Hamlet Act 1 Scene 2

Although the memory of our dear brother Hamlet's death

is still fresh, and although it was right for us

to grieve in our hearts and for the whole kingdom

to knit itself into a single frown of sorrow,

good sense has fought against natural feeling

enough that we now mourn him wisely

while also remembering our own interests.

And so our former sister-in-law, now our queen,

joint ruler of this warlike state,

we have — with a kind of defeated joy,

one eye cheerful and one eye weeping,

with laughter at the funeral and a dirge at the wedding,

weighing delight and grief equally —

taken as our wife. And in this we haven't ignored

your good advice, which you've freely given

in support of the match. Our thanks to you all.

Now, as you know, young Fortinbras,

underestimating our strength,

or imagining that our dear brother's death

has left the state disjointed and weak,

and gripped by this fantasy of easy advantage,

has been pestering us with messages

demanding the surrender of those lands

his father lost, legally and bindingly,

to our most valiant brother. So much for him.

Now to our own business and today's meeting.

Here's the situation: we've written

to the King of Norway, young Fortinbras's uncle,

who is feeble and bedridden and has barely heard

of his nephew's plans — asking him to stop

him going further, since the troops,

the muster rolls and supplies are all drawn

from his own subjects. And we now send

you, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand,

to carry this message to old Norway,

giving you no authority to negotiate

beyond what's set out

in these detailed instructions.

Farewell — let your speed show your loyalty.

In this and everything, we'll show our loyalty.

We don't doubt it. A warm farewell.

And now, Laertes — what's your news?

You mentioned a request. What is it?

You can't make a reasonable request to the King of Denmark

and go unheard. What could you ask for, Laertes,

that I wouldn't offer before you asked?

The head is no more naturally linked to the heart,

the hand no more useful to the mouth,

than the throne of Denmark is to your father.

What do you want, Laertes?

My respected lord,

your permission to return to France.

I came back to Denmark willingly enough

to do my duty at your coronation,

but now that's done, I must admit

my thoughts turn to France again,

and I humbly ask your gracious permission.

Do you have your father's permission? What does Polonius say?

He has, my lord — he wrung my reluctant consent out of me

with laborious pleading, and finally

I sealed my grudging agreement to his wish.

I beg you, let him go.

Enjoy your time, Laertes. It's yours,

and may your best qualities spend it as you like.

But now, my nephew Hamlet — and my son—

(to himself) A bit more than a relative, and a lot less than kindred. (His first line in the play is a bitter pun about being made Claudius's son.)

How is it the clouds still hang over you?

Not at all, my lord. I'm out in too much sun. (Another pun: too much 'son'.)

Good Hamlet, throw off that night-black colour

and look at the King of Denmark like a friend.

Don't spend forever with lowered eyes

searching for your noble father in the dirt.

You know it's normal. Everything that lives must die,

passing through nature into eternity.

Yes, madam. It's common.

If it is,

why does it seem so personal to you?

'Seems,' madam? No — it IS. I don't deal in 'seems.'

It isn't just my ink-black cloak, mother,

nor the usual formal black clothes,

nor heavy, forced sighing,

no, nor rivers of tears,

nor a downcast expression,

together with every form and mood and shape of grief,

that can show what I really am. Those things merely SEEM,

because they're all things a man could act.

But I have something inside that goes beyond display.

Those are just the costume and props of sorrow.

It's sweet and admirable in you, Hamlet,

to perform these mourning duties for your father.

But you must realise your father lost a father,

and that father lost his — and each survivor is bound

by a son's duty, for a certain period,

to mourn. But persisting

in stubborn grief is a course

of ungodly obstinacy. It's unmanly grief.

It shows a will that defies heaven,

an unfortified heart, an impatient mind,

an uneducated, simple understanding.

Something we know must happen, something as ordinary

as the most commonplace thing there is —

why should we, in petulant resistance,

take it so hard? It's an offence against heaven,

an offence against the dead, an offence against nature,

and completely irrational — since reason's constant lesson

is that fathers die, and has always said,

from the first corpse to the man who died today,

'this is how it must be.' We beg you, throw off

this useless grief, and think of me

as a father. Let the world take note:

you are next in line to our throne,

and with no less noble love

than the dearest father feels for his son,

I offer myself to you. As for your plan

of going back to university in Wittenberg,

it goes entirely against our wishes.

We beg you, agree to stay

here where we can see and enjoy you —

our chief courtier, our nephew, and our son.

Don't let your mother's prayers go unanswered, Hamlet.

Please stay with us. Don't go to Wittenberg.

I'll do my best to obey you, madam. (He answers his mother. He does not answer Claudius at all.)

There — a loving and gracious answer.

Treat Denmark as your own. Madam, come.

Hamlet's gentle, willing agreement

warms my heart. To celebrate it,

every cheerful toast the King drinks today

will be announced to the clouds by cannon-fire,

and heaven will echo the King's drinking

back as earthly thunder. Come along.

Oh, if only this too, too solid flesh would melt,

thaw, and dissolve into dew!

Or that God had not set

his law against suicide. Oh God! God!

How exhausting, stale, flat, and pointless

everything in this world seems to me!

Damn it. It's an untended garden

gone to seed — coarse and disgusting things

have taken it over completely. That it should come to this!

Only two months dead — no, not even two.

Such an excellent king, who compared to this one

was a sun god beside a goat-man. So loving to my mother

that he wouldn't let the winds of heaven

touch her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!

Do I have to remember? She used to cling to him

as if her appetite for him only grew

by being fed. And yet within a month—

Don't let me think about it. Weakness, your name is woman! —

One short month, before the shoes were even worn

that she wore following my poor father's body,

weeping like Niobe — she, even she —

(God! An animal without the power of reason

would have mourned longer) married my uncle,

my father's brother — but no more like my father

than I am like Hercules. Within a month,

before the salt of her dishonest tears

had stopped stinging her reddened eyes,

she married. Oh, what wicked haste, to rush

so nimbly into incestuous sheets!

It isn't good, and it can't come to any good.

But break, my heart — I have to hold my tongue.

Greetings, my lord!

I'm glad to see you well.

Horatio! — or I'm forgetting my own name.

The same, my lord — and always your humble servant.

Sir, my good friend — I'll swap that title for 'friend.'

And what are you doing away from Wittenberg, Horatio?

Marcellus?

My good lord!

I'm very glad to see you. — Good evening, sir. —

But honestly, what are you doing away from Wittenberg?

A tendency to skip class, my lord.

I wouldn't let your enemy say that about you,

and you won't do my ear the violence

of making it believe your own bad report

of yourself. I know you're no truant.

But what's your business in Elsinore?

We'll teach you to drink hard before you go.

My lord, I came for your father's funeral.

Please don't mock me, fellow student.

I think you came for my mother's wedding.

It did follow very quickly, my lord.

Economy, Horatio, economy! The funeral leftovers

were served cold at the wedding banquet.

I'd rather have met my worst enemy in heaven

than ever have seen that day, Horatio.

My father — I think I see my father.

Where, my lord?

In my mind's eye, Horatio.

I saw him once. He was a fine king.

He was a man — take him all round.

I'll never see his like again.

My lord, I think I saw him last night.

Saw? Saw who?

My lord — the King, your father.

The King my father?

Hold your astonishment for a moment

and listen carefully, while I tell you

this marvel, with these gentlemen

as witnesses.

For God's sake, let me hear it!

Two nights running, these gentlemen —

Marcellus and Bernardo — on their watch

in the dead emptiness of midnight

had this encounter. A figure like your father,

in full armour, head to foot,

appears in front of them and with a solemn march

goes slowly and grandly past. Three times he walked

before their overwhelmed, terrified eyes,

within arm's length — while they, melted

almost to jelly by fear,

stood dumb and said nothing to him. They told me

this in terrified secrecy,

and I kept the watch with them on the third night.

And exactly as they'd described — the same time,

the same shape, every word proved true —

the apparition comes. I knew your father.

These two hands aren't more alike.

But where was this?

On the platform where we keep watch, my lord.

Didn't you speak to it?

I did, my lord,

but it gave no answer. Though once I thought

it lifted its head and moved

as though it were about to speak.

But just then the morning cock crowed loudly,

and at the sound it shrank away in a hurry

and vanished.

That's very strange.

As I live, honoured lord, it's true.

And we thought it our clear duty

to let you know.

Indeed, indeed, gentlemen. But this troubles me.

Are you on watch tonight?

We are, my lord.

Armed, you say?

Armed, my lord.

From head to foot?

My lord, from head to foot.

Then you didn't see his face?

Oh yes, my lord — his visor was up.

Well — did he look angry?

His face held more sorrow than anger.

Pale, or flushed?

Very pale.

And he stared right at you?

Steadily, the whole time.

I wish I'd been there.

It would have astonished you.

Very likely, very likely. Did it stay long?

About as long as it takes to count to a hundred at a moderate pace.

Longer, longer.

Not while I was watching.

Was his beard grey — no?

It was, just as I saw it in his lifetime:

black, streaked with silver.

I'll keep watch tonight.

Perhaps it'll walk again.

I guarantee it will.

If it takes on my noble father's shape,

I'll speak to it, even if hell itself opens up

and orders me to be silent. I ask you all:

if you've kept this sight secret so far,

keep holding it in silence.

And whatever else happens tonight,

understand it, but say nothing.

I'll repay your loyalty. Farewell for now.

On the platform, between eleven and twelve,

I'll come to you.

Our duty to your lordship.

Your friendship, as mine to you. Farewell.

My father's spirit — in armour? Something is wrong.

I suspect foul play. I wish night would come!

Until then, be still, my soul. Evil deeds will surface,

even if the whole earth buries them.