Eugène Delacroix (1843) – Act V, scene 2. The death of Hamlet
Hamlet's death – the moment we have been fearing since we first laid eyes on our Prince roughly four hours earlier; the moment to which the tragedy's entire course of events has been steering: cataclysmically, like a train on a track, and despite the best intentions of Horatio and those of us in the audience who would have wished Hamlet well and would, so many times, have wanted to jump onto the stage (or into the screen) to argue with him; to make him see sense; or to talk him into or out of a proposed course of action. And the Prince's death is all the more tragic for the fact that it occurs although Claudius's last sinister plot fails, and although finally the Dark King – the evil despot, the dictator – is himself caught in the poisonous trap that he has laid for his own nephew.
In terms of sequencing, leaving aside that Gertrude is the first to drink of the poisoned cup and also the first to die (and unlike Sir Laurence Olivier, I do not believe that she actually suspects foul play and sacrifices herself to warn her son), the final scene hardly makes any sense: as Hamlet is the next to be wounded by Laertes's poisoned blade, he should also be the next one to follow his mother to the sweet hereafter; and only then we should get to the deaths of Ophelia's brother and of Claudius (well, alright, maybe Claudius before Laertes, given his presumably much more serious injury). But of course, here is the point where William Shakespeare and Giuseppe Verdi meet, even a full 200 years before Verdi's birth and outside the specific context of those of the Bard's plays which would attain a new level of fame after having been turned into operas by the celebrated composer; namely, "Othello," "Macbeth," and "Falstaff" – and never mind, incidentally, Ambroise Thomas's adaptation of this play which, however beautiful it may be, commits the near-sacrilege of bowing to French 19th century expectations and endowing the tale with a (gasp) happy end: For indeed, Hamlet's dying scene has all the makings of the great dying and sacrificial arias of the Italian opera; complete with exclamations of "O, I die," the slowly but visibly increasing effects of the poison coursing through the Prince's veins, and his all-important final commission to his grief-stricken Horatio. "Restraint, restraint, restraint," I therefore hear a warning voice say inside my brain: "There's so much built-in passion and drama in this scene already – let's try not to make it look like Italian opera, too." Which is not to say that I don't like opera; much to the contrary. But to everything its own place ...
Now, then. The Prince's duel with Laertes has gone terminally wrong when, outside the bounds of its undecided third round, Laertes has wounded Hamlet with his rapier's poisoned blade, and in the ensuing shuffle Hamlet himself has gotten hold of that weapon and turned it against Laertes. Ophelia's brother then unveils Claudius's malicious plot, and has just about enough time to see the King "justly serv'd" both with his – Laertes's – poisoned rapier and with Claudius's own poisoned drink. Then Laertes asks the Prince (this time, in all sincerity) to "exchange forgiveness" with him: "Mine and my father's death come not upon thee, nor thine on me!" "Heaven make thee free of it!" Hamlet responds to a Laertes whose ears are already dead to his answer. "I follow thee." And after all his contemplations about the nature of death, all his fears and worries over this dreadful, unknown, unknowable state, he now makes a remarkable discovery:
I am dead, Horatio.
Death can begin even before the physical shutdown of your body. If, as in his case, it is both imminent and absolutely certain, you can be – at least for a few moments – perfectly alert; and yet already belong to the netherword.
Wretched queen, adieu!
You that look pale and tremble at this chance,
That are but mutes or audience to this act,
Had I but time (as this fell sergeant, Death,
Is strict in his arrest) O, I could tell you –
But let it be.
But Hamlet knows he doesn't have much time left. Therefore, all his attention must now be turned to the one unsettled thing on his mind:
Horatio, I am dead;
Thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright
To the unsatisfied.
He doesn't want to be forgotten. If it is true that we are all reduced to nothing but dust in the end, someone must make sure that his legacy at least lives on – and who better to do that than his loyal Horatio, his one true friend, who also strongly believes in the value of such a legacy?
Never believe it.
I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here's yet some liquor left.
As th'art a man,
Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll ha't.
Oh, but Hamlet hasn't been counting on the strength of Horatio's loyalty and friendship. Now at last, we see even the scholar, the man of reason display emotion, and not just a little (and seeing the two friends grappling for that poisoned cup kills me, too, every single time – and I wonder why neither the Olivier nor the Jacobi nor the Zeffirelli/Gibson adaptation makes use of the scene that way. Scared of laying on the emotion too thickly after all? Sir Ken shows us how to do it right ...) So Hamlet has to repeat his charge; and he pleads, struggling with all his might to stay alive just long enough to give Horatio his all-important commission:
O good Horatio, what a wounded name
(Things standing thus unknown) shall live behind me!
If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,
Absent thee from felicity awhile,
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,
To tell my story.
But then, an interruption ...
What warlike noise is this?
Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland,
To the ambassadors of England gives
This warlike volley.
O, I die, Horatio!
The potent poison quite o'ercrows my spirit.
I cannot live to hear the news from England,
But I do prophesy th' election lights
On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice.
So tell him, with th' occurrents, more and less,
Which have solicited –
... and thus, Hamlet's "dying voice" at last is not merely addressed to Horatio, but also to Fortinbras who – he knows – is the likely heir to a throne he himself has never had a chance to occupy. Thus, Horatio's task at last turns from the general to the specific: he is not merely to make sure "the unsatisfied" and "this harsh world" don't forget Hamlet's fate; more particularly, he is also to acquaint the Prince's immediate heir, the one person best in a position to draw specific lessons from his story and implement them – the prince of Norway, who thus becomes his primary audience.
the rest is silence.
Then, at last ... Hamlet finds out that death is simply – silence; peace, both physical stillness and peace of mind. (And oh, what a prosaic stage direction after all that drama. Yet, honour it, I pray you! This is a hero's, but not a heroic death.)
Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
And yet, ultimately Horatio closes the circle back to Hamlet's own thoughts in "To be, or not to be": That silence of death is ... but a restful sleep. And Horatio is confident that it is not nightmare-ridden, but rather, protected by entire flights of angels.
Giuseppe Verdi, Don Carlos: Act IV, Scene 2 (Libretto: Joseph Méry and Camille du Locle)
Rodrigo, the Marquis of Posa, has been shot in lieu of the Infante (Don Carlos), taking the blame for a suspected insurrection. He declares that he doesn't fear death, because his death will save the life of Don Carlos and thus, ultimately Spain.
O Carlo, ascolta,
la madre t'aspetta
a San Giusto doman;
tutto ella sa ...
Ah! la terra mi manca ... Carlo mio,
a me porgi la man! ...
Io morrò, ma lieto in core,
che potei così serbar
alla Spagna un salvatore!
Ah! di me non ti scordar!
Regnare tu dovevi,
ed io morir per te.
Ah! io morrò, ma lieto in core,
che potei così serbar
alla Spagna un salvatore!
Ah! di me non ti scordar!
Ah! la terra mi manca ...
la mano a me ... a me ...
Ah! salva la Fiandra ...
Carlo, addio! Ah! ah! ...
O Carlos, listen:
Your mother awaits you
At Saint Just tomorrow;
She knows it all ...
The earth is failing me ... o my Carlos,
Give me your hand! ...
I am dying, but glad in my heart
For I could thus give Spain
A saviour!
Ah! don't forget me!
You had to rule,
And I had to die for you.
Ah, I am dying, but glad in my heart,
For I could thus give Spain
A saviour!
Ah! don't forget me!
Ah! The earth is failing me ...
Give me your hand ... your hand ...
Ah! save Flanders ...
Farewell, Carlos! ... Ah! ah! ...
Piotr Ilyitch Tchaikovsky, Piikovaya Dama (Pique Dame, or, The Queen of Spades):
Scene 7 [= Act III, Scene 3]
(Libretto: Modest Tchaikovsky)
Herman is beset by his passion for Liza, but also by the desire to win at cards. Bullied by him into divulging her secret about the three cards that always win, Liza's guardian, the old countess, has suffered a fatal heart attack. Horrified, Liza, too has killed herself. Her fiancé, Prince Yeletzky, challenges Herman at cards – and wins, because the final magic card is not, as the countess's ghost has told Herman in a nightmare, the ace, but the queen of spades: the symbol of death. Desperate and once more haunted by the countess's ghost, Herman turns his pistol on himself.
Starukha!
Ty! Ty zdes!
Chevo smeyoshsya?
Ty menya s uma svela.
Proklyvataya!
Chto? Chto nadobno tebe?
Zhizn? Zhizn moya? Vozmi yeyo, vozmi yeyo!
Neshastny!
Kak uzhasno pokonchil on s soboi!
On shiv, on shiv yeshcho!
Knyaz! knyaz, prosti menya!
Mne bolno, bolno! Umirayu!
Chto eto? Liza? Ty zdes? Bozhe moi!
Zachem? Zachem? Ty proshchaesh! Da?
Ne klyanesh?
Akh! Kak ya lyublyu tebya, moi angel!
Krasavitsa! Boginya! Akh!
Gospod! Prosti yemu!
I upokoi yevo myatezhnuyu, izmuchennuyu dushu!
Old witch!
You! You here!
What are you laughing for?
You drove me out of my mind.
A curse upon you!
What's that? What do you want?
A life? My life? Take it, then, take it!
Poor wretch!
What a terrible end he has made of himself!
No, he's alive, still alive!
Prince! Prince, forgive me!
I am in agony, in agony! Dying!
Who is that there? Liza? Oh, God!
Why? Why? And you forgive! Yes?
And do not curse me?
Ah! How I love you, my angel!
My beauty! My goddess! Ah!
Lord! Pardon him!
And give rest to his turbulent troubled spirit!
Giacomo Puccini, Manon Lescaut: Act IV
(Libretto: Marco Praga, Domenico Oliva, Giulio Ricordi, Liugi Illica and Giuseppe Giacosa)
Deported to Louisiana, Manon, a courtesan once celebrated for her beauty, has been left alone by her lover Des Grieux. She sings of her loneliness, her remorse for her sinful past, and her fear of death.
Sola, perduta, abbandonata ...
in landa desolata!
Orror! Intorno a me s'oscura il ciel ...
Ahimè, son sola!
E nel profondo deserto io cado,
strazio crudel, ah! sola abbandonata,
io, la deserta donna!
Ah! non voglio morir!
No! non voglio morir!
Tutto dunque è finito.
Terra di pace me sembrava questa ...
Ahi! Mia beltà funesta,
ire novelle accende ...
Strappar da lui mi si volea; or tutto
il mio passato orribile risorge,
e vivo innanzi al guardo mio si posa.
Ah! di sangue s'è macchiato.
Ah! tutto è finito.
Asil di pace ora la tomba invoco ...
No! non voglio morir... amore, aita!
Alone, lost, abandoned ...
in this desolate moor!
What horror! All around me, the sky is growing dark ...
Oh me, I am alone!
And I am falling into the deepest loneliness,
Cruel torment, ah! alone and abandoned,
I, the lost woman!
Ah! I don't want to die!
No! I don't want to die!
Then it's all over.
This seemed a peaceful land to me ...
Oh, my deadly beauty,
It sparks new fury ...
I want to rip it from me; so as not
to see my horrible past arise,
And stand before me alive again, making me look at it.
Ah! it is stained with blood.
Ah! it's all over.
Now I pray for the peaceful refuge of the grave ...
No! I don't want to die ... love, help!
Umberto Giordano, Andrea Chénier: Act III (Libretto : Luigi Illica)
Maddalena di Coigny, Andrea Chénier's lover, offers herself to her mother's former servant Gérard, now an official with the revolutionary tribunal under the Reign of Terror, in order to save Chénier's life. She tells Gérard that she has nothing left to lose, because she has already received the kiss of death after losing her home and her family.
La mamma morta m'hanno
alla porta della stanza mia;
Moriva e mi salvava!
poi a notte alta
io con Bersi errava,
quando ad un tratto
un livido bagliore guizza
e rischiara innanzi a' passi miei
la cupa via!
Guardo!
Bruciava il loco di mia culla!
Così fui sola!
E intorno il nulla!
Fame e miseria!
Il bisogno, il periglio!
Caddi malata,
e Bersi, buona e pura,
di sua bellezza ha fatto un mercato,
un contratto per me!
Porto sventura a chi bene mi vuole!
Fu in quel dolore
che a me venne l'amor!
Voce piena d'armonia e dice:
"Vivi ancora! Io son la vita!
Ne' miei occhi è il tuo cielo!
Tu non sei sola!
Le lacrime tue io le raccolgo!
Io sto sul tuo cammino e ti sorreggo!
Sorridi e spera! Io son l'amore!
Tutto intorno è sangue e fango?
Io son divino! Io son l'oblio!
Io sono il dio che sovra il mondo
scendo da l'empireo, fa della terra
un ciel! Ah!
Io son l'amore, io son l'amor, l'amor"
E l'angelo si accosta, bacia,
e vi bacia la morte!
Corpo di moribonda è il corpo mio.
Prendilo dunque.
Io son già morta cosa!
"They killed my mother
In the doorway of my room;
She died saving me!
Later, in the dead of the night,
I wandered about with Bersi,
When suddenly
A livid glow flickers
And lights ahead of me
The dark street!
I looked at it!
My childhood home was on fire!
So I was alone!
And surrounded by nothingness!
Hunger and poverty!
Deprivation, danger!
I became ill,
And Bersi, so good and pure
Traded in her beauty
For my sake!
I bring misfortune to those who love me!
It was in this misery
That love came to me!
And murmured in a melodius voice:
"You shall live! I am life itself!"
Your Heaven is in my eyes!
You are not alone!
I will collect your tears!
I will walk with you and be your support!
Smile and hope! I am love!
Is all around you blood and mire?
I am divine! I am oblivion!
I am the god who descends to earth
From the high empire, and I make this world
A paradise! Ah!
I am love, love, love"
And the angel approaches, kisses me,
And in that kiss is death!
My body is on the brink of dying.
Take it then.
I am already dead like it!
Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.
