Ophelia (17 page)

Chapter 21

Weeping, I leaned on my father and allowed him to lead me to my chamber, where I fell upon my bed. My tears did not stir his sympathies. He offered no words of pity, but rather poured the blame on me.

"It was your manner of giving back the gifts that caused Hamlet's temper to flare. Had you spoken more honeyed words, it would have awakened his ardor, not his anger," he scolded.

I would not let his criticism stir up my anger, nor would I be falsely meek.

"I am sorry, my lord," I said in a dull and sullen tone. Indeed, I was full of sorrow for myself.

"Perhaps his melancholy was due to some other cause than love," he said, frowning. "Could I have been mistaken in my judgment? Did you deceive me, girl?"

My injured pride rose up and made me defend myself.

"Hamlet did love me; he spoke and acted so. I did not lie."

Shaking his head in doubt and confusion, my father left me alone. Then the memory of Hamlet's words tormented me and my own tears wracked me until, exhausted, I fell into an uneasy slumber.

Later in the day, I awoke to find my father seated on my bed.

"Wake up, Ophelia, and hear me." He shook me, though not roughly, and clawed at his beard in evident distress. "I have been thinking, daughter. It was not wise of me to put you in Hamlet's path. My intent for your advancement, and my own, was foiled."

I sat up, astonished at his words, which were near to being an apology.

"Now the king's suspicions are aroused, and he is as dangerous as a baited bear. It is bad enough that Hamlet rages like a madman." He frowned and a dark look covered his features. "Keep within doors, Ophelia. I would not have you appear in public view," he ordered. Pressing dry lips to the top of my head, he departed again.

This time I was not inclined to disobey him. But despair, more than filial duty, made me compliant. I remained in my room for two nights and days, not caring that I missed the entertainments in the great hall. Elnora brought me a tonic of wild thyme and vinegar to ease my lethargy. I drank it meekly, but it curdled in my stomach. Nor could I eat anything without becoming ill. Elnora took my pulse, smoothed my brow, and in a wheedling tone tried to discover my woes.

"What have you done that your father bids me guard you closely?"

"Nothing. Truly, I am innocent," I said, but could speak no more without starting to weep.

"Virtuous though you may be, a reputation is a fragile thing, easily lost and often never regained," she said, searching my face as if looking for evidence there.

How her words touched my fearful soul! Was it true, that I was ruined?

"By heaven, I swear that I am honest. He lied to me when he swore he loved me!"

"Ah, a broken heart. It will mend," Elnora murmured. Her pity only made my tears spring anew, but my deeper secrets remained close within me.

On the second day, Gertrude summoned me. I went to her, though I was pale and weak.

"The king says my son is not in love with you," Gertrude said plainly. "I am sorry, but do not take it so much to heart. He is still young and merely plays at being a lover." Her words did not console me, for she spoke like a mother excusing the rudeness of her young child. But how could she know that Hamlet had been so cruel? She had not viewed the scene between us.

"Now go and rest, for you look most unwell," she said with a pitying look.

But my uneasy thoughts gave me no rest. Hourly I relived my encounter with Hamlet, and the memory brought fresh sorrow. Why did he despise me and mock my virtue? Rail against marriage? Deny he loved me?

We are knaves. Believe none of us.

Must I believe none of Hamlet's promises to me, neither his loving words nor his wedding vows? Did he also lie when he said
I loved you not?
I could not make sense of this Janus-faced husband who spoke false and true at once. Vexed and annoyed, I cried out to the absent Hamlet, "You are a knave indeed to abuse me so with your lies and promises! You are not worthy of my love!"

But as the scene replayed itself in my mind, my bitterness relented. I imagined that I heard something beyond despair and anger in his words.

Go to a nunnery. Go! Farewell.

Was Hamlet somehow begging me to leave the court of Denmark? If so, why? Perhaps he did not want me to witness his revenge and its terrible outcome. Did he then command me to a convent for my safety, not to hide my shame? My questions found no answers, and my thoughts continued to torment me until I feared that madness was beginning to afflict my brain.

By the third night, I could no longer bear my solitude. I had to see Hamlet and speak to him. I donned my best gown and a high-necked bodice, not daring to appear immodest. I dressed my hair, tucking it beneath a silk coif embroidered with flowers. I joined Gertrude's ladies as they assembled in the arcade to make their way to the great hall for the evening's play. They laughed and prattled, anticipating the night's pleasures, while I stayed soberly quiet.

Cristiana was animated with excitement. Her cheeks glowed red and her bosom swelled over her tight bodice. A green jewel that just matched her eyes glittered at her throat. Despite her earlier disgrace, Rosencrantz had begun to court her again. Sometimes she favored Guildenstern to make him jealous, and sometimes all three were fast friends.

"I hear that Lord Hamlet has created a most exciting entertainment this night," Cristiana said, speaking aside to me with her hand held to her mouth.

"I know nothing of it," I replied.

"But surely you do know what makes the prince so wild and mad lately. Some say it is his father's untimely death, while others blame his mother's hasty marriage."

"It is natural for grief to disorder the mind for a time," I said evenly. I would spend no more words on the matter, for I suspected she meant to bait me.

"Still others say ..." She paused until I looked at her. Had she heard a rumor of our marriage? Then she loosed the arrow from her bow, a sharper one than I expected.

"They say that the prince is possessed with love for a woman who is unworthy of him."

My heart pounded, but I did not flinch.

"And I hear that she plays him false, which sends him into a frenzy," she said, searching my face for a sign that she had hit her mark.

Surely I betrayed my alarm, though I struggled to hide it. Because I had given Hamlet no cause to think me false, someone else must have planted the rumor that made him doubt me. I suspected it was his false friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, set on by my enemy Cristiana. I felt the blood dram from my face and feared blackness would overwhelm me.

"Why, Ophelia, you look pale as the moon," said Cristiana, now gripping my arm. "Sit down on this bench."

I pushed her away and she shrugged, sweeping ahead of me into the great hall. Now anger surged through me, restoring my strength. I hated Cristiana and her spying minions, and I was furious with Hamlet for believing their false gossip. This night I would confront him and demand to know with whom he thought I had been unfaithful, and when. I vowed, stepping into the great hall, that I would find out what had turned Hamlet's love to hate.

Chapter 22

Along the length of Elsinore's vast hall, torches flamed in their sconces. At the far end an area framed by curtains was prepared as a stage. Ladies in their finest gowns and courtiers with brimming cups of wine sought the best seats on benches, chairs, and cushions. Some were already drunk, and the women's flushed bosoms drew their lovers' eager eyes and sometimes an unrestrained hand. In the center of the room, a dais with carved chairs awaited Gertrude and Claudius. Some ministers of state stood by it, arguing and looking grim, but my father was not among them. Guards, motionless as statues, held their places while richly clad nobles and their ladies swirled around them. As I watched, one guard left his post to press a serving girl into the shadows. If she resisted, her cry went unheard.

The scene before me was a hollow pretense of grandeur and gaiety. It seemed that all love was nothing but lust, all seeming truth only a mask for lies. I thought of Hamlet's anatomy book that showed a skeleton laid bare beneath the skin, a grim reminder of waiting Death. I knew I would never again take delight in the painted glory of Elsinore. Yet what could I do now but play the game, pretend some pleasure? So I moved through the crowd, smiling coyly and nodding to my right and left. When I felt myself bump into an unyielding figure, I turned in some annoyance to beg his pardon. My hand flew to my throat and I stifled a cry of alarm when I found myself facing Edmund. He stood with his legs apart and his arms on his hips, making himself quite large. My eyes were drawn to his face, which bore a terrible, raw-looking scar that reached from his crown to his jaw. He reeked of sour wine, onions, and sweat. I drew away as if from a scalding pot. But he had recognized me.

"Why, it is the prince's whore," he said in a low voice, sneering.

Even fear could not quench the rage his words provoked in me.

"You lie, you vile piece of carrion flesh!" I countered.

In reply he only threw back his head and laughed, making the scar flame on the side of his face.

I retreated from him in haste and, settling on a stool by the wall, tried to calm myself. Edmund's insult rang in my ears, still red with undeserved shame. Then I recalled that he had witnessed my father telling Claudius that Hamlet was mad for my love. The stupid man was only jealous, I decided. I would put him from my mind.

Then Cristiana's high, rippling laugh caught my ear. Turning toward the sound, I watched her greet Rosencrantz, who bowed as he doffed his hat, its feather brushing her cheek and making her smile. Seen from this distance, Cristiana seemed fair, even graceful. I weighed her spiteful words about Hamlet's love. What did she know of the prince's doings?

As if sensing that I watched her, Cristiana looked up and our eyes met. She frowned and I looked away. I moved my stool into the shadows so that I could observe others without being seen by them. But Cristiana surprised me by appearing at my side in her stealthy way. She spoke in a low and urgent voice.

"Listen, Ophelia, if you value your life. Rosencrantz is in the king's particular favor now. He says that Claudius fears a plot against himself and suspects Hamlet. I would not for any price be a friend of the prince."

Before I could search her eyes, Cristiana had slipped away. I did not know whether to believe this intelligence, considering its source. Was she testing me, looking for a sign that I was in league with Hamlet? I had been, until Hamlet rejected me.
Go to a nunnery. Go!
His urgent bidding sounded again in my mind. Denmark had become a dangerous place, where lust led to murder and tyranny and bred new revenge. Perhaps Hamlet wanted me to leave this evil place, lest I be corrupted. But why commit me to a life of cold, forced chastity behind convent walls? I would not consent to that!

While I considered how poorly I would fill the role of a nun, Hamlet entered the hall. He wore black hose and a doublet of black velvet in the latest style, its breast and sleeves slashed to reveal a bright red fabric beneath. His hand gripped the shoulder of Horatio, who stooped slightly to him. He spoke intently to his friend, then laughed and clapped his back as they separated. Hamlet went to confer with the players, while Horatio approached me. I was not well hidden after all.

"How does my lady Ophelia? I—we—have missed you these two nights," he said, bowing. He spoke as if he knew nothing of my grief and mistreatment.

I blinked to stop my springing tears.

"I am the saddest of wives, Horatio, for my husband loves me not." I dared to speak honestly to the one person who knew of our secret marriage.

"What do you mean? I know he does love you," said Horatio, taken aback.

I glanced about me. Despite the press of people, no one heeded us. I spilled my sadness to Horatio, and it surged like waves against a stalwart dam.

"In the ten days since our marriage night was disrupted, my wedded joys are all turned to sorrow. Now Hamlet finds quarrel with my virtue, but there is no cause."

A blush spread across Horatio's face, for my speaking of the woes of marriage embarrassed him. But I was desperate to understand the reason for Hamlet's coldness, and Horatio seemed my only hope.

"I know there is no cause," he said.

And little comfort, I thought, from the modest Horatio.

"Horatio, you know his mind, if any man does. What of this ghost? Do you believe it?"

"I have seen it, but it did not speak to me. It was a harrowing sight."

"But was it real?" I persisted.

"It was not corporeal, to be touched like you or me," he said.

"Horatio, you speak like a philosopher who equivocates truth and falsehood," I said impatiently. "I tell you truly, I doubt this ghost. But the vision has made Hamlet mad. I do not know him anymore."

Horatio paused, battling with his native discretion before replying.

"Indeed, he does not govern himself, nor will he take my counsel," he said. "I fear for him."