Rose, Huntington Library and Gardens, Pasadena, California, USA (photo (c) Ulrike Boehm; all rights reserved)Rose, Huntington Library and Gardens, Pasadena, California, USA (photo (c) Ulrike Boehm; all rights reserved)

Hamlet and Women

Eve and Her Daughters

"Frailty, thy name is woman!"

Each word fired off like an arrow from Apollo's quiver: the centerpiece of Prince Hamlet's first major monologue, and ever since first spoken just over fourhundred years ago by Shakespeare's original Prince of Denmark, Richard Burbage, on the stage of London's Globe Theatre, the quintessential male indictment of Eve and all her daughters for every conceivable woe ever brought on mankind – and on man – since a woman first listened to a serpent's lies.

For all is not well in Denmark: Hamlet's father, the rightful King, has suddenly died, allegedly stung by just such a serpent; Hamlet's uncle Claudius has swiftly sidelined the Prince's own aspirations to rule and ascended the throne in his stead; and last but not least, Hamlet's mother, Gertrude, has consented to marry Claudius a little month after the death of her first husband. And although Hamlet does not yet know exactly how all of this fits together, he has premonitions of the worst kind, summed up in his damning indictment of his own mother.

Except that ... Gertrude didn't murder her first husband. Gertrude isn't trying to govern in his stead. Gertrude didn't, so far as we know at least, engage in any extramarital affair before Claudius came along: indeed, for thirty-odd years, she seems to have been the loyal wife of a man whose first (and royal) duties necessarily had to be to his country, not to her. Yet, while she probably did try to make the most of any attentions her husband could give to her, she seems to have borne the burdens of her position without any public show of malcontent, or without ever conspiring against her own husband.

No, indeed, Claudius is the cause and origin of all of Denmark's woes: He is the one who committed regicide and fratricide when he murdered his own brother. It is his reign that is driving the country closer and closer to the abyss of social, economic, and moral bankruptcy; based on a thoroughly corrupt world view that we have already heard him express by the time Hamlet utters the above damning words about his mother – namely, the view that a son not merely exhibiting the trappings and the suits of woe for his father's death but truly grieving commits nothing short of a fault to heaven, a fault against the dead, a fault to nature. And Claudius, too, was the one whose desire for the crown als well as for the Queen, his brother's wife, drove him to commit not only murder but also adultery and incest in the first place. Sure, he dragged a highly vulnerable Gertrude down into the mire with him; and she most certainly ought to at least have had the sense of decorum not to marry him within a month of her first husband's death. But that doesn't change the fact that Claudius is the principal actor here: Gertrude had – and for the better part of the play, has – no knowledge of the precise scope and nature of his acts, however wilfully she may be blinding herself to the adultery and to her own part in it. This, however, merely makes her an accomplice to an indecent, "o'erhasty" marriage. It does not make her complicit of a murder of which she had no knowledge, let alone making her the main driving force behind this entire sordid tale of vice, immorality, corruption and murder.

Or does it?

Listening to the Prince throughout this play, one might well get the impression that it does indeed; that Gertrude's mere involvement with Claudius and her acceptance of his hand in marriage a single month after her first husband's death is more indicative of the country's slide into ruin and decay than anything Claudius himself could possibly have done, including murder – both regicide and fratricide at that. Before deploring his mother's "frailty," Hamlet has already compared her to a satyr, one of those profligate mythological wood-dwellers, half human, half goat, usually found in the company of the reveler god Dionysos (Bacchus); and even earlier, he has scolded her for what he sees as a show of false grief over his father's death – a charge he repeats in this very monologue by calling her tears over that event "most unrighteous," only to conclude, "O, most wicked speed, to post with such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good." And even this is only the beginning: When confronting Gertrude after the "play within the play," even his – at that time express – charges of adultery, incest, and complicity with regicide and fratricide ("You are the Queen, your husband's brother's wife, and (would it were not so!) you are my mother," and [with regard to Polonius's killing] "[a] bloody deed – almost as bad, good mother, as kill a King , and marry with his brother") are only the opening salvos to a tirade sparing his mother no form, mode or shape of abuse whatsoever, and very likely underscored by a fair amount of physical violence, too:

"[You have committed] [s]uch an act
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty;
Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows
As false as dicers' oaths. O, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul, and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words! Heaven's face doth glow;
Yea, this solidity and compound mass,
With tristful visage, as against the doom,
Is thought-sick at the act.

[After comparing her two husbands, past and present]:
Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes
You cannot call it love; for at your age
The heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgement; and what judgment
Would step from this to this? Sense sure you have,
Else could you not have motion; but sure that sense
Is apoplex'd; for madness would not err,
Nor sense to ecstacy was ne'er so thrall'd
But it reserv'd some quantity of choice
To serve in such a difference. What devil was't
That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,
Or but a sickly part of one true sense
Could not so mope.
O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,
To flaming youth let virtue be as wax
And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame
When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,
Since frost itself as actively doth burn,
And reason panders will.

[In short, a marriage consummated]
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty!

[And even after having calmed down somewhat]:
Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul
That not your trespass but my madness speaks.
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,
Whiles rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;
Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;
And do not spread the compost on the weeds
To make them ranker. ...

O, throw away the worser part of [your heart],
And live the purer with the other half,
Good night – but go not to my uncle's bed.
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat
Of habits evil, is angel yet in this,
That to the use of actions fair and good
He likewise gives a frock or livery,
That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night,
And that shall lend a kind of easiness
To the next abstinence; the next more easy;
For use almost can change the stamp of nature,
And either master the devil, or throw him out
With wondrous potency. ...

Let [not] the bloat King tempt you again to bed;
Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;
And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses,
Or paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers,
Make you to ravel all this matter out,
That I essentially am not in madness,
But mad in craft.

And as bad as Gertrude's is Ophelia experience's at the Prince's hands after she has, obeying her father's express orders (!), decided to refuse his courtship. Not only does he break into her bedchamber, where he quite possibly comes very close to doing her physical harm; once that fatal violation of her but budding womanhood has occurred – again: at Hamlet's own hands! – he mercilessly starts to treat her as a slut; a fallen woman, a whore; not a jot better than his own mother. In their "chance" encounter arranged by Claudius and Polonius after To be, or not to be, he whips out that "the power of beauty [like Ophelia's] will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness," as a response to Ophelia's question whether beauty could have "better commerce than with honesty;" and in short order he proceeds to send her to the cloister, on the grounds that she can only bring the dishonour already attached to her onto her future husband as well:

"Get thee to a nunnery! Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? ... If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery. Go, farewell. Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell. ... I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you amble, and you lisp; you nickname God's creatures and make your wantonness your ignorance. ... To a nunnery, go."

Equally brutally he taunts her – this time even publicly – before and during the "play within the play":

"Lady, shall I lie in your lap?" – "I mean, my head upon your lap?" – "Do you think I meant country matters?" – "That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs ... Nothing." – [A prologue as brief] "[a]s woman's love." – "I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying." – "It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge."

And of course, at the tragedy's very beginning and under the guise of guardians of Ophelia's maiden virtues, her own brother and – even more so – her father in turn have already let her have a similarly strong dose of the corresponding, not any less venomous antidote when warning her off Hamlet:

Laertes:

For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,
Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood;
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent – sweet, not lasting;
The perfume and suppliance of a minute;
No more.
[...]
For nature crescent does not grow alone
In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes,
The inward service of the mind and soul
Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now,
And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch
The virtue of his will; but you must fear,
His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own;
For he himself is subject to his birth.
He may not, as unvalued persons do,
Carve for himself, for on his choice depends
The safety and health of this whole state,
And therefore must his choice be circumscrib'd
Unto the voice and yielding of that body
Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you,
It fits your wisdom so far to believe it
As he in his particular act and place
May give his saying deed; which is no further
Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal.
Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain
If with too credent ear you list his songs,
Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open
To his unmast'red importunity.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister,
And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire.
The chariest maid is prodigal enough
If she unmask her beauty to the moon.
Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes.
The canker galls the infants of the spring
Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd,
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth
Contagious blastments are most imminent.
Be wary then; best safety lies in fear.
Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

Polonius:

'Tis told me [Hamlet] hath very oft of late
Given private time to you, and you yourself
Have of your audience been most free and bounteous.
If it be so – as so 'tis put on me,
And that in way of caution – I must tell you
You do not understand yourself so clearly
As it behooves my daughter and your honour.
[...]
Tender yourself more dearly,
Or ... you'll tender me a fool.
[...]
I do know,
When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul
Lends the tongue vows. These blazes, daughter,
Giving more light than heat, extinct in both
Even in their promise, as it is a-making ,
You must not take for fire. From this time
Be something scanter of your maiden presence.
Set your entreatments at a higher rate
Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,
Believe so much in him, that he is young,
And with a larger tether may he walk
Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia,
Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers,
Not of that dye which their investments show,
But mere implorators of unholy suits,
Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds,
The better to beguile. This is for all:
I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth
Have you so slander any moment leisure
As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.
Look to't, I charge you.

Women in Early and Medieval
Catholic Doctrine

** See the pages referenced in this box to read the
statements quoted below in a larger context.

There is an ongoing debate over the roles that William Shakespeare accorded to the women in his plays: While some see them as surprisingly independent, early progenitors of women's lib, others argue that such a reading would simply not be in conjunction with the era's predominant views, which were anything but charitable when it came to women's role in society. Personally, I would hesitate to make any kind of universal, "one size fits all" judgement when it comes to Master Shakespeare's works, and I think this is particularly true in this particular context: here, perhaps more than anywhere else, an idividual analysis of each and any one of his individual plays seems tobe in order. But while some of Shakespeare's Women are indeed refreshingly strong, self-assured, liberated and downright modern ladies (Rosalind in "As You Like It" comes to mind, as do, inter alia, Beatrice in "Much Ado About Nothing," Portia in "The Merchant of Venice," Viola in "Twelfth Night," and Juliet Capulet; and I also think that it is possible to read Katherina in "The Taming of the Shrew in that manner), much of the abuse we hear Hamlet and other male protagonists in this particular play hurl at the representatives of the fair sex conspiciously echoes the well-known statements by the founders of Catholic doctrine, first and foremost the four principal early doctors – Saint Augustine of Hippo, his teacher Saint Ambrose of Milan, their contempoary, bible translator Saint Jerome, and Pope (Saint) Gregory I (Gregory the Great) – as well as the "golden-mouthed" patriarch of Constantinople, Saint John Chrysostom, imperial Roman scholar Tertullian (Quintus Septimius Florens Tertullianus), and medieval scholars such as Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, Saint John Bonaventure and Saint Thomas Aquinas – and, of course, the inquisitors Heinrich Kramer and Jakob Sprenger, authors of the "Malleus Maleficarum" ("Hammer Against Witches" or by its German title, "Hexenhammer"), the ultimate anti-female sourcebook and the manual behind threehundred years' worth of witch hunts; as well as the writings of virtually every other theologian and philosopher of note over the course of a millennium and a half, who – doctrinal differences in detail notwithstanding and with only a few, albeit notable exceptions like Sir Thomas More – in near-perfect unison held as true and indisputable gospel the following core tenets, which they repeated mantra-like, and from which to digress carried nothing short of the risk of excommunication: **

Potent testimony to the fact that, partcularly in the early days of Christendom, the penalty of excommunication for any overt digression from these teachings was no empty threat, is the case of fourth century monk Jovian who, by asserting, inter alia, that virgins, widows, and married women, once baptised, were equal to men, incurred the wrath of no less than three of the Catholic church's founding fathers: Saint Augustine, Saint Ambrose – who presided over Jovian's 390 AD excommunication hearings – and Saint Jerome, who was enraged enough to even retroactively appoint himself chief prosecutor in a 393 AD treatise entitled "Against Jovian." So, too, medieval French scholar Pierre (Peter) Abélard, who gained notoriety both for his nontraditional views and, probably even more so, for his long-lasting extramarital affair with a young woman named Héloïse, suffered the wrath of the defenders of conservative doctrine, led by Bernard of Clairvaux.

And lest I be accused of sectarian bias, here are a few gems by two of the founding fathers of Protestantism, who – except for the sanctity of Mary (or sanctity in general, for that matter) – alas and alack, essentially bought into the same basic image of women as their Catholic (ex-)brethren; however fundamentally their teachings differed from Catholic doctrine on salvation in general, the Last Judgement, the meaning of communion, and other issues:

But then, witch hunts weren't solely a Catholic specialty, either. The 17th century Crucible of Salem, Massachusetts, was the work of Puritans ...

In short, however happily a woman may have been married, and however much clout she may have been able to secure for herself with regard to the practicalities of every day life:

"It was a fact generally acknowledged by all but the most contumacious spirits at the beginning of the seventeenth century that woman was the weaker vessel; weaker than man, that is. ... That was the way God had arranged Creation, sanctified in the words of the Apostle. ... Under the common law of England at the accession of King James I, no female had any rights at all (if some were allowed by custom). As an unmarried woman her rights were swallowed up in her father's, and she was his to dispose of in marriage at will. Once she was married her property became absolutely that of her husband. What of those who did not marry? Common law met that problem blandly by not recognizing it. In the words of The Lawes Resolutions: 'All of them are understood either married or to be married.' In 1603 England, in short, still lived in a world governed by feudal law, where a wife passed from the guardianship of her father to her husband; her husband also stood in relation to her as a feudal lord."
Lady Antonia Fraser, The Weaker Vessel (1984), Introduction, quoting the era's leading common law compendium on the subject, The Lawes Resolutions of Womens' Rights, or the Lawes Provision for Women (1632).

"Marriage was the triumphal arch through which women, almost without exception, had to pass in order to reach the public eye. And after marriage followed, in theory, the total self-abnegation of the woman. ... If this were held to be true of ordinary wives bowing before ordinary husbands, how much more awe-inspiring must the power of a royal husband have been!"
Lady Antonia Fraser, The Wives of Henry VIII (1992), Introduction.

And even allowing that King Hamlet was no Henry VIII and probably really did care for Gertrude until the end – Claudius, for his part, is an entirely different matter, of course – and allowing that not even Ophelia is as unsophisticated as Katherine Howard, Henry VIII's somewhat over-enthusiastically nicknamed "Rose Without a Thorn," who believed her royal husband capable of overhearing the secret of the confessional without himself being physically present, the era's perceptions on the female sex certainly seem ample enough basis for Prince Hamlet to associate the ills befalling his world primarily with the women residing therein. But how is one to deal with this when producing the play in our times: Just take it as a given and move on? Make Gertrude and Ophelia aggressively assert their femininity, social standards and verbal abuse be damned, and have Gertrude in particular stand up to the men? Or highlight her share of blame in Denmark's woes, to show that Hamlet is justified in the way he treats her (and by extension, maybe even Ophelia, too)?

– Continue: Hamlet and Eve –