Roses in a Park in Berlin, Germany (photo (c) Ulrike Boehm; all rights reserved)
Act I, Scene 3 (Laertes and Ophelia) / Act I, Scene 3 (Polonius and Ophelia).
Oh, poor Ophelia. Just put yourselves into her place for a minute: the sheltered young girl who has grown up alone in this men's world, with nary a woman to keep her company, nor to advise her on issues of etiquette, propriety, love, courtship and, of course ... men, not as they see themselves but as a woman sees them. Thus, blossoming into adulthood she suddenly finds herself courted by none other than Prince Hamlet; her brother's boyhood friend and maybe once a bit of an elder brother to her, too – bright, good-looking, rich: in short, the kind of catch every young girl aspires to make. How should she not be smitten? And his intentions seem honourable enough; so why not permit them? Imagine how shocked she must be to find that both her brother and her father see things so totally differently. And yet, there is a marked difference in how Laertes and Polonius deal with the issue (and we see it reflected very nicely in Grigori Kosintzev's movie, where Laertes and Ophelia are on the same eye level during their exchange, whereas Ophelia kneels obediently next to Polonius only minutes later).
First of all, Laertes has apparently been watching Hamlet's courting of his sister for quite a while before he decides to comment on it – he does so on his own motion, and his remarks imply that he is well aware of what has been going on. This in itself tells us that he hasn't concluded with absolute certainty that the Prince's attentions must necessarily bode evil; for if he thought that, he would doubtlessly have stepped in much earlier and much more decisively: given Ophelia's willing acceptance of the advice he finally does give her ("'Tis in my memory lock'd, and you yourself shall keep the key of it"), he would have had every reason to believe that she would have listened to him in that other case as well. And even now, Laertes doesn't outright tell his sister to send Hamlet packing; he merely cautions her – albeit in the strongest possible language – to keep the Prince at a safe and proper distance, to stay "in the rear of [her] affection, out of the shot and danger of desire." Laertes thus counsels Ophelia towards diplomacy, not to a sudden withdrawal. Moreover, he takes the trouble to explain his concern: even if Hamlet's intentions are sincere, he tells her (which, given that the Prince's courtship is a very recent one, just cannot yet be said with certainty anyway), they may nevetheless lead to nothing substantial, because the heir to the throne may have to make a political match – love just doesn't enter into it for him. And Laertes appeals to Ophelia's reason and judgement: "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." Yet, even he ultimately finds it necessary to drive home his point with some very strong language, which can't fail to leave a profound impression with the maid (and one wonders whether, her youth and inexperience notwithstanding, she wouldn't deserve just a little more trust from her own brother): "Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister ... The chariest maid is prodigal enough if she unmask her beauty to the moon. ... 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, on the other hand, doesn't have any first hand knowledge at all about what has been going on. Now, given his daytime job description that's obviously par for the course for him: indeed, we will soon see him send a spy after his own son, too; so why not also rely on third party reports with regard to his daughter's doings? Yet, I think given the vehemence of his comments now that he does gladly seize on the opportunity to address the issue, it speaks volumes that even where his daughter's most personal affairs are concerned, he is perfectly happy to have others collect information for him first and then confront Ophelia with what he has learned from them, instead of ever bothering to gain a more immediate understanding of his own. And unlike Laertes's, Polonius's concern is not a warning – there is no appeal to Ophelia's own sense of judgement; nor much of an explanation, really. Even if he begins in a similar way as his son ("I must tell you you do not understand yourself so clearly as it behooves my daughter and your honour"), already at this point his words have a sharper ring to them, and they are followed by an unequivocal demand: "What is between you? Give me up the truth." And once Ophelia, obedient daughter that she is, has – reluctantly – complied with that demand, Polonius's tone is one of near-unrestrained scorn and contempt ("Affection? Pooh! ... Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?" – "Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to!" – "Ay, springes to catch woodcocks!"); he not only seems almost more concerned with his own position than his daughter's ("Tender yourself more dearly, or ... you'll tender me a fool"): and again unlike Laertes, he also takes it for granted that Hamlet's intentions just cannot be trusted ("In few, Ophelia, do not believe his vows"). But most importantly, where his son had merely warned Ophelia to "keep in the rear of [her] affection," Polonius first tells her in no uncertain terms "from this time [to] be something scanter of [her] maiden presence," and then follows it up by a father's ultimate death knell to his daughter's budding first love: "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." Clearly, the venerable Counsellor's sole desire is a termination of the courtship; diplomacy be damned (and never mind that it's part and parcel of his daytime trade). And what but "I shall obey, my lord" could a dutiful daughter possibly respond to this? But oh, how her heart must be bleeding as she says it. For truthfully, can there be any more brutal interference with a young girl's tender feelings than that which she has just experienced?
Of course, it will be the object of Ophelia's affection himself who in his reaction to her sudden withdrawal then commits the penultimate breach and causes her precisely that grief which her brother, at least, had wanted to spare her, and which she might well indeed have been spared had she heeded her brother's and not her father's words. But by the time Polonius comes to regret his harsh words and over-jealous reaction, the damage is essentially done ...
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.
No more but so?
Think it 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.
Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well
What I have said to you.
'Tis in my memory lock'd,
And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
What is't, Ophelia, he hath said to you?
So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.
Marry, well bethought!
'Tis told me he 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.
What is between you? Give me up the truth.
He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me.
Affection? Pooh! You speak like a green girl,
Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.
Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?
I do not know, my lord, what I should think.
Marry, I will teach you! Think yourself a baby
That you have ta'en these tenders for true pay,
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly,
Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
Running it thus) you'll tender me a fool.
My lord, he hath importun'd me with love
In honourable fashion.
Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to!
And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,
With almost all the holy vows of heaven.
Ay, springes to catch woodcocks! 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. Come your ways.
I shall obey, my lord.
Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.
