Hamlet Act 1 Scene 1

Who's there?

No — you answer me. Halt and identify yourself. (Francisco is on duty; the challenge is his to make. The play opens with someone in the wrong place asking the wrong question.)

Long live the King!

Bernardo?

That's me.

You're very punctual.

It's just struck twelve. Go to bed, Francisco.

Thanks for taking over. It's bitterly cold,

and I'm sick at heart.

Has your watch been quiet?

Not a mouse stirring.

Well, good night.

If you run into Horatio and Marcellus,

my fellow watchmen, tell them to hurry.

I think I hear them. Halt! Who's there?

Friends of this country.

And loyal subjects of the King of Denmark.

Good night to you.

Farewell, honest soldier.

Who took over from you?

Bernardo has my post.

Good night.

Hey, Bernardo!

Tell me —

is that Horatio with you?

A piece of him. (It's freezing. There's less of him than usual.)

Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus.

Well — has the thing appeared again tonight?

I've seen nothing.

Horatio says we're imagining it,

and refuses to believe

in this terrifying thing we've now seen twice.

So I've persuaded him to come along

and watch through the night with us,

so that if the apparition comes again

he can confirm what we saw — and speak to it.

Nonsense. It won't appear.

Sit down a while

and let us attack your ears once more —

they're so well defended against our story —

with what we've seen two nights running.

All right, let's sit,

and hear Bernardo tell it.

Just last night,

when that star west of the pole star

had travelled round to light up the part of the sky

where it's burning now, Marcellus and I,

just as the bell struck one—

Stop! Break off! Look — here it comes again!

In the same shape — like the dead King.

You're the educated one — speak to it, Horatio.

Doesn't it look like the King? Look at it, Horatio.

Exactly like him. It's tearing me apart with fear and awe.

It wants to be spoken to.

Question it, Horatio.

What are you, stealing this hour of the night

and the noble, warlike shape

in which the buried King of Denmark

used to march? By heaven, I command you — speak!

It's offended.

Look — it's stalking off!

Stay! Speak, speak! I command you to speak!

It's gone, and it won't answer.

Well, Horatio? You're trembling and pale.

Is this a bit more than imagination?

What do you make of it?

Before God, I couldn't have believed this

without the solid, undeniable evidence

of my own eyes.

Isn't it just like the King?

As much as you're like yourself.

That's the very armour he wore

when he fought the ambitious King of Norway.

He frowned just like that once, when in a furious negotiation

he smashed the sledded Poles on the ice.

It's strange.

Twice before now, at exactly this dead hour,

he's marched past our watch in soldier's stride.

I don't know exactly what to make of it,

but broadly speaking, in my judgment,

this is an omen of some violent upheaval in our country.

All right, sit down — and let whoever knows tell me

why this strict, constant watch

exhausts the country's subjects night after night,

and why they're casting bronze cannon daily,

and buying weapons abroad,

and drafting shipbuilders whose brutal workload

doesn't even stop on Sundays.

What's coming, that this sweating urgency

makes the night work alongside the day?

Who can tell me?

I can.

At least, that's the rumour. Our late king,

whose image just appeared to us,

was, as you know, challenged to single combat

by Fortinbras of Norway, driven by jealous pride.

In that fight our brave King Hamlet

(as this part of the world rated him)

killed Fortinbras — who, by a sealed agreement

properly ratified by law and the rules of combat,

forfeited with his life all the lands

he owned, to the winner.

Our king had staked an equivalent portion

of his own lands, which would have gone

to Fortinbras's estate

had he won — just as, by the same agreement

and the terms as drawn up,

his lands fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras,

hot-headed and untested,

has scraped together, around the edges of Norway,

a gang of lawless desperadoes,

paid in meals, for some venture

that takes guts — and that venture, as far as

our government can tell, is nothing but

to take back from us, by force

and coercion, those same lands

his father lost. And that, I believe,

is the main reason for our preparations,

the reason for this watch, and the chief cause

of all this frantic bustle in the country.

I think that's exactly it.

It fits that this ominous figure

comes armed through our watch, so like the King

who was and still is the cause of these wars.

It's a speck of dust to trouble the mind's eye.

In Rome at its most glorious,

shortly before mighty Julius Caesar fell,

the graves stood empty, and the shrouded dead

squeaked and gibbered in the streets of Rome.

There were comets trailing fire, dews of blood,

ominous marks on the sun. And the moon,

which governs the tides of Neptune's ocean,

was eclipsed almost to the point of doomsday.

And exactly these forerunners of violent events,

these heralds that always come before fate

as a prologue to disaster,

heaven and earth have shown together

to our region and our countrymen.

But wait — look! There it comes again!

I'll block its path, even if it destroys me. — Stop, spirit!

If you can make any sound, if you have a voice,

speak to me.

If there's any good deed to be done

that would bring you peace and me grace,

speak to me.

If you know something of your country's fate

that we might avoid by knowing in advance,

oh, speak!

Or if in your lifetime you hoarded

stolen treasure in the earth

(which they say makes spirits walk after death) —

speak of it! Stay and speak! — Stop it, Marcellus!

Shall I strike at it with my spear?

Do, if it won't stand still.

It's here!

It's here!

It's gone!

We're wronging it — something so majestic —

by threatening it with violence.

It's like the air, untouchable,

and our useless blows are just spiteful mockery.

It was about to speak when the cock crowed.

And then it flinched, like a guilty man

hearing a dreaded summons. I've heard

that the cock, the trumpeter of morning,

with his high, shrill throat

wakes the god of daylight — and at that warning,

whether in sea or fire, earth or air,

every wandering, straying spirit hurries

back to its confinement. And the truth of that

was just proved in front of us.

It faded when the cock crowed.

Some say that just before the season

when we celebrate our Saviour's birth,

the cock sings all night long,

and then no spirit dares walk abroad.

The nights are safe, no planets harm us,

no fairy enchants, no witch has power —

the season is that holy and blessed.

So I've heard, and I partly believe it.

But look — morning, wrapped in a red-brown cloak,

is walking over the dew of that high hill to the east.

Let's end our watch. And my advice is

that we tell what we've seen tonight

to young Hamlet. Because I'd stake my life

that this spirit, silent with us, will speak to him.

Do you agree we should tell him,

as our affection requires and our duty demands?

Let's do it, please. And I know where

we can most easily find him this morning.