Rosehips in a wood near Bonn, Germany (photo (c) Ulrike Boehm; all rights reserved)
Act II, Scene 1 (Ophelia and Polonius).
It's one of the play's most important scenes – and we never even get to see it. I can't help but wonder why. Is it because there is something more going on than Ophelia tells us; something Shakespeare chose not to show? Sir Kenneth Branagh quite obviously thinks there is – he regales us with a whole beautiful, sensual back story of forbidden love turning bitter after Polonius's interference. And I suppose he bases his interpretation in no small part on one of Ophelia's songs after she has turned mad:
For indeed, where should the fair maid have gotten all this stuff if it hadn't happened to her precisely like that, right? Well, I can't really argue with Branagh's interpretation in the context of his take on Hamlet's and Ophelia's relationship as a whole; but I have to disagree as far as my own view of Ophelia is concerned. I've addressed the above little verse in greater detail in the context of her other songs and prophecies – here let me just focus on what I think we're learning about the Prince's intrusion into her bedchamber.
O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!
Remember that in my take on Ophelia's character, we're talking about a very young girl – fifteen, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old at the utmost, possibly younger, and as far as matters of love are concerned, possibly with the maturity and mental equipment of an even younger girl (at the very least as compared to our advanced times). She is certainly nowhere near eighteen or even older, because in that case there would have to have been one or possibly even more suitors before Hamlet; and not only does Shakespeare give us no indication of any such suitors, we're also quite clearly looking at a very, very inexperienced young woman: for even a single courtship with another man, however briefly, would have changed her outlook substantially enough to teach her to receive Hamlet's attentions in a more guarded way from the start. Moreover, while she has grown up sheltered, the daughter of a rich and influential man, she has no other woman to guide her; and even worse, the one existing member of her family who might have done so with at least a modicum of diplomacy, her brother Laertes, has left for France. So when she has this absolutely terrifying encounter with Hamlet, and discovers a side of the Prince she was patently unaware of so far (and by rights, should she have been aware of it at all?), she must needs turn to the sole remaining person she can tell about it – her father.
"But can we trust her?" I hear you ask. "Does she really tell him all? How should we know whether she's not holding back on something she's just too ashamed to mention ... and which she might not know how to put into words even if she wanted to?"
Yes, granted; that's our biggest problem here – and we won't ever know that with absolute certainty. So in essence, we will have to make up our minds whether we want to believe her – and if so, whether we think we have sufficient reason to do so. I, in fact, think we can and we should trust her. Yet, while the woman in me would very much like to just give her a big hug and tell that brute of a Prince to stay the hell away from my girl or he'll be dealing with me instead, I also can't overlook the fact that I am hearing the one-sided account of a profoundly terrified young girl. So I'll try to approach the scene the way I hope I would have done it if I had been in Polonius's place, and if Ophelia had told me her story the way she might have told it to a confidante if she had ever had one. And that means, first and foremost, that I need to listen very carefully – in order to pick up on everything the maid is telling me, even if not necessarily directly so; and also in order to avoid the trap of rushing to judgement.
The first thing I notice about this scene, then, is that Ophelia seeks out her father entirely on her own motion. She is clearly profoundly disturbed; yet, her disturbance is of a kind that needs to be relieved by talking about it – it is not something so utterly beyond expression that the only remaining thing is a withdrawal into shameful silence, and a fierce, but forever unspoken attempt to blot out the very memory of the event from her mind. This in itself suggest to me that the ultimate breach has probably not happened – there has been no actual rape, or anything even close to that. Sure, a more mature woman who has been raped might have resolved her conflict between, on the one hand, the need to unburden herself by talking about the incident, and, on the other hand, her profound inability to adequately deal with the experience, by softening her account into something less dramatic; something that particularly a male listener like her father (who as we know could use a refresher course in sensitivity when it comes to his children anyway, especially when it comes to his daughter) would find easier to accept, yet still dramatic enough to elicit compassion and comfort. But Ophelia has not yet learned the first thing about these mechanisms of mental self-protection – and indeed, as we can see from her quick descent into madness, she will never learn about them, either. Moreover, she is quite obviously coming to her father straight after the incident has happened, without having taken the time to at least try and collect herself, or sort her feelings in her own mind – and thus initiate even the slightest bit of analysis. She just pours out her heart in all its fullness; and this takes me to the next thing I notice: her account is very, very detailed, which to me seems to be another fairly good indication of her truthfulness. There's only so much anyone can make up in the first place, and especially so this young lady we're dealing with here. Again, a more mature woman might have (even unconsciously) started to change the facts, invent things; add a little something here, delete a little something there, even on the short way from her own room to Polonius's study, or wherever else she finds her father after his talk with Reynaldo. But Ophelia? Our sheltered little waif who wouldn't even know where to find all the stuff she'd have to make up in the first place? Uh-uh. She's telling it exactly the way she has experienced it – because this is the only story she can tell at all. And from her point of view, even if she's not trying to hold back on a single thing, it's still a pretty disturbing experience as it is ... as even her father can't fail to notice.
With what, i' th' name of God?
My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd,
No hat upon his head, his stockings foul'd,
Ungart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle;
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors – he comes before me.
Now, even if we have not yet gotten to whatever physical side there actually is (or could have been) to the incident, this already spells "breach," "penetration," and "violation of privacy" in as glaring letters as if we were seeing our Prince assaulting the girl right then and there. Just think about it – and remember that, semi-consciously at least, Ophelia must be aware of all of this, too: First he must have barged into the house itself: breach, penetration and violation of privacy (of the entire household) number one; a trespass only the heir to the throne could get away with – anybody else would have been stopped by Polonius's servants. Then he storms through half the house, possibly smashing open a number of further doors on the way, looking for Ophelia – breach, penetration and violation of privacy number two; again undeterred by Polonius's probably now thunderstruck servants (and thunderstruck not only because this is Prince Hamlet but also because of his outward appearance and his behaviour). Finally he reaches Ophelia's room, and we get to breach, penetration and violation of privacy number three and four – his intrusion into a woman's bedchamber, and not just any woman's bedchamber but that of an unsuspecting, inexperienced, and immaculate young girl. And on top of all that he looks, both in attire and in expression, like a creature "loosed out of hell to speak of horrors." Is it a wonder the poor child is absolutely frozen stiff with fear and terror?
Mad for thy love?
My lord, I do not know,
But truly I do fear it.
Again: even Polonius gets the picture. And I think given his daughter's description, he might well be fearing the worst now ... whether Ophelia, too, imbues the word "love" with a more tangible meaning is open to discussion (but certainly possible: at the very least she clearly has been anticipating some kind of grave harm to her person).
What said he?
I think what our venerable Counsellor actually means, but has way too great trepidations to ask directly, is, "And what happened next?"
He took me by the wrist and held me hard;
Then goes he to the length of all his arm,
And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face
As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so.
At last, a little shaking of mine arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being. That done, he lets me go,
And with his head over his shoulder turn'd
He seem'd to find his way without his eyes,
For out o' doors he went without their help
And to the last bended their light on me.
Alright, now here's the weird part – the part that makes you (well, me, anyway) wonder what, if anything, Hamlet may have been thinking. Sure, we can probably take it that at this moment he not only looks mad to the world; he actually is mad – not in a clinical sense, of course, but certainly furious about Ophelia's sudden, yet persistent and total withdrawal, which he must be attributing to Polonius's interference. This at least would explain how he comes to intrude into her bedchamber in the first place; which may well have started as an act of sheer desperation, an impulsive last try to get to her. And his attire may just be part of the "antic disposition" that he had told Horatio and Marcellus after his meeting with his father's Ghost he would assume from time to time thereafter; I doubt he purposely shows up in the girl's bedchamber like this to frighten her. But then, as soon as he is standing before her, Ophelia's account makes it sound as if our Prince is suddenly freezing, too – at the very least, he seems to have lost his power of speech. Why ... because he, in turn, is now thunderstruck by the terror he can see in her face? And yet, she'll be looking just about as terrified only a day later, during that "chance" meeting arranged by her father and Claudius ("Get thee to a nunnery"), and he'll still find it in himself to literally shower her with abuse then. So we can surely rule out a sudden flight of guilt or pity now, can't we – or can we? After the abrupt and profound rejection he has already experienced from her, does it still make so much of a difference for him, only a day later, to realise that she has overheard his discourse with his own conscience in "To be, or not to be"? How far exactly has he already given way to the scorn and bitterness of rejection; to "the pangs of despis'd love," at this particular moment, a day earlier? Again: I have absolutely no doubt that Ophelia is telling us about the incident exactly the way she has experienced it. But somebody please get me this Prince, because I have a few very pressing question for him. And while I do think it likely that he didn't alreay enter her room with the intention to do her any physical harm, to what extent he is aware of (or able to admit that he cares about) the things this scene has done to her emotionally, I'm not so sure at all; in fact, I suspect he is essentially in denial there, and he will literally only wake up when he and Horatio come upon Ophelia's burial a month later ... at which time, of course, it is too late (for this as for so many other things as well).
Come, go with me. I will go seek the King.
Geez. What a father ... is there any hope for this man at all? His daughter has just told him about the penultimate violation of her but blossoming femininity, and a minute ago he himself has very likely been fearing even worse. And what are the first words out of his mouth now that he has heard the full story, at least to the extent the girl is able to tell it? Not, "oh, I am so sorry." Not, "oh my poor girl, come on, here's a big hug." Not, "are you alright? Can I get you anything to make you feel better?" No. "Come on, let's go to the guy's stepdad, who by the way also happens to be my boss and your souvereign, and who I'm sure will be pleased as punch to hear about this. So let's tell him, too, shall we?" – Please ... and this gentleman's trade is diplomacy?!
This is the very ecstasy of love,
Whose violent property fordoes itself
And leads the will to desperate undertakings
As oft as any passion under heaven
That does afflict our natures.
He just can't help himself. Well, at least now he has found his explanation for Hamlet's apparent madness ... and given Ophelia's very, very disturbed appearance, I confess I can't really blame him for sticking to his story come hell and high water. Quite frankly, he is probably not as totally off target as Claudius concludes after having overheard Hamlet's and Ophelia's confrontation over "To be, or not to be" and "Get thee to a nunnery;" even if overall, Claudius's suspicions are more to the point, of course.
I am sorry.
Finally!!!
What, have you given him any hard words of late?
Good grief, what a question, Counsellor. You were the one who prohibited her to even speak to the Prince, remember? "So slander any moment leisure as to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet," I believe, were your precise words? Hello?? Or did you really think your daughter would disobey you?
No, my good lord; but, as you did command,
I did repel his letters and denied
His access to me.
Of course she didn't disobey her father's command; dutiful daughter that she is ... After all, that's precisely how we all got into this predicament in the first place! (Well, alright, with the exception of one letter that she did keep ... but that one Polonius makes her hand over to him fast enough as well, as we shall see in the very next scene.)
That hath made him mad.
Yes, well. As I said, Polonius may actually be on to something there ... even if it's just part and parcel of everything that's going on with our lord Hamlet.
Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn: An Old Man in Red (1652-1654, The Hermitage, St. Petersburg, Russia)
I am sorry that with better heed and judgment
I had not quoted him. I fear'd he did but trifle
And meant to wrack thee; but beshrew my jealousy!
By heaven, it is as proper to our age
To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions
As it is common for the younger sort
To lack discretion.
A bit late for that kind of insight, dontcha think, Polonius? Of course it's still no excuse for what Hamlet just did to Ophelia, but shouldn't an experienced politician and diplomat like you have foreseen some sort of trouble at least? I mean, you're not actually trying to tell me you didn't calculate your words (and your tone!) very, very carefully when you forbade your daughter any further contact with the Prince, are you?
Come, go we to the King.
This must be known; which, being kept close, might move
More grief to hide than hate to utter love.
Come.
Ophelia doesn't actually respond to this with words, but I can just picture her eyes sending out one big plea here. And at least for herself she prevails – for in the very next scene, when Polonius does indeed go to tell his boss, he does so alone. (Well, alright, not in Branagh's version ... which however, in effect, shows us all too clearly what it does do to Ophelia to be publicly exposed in this manner, and to Hamlet's stepfather, the King, no less.)
Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.
