sleeping king, Hamlet leaped to his feet in wild excitement. “He poisons him in the garden to get the estate! He poisoned him, I tell you. He poured it in his ear! He murdered him in the garden, murdered him, and stole his wife. Stole everything he owned.”
Is he drunk or mad? Ophelia wondered, frightened. She did not understand what was happening, but she felt the ferocity of the moment. Leaning forward, she saw the king stirring to his feet. She whispered to Hamlet, “My lord, I think the king is offended.”
“Stop the play!” Claudius shouted, trembling with rage and fear.
“What?” Hamlet exulted. “Frightened by false fire? It’s only a play, after all.”
Behind Ophelia, Osric struggled to get out of his seat. “Shame, shame,” he brayed.
Gertrude was standing. “Are you all right, my lord?” she begged her husband.
“Stop the play,” Polonius called.
All was confusion. The actors had already melted back behind the curtains, where their manager was cursing Hamlet. “He’s dropped us right in it,” he muttered. “Hurry back and pack your bags, lads. Pack everything. We might have to do a fast exit.”
“Give me some light,” roared the king. “Fetch a light.”
“Lights, lights,” Polonius called to no one in particular. A candle was brought from the rear of the hall, and more candles were lit from it. The king was stumbling about like a wounded bear. He walked right over Osric, who had fallen forward, narrowly missing Ophelia, and was lying facedown on the floor. “Shame, shame!” he called again, feeling the king’s heavy boot in his back. Then he vomited.
Claudius could now see a clear path to the door. The servants, trying to flee, had to stand back; they bowed low as he passed, hoping he would not see their faces. The two young gardeners were scared out of their wits. They both had the same thought: Old Garath was right. Should have listened to old Garath. He knows a thing or two, that one.
Claudius was out the door. Hamlet, listening, heard the clatter of his heavy boots on the staircase. The king was followed closely by Gertrude, then Polonius, who forgot his daughter in his haste to catch up with the king. Ophelia hovered for a minute, her eyes fixed on Hamlet, before she too fled. The others took their cue and made hurried departures. Though no one understood what had happened, there was a strong feeling that it would be best to lie low and stay away. So off they scurried. In a remarkably short time, Hamlet and Horatio were left alone.
There was complete silence behind the curtain. “Well, well,” Hamlet gloated. “Do you think I could get a job writing for actors, if all else goes sour for me?”
“Half a job, perhaps,” said Horatio.
“Oh, a full one, I think. I wrote that whole speech about the serpent. And it got a better reaction than the rest of the play put together.”
“It didn’t make sense,” Horatio objected. “How is a serpent supposed to gather venom from the ground?”
“Don’t be so literal. It’s poetry. It isn’t supposed to make sense. But oh, Horatio, did you see the king’s face?”
“I did indeed.”
“The ghost knew what he was talking about, all right. Did you see Claudius’s reaction to the talk of poisoning?”
“I did, though I wish I could say I did not.”
“Now my path becomes clearer. But hello, who’s this? Why, a couple of good fellows. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, if I’m not mistaken. A pair of fiddlers, are you not? Let’s have some music from you.”
The two courtiers, both of whom had become rather stout in recent times, looked hot and flustered. Hamlet’s greeting threw them into an even worse state. “Your Royal Highness, we are not fiddlers,” Rosencrantz began.
“No, indeed,” Guildenstern agreed. “The king, sir, the king . . .”
“Yes, what of the king? Let us hear news of the king.”
Hamlet was still in a wild state. Horatio, who had once seen an overexcited colt run into a fence and
Is he drunk or mad? Ophelia wondered, frightened. She did not understand what was happening, but she felt the ferocity of the moment. Leaning forward, she saw the king stirring to his feet. She whispered to Hamlet, “My lord, I think the king is offended.”
“Stop the play!” Claudius shouted, trembling with rage and fear.
“What?” Hamlet exulted. “Frightened by false fire? It’s only a play, after all.”
Behind Ophelia, Osric struggled to get out of his seat. “Shame, shame,” he brayed.
Gertrude was standing. “Are you all right, my lord?” she begged her husband.
“Stop the play,” Polonius called.
All was confusion. The actors had already melted back behind the curtains, where their manager was cursing Hamlet. “He’s dropped us right in it,” he muttered. “Hurry back and pack your bags, lads. Pack everything. We might have to do a fast exit.”
“Give me some light,” roared the king. “Fetch a light.”
“Lights, lights,” Polonius called to no one in particular. A candle was brought from the rear of the hall, and more candles were lit from it. The king was stumbling about like a wounded bear. He walked right over Osric, who had fallen forward, narrowly missing Ophelia, and was lying facedown on the floor. “Shame, shame!” he called again, feeling the king’s heavy boot in his back. Then he vomited.
Claudius could now see a clear path to the door. The servants, trying to flee, had to stand back; they bowed low as he passed, hoping he would not see their faces. The two young gardeners were scared out of their wits. They both had the same thought: Old Garath was right. Should have listened to old Garath. He knows a thing or two, that one.
Claudius was out the door. Hamlet, listening, heard the clatter of his heavy boots on the staircase. The king was followed closely by Gertrude, then Polonius, who forgot his daughter in his haste to catch up with the king. Ophelia hovered for a minute, her eyes fixed on Hamlet, before she too fled. The others took their cue and made hurried departures. Though no one understood what had happened, there was a strong feeling that it would be best to lie low and stay away. So off they scurried. In a remarkably short time, Hamlet and Horatio were left alone.
There was complete silence behind the curtain. “Well, well,” Hamlet gloated. “Do you think I could get a job writing for actors, if all else goes sour for me?”
“Half a job, perhaps,” said Horatio.
“Oh, a full one, I think. I wrote that whole speech about the serpent. And it got a better reaction than the rest of the play put together.”
“It didn’t make sense,” Horatio objected. “How is a serpent supposed to gather venom from the ground?”
“Don’t be so literal. It’s poetry. It isn’t supposed to make sense. But oh, Horatio, did you see the king’s face?”
“I did indeed.”
“The ghost knew what he was talking about, all right. Did you see Claudius’s reaction to the talk of poisoning?”
“I did, though I wish I could say I did not.”
“Now my path becomes clearer. But hello, who’s this? Why, a couple of good fellows. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, if I’m not mistaken. A pair of fiddlers, are you not? Let’s have some music from you.”
The two courtiers, both of whom had become rather stout in recent times, looked hot and flustered. Hamlet’s greeting threw them into an even worse state. “Your Royal Highness, we are not fiddlers,” Rosencrantz began.
“No, indeed,” Guildenstern agreed. “The king, sir, the king . . .”
“Yes, what of the king? Let us hear news of the king.”
Hamlet was still in a wild state. Horatio, who had once seen an overexcited colt run into a fence and
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