Hamlet Act 4 Scene 5

I won't speak with her.

She's insistent — genuinely out of her mind.

You can't help pitying her state.

What does she want?

She talks constantly about her father. She says she hears

the world is full of tricks. She clears her throat and beats her chest,

kicks spitefully at nothing, says things that make

only half sense. Her words mean nothing,

and yet the shapelessness of them makes

listeners try to piece them together. They guess at it

and patch the words to fit their own ideas.

And with her winks and nods and gestures,

you'd genuinely think there was some meaning there —

nothing certain, but something badly wrong.

It would be wise to speak with her. She might plant

dangerous suspicions in troublemaking minds.

Let her come in.

(to herself) To my sick soul — this is how guilt works —

every trifle seems the prologue to some great disaster.

Guilt is so full of clumsy suspicion

that it gives itself away by fearing exposure.

Where is the beautiful queen of Denmark?

What is it, Ophelia?

(singing) How should I tell your true love

from any other man?

By his pilgrim's hat and staff,

and his sandalled shoes.

Sweet lady, what does this song mean?

What's that? No — please, listen.

(singing) He is dead and gone, lady,

he is dead and gone;

at his head a patch of green grass,

at his heels a stone.

Oh, ho!

But, Ophelia—

Please, listen.

(singing) His shroud as white as mountain snow—

Look at this, my lord.

(singing) Decked all over with sweet flowers;

which went weeping to the grave

in showers of true-love tears.

How are you, pretty lady?

Quite well, God reward you. They say the owl was once a baker's

daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but we don't know

what we might become. God be at your table.

She's obsessing about her father.

Please, let's not talk about that. But when people

ask you what it means, tell them this:

(singing) Tomorrow is Saint Valentine's day,

early in the morning,

and I'll be a girl at your window

to be your Valentine.

Then up he got and put his clothes on

and opened the bedroom door;

let in the girl who never left

a girl again.

Poor pretty Ophelia.

Honestly, no need to swear — I'll finish it:

(singing) By Jesus and by Saint Charity,

what a shame, for shame!

Young men will do it, given the chance;

by God, they're the ones at fault.

She said: before you tumbled me,

you promised you would marry me.

He answers:

So I would have, by that sun up there,

if you hadn't come to my bed. (Her songs are all about dead fathers and girls ruined by men who promised marriage. Nobody in the room asks why.)

How long has she been like this?

I hope everything will be all right. We must be patient. But I

can't help crying, thinking they'd lay him

in the cold ground. My brother will hear about it.

And so, thank you for your good advice. Come, my

carriage! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies;

good night, good night.

Follow her closely. Keep a careful watch on her, please.

This is the poison of deep grief. It all springs

from her father's death. — Gertrude, Gertrude,

when sorrows come, they don't come as single scouts

but in whole battalions. First her father killed;

next your son gone, and he the violent cause

of his own justified removal. The people are stirred up,

muddy and unhealthy in their thoughts and whispering,

about good Polonius's death — and I acted foolishly,

burying him in secret haste. Poor Ophelia,

cut off from herself and her good sense,

without which we're just pictures, or animals.

And last, as significant as all the rest,

her brother has come back secretly from France,

feeding on suspicion, keeping out of sight,

and there's no shortage of gossips to poison his ear

with venomous talk about his father's death —

in which, having no real facts,

they won't hesitate to accuse me

in every ear they find. Dear Gertrude, all this,

like a cannon loaded with scattershot,

kills me over and over.

What on earth is that noise?

Where are my guards? Have them guard the door.

What's happening?

Save yourself, my lord!

The sea flooding over its shoreline

doesn't swallow the flatlands more violently

than young Laertes, at the head of a mob,

is overwhelming your officers. The crowd is calling him lord,

and as though the world were starting fresh —

tradition forgotten, custom unheard of,

the very things that give words authority —

they're shouting 'Let's choose! Laertes shall be king!'

Caps, hands and voices cheer it to the sky:

'Laertes shall be king! King Laertes!'

How happily they bay on the wrong scent!

You're running backwards, you treacherous Danish hounds!

They've broken the doors.

Where is the King? — Gentlemen, all of you wait outside.

No — let us come in!

Please — leave this to me.

We will, we will.

Thank you. Guard the door. — You vile king,

give me my father!

Calm down, Laertes.

Any drop of my blood that stays calm proves I'm illegitimate,

calls my father a cuckold, and brands 'whore'

right here on the pure, unstained forehead

of my faithful mother.

What's the reason, Laertes,

that your rebellion looks so enormous?

Let go of him, Gertrude. Don't fear for me.

There's such holy protection around a king

that treason can only glance at what it wants,

and does very little of it. Tell me, Laertes,

why you're so enraged. — Let him go, Gertrude. —

Speak, man.

Where is my father?

Dead.

But not by his doing.

Let him ask all he wants.

How did he die? I won't be played with.

To hell with loyalty! Vows, to the blackest devil!

Conscience and grace, to the deepest pit!

I'll risk damnation. Here's where I stand:

I don't care about this world or the next.

Let whatever comes come — I'll only be revenged

completely, for my father.

Who's going to stop you?

My own will — not the whole world.

And as for my resources, I'll manage them so well

they'll go a long way on very little.

Good Laertes,

if you want to know the truth

about your father's death — does your revenge require

that you sweep up friend and enemy alike,

the guilty and the innocent?

Only his enemies.

Do you want to know who they are, then?

To his true friends I'll open my arms this wide,

and like the pelican that gives its own life,

I'll feed them with my blood.

Now you're talking

like a good son and a true gentleman.

That I'm innocent of your father's death,

and deeply grieved by it,

will become as plain to your judgment

as daylight is to your eye. (He is lying. He is also, technically, telling the truth.)

What's that noise?

Fever, dry up my brain! Tears seven times as salty,

burn out the sight and power of my eyes!

By heaven, your madness will be paid for in full,

until the scales tip our way. — Oh, rose of May!

Dear girl, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!

Heavens — is it possible that a young girl's mind

could be as fragile as an old man's life?

Human nature is delicate where it loves, and where it's delicate

it sends some precious piece of itself

after the thing it loved.

(singing) They carried him uncovered on the coffin;

hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny;

and into his grave fell many a tear—

Fare well, my dove!

If you had your reason and were urging revenge,

it couldn't move me more than this does.

You must sing 'a-down, a-down,'

and you call him 'a-down-a.'

Oh, how well the refrain suits it! It's about the treacherous

steward who stole his master's daughter.

This nonsense means more than sense would.

Here's rosemary — that's for remembrance. Please,

love, remember. And here are pansies — that's for thoughts.

A lesson taught by madness: thoughts and remembrance, perfectly matched.

Here's fennel for you, and columbines. Here's rue

for you, and here's some for me — we could call it

the herb of grace on Sundays. Oh, you must wear your rue with

a difference. Here's a daisy. I'd give you

some violets, but they all withered when my father

died. They say he made a good end—

(singing) For lovely sweet Robin is all my joy. (Rosemary for remembrance, pansies for thoughts, rue for regret. She is entirely coherent — just not in words.)

Grief and suffering, passion, hell itself —

she turns them all into charm and prettiness.

(singing) And will he not come back again?

And will he not come back again?

No, no, he is dead;

go to your deathbed;

he never will come back again.

His beard was as white as snow,

his hair was all flaxen.

He is gone, he is gone,

and we throw away our grieving.

God have mercy on his soul.

And on all Christian souls, I pray to God. God be with you.

Do you see this, God?

Laertes, I must share in your grief,

or you're denying me my right. Just step aside,

choose whichever of your wisest friends you like,

and let them hear the case and judge between us.

If they find me involved, directly

or indirectly, I'll hand over my kingdom,

my crown, my life and everything I call mine,

to satisfy you. But if not,

be content to lend me your patience,

and we'll work together with your soul

to give it proper satisfaction.

Let it be so.

The way he died, his hurried, unmarked funeral —

no memorial, no sword, no coat of arms over his bones,

no noble rites, no proper ceremony —

cry out to be heard, from heaven to earth,

that I must demand an explanation.

And you shall have one.

And where the guilt lies, let the great axe fall.

Please, come with me.