Toronto, Ontario, Canada - red maple leaves (photo (c) Ulrike Boehm; all rights reserved)
Act V, Scene 2 (Hamlet and Laertes).
The Dark King's triumph – or so it would seem: two childhood friends, two young men of noble birth who have grown up in mutual respect and cameraderie, are pitted against each other in a duel of much more sinister import than outward appearance would have it. You can almost smell the poison in the air: it's on Laertes's blade, in the pearl Claudius will drop into the drink he has set aside for Hamlet, in the King's every word, and last but not least, also in Laertes's mind. Yet, before the foils are crossed for the first round, there is a moment of pause; because Hamlet has also come to "court [Laertes's] favours," to ask his forgiveness for all the wrong he has done him: the deaths of his father and sister, their fight in Ophelia's grave; and even before that, the maid's shameful treatment (which I do think he has come to regret, albeit much too late) and her resulting madness, of which he has surely learned from Horatio. And his plea with Ophelia's brother is a rhethorical masterpiece (as well as the paragon of an insanity plea): it must needs be, because to the rest of the world he has to maintain the façade he himself has built up so carefully over the past few months, the façade of madness – whereas at the same time conveying to Laertes the absolute sincerity of his remorse.
Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong;
But pardon't, as you are a gentleman.
The opening: a straightforward admission of wrongdoing, and a plea for pardon – coupled with an appeal to Laertes's honour.
This presence knows,
And you must needs have heard, how I am punish'd
With sore distraction. What I have done
That might your nature, honour, and exception
Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness.
"But," Hamlet seems to be continuing, "though I don't deny that I committed these acts as such, I didn't do any of them on purpose. Rather, I was in a state of mind that prevented me from acting responsibly, from understanding the true meaning of my acts. Therefore, though I am guilty of the acts as such, nevertheless I am not to blame for them – I am not guilty in a moral sense." To this day, in courts all around the world this is the core tenet of a plea of insanity – but remember that this is Hamlet speaking to his childhood friend (and besides, Shakespeare wouldn't be Shakespeare if he didn't add on a little more):
Was't Hamlet wrong'd Laertes? Never Hamlet.
If Hamlet from himself be taken away,
And when he's not himself does wrong Laertes,
Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it.
Who does it, then? His madness.
In the same way as madness has transformed Hamlet's state of mind from that of a man acting reasonably and responsibly to one acting unreasonably and irresponsbly, so, too, the Prince's words now transform that same madness from an intangible, mental condition to an actor, a physical being attached to Hamlet against his will like by some sort of lichen, and operating completely outside his control.
If't be so,
Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd;
His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy.
And thus, the guilt that had already been shifted away from the Prince because of the effect that his alleged madness had on him is now laid squarely onto the shoulders of that same madness itself; onto the shoulders of that actor outside Hamlet's control, who therefore bears the blame both factually and morally, both inwardly and outwardly. As a result, Hamlet – now entirely blameless – finds himself no longer opposed to Laertes at all but on the same side as he; the side of those wronged by that third party actor, his madness.
Sir, in this audience,
Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil
Free me so far in your most generous thoughts
That I have shot my arrow o'er the house
And hurt my brother.
And yet, all clever allegories aside, Hamlet knows that Laertes won't be able to overlook the fact that he, the Prince himself, is the true cause of his pain. Thus, asking for a public pardon as he is, and having successfully held up the façade of madness to that same public, in his request for a sincere (and likewise public) answer from Laertes he returns to the first two steps of his plea, seeking forgiveness for acts he did commit, albeit without the intention of doing harm: only now, he characterises these acts as reckless and unforeseeing, without further mentioning his madness at all. Thus, ultimately he tells Laertes: "It doesn't matter whether you actually believe I am, or have ever been mad. By our longstanding friendship I do, however, appeal to your generosity in at least believing that I never intended to do you any harm. Forgive me in that spirit – that is all I beg of you here today."
I am satisfied in nature,
Whose motive in this case should stir me most
To my revenge.
How is Laertes supposed to respond to such a plea? He cannot simply deny it; that would be seen as uncharitable and, since he is in no position to contest Hamlet's allegations of madness, maybe even as wrong. On the other hand, he has given his word to Claudius – there is an unbated and envenom'd blade awaiting the Prince, and though Laertes may be partially swayed by Hamlet's words, they are not enough for him to call off the duel. So he, too, resorts to a balancing act. "Personally," he tells the Prince, "I do forgive you. My own feelings, gravely hurt as they were by your actions, are satisfied by your plea."
But in my terms of honour
I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement
Till by some elder masters of known honour
I have a voice and precedent of peace
To keep my name ungor'd.
"But," Laertes continues, "though my feelings ought to control here, there is one thing that takes preeminence over them, and that is my honour. And to satisfy that, it takes more than a simple plea from you. It takes a public pronouncement in my support. Until that time, in honour I cannot forgive you." Thus, the duel becomes a matter of honour exclusively – it is removed from both Hamlet's and Laertes's personalities and transferred to the level of an abstract virtue which equals and can, at the same time, also motivate justice and revenge. Thus, Laertes ultimately makes the same connection between these three virtues as Hamlet did in his last soliloquy before leaving Denmark on his way to England, when he concluded that "Rightly to be great is not to stir without great argument, but greatly to find quarrel in a straw when honour's at the stake": that without honour, there simply cannot be any justice. For this sole reason, the duel must proceed.
But till that time
I do receive your offer'd love like love,
And will not wrong it.
This, finally, is the part which truly shows Laertes both Claudius's and Hamlet's rhethoric equal (would that he had a bit more of Horatio's cool rationality to go with it, too!): To Claudius's ears, he is simply tagging on a lie to make the bitter pill of the previous statement go down a little more smoothly. To the ears of the audience, and to Hamlet's ears, he is returning to his earlier affirmation of personal forgiveness, which he now likewise connects with a quality that both as a feeling and as an abstract virtue ranks every bit as high as honour and justice: namely, (brotherly) love. Yet, while he ascribes that high virtue to Hamlet's offer, he doesn't actually go so far as to state that – but for his own honour – he would be able to reciprocate the sentiment; he merely affirms that he will not "wrong" the love offered by Hamlet. Why – and what exactly does he mean by that? Is he just lying, as Claudius must be thinking upon hearing these words? Or is he suddenly uncertain about the duel's purpose? Well, there may indeed be some doubt in his mind already: hearing Hamlet speak and knowing him well, he cannot have questioned the Prince's sincerity; and as Laertes himself is not false by nature, he cannot simply proceed as if Hamlet hadn't said anything at all, either. As a matter of fact, there is a moment during the duel where he promises Claudius, after having lost the first two rounds, that he'll "hit [Hamlet] now," only to comment to himself: "And yet it is almost against my conscience." However, we are not quite there yet – and even at that time, Laertes still uses the words "almost against my conscience." So I think his response is essentially limited to that high level of abstract virtues on which he has rhethorically been moving all along, and on which Hamlet himself has opened his plea for forgiveness, too: "In honour, and as a gentleman, I accept your offer of brotherly love," he tells the Prince. And to himself, he silently adds: "Whether I would ever again be able to fully return that feeling, I do not know. Let's see where this duel is going to take us. If everything goes as it should, I'll kill you during one of the official rounds. If not ... let me just cross that bridge when I get there, which hopefully won't ever be the case anyway."
I embrace it freely,
And will this brother's wager frankly play.
Give us the foils. Come on.
But Hamlet, alas, doesn't catch the minimal rhethorical pull-back in Laertes's last words – or if he does, he doesn't make it public. Indeed, his response implies that Laertes did in fact return his earlier sentiment of brotherly love, and that all that remains for him is to seal the offered compact making the duel a matter of honour exclusively. And yet, what else can Hamlet do, being bound by his own word to Claudius as well? The Dark King's triumph, seeming nearer than ever before ...
Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.
