and rock him back and forth. The movement soothes my roiled spirits, too. Marguerite smiles and reaches out her hand to grasp his tiny fingers. Her face softens with a kindness that enhances her beauty.

  “Now I have cause to hope that Fortinbras may someday face justice,” she says. “For the Psalmist writes: Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, are the children of one’s youth. Perhaps it will be your son who brings about his downfall.”

  “I will never return to Denmark, to live under the yoke of another tyrant who would not hesitate to kill my Hamlet.” I lean over my baby, kissing his fat cheek. “You are not ambitious for a crown, are you, my sweet love?” I murmur to him. “No, Marguerite, I embrace this exile, for I wish to live in peace. But will you ever return home?”

  “Home? This is my home now. Here I will stay and write of Therese.”

  Laying Hamlet down again, I pick up her writing box, set it on her lap, and hand her the pen.