Hamlet Act 2 Scene 1

Give him this money and these letters, Reynaldo.

I will, my lord.

It would be extremely wise of you, good Reynaldo,

before you visit him, to ask around

about his behaviour.

I was planning to, my lord.

Well said. Very well said. Now look, sir —

first find out which Danes are in Paris:

how they live, who they are, what money they have, where they stay,

what company they keep, what they spend. And when you find,

through this roundabout line of questioning,

that they know my son, then get closer to the point

than direct questions would take you.

Pretend you know him slightly.

Say something like: 'I know his father and his friends,

and him a little.' Are you following this, Reynaldo?

Yes, very well, my lord.

'And him a little — but,' you can say, 'not well.

Though if it's the man I'm thinking of, he's very wild;

he's into such-and-such.' And then attach to him

whatever invented faults you like — but nothing so foul

that it disgraces him. Be careful about that.

Just the loose, wild, ordinary slip-ups

that everyone knows go along

with youth and freedom.

Gambling, for instance, my lord.

Yes — or drinking, duelling, swearing, brawling,

whoring. You can go that far.

My lord, that last one would disgrace him.

Not at all — not if you flavour the accusation properly.

You mustn't accuse him of something worse,

like being a habitual lecher.

That isn't what I mean. Mention his faults so delicately

that they seem like the stains of freedom,

the flare-up of a passionate mind,

a wildness in untamed young blood —

the sort that attacks everyone that age.

But, my good lord—

Why should you do this, you mean?

Yes, my lord.

I'd like to know that.

Well, sir, here's my point —

and I think it's a clever trick.

When you lay these small stains on my son,

like something slightly dirtied in the making,

pay attention:

the person you're talking to, the one you're sounding out,

if he's ever seen the young man you're describing

guilty of those exact vices — rest assured

he'll agree with you like this:

'Good sir,' or 'friend,' or 'gentleman,'

depending on the local expression

and the customs of the country.

Very good, my lord.

And then, sir, he does this — he does — what was I

about to say? Good heavens, I was about to say

something. Where did I leave off? (He has lost the thread of his own scheme.)

At 'agrees with you like this,' at 'friend or so,'

and 'gentleman.'

At 'agrees with you like this' — yes, quite.

He agrees like this: 'I know the gentleman.

I saw him yesterday, or the other day,

or some other time, with so-and-so — and as you say,

there he was gambling; there he was drunk;

there he was brawling at tennis' — or possibly,

'I saw him go into a certain house of business' —

meaning a brothel, or something similar.

Do you see now?

Your bait of lies catches this fish of truth.

And that's how we men of wisdom and range,

with roundabout routes and indirect approaches,

find out the direct truth by indirect means.

So by my lecture and advice just now,

you'll find out about my son. You've got me, haven't you?

I have, my lord.

God be with you. Farewell.

Good day, my lord.

And observe his behaviour with your own eyes.

I shall, my lord.

And let him keep up his music lessons.

Very good, my lord.

Goodbye!

Well, Ophelia — what's wrong?

Oh, father, father — I've had such a fright!

By what, in God's name?

Father, I was sewing in my room,

and Lord Hamlet came in with his jacket completely undone,

no hat on his head, his stockings filthy,

unfastened, and sagging round his ankles like shackles.

He was pale as his shirt, his knees knocking together,

and with a look so pitiful

that he might have just been let out of hell

to describe its horrors. And he stood right in front of me.

Driven mad by love for you?

Father, I don't know.

But honestly, I'm afraid so.

What did he say?

He took me by the wrist and gripped hard.

Then he stepped back to arm's length,

and putting his other hand over his forehead like this,

he began studying my face so intently

it was as if he meant to draw it. He stayed like that a long time.

At last he shook my arm slightly,

nodded his head three times like this,

and let out a sigh so pitiful and deep

that it seemed to shatter his whole body

and end his life. Then he let me go,

and with his head turned back over his shoulder

he seemed to find his way without using his eyes —

he walked out of the door without their help,

and to the very last kept them fixed on me. (He never says a word. Whatever this is, she has just watched something break.)

Come with me. I'm going to find the King.

This is the very madness of love,

whose violent nature destroys itself

and drives people to desperate acts

as often as any passion under heaven

that afflicts human beings. I'm sorry to hear it.

Have you said anything harsh to him lately?

No, father — but, as you ordered,

I refused his letters and refused

to let him see me.

That's what's driven him mad.

I'm sorry I didn't watch him more closely

and judge him better. I was afraid he was only playing

and meant to ruin you. Curse my suspicion!

By heaven, it's as typical of us older people

to overthink and over-suspect

as it is for the young

to lack judgment. Come, let's go to the King.

He has to be told. Keeping it secret could cause

more trouble than telling it will cause anger.