Hamlet Act 1 Scene 5

Where are you taking me? Speak! I'm going no further.

Listen to me.

I will.

My time is almost up,

when I must surrender myself

to sulphurous, tormenting flames.

Oh — poor ghost!

Don't pity me. Just listen seriously

to what I'm about to reveal.

Speak. I'm bound to listen.

And you'll be bound to take revenge, once you've heard.

What?

I am your father's spirit,

condemned for a set period to walk the night

and to fast in fire during the day,

until the foul sins I committed in life

are burned and purged away. If I weren't forbidden

to tell the secrets of my prison,

I could tell a tale whose lightest word

would tear up your soul, freeze your young blood,

make your eyes leap from their sockets like stars,

make your neatly combed hair separate

and every single hair stand up

like spines on an angry porcupine.

But this description of eternity mustn't be given

to ears of flesh and blood. Listen, listen, oh listen!

If you ever loved your dear father—

Oh God!

Avenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

Murder?

Murder most foul — as all murder is —

but this one especially foul, strange, and unnatural.

Tell me quickly, so that I — on wings as fast

as thought or as the thoughts of love —

may sweep to my revenge.

I find you ready.

You'd have to be duller than the fat weed

that rots comfortably on the banks of forgetfulness

not to be roused by this. Now listen, Hamlet.

The story put about is that while I slept in my orchard

a snake bit me. So the whole nation of Denmark

has been grossly deceived

by a fake account of my death. But know this, noble boy:

the snake that stung your father's life

is now wearing his crown.

Oh, my prophetic soul!

My uncle?

Yes — that incestuous, adulterous animal.

With the witchcraft of his cleverness, with treacherous gifts —

oh, wicked cleverness and gifts, that have the power

to seduce like that — he won over to his shameful lust

the will of my seemingly virtuous queen.

Oh Hamlet, what a fall that was!

From me, whose love was so honourable

that it matched exactly the vow

I made her in marriage — to sink

to a wretch whose natural qualities were poor

compared to mine!

But just as virtue can never be corrupted,

even when lust courts it disguised as an angel,

so lust, even married to a radiant angel,

will grow bored in a heavenly bed

and go feeding on garbage.

But wait — I think I smell the morning air.

Let me be quick. Sleeping in my orchard,

as was always my habit in the afternoon,

your uncle crept up on my unguarded hour

with a vial of cursed henbane juice,

and poured that leprous distillation

into the entrance of my ears. Its effect

is so hostile to human blood

that, quick as mercury, it races through

the body's natural passages and channels,

and with sudden violence it curdles

and clots — like acid dropped into milk —

the thin, healthy blood. That's what it did to mine.

And instantly a scabbing rash crusted over

my whole smooth body, like a leper's,

with a vile and loathsome shell.

So I was, while sleeping, by a brother's hand

robbed at once of life, crown, and queen —

cut down with my sins in full bloom,

without communion, unprepared, unanointed,

no confession made, sent to my judgment

with all my sins on my head.

Horrible! Horrible! Most horrible!

If you have any natural feeling, don't tolerate it.

Don't let the royal bed of Denmark be

a couch for lust and damned incest.

But however you go about this,

don't corrupt your mind, and don't let your soul plot

anything against your mother. Leave her to heaven

and to the thorns lodged in her own breast

that prick and sting her. Farewell now.

The glow-worm shows that morning is near

and its faint fire is beginning to fade.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Remember me.

All you armies of heaven! Earth! What else?

Should I add hell to the list? Hold, hold, my heart!

And you, my muscles, don't age in an instant —

hold me up straight. Remember you?

Yes, poor ghost, as long as memory has a place

in this shattered head of mine. Remember you?

Yes — from the notebook of my memory

I'll wipe away every trivial, foolish record,

every quotation from books, every impression

that youth and observation wrote there,

and your command alone will live

in the book and volume of my brain,

unmixed with lesser matter. Yes, by heaven!

Oh, most destructive woman!

Oh villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!

My notebook! I should write this down —

that a man can smile, and smile, and be a villain.

At least I'm sure that's possible in Denmark.

So, uncle — there you are. Now to my motto:

it's 'Goodbye, goodbye — remember me.'

I've sworn it.

(offstage) My lord! My lord!

Lord Hamlet!

Heaven protect him!

So be it!

Hello there, my lord!

Hello, ho ho, boy! Come, bird, come. (A falconer's call. He is deflecting with nonsense already.)

How are you, noble lord?

What news, my lord?

Oh — wonderful!

Good my lord, tell us.

No — you'll tell someone.

Not I, my lord, I swear!

Nor I, my lord.

What do you say, then? Would anyone ever have imagined it?

But you'll keep it secret?

Yes, by heaven, my lord.

There's never a villain living in all Denmark

who isn't a thorough scoundrel. (A spectacular non-answer. He has decided, in seconds, to tell them nothing.)

We hardly needed a ghost out of the grave, my lord,

to tell us that.

Why — quite right! You're absolutely right!

And so, without any more ceremony,

I think we should shake hands and part —

you going wherever your business and desires take you,

since everyone has business and desires

of some kind. And as for me,

well — I'm going to go and pray.

These are wild, spinning words, my lord.

I'm sincerely sorry they offend you.

Truly, sincerely.

There's no offence, my lord.

Yes, by Saint Patrick, there is, Horatio —

and a great offence too. As for this vision:

it's an honest ghost, let me tell you that much.

As for wanting to know what passed between us —

get over it as best you can. And now, good friends —

as you are friends, scholars, and soldiers —

grant me one small request.

What is it, my lord? We will.

Never tell anyone what you've seen tonight.

We won't, my lord.

No — swear it.

On my honour,

my lord, I won't tell.

Nor I, my lord — on my honour.

Swear on my sword.

We've already sworn, my lord.

No — on my sword. I mean it.

(from under the stage) Swear.

Aha, boy — is that what you say? Are you down there, old honest one?

Come on — you can hear this fellow in the cellar.

Agree to swear.

Set out the oath, my lord.

Never to speak of what you've seen.

Swear on my sword.

(beneath) Swear.

Here and everywhere at once? Then let's move.

Come over here, gentlemen,

and put your hands on my sword again.

Never to speak of what you've heard —

swear on my sword.

(beneath) Swear on his sword.

Well said, old mole! Can you burrow that fast underground?

What an excellent digger! Let's move once more, friends.

By day and night, this is astonishingly strange!

Then welcome it the way you'd welcome a stranger.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

than your philosophy has ever imagined.

But come on —

here, as before, swear — so help you God —

that however strangely or oddly I behave

(since I may well decide from now on

to act like a madman),

you will never, seeing me at such times,

fold your arms like this, or shake your head,

or say some knowing phrase

like 'Well, well, we know,' or 'We could if we wanted,'

or 'If we chose to speak,' or 'There are those who could' —

or any such hint — to suggest

that you know something about me. Promise not to do this,

so that grace and mercy help you when you most need them.

Swear.

(beneath) Swear.

Rest, rest, troubled spirit! — So, gentlemen,

I offer you all my affection.

And whatever a poor man like Hamlet

can do to show his love and friendship to you,

God willing, he will do. Let's go inside together —

and keep your fingers on your lips, please.

The world is out of joint. Oh, cursed bad luck

that I was ever born to put it right!

No — come, let's go together.