Hamlet Act 3 Scene 1

And can't you, by steering the conversation somehow,

get out of him why he's putting on this disturbed behaviour,

which grates so badly against the calm days he used to have,

with this violent and dangerous madness?

He admits he feels unbalanced,

but he absolutely won't say what's causing it.

And we don't find him willing to be probed.

He keeps his distance with a shrewd sort of madness

whenever we try to draw him into admitting

his real state of mind.

Did he receive you kindly?

Very much like a gentleman.

But he had to force himself to do it.

He was stingy about making conversation — but when we asked things,

he answered freely enough.

Did you try to interest him

in any entertainment?

Madam, as it happened, we overtook

some actors on the road, and we told him about them.

And there did seem to be a kind of joy in him

at the news. They're here at court,

and I believe they've already been ordered

to perform for him tonight.

That's quite right.

And he begged me to ask Your Majesties

to come and watch it.

Gladly — and it pleases me greatly

to hear he's in that frame of mind.

Good gentlemen, push him further in that direction,

and steer his interest toward these amusements.

We will, my lord.

Sweet Gertrude, leave us as well.

We've secretly sent for Hamlet to come here,

so that he can run into Ophelia

apparently by accident.

Her father and I — spying legitimately —

will position ourselves so that we can see without being seen,

and judge their meeting honestly,

working out from his behaviour

whether or not it's the sickness of love

that he's suffering from.

I'll do as you say.

And as for you, Ophelia, I do hope

that your beauty is the happy cause

of Hamlet's wildness. Then I can hope your good qualities

will bring him back to his usual self,

to the credit of you both.

Madam, I hope so too.

Ophelia, walk about here. — Your Grace, if you please,

let's hide ourselves. — Read this book;

looking like you're at your devotions will explain

why you're alone. We're often guilty of this —

it's been proved too often — that with a pious face

and holy behaviour we sugar-coat

the devil himself.

(to himself) Oh, that's far too true.

What a stinging lash that speech gives my conscience!

A prostitute's cheek, prettied up with layers of make-up,

is no uglier next to the paint that helps it

than my crime is next to my most painted words.

What a heavy burden. (Claudius confesses, to himself, for the first time. Polonius doesn't notice.)

I hear him coming. Let's withdraw, my lord.

To exist, or not to exist — that's the question.

Is it nobler to put up with

the slings and arrows of outrageous luck,

or to take up weapons against a sea of troubles

and end them by fighting? To die, to sleep —

nothing more. And to say that by sleeping we end

the heartache and the thousand natural blows

that come with having a body — that's a conclusion

devoutly to be wished for. To die, to sleep.

To sleep — and perhaps to dream. Ah, there's the catch.

Because in that sleep of death, what dreams might come

once we've shrugged off this mortal turmoil?

That has to stop us. That's the consideration

that makes us endure disaster for so long.

Who would put up with the whippings and insults of the years,

the tyrant's injustice, the arrogant man's abuse,

the agony of rejected love, the law's delays,

the rudeness of officials, and the kicks

that good, patient people take from the worthless —

when he could settle the whole account himself

with a simple blade? Who would carry these burdens,

grunting and sweating under an exhausting life,

except that the fear of something after death —

that undiscovered country from whose border

no traveller comes back — paralyses the will

and makes us rather endure the troubles we know

than escape to ones we know nothing about?

So thinking about it turns us all into cowards,

and the natural healthy colour of determination

goes sickly pale under the shadow of thought.

And plans of great urgency and importance

get knocked off course by this kind of thinking

and never earn the name of action. — But wait,

the lovely Ophelia! — In your prayers, sweet nymph,

remember all my sins.

My good lord,

how has your lordship been these many days?

I humbly thank you — well, well, well.

My lord, I have keepsakes of yours

that I've long wanted to give back.

Please take them now.

No, not me.

I never gave you anything.

My honoured lord, you know perfectly well you did —

and along with them, words so sweetly put together

that they made the gifts worth more. That scent is gone now.

Take them back. To a noble mind,

rich gifts turn cheap when the giver turns cold.

There, my lord.

Ha! Are you honest?

My lord?

Are you beautiful?

What does your lordship mean?

That if you're honest and beautiful, your honesty shouldn't

let your beauty anywhere near it. ('Honest' also means chaste, and 'fair' also means honourable. He's playing both meanings at once, cruelly.)

Could beauty have better company, my lord,

than honesty?

Yes, truly — because the power of beauty will corrupt

honesty into a brothel-keeper faster than the

power of honesty can make beauty resemble

honesty. That used to be a strange idea, but now

the times prove it. — I did love you once.

You certainly made me believe so, my lord.

You shouldn't have believed me. Virtue can't be

grafted onto our sinful old rootstock without the old taste

coming through. I didn't love you.

Then I was all the more deceived.

Get yourself to a convent. Why would you want to breed

more sinners? I'm reasonably decent myself, and yet I

could accuse myself of things that would make it better if my

mother had never given birth to me. I'm very proud, vengeful,

ambitious, with more crimes at my fingertips than I have

thoughts to hold them, imagination to shape them,

or time to commit them in. What should men like me be doing,

crawling around between earth and heaven? We're utter scoundrels,

every one of us. Believe none of us. Off you go to a convent. ('Nunnery' was also slang for a brothel. Both meanings are live, and both are brutal.)

Where's your father?

At home, my lord.

Then let the doors be locked on him, so he can only play the

fool in his own house. Goodbye. (She has just lied to him. Her father is behind the curtain. Hamlet almost certainly knows.)

Oh, sweet heaven, help him!

If you do marry, here's the curse I'll give you as a

dowry: be as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, and you

still won't escape slander. Get to a convent. Go.

Goodbye. Or if you must marry, marry a fool — because

wise men know perfectly well what monsters you women make

of them. To a convent, go — and quickly. Goodbye.

Heavenly powers, restore him to himself!

I've heard about your make-up too, well enough. God

gave you one face and you make yourselves

another. You prance, you sway, you lisp, you invent pet names for

God's creatures, and pass off your lust as

innocence. Enough — I'll have no more of it. It's driven me mad.

I tell you, there'll be no more marriages. Those already

married — all but one — shall live. The rest can

stay as they are. To a convent. Go. ('All but one' is a threat aimed at Claudius, and Claudius is listening.)

Oh, what a noble mind has been destroyed here!

The courtier's tongue, the soldier's sword, the scholar's eye;

the hope and the flower of this fine country,

the mirror of good manners and the model of behaviour,

the man everyone watched and admired — completely, completely broken!

And I, the most dejected and wretched of women,

who drank the honey of his musical promises,

now watch that noble, commanding intelligence

jangling like sweet bells knocked out of tune,

and that unequalled shape and face of youth in full bloom

withered by madness. Oh, misery —

to have seen what I've seen, and to see what I see now!

Love? His feelings don't run that way at all.

And what he said, though it was a little disordered,

wasn't madness. There's something in his mind

that his depression is sitting on like a hatching egg.

And I'm afraid that when it hatches

it'll be dangerous. To prevent that,

I've quickly and firmly decided

on this: he'll go to England immediately

to demand the tribute money they owe us.

Perhaps the sea voyage and foreign countries,

with all their different sights, will drive out

this thing that's settled in his heart

and that his constantly working brain keeps turning over,

making him unlike himself. What do you think?

That should work well. But I still believe

the origin and beginning of his trouble

came from rejected love. — Well, Ophelia?

You needn't tell us what Lord Hamlet said.

We heard it all. — My lord, do as you like.

But if you think it appropriate, after the play

let his mother the queen speak to him alone

and press him to reveal his trouble. Let her be blunt with him,

and I'll station myself, if you agree, within earshot

of everything they say. If she can't get to the bottom of him,

send him to England, or lock him up wherever

your judgment thinks best. (This plan gets Polonius killed within two scenes.)

So be it.

Madness in important people mustn't go unwatched.