Parrot, Butterfly Farm, Stratford-upon-Avon, England (photo (c) Ulrike Boehm; all rights reserved)
Act II, Scene 2 (Polonius, with Claudius and Gertrude).
Remeber when you were in love for the first time: discovering all that hope and longing; the as-yet unshaken trust and, at the same time, boundless vulnerability that most of us experience when we tentatively tread the ground of this newly-discovered realm of feelings for the very first time in our lives. Remember the joyful anticipation accompanying each meeting; the shared whispers and shared laughter; the comfort of being close to each other; and the regret of having to part, even if only temporarily. Remember the searing pain brought about by your first quarrel – and the unspeakable relief of reconciliation. Remember the exitement. The confidences. The moments of tenderness. Remember, maybe, also your first kiss.
Now imagine that this love is a forbidden one – one that, for whatever reason, according to both your parents is simply not meant to be. Imagine the hell there will be to pay when they find out. The harsh words. The prohibitions, maybe even punishments; or at least, threats of punishment in case you should disobey and see each other again alone after all. Imagine the resulting heartache. The inability to share that pain; being forced to deal with it each by him- and herself. Imagine that this is taking place in a setting where you will nevertheless continue to run into each other socially all the time – because the reason you've been forbidden to go on with your affair is not that your family backgrounds are considered ill-matched per se but rather, that your parents have made other plans for one or maybe even both of you. Imagine, for example, that one of you is the sole heir to a large business, or to a political dynasty; a dynasty strengthened not only by shrewd management and diplomacy, but also by that oldest and most personal of all alliances: by marriage. Imagine that one of your fathers is the right hand man of the other one's father and that, rather than striving for the top position himself, he is all too happy to please his boss any which way he can – and that while he is shocked to find his own offspring involved in a relationship jeopardising the Big Man's plans for his kingdom's future, he is also very adept at exploiting the situation; turning it to his own favour by yet another service rendered to his boss, even at the cost of his own kid's happiness; and even though, having deprived his kid of the solace recently found in love, and in the absence of any other confidant, he – the father – is now the only person that child has left to turn to in the first place.
Imagine those parents sticking their heads together, coldly plotting how best to deal with the situation; all business and entirely disregarding the feelings involved on their children's part, or at most, dismissing those feelings as childish infatuations. Think of the breach of faith between parents and children involved in a situation like that; the profound and terminal blow administered to a child's trust in the parental protection heretofore taken for granted. And having imagined all that in a contemporary context, now put yourself in the position of two young lovers at a 15th/ 16th century court: a place where secrecy is hard enough to maintain as it is, what with all the intrigues, duplicity and politicking going on in such an environment even if it is not in the grip of King Claudius, the Deceiver himself; whose reign has, however, increased the eerily sinister vibes hanging in the air even further. Imagine hot-blooded Prince Hamlet's rage and despair at suddenly being shown the cold shoulder by Ophelia. Imagine Ophelia's utter hopelessness and despair, trapped as she is between her obedience to her father and her love for Hamlet. Imagine both of their loneliness, deprived of a single soul (at least of their own station) to open up to.
Does all this make Hamlet's breach of the sanctuary of Ophelia's bedroom, which we have witnessed immediately prior to the scene we're about to see, forgivable after all? No, of course it doesn't. But neither does his reaction, in turn, justify the absolutely blatant and heartless way in which Polonius exploits his daughter's confidence by revealing the contents of Hamlet's letter to Ophelia to the Prince's mother and stepfather. On the contrary: distraught as Ophelia is by Hamlet's intrusion, she should be able to find comfort and support with her father, who is, after all, her only remaining parent (and in Laertes's absence, even her only relative and person of trust). But that, alas, would require Polonius to be a different man altogether.
Indeed, crafty politician that Polonius is, he even makes a point not to present the issue to Claudius and Gertrude as a private one but rather, one directly touching on matters of statecraft (and though I appreciate Grigori Kosintzev's intent in showing that the Counsellor is so much in the King and Queen's confidence that he even has access to their joint bedroom and can deliver his news in these most private of private quarters, to me there seems to be much greater poignancy in having him rush to tell his kingly sovereign the news in the context of a formal audience): It does, after all, have direct and specific implications for the kingdom's future as such whether or not the heir to the throne is of sound mind, whether he is in a curable state of melancholy or incurably insane, and whether he will marry for dynastic reasons as is hoped of him, or whether instead he throws his heart (and all hopes of a favourable alliance with some foreign power) away by falling in love with the daughter of the King's own Counsellor. Thus, unlike Master Kosintzev I am fairly certain that our Polonius does not wait until he catches Claudius and Gertrude when they are alone, or seek them out in their private quarters. Rather, I think he makes this one of the revelations – albeit a confidential one – which he comes to impart during an audience already well under way when he enters the hall of state. Annd quite frankly, I can't shake the image of a dog happily apporting a stick to its owner here; maybe even a stick it hasn't even been sent to fetch all that explicitly in the first place: Polonius is quite obviously tickled pink to be able to do such a service to his new King and master. But he also knows better than to overstate the matter. Thus, he quickly seizes upon another excellent reason allowing him to burst into Claudius's and Gertrude's welcome to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, whom the royal couple have summoned in their own turn to get to the bottom of Hamlet's apparent madness:
"Th' ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, are joyfully return'd," is the first thing we hear Polonius tell Claudius after his entrance. And he laps up his King's praise – "Thou still hast been the father of good news" – like a chunky piece of prime rib: "Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege, I hold my duty as I hold my soul, both to my God and to my gracious King." Only now he tags on the real reason why he has come, but again he is careful to expressly give it a political reference (and note that he says it only to Claudius, not also to Gertrude, who will have to learn this important piece of news about her son from her new husband): "And I do think – or else this brain of mine hunts not the trail of policy so sure as it hath us'd to do – that I have found the very cause of Hamlet's lunacy." As Polonius has been hoping, Claudius is electrified. "O, speak of that! That do I long to hear." Ah yes, but not with Voltemand and Cornelius still hanging around and waiting to be received by their King, not to mention all those courtiers and attendants milling about in the hall of state, as is customary during public audiences. Besides, let's not lose sight of the priorities here, shall we? That almost-declared war with Norway is still a tad more pressing at this point; at least, officially so. "Give first admittance to th' ambassadors," Polonius therefore suggests. "My news shall be the fruit to that great feast." This makes sense to Claudius. "Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in," he concedes. Yet, while Polonius bustles away to return with Voltemand and Cornelius, Claudius rushes to impart this new piece of intelligence to his wife. "He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found the head and source of all your son's distemper." "I doubt it is no other but the main," Gertrude responds a little sceptically. And she adds, surely not without a good deal of hesitation before finishing this sentence: "His father's death and our o'erhasty marriage." But Claudius is undeterred – and anyway, he just can't afford to let Gertrude linger too much on the idea of their rushed marriage. "Well, we shall sift him," he comments confidently before turning his attention to the ambassadors and listening to Voltemand's most satisfactory report.
"This business is well ended," Polonius remarks after the ambassadors have at last been dismissed, no doubt not without a hint of (self-)congratulation since he is, after all, Voltemand and Cornelius's boss and probably the person who first selected them for the job. But now his own big moment has finally come, too.
My liege, and madam, to expostulate
What majesty should be, what duty is,
Why day is day, night is night, and time is time.
Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
What is't but to be nothing else but mad?
But let that go.
A rather elaborate and circumferential beginning – in fact, not a brief one at all; but then, we're talking about the heir to the throne, whose state of mind seems to be as delicate as the topic itself. But Gertrude is not amused; she'd rather have Polonius cut to the chase:
More matter, with less art.
A rare instance of her asserting herself as the queen vis-à-vis anybody of power at court ... and watch how Polonius responds:
Madam, I swear I use no art at all.
First he protests the sincerity of his intentions (even with a touch of patronising, methinks – it just won't do to let a woman meddle in affairs like this; I mean, the only reason the Queen is present during this conversation in the first place is because she is the unhappy young man's mother) ...
That he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pity;
And pity 'tis 'tis true. A foolish figure!
But farewell it, for I will use no art.
Mad let us grant him then. And now remains
That we find out the cause of this effect –
Or rather say, the cause of this defect,
For this effect defective comes by cause.
Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.
Perpend.
... then he continues as elaborately and circumferentially as if she hadn't said anything at all, and it's anybody's guess whether he is just doing this to show Gertrude that he won't take orders from her as to how he chooses to present his intelligence, or because he is building up slowly to the big prize in order to play with Claudius's and Gertrude's anticipation, or because he just can't let another opportunity go by to show off his skillful use of language (one of the chief tricks of his trade, after all), or because while he is speaking he is in fact still mulling over the way in which best to present his conclusions. In any event, Hamlet really is mad (or melancholy): of that, Polonius is quite sure. And once that uncomfortable fact is out in the open, the reasons why the Counsellor has come to think so are quickly and neatly summed up:
I have a daughter (have while she is mine),
Who in her duty and obedience, mark,
Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise.
Ophelia. Of course, Polonius wouldn't be such a master spy and savvy diplomat if he weren't also able to present some evidence to support his theory; never mind that it must have broken the girl's heart to part with Hamlet's letter at all, not to mention how much she must feel stabbed into her back by her own father, knowing that he intends to reveal the letter to his boss, who moreover is not only, in turn, her lover's father, but also her own souvereign. ("Duty and obedience," indeed ...) Sir Kenneth Branagh poignantly illustrates what this situation does to Ophelia by having Polonius actually drag her into the hall of state and make her start to read the letter to the King herself, until she breaks down and flees the hall in tears and exasperation. I probably wouldn't go quite so far, although a certain spotlight on the lovers is certainly called for while their secret is being revealed; but by and large, I am more interested in the revelation as such, and the manner in which it occurs – namely, in the hall of state and in the context of a public audience, never mind that Polonius invites Claudius and Gertrude to huddle with him in confidence for this particular occasion ("now gather, and surmise").
'To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia,'
That's an ill phrase, a vile phrase; 'beautified' is a vile phrase.
But you shall hear. Thus:
'In her excellent white bosom, these,'
"Celestial" – "my soul's idol" – "excellent white bosom" ... what an insufferably conventional opening for a letter written by a man otherwise quite rightly priding himself on his wit and originality! Indeed, the beginning of Hamlet's letter to Ophelia is a virtual textbook example of Elizabethan poetry; or more specifically, love poetry – with its over-abundance of highly idealised allegories, typically taken from nature and/or mythology, and owing to the lyrical tradition stemming from the works of the great classical authors, such as Ovid (43 B.C. – 17 A.D.), the author of Shakespeare's beloved Metarmophoses (who had written, inter alia, about Apollo's first glimpse of Daphne that "He view'd her eyes, like heav'nly lamps that shone" – Metamorphoses, First Book) and even more so, Petrarch's 14th century sonnets to (and on) his idolised Lady Laura:
Her gait was not like that of mortal things,
But of angelic forms; and her words' sound
Was not like that which from our voices springs;
A divine spirit and a living sun
Was what I saw; if such it is not found,
The wound remains, although the bow is gone"
Petrarch, Sonnet XC
She, whose face is of snow, whose hair of gold,
In whose love never were deceits or chances,
Awakes me with the sound of loving dances
Combing the white fleece of her lover old"
Petrarch, Sonnet CCXIX
But while this might have been new and interesting when first used by the great singers of old and by Petrarch, by Shakespeare's times it was encrusted in cliché as firmly as good ol' "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder" and similar truisms are these days. And noone was quicker than Shakespeare to pun all that hyperbole and those lyrics' constant references to their golden-haired, starry- (beamy-, sparkling, sunny-) eyed, cherry- (strawberry-, vermilion-, coral-) lipped, rosy- (crimson-, purple-, dawn-) cheeked, ivory- (lily-, carnation-, crystal-, silver-, snowy-, swan-white) skinned, pearl-teethed, honey- (nectar-, music-) tongued, goddess-like objects. In fact, one of the Bard's sonnets in particular owes its fame in no small part to the clever counterpoint it sets in describing his mysterious Dark Lady:
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red.
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go:
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 130
So, too, we will hear Hamlet mocking a similar overabundance of celestial and divine excellence only a short time after this very exchange (still in the same scene; Act II, Scene 2), when discussing his lost mirth with his two "schoolfellows" Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Yet, I have not the slightest doubt that he is speaking seriously in his letter to Ophelia; just as the Bard's King Hal (Henry V) ends up professing his love for Princess Katherine of France in plain terms (and plain prose), explaining that he is not a man of flattery but of straightforward speech:
"I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say 'I love you.' Then, if you urge me farther than
to say 'Do you in faith?' I wear out my suit. [...]
Marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me; for the one I have neither
words nor measure, and for the other I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a
lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour on my back, under the correction of bragging be it spoken, I
should quickly leap into wife. Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favours, I could lay on like a butcher,
and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly, nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no
cunning in protestation; only downright oaths, which I never use till urg'd, nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a
fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sunburning, that never looks in his glass for love of anything he sees there,
let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier. If thou canst love me for this, take me; if not, to say to thee that I
shall die is true – but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou liv'st, dear Kate, take a fellow of
plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places; for these
fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favours, they do always reason themselves out again.
What! a speaker is but a prate: a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will
turn white; a curl'd pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow. But a good heart, Kate, is
the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon – for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly.
If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king."
William Shakespeare, Henry V (Act V, Scene 2)
Now, just because Prince Hamlet is usually not at all lost for a clever and pithy turn of phrase, his recourse to as much conventionality as at the beginning of his letter to Ophelia makes me think that he is probably not at all in the habit of writing love letters. This doesn't mean that he is even remotely as inexperienced as Ophelia in matters of courtship (he is (a) a man and (b) easily twice her age, after all); but I doubt that many of his affairs have truly been affairs of the heart so far. And it just may be because Sir Kenneth Branagh has famously portrayed not only the Prince of Denmark but also King Henry V, as well as Signior Benedick of "Much Ado About Nothing" on film: in any event, I find Hamlet's letter to Ophelia strongly reminiscent of King Hal's declaration of love to the French Princess and, possibly even more so, Benedick's struggle to compose a sonnet to his Lady Beatrice after he, who not so long ago had vowed that he would never let love "transform [him] into an oyster," suddenly finds himself miraculously transformed by that very emotion, and laborously comes to sweat out of himself:
The god of love,
That sits above,
And knows me, and knows me,
How pitiful I deserve –
– only to break off in disgust and lament:
"I mean in singing; but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and
a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank
verse, why they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it
in rhyme. I have tried. I can find out no rhyme to 'lady' but 'baby', an innocent rhyme; for 'scorn'
'horn', a hard rhyme; for 'school' 'fool', a babbling rhyme. Very ominous endings. No, I was not born
under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms."
William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing (Act V, Scene 1)
Thus, I'm also not at all certain that "beautified" is really meant in the "ill" or even "vile" way Polonius suspects: it would be, of course, if Hamlet were referring to made-up instead of natural beauty, but since he wrote this letter at a time when he was still hoping to win Ophelia back, I'm inclined to merely consider it a somewhat artificial and ill-chosen substitute for "beautiful" (and yet more evidence of Hamlet's inexperience in writing love letters).
Came this from Hamlet to her?
Similarly, I don't think we primarily should be hearing scorn in Gertrude's voice as she inquires about the letter's origin (and consequently, this is one of the very, very few instances where I disagree with Claire Bloom's approach in the stage version starring Sir Derek Jacobi). Concern she shows, certainly, if for no other reason because it is unclear how far Hamlet's and Ophelia's affair has progressed up to this point, and because Hamlet has not chosen to make his affections for the maid official and court her with their parents' express permission. But we will hear Gertrude say, when spreading flowers over Ophelia's grave in Act V, Scene 1, that she had hoped the maid would once be "[her] Hamlet's wife," and that she (Gertrude) "thought [Ophelia's] bride-bed to have deck'd" with flowers; not her grave. Because not least due to her own experience, I think, Gertrude has come to appreciate the connection between love and a happy, fulfilled married life; therefore she would rather see her son and the maid marry for love than marry for dynastic reasons and be unhappy ever after. Not that Gertrude's opinion on these things matters in the least, of course ...
Good madam, stay awhile. I will be faithful.
... as she is reminded, rather over-politely, by a once more blatantly patronising Polonius, who now finally proceeds to the heart of the matter:
'Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
'O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers; I have not art to
reckon my groans; but that I love thee best, O most best, believe
it. Adieu.
'Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to
him, HAMLET.'
First a rather formal recourse to the celestial powers, then a desperate outburst in plain prose: Now say for yourselves, doesn't that sound awfully much like King Henry's and Signor Benedick's pains, as quoted further above? No doubt: the Bard, who not only left us with some of the most beautiful and unique love poetry in existence, but who himself had also rhymed in "The Rape of Lucrece," 1594, about "Her azure veins, her alabaster skin, Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin;" who in "The Taming of the Shrew" (Act I, Scene 1) – also ca. 1594 – had had Lucentio compare his beloved Bianca to a whole pantheon of Greek deities and rave, "I saw her coral lips to move, And with her breath she did perfume the air;" who forgave abandoned love in advance in his Sonnet 49, anticipating a time when his lover would "scarcely greet [him] with that sun, [his] eye;" and who provided generations upon generations of lovers with his Sonnet 18, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?", which, beautiful though it is, by its mere over-repetition is now itself in acute danger of descending into a cliché of the very worst kind – no doubt, this same Bard, at the same time, keenly appreciated the virtues of plain, straightforward truth ... and quite obviously, he also knew all too well the pains of a man not accustomed to composing poetry in struggling to find the rhyme and meter apt to win (or win back) the affections of his beloved. And never mind that by the time this play was written, there had in fact already been this guy named Copernicus, who really had cast "doubt that the sun doth move" (around the earth, that is). We all know how that particular story turned out ...
This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me;
And more above, hath his solicitings,
As they fell out by time, by means, and place,
All given to mine ear.
Not without a spot of interrogation she's given it to his ear, though, I suspect. I doubt that what we have seen as Polonius's first reaction to Ophelia's breakdown after Hamlet's intrusion into her bedchamber was all there was to it – it can't have been since Ophelia didn't give him Hamlet's letter then, either. On the other hand, Polonius probably was rather in a hurry to impart his intelligence to his boss; so he probably didn't give the girl a whole lot of time to come to herself again. There are fathers, and then there are fathers ...
But how hath she
Receiv'd his love?
Claudius, of course, is not the least bit bothered by Polonius's methods. He just wants to know to what extent the matter has already gotten out of control ...
What do you think of me?
... which question, however, doesn't sit well with the old Counsellor at all.
As of a man faithful and honourable.
Damage control 101!
I would fain prove so. But what might you think,
When I had seen this hot love on the wing
(As I perceiv'd it, I must tell you that,
Before my daughter told me), what might you,
Or my dear Majesty your queen here, think,
If I had play'd the desk or table book,
Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb,
Or look'd upon this love with idle sight?
What might you think? No, I went round to work
And my young mistress thus I did bespeak:
'Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star.
This must not be.' And then I prescripts gave her,
That she should lock herself from his resort,
Admit no messengers, receive no tokens.
But the King's question has stung big time, and Polonius makes no bones about it – and not for the first time, we hear him overstate something for pure effect, just as he had initially done when warning Ophelia to stay away from Hamlet on the day of Laertes's departure. Now, interestingly, he can't very well share with his boss what he really told the maid on that occasion; namely, not "so [to] slander any moment leisure as to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet." So what do we now hear him say instead? Why, the very thing Laertes had told her then: "Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star," or as the Counsellor's son himself had put it: "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.."
Which done, she took the fruits of my advice,
And he, repulsed, a short tale to make,
Fell into a sadness, then into a fast,
Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness,
Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension,
Into the madness wherein now he raves,
And all we mourn for.
The little matter of honour taken care of, though, Polonius now finally presents his conclusions: Ophelia's rejection of the Prince, in obeisance of her father's wishes, has driven him into melancholy and madness.
Do you think 'tis this?
It may be, very like.
For once, even Gertrude's opinion is actually called for. Claudius is, after all, fairly new to this parenting thing; and he's not the greatest expert in matters of tender emotions such as young love, either ...
Hath there been such a time – I would fain know that –
That I have Positively said 'Tis so,'
When it prov'd otherwise?
Not that I know.
Take this from this, if this be otherwise.
If circumstances lead me, I will find
Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
Within the centre.
... as a result of which, he promptly manages to offend his Counsellor yet again; only now it's not the honour of his daughter (and by extension of himself as a father) that's at stake but his instincts as a politician – at least as big an affront as the one concerning Polonius's personal honour: he'd rather lose his head than let that impression stand. (Later versions of the play insert a stage direction here providing that Polonius points from his head to his shoulders when he says "take this from this" – that direction is neither germane to the 1623 "First Folio", nor to the 1604 Second Quarto, therefore it is not included in the text used on this website, either; though it is a mighty proximate one of course.)
How may we try it further?
Claudius decides that it is time to move on. And since there is little that the old Counsellor loves better than a juicy little plot, I think Claudius very purposefully leaves it to him to come up with an idea: to redirect his thoughts into smoother waters as much as in order to give him an opportunity to prove his wit ... and also because, if the plan backfires, it's all going to have been Polonius's idea, who therefore also must carry all the blame. (Can you say, "setting up a fall guy"?)
You know sometimes he walks for hours together
Here in the lobby.
Of course Polonius is all too happy to come up with a scheme.
So he does indeed.
I think the two men are exchanging a glance here: Now that it's all about taking action, who is still asking for the Queen's input? Doesn't she know when to keep her peace?
At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him.
Be you and I behind an arras then.
Mark the encounter. If he love her not,
And he not from his reason fall'n thereon
Let me be no assistant for a state,
But keep a farm and carters.
Consequently, Polonius completely ignores her and continues to address his comments exclusively to the King ...
We will try it.
... who okays the plan, mere seconds before Hamlet enters the hall of state and yet another opportunity seems to present itself to sound him (although we may fairly assume that Hamlet at least instantly clues in to the fact that something untoward is underfoot, and in Sir Laurence Olivier's movie he even overhears the entire plot being hatched). Regardless of however many specifics of the King's and Polonius's plan the Prince is actually aware, though, the old Counsellor will quickly come to be glad that Claudius and Gertrude are not around any longer during the following scene ...
Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.
