Hamlet (7 page)

“As they deserve! You will have to do better than that! Treat every man as he deserves and no one’ll escape a whipping. Treat them with as much honor and dignity as you’d treat yourself, Polonius. If you treat a man better than he deserves, why, then, the more admirable your generosity.”

Polonius, not quite so unruffled now, bowed and nodded to the actors to follow him. But Hamlet held back the manager, waiting until the others had gathered their bits and pieces and shuffled off after Polonius. An idea had come to him while he was organizing their welcome to Elsinore. “Tell me, my friend,” he said, when they were alone together. “You mentioned
The Murder of Gonzago.
”

“I did, Highness, but we can do
Romeo and Juliet
if that is your wish. It’s not a bad bit of work, although a bit far-fetched. Or we have a new comedy, a satiric piece, rather short, but most diverting, judging by the reactions we got in the south, where we —”

“No, no,
The Murder of Gonzago
is an excellent choice. But tell me, if I wrote a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, you could learn that and insert it in the play, could you not?”

Rather startled, the actor was nevertheless good enough at his craft to show no emotion. “Certainly, if that is what Your Highness wishes.”

“Good. Then, for now, follow the others. Mention nothing of this to the old man Polonius. I’ll write the speech and deliver it to you by dinnertime. We can have the play tomorrow night.”

“Very good, Your Royal Highness.”

And off he went, leaving the prince with his thoughts, which tumbled around in his mind, busy as a line of laundry in a windstorm. What can I say for myself? Hamlet wondered. I, who have done nothing? What can I say in my defense? I have seen these actors stand upon a stage and make themselves weep over the dead children of Hecuba. Real tears come out of their eyes! Hecuba, who lived, if she lived at all, two thousand years ago! Hecuba, who was turned into a dog and drowned. What’s Hecuba to them or they to Hecuba? Yet the tears run down their faces as they ponder her fate! If they can do that in a play, what would they do if they had real cause for passion? What would any of them do?

By God, if they were in my situation, they would weep. They would drown the stage with tears and burn the audience with the fire of their words. They would make the guilty mad and appall the innocent. The eyes and ears of the spectators would fill to overflowing. And yet, here I am, and what do I do? Why, that’s easy. I play games with a racquet and a ball. A king has his kingdom and his life stolen away, and I am silent. My father is murdered, and I sit down to table with his murderer. What does that make me? A coward, nothing else. One who has the liver of a pigeon.

If I were anything else, if I had a heart, and the guts to match it, I would have scattered the insides of this treacherous king across the fields to fatten the crows. That traitor. That bastard. That bloody, bawdy villain, remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, and vile. And all I can do, with my father come from heaven and hell or somewhere in between, telling me to take revenge, is to wallow in words. Muttering and cursing and bellowing.

Well, at least I have a plan now. I have heard that guilty creatures faced with a reenactment of their crimes fall on their knees and confess. I’ll have these actors play something like the murder of my father in front of my uncle tomorrow night. I’ll watch him, I’ll study him, and if he so much as blanches or trembles, I’ll know the truth, and I’ll know my course of action.

After all, I still cannot be certain what I saw that night. Was it my father? Did it tell me the truth? Or was it some fiend sent to lie and confuse and do evil? The devil can take any shape he wants, including that of my father. And while I am so sad about his passing, the devil has the perfect chance to take advantage of me.

That is what holds me back. It is a terrible thing to be a coward, but it is not so bad to be prudent. Well, tomorrow shall tell the next chapter of my story.

The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll test the conscience of the king!

The performance started late. The servants were supposed to take out all the tables from the state dining hall after dinner, but the head butler said it was nothing to do with him; furniture moving wasn’t his job; his responsibilities ended with clearing the meal. And apparently no one had told the comptroller of the royal household, who was in charge of entertainment, and the deputy housekeeper, who looked after the reception rooms, was laid up with pleurisy, so in the end Hamlet and a couple of guards and the manager of the troupe did it themselves.

By the time the chairs were arranged and two curtains hung, it was ten o’clock.

Outside, the wind had become blustery, with gusts of real wildness. The Danish flag was nearly ripped from its pole on the western tenement, and tiles were blown from the castle roof. There were some who did not bother to return to the dining hall but stayed in their rooms with a bottle of wine, or a pack of cards, or a few friends for a gossip. Afterward, when they heard, they regretted their inertia.

The actors were brought in from the anteroom, which had been assigned them for dressing. Hamlet had been furious as he moved tables and chairs, but now anxiety was his dominant emotion again. The actors became aware of his tension when he started to coach them in their craft. Much as they liked him and appreciated his patronage, they were not necessarily keen to have him tell them how to do their jobs. But he was a prince and they were commoners; indeed, in many places they were treated as little better than beggars or riffraff. Hamlet was almost alone among the nobility of Denmark in his respect for them.

“Do the speech as I taught it to you,” he urged them. “For that matter, do all the speeches with expression. If you just rattle off your lines like you’re reciting a list of groceries, as I’ve seen some actors do, I might as well fetch the cooks from the kitchen to read them. And don’t be extravagant. The more passionate the scene, the more subtle should be your gestures. The contrast between the whirlwind of passion and the moderation of gesture is what gives a scene its smoothness. How I hate to hear some fellow on a stage ranting and raving! Let the words do the work. You need not bellow like a cow giving birth, or stride up and down in a frenzy. I would have an actor like that whipped for trying to out-Thor the god of thunder himsel-”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” one of the actors said.

Hamlet hesitated at the man’s tone. “I was only joking about the whipping.”

“Yes, Highness.”

Hamlet shook his head. “Suit the action to the words and the words to the action. Your task is to hold up a mirror to nature. If you give a scene more tragedy than nature has given it, or more sentimentality, or more drama, you have ruined it. I have seen actors, even famous ones, who in imitating men or women do such a poor job that I started to wonder whether they were in fact human, or perhaps some lower form of life created not by nature but by one of nature’s incompetent assistants.”

“I hope we do a little better than that, Highness,” said the leader of the troupe.

“Do a lot better! A whole lot better! And, by the way, whoever plays the clown, make sure not to laugh at your own jokes! There are always a few fools in the audience who find that amusing, but when such an actor steals the scene, important lines are lost. It shows pitiful ambition on his part. Anyway, enough. Go behind the curtains; make yourselves ready.”

They trickled away. As they went out to the right, Horatio came in from the left. Hamlet was warmed to see him. “Horatio, dear Horatio, the most just man I ever met.”

“Hamlet, no,” Horatio protested.

“Oh, I’m not flattering you. What would be the point? You don’t have any wealth, except your good spirits, to feed and clothe you. But I tell you this, Horatio: since I was old enough to judge between the people of my acquaintance, you are the one to whom I’ve always turned. I respect the way you’ve handled the good things that come to you as much as the way you’ve dealt with adversity. Blessed are those who have good judgment! Blessed are those who do not allow fortune to play them like they are a trumpet, letting her decide what notes she will sound! Give me the man who is not a slave to passion, and he will be the blood of my heart, as you are mine, Horatio.”

Horatio blushed with pleasure. His affection for Hamlet was deep and genuine, but much as they met on terms as equal as could be found between prince and commoner, Horatio had been aware from earliest childhood of the uncrossable social gulf between them. He could not help being flattered to be told that he was the closest to the popular and beautiful prince, the man who would one day be king.

With a hand around Horatio’s shoulder, Hamlet walked him to the other end of the room. He spoke more confidentially. “Now, pay close attention. In a few minutes the actors will begin the play. There is a scene set in an orchard, and it portrays the murder of a king. I want you, when it comes to that scene, to study my uncle closely. Watch him with the eyes of your soul. I tell you this, Horatio: the ghost who visited me on that dreadful night brought me a story which may have come from the devil, as we speculated, for he told of a devilish act. I hope to find out some truth tonight. When my uncle sees the actors onstage, he may be looking at a mirror to the past. That is what we have to establish.”

“Hamlet, I tremble to hear your words. You seem to be hinting at the unthinkable.”

“You must think the unthinkable, old friend, as I have done since that night on the terrace.”

So, there it was again, the reference to the event that was still veiled from Horatio. He stood, deeply troubled, and lost in thought. At heart he knew he had no choice but to do as his friend and royal master asked, but he feared the consequences. After a moment he gave Hamlet a little smile.

“Very well, I will do as you say. I will watch the king so closely that if he steals anything during the play and I don’t see it, I’ll pay for whatever he stole.”

“Well said, good friend. Treasonous, but witty. Quick, they are coming. To your place.”

Polonius led Claudius and Gertrude into the room, making sure all was ready for them. Ophelia followed close behind. The king was full of beer and cheer, beaming at Hamlet. “How is our nephew and our son?” he asked.

“Why, I forgot to ask them, last time I saw them,” Hamlet said. “But I believe they would say that they were well, though perhaps a little empty from eating air stuffed with promises.”

The king, determined not to be annoyed, smiled briefly, without humor. “I have nothing to do with that answer, Hamlet,” he said. “Those words are not for me; they are not mine.”

“No, nor mine either, now,” Hamlet said. “They have left my body and my mouth and are gone. It may be that they have no owner at all.” He put his head around the side of the makeshift curtain and whispered into the darkness. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

“Very good. Remember all that I told you.”

“We will, Your Royal Highness.”

Hamlet faced the audience again. At least sixty people from around the castle had gathered for the show. Mostly lords and ladies-in-waiting; the king’s cronies and Gertrude’s confidantes; old Voltimand, who had once been chancellor; Polonius with his children, Laertes and Ophelia; the inseparable Rosencrantz and Guildenstern; Reynaldo; Their Majesties’ secretaries and other high-placed court officials; a few army officers — most of them seemed uninterested, some were probably drunk, and a couple were undoubtedly deaf.

In a corner at the back of the room, in darkness, stood those of the domestic staff who wished to attend: footmen, maids, kitchen hands, even a couple of young gardeners. Garath, their overseer, had let them go, but it was against his better judgment. To him, those who worked outside should stay outside, and those who worked inside could stay inside and get on with their games.

Ophelia sat in the front row. Behind her, leering over her shoulder, was Osric, the lean young farmer, his tall frame pinched into a tight wooden chair. He was laughing immoderately at some quip of Claudius’s. “That’s rich, Your Majesty,” he called out. “Oh, that’s very rich.”