else. She strides around the stage, waving her arms, and declaiming so quickly that it is hard to understand the words.
Ophelia yawned. Whatever the boy playing the queen was using for bosoms was not working very well; they were slipping down his front. Ophelia looked at Hamlet. The light from the fireplace reflecting from his white hair made it shine like the halos of the holy family in the paintings. Was that sacrilege, she wondered, to compare Hamlet to Christ? Would it be too flirtatious of her to stroke his hair? She knew what her father would say. Polonius would already be furious at the way they were sitting. She could expect a stinging lecture tonight, and banishment to her room for a few days probably, as well. Why couldn’t he understand how she felt? Why did he have to be so horrible and strict . . . Not like other girls’ fathers.
Ophelia decided she had better not run her hand through Hamlet’s hair. Not yet, anyway. A glance from the tiniest corner of her eye gave her the sense that Polonius was watching. She dared not look at him directly. Instead, she turned her attention back to the stage.
There the queen was still proclaiming her love for her husband. “I would kill my husband a second time,” she vowed, “were I to marry someone else after you have gone. Earth shall not feed me, nor heaven give me light, games shall not amuse me, nor sleep give me rest, if I bestow my attention on anyone but you. I would rather live as a hermit in a cave than be with another man.”
Ophelia whispered to Hamlet, “She takes a long time to say she loves him.”
“A woman’s love lasts no longer than her words,” he whispered.
She sat back, angry. Is that all he thought of women, then? Would he treat her love as mere trash? Did he not understand the power of the lifelong gift she had for him?
The young boy playing the role of the queen finally came to a halt. He stood in the center of the stage and announced, with an impressively deep voice, “Let my life be nothing but strife, if once a widow, I become a wife!”
His bosom had settled at a point just above his navel.
Hamlet, whom Ophelia decided may have had too much beer, called out to the queen, “What do you think, Mother?”
“What do I think? I think the more people talk about love, the less they feel it.”
But suddenly Claudius was interrupting both them and the play. “Is this thing some sort of insult to Her Majesty and me?” he demanded.
Ophelia stiffened, wishing then that she had paid more attention to the discussion onstage.
Gamely the actors struggled on, as Hamlet replied to his uncle, “No, no, it’s all a joke. Relax, sir. There’s no offense in the world.”
Onstage the king was “asleep” on a grassy bank, a rather unreliable-looking prop covered with a green blanket and a scattering of flowers. Prowling around him was a new character. No sooner did Ophelia wonder who he was than Hamlet whispered, “That’s Lucianus, nephew to the king.”
Ophelia whispered back, “You make a good commentator, my lord.”
The nephew came to the front of the stage. Ophelia felt the excitement quivering through Hamlet. She wondered at the cause. Could it be her? What strange creatures men were. What powerful passions they seemed to feel. She felt intense passions too, but men seemed hot and cold, whereas she was always hot. It never occurred to her that Hamlet was trembling with the tension of a first-time author who is about to hear his lines uttered in front of an audience.
Glaring first at the audience and then at the recumbent king, the nephew made his evil intentions clear.
“There he sleeps, in mortal bliss,
but I am like a serpent’s hiss.
I carry here venom profound,
gathered from this very ground.
Infected by my evil vice,
every bite will poison twice.
Pour it into this one here,
through the medium of his ear!
End at last his virtuous life,
so I can carry off . . .”
Before the actor was able to carry out his attack on the
Ophelia yawned. Whatever the boy playing the queen was using for bosoms was not working very well; they were slipping down his front. Ophelia looked at Hamlet. The light from the fireplace reflecting from his white hair made it shine like the halos of the holy family in the paintings. Was that sacrilege, she wondered, to compare Hamlet to Christ? Would it be too flirtatious of her to stroke his hair? She knew what her father would say. Polonius would already be furious at the way they were sitting. She could expect a stinging lecture tonight, and banishment to her room for a few days probably, as well. Why couldn’t he understand how she felt? Why did he have to be so horrible and strict . . . Not like other girls’ fathers.
Ophelia decided she had better not run her hand through Hamlet’s hair. Not yet, anyway. A glance from the tiniest corner of her eye gave her the sense that Polonius was watching. She dared not look at him directly. Instead, she turned her attention back to the stage.
There the queen was still proclaiming her love for her husband. “I would kill my husband a second time,” she vowed, “were I to marry someone else after you have gone. Earth shall not feed me, nor heaven give me light, games shall not amuse me, nor sleep give me rest, if I bestow my attention on anyone but you. I would rather live as a hermit in a cave than be with another man.”
Ophelia whispered to Hamlet, “She takes a long time to say she loves him.”
“A woman’s love lasts no longer than her words,” he whispered.
She sat back, angry. Is that all he thought of women, then? Would he treat her love as mere trash? Did he not understand the power of the lifelong gift she had for him?
The young boy playing the role of the queen finally came to a halt. He stood in the center of the stage and announced, with an impressively deep voice, “Let my life be nothing but strife, if once a widow, I become a wife!”
His bosom had settled at a point just above his navel.
Hamlet, whom Ophelia decided may have had too much beer, called out to the queen, “What do you think, Mother?”
“What do I think? I think the more people talk about love, the less they feel it.”
But suddenly Claudius was interrupting both them and the play. “Is this thing some sort of insult to Her Majesty and me?” he demanded.
Ophelia stiffened, wishing then that she had paid more attention to the discussion onstage.
Gamely the actors struggled on, as Hamlet replied to his uncle, “No, no, it’s all a joke. Relax, sir. There’s no offense in the world.”
Onstage the king was “asleep” on a grassy bank, a rather unreliable-looking prop covered with a green blanket and a scattering of flowers. Prowling around him was a new character. No sooner did Ophelia wonder who he was than Hamlet whispered, “That’s Lucianus, nephew to the king.”
Ophelia whispered back, “You make a good commentator, my lord.”
The nephew came to the front of the stage. Ophelia felt the excitement quivering through Hamlet. She wondered at the cause. Could it be her? What strange creatures men were. What powerful passions they seemed to feel. She felt intense passions too, but men seemed hot and cold, whereas she was always hot. It never occurred to her that Hamlet was trembling with the tension of a first-time author who is about to hear his lines uttered in front of an audience.
Glaring first at the audience and then at the recumbent king, the nephew made his evil intentions clear.
“There he sleeps, in mortal bliss,
but I am like a serpent’s hiss.
I carry here venom profound,
gathered from this very ground.
Infected by my evil vice,
every bite will poison twice.
Pour it into this one here,
through the medium of his ear!
End at last his virtuous life,
so I can carry off . . .”
Before the actor was able to carry out his attack on the
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