Great was the sorrow in Denmark when the good King Hamlet suddenly
died in a mysterious manner. The rightful heir, the young Prince
Hamlet, was at that time absent in Germany, studying at the University
of Wittenberg, and before he could reach home, his uncle Claudius,
brother to the late King, had seized the throne. More than this:
within two months after the death of her husband, Claudius had
persuaded the widowed Queen Gertrude to marry himself.
Hamlet, called back to Denmark by the death of his father, met on his
return this second terrible shock of the hasty marriage of his mother.
To one of his noble nature such an action seemed almost incredible.
For not only had Queen Gertrude been apparently devoted to her first
husband, but the two brothers were so absolutely different, both in
appearance and character, that it was difficult to imagine how anyone
who had known the noble King Hamlet could descend to the base and
contemptible Claudius.
King Claudius now usurped all the rights of sovereignty, and by being
very suave and gracious to those who surrounded him he hoped to become
popular. He would fain have banished all remembrance of the late King,
though he was glib enough in uttering hypocritical words of sorrow. By
pressing on the festivities of his marriage with Gertrude, he hoped to
get rid of all signs of mourning. But the young Prince Hamlet refused
to lay aside his suits of woe. Among the gay throng that crowded
the Court of the new monarch he moved, a figure apart, clad in the
deepest black, and with his brow clouded with melancholy. His mother,
Queen Gertrude, tried some feeble attempts at consolation, but her
commonplace, conventional remarks only showed how shallow was her own
nature, and how far she was from understanding her son’s depth of
feeling. She begged him to put off his sombre raiment, and look with a
friendly eye on his uncle.
“Do not for ever with thy veiled lids seek for thy noble father in the
dust,” she urged him. “Thou knowest it is common; all that lives must
die, passing through nature to eternity.”
“Ay, madam, it is common,” replied Hamlet.
“If it be, why seems it so particular with thee?” asked the Queen.
“‘Seems’ madam! Nay, it _is_; I know not ‘seems,’” said Hamlet, with
noble indignation. And then he went on to say that it was not his
inky cloak, nor the customary suits of solemn black, nor sighs, nor
tears, nor a dejected visage, together with all forms, moods, shapes
of grief, that could denote him truly. “These indeed ‘seem,’ for
they are actions that a man might play. But I have that within which
passeth show; these but the trappings and the suits of woe.”
Then King Claudius took up the theme, and delivered a homily to Hamlet
on the duty of remembering that the death of fathers was a very common
event, and one over which it was very wrong to sorrow much. All
fathers died, one after another; it was a law of nature, and it was
therefore a fault against heaven, and most absurd in reason, to lament
over something which must certainly happen. To a son who had loved
his father, as Hamlet had loved his, such cold-blooded moralising was
nothing short of torture, and when Claudius went on to bid him throw
to earth his unprevailing woe, and think of himself as of a father,
the young Prince shuddered with horror at the suggestion. “For let
the world take note, you are the most immediate to our throne,” added
Claudius pompously, looking round at the assembled courtiers. They
all bowed subserviently at this announcement, and none of them dared
so much as to hint that the son of their late King was their rightful
ruler.
When he found how events were going, Hamlet no longer cared to remain
in his own country, and would have preferred to return to his studies
at Wittenberg; but when his mother joined her entreaties to his
uncle’s, in urging him to stay in Denmark, Hamlet consented to do so.
In spite of the forced joviality which the new King tried to impose on
his subjects, there was a feeling of uneasiness abroad. First, there
were rumours of war. The late King had been a valiant soldier, and had
fought victoriously with the ambitious neighbouring State of Norway.
King Fortinbras of Norway, out of pride, had challenged King Hamlet,
but had met with defeat. Fortinbras himself was slain, and some of his
possessions were forfeited to Denmark. On the death of Hamlet, young
Fortinbras, thinking that perhaps the country would be in an unsettled
state, or holding a poor opinion of the worth of its new ruler,
resolved to try to get back some of the lands his father had lost.
He therefore collected a band of reckless followers, ready for any
desperate enterprise, and prepared to invade the country. News of this
reaching Denmark, warlike preparations were at once set on foot; day
and night there was toiling of shipwrights and casting of cannon, and
strict watch was kept in all directions against the possible invaders.
But it was not alone the thought of the invasion that disturbed
the minds of the Danish officers. A strange occurrence had lately
happened, and they feared it boded no good to the country. As the
Gentlemen of the Guard, Marcellus and Bernardo, kept their watch on
the platform of the castle at Elsinore the Ghost of the late King
appeared to them. It looked exactly the same as they had known him
in real life, clad in the very armour he had on when he had fought
against Fortinbras of Norway. For two nights running this figure
had appeared before them, passing by them three times with slow and
stately march, while they, turned almost to jelly with fear, stood
dumb, and did not speak to it. In deep secrecy they imparted the news
to Horatio, a fellow-student and great friend of the young Prince,
and on the third night he kept watch with them. Everything happened
exactly as they had said, and at the accustomed hour the apparition
again appeared. Horatio spoke to it, imploring it, if possible, to
tell the reason of its coming. At first the Ghost would not answer,
but it was just lifting its head as if about to speak, when a cock
crew; then, starting like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons, it
faded from their sight.
By Horatio’s advice, they agreed to tell young Hamlet what they had
seen; the spirit dumb to them might speak to him. Hamlet heard their
tale with astonishment. He resolved to watch, himself, that night,
and if the apparition again assumed his father’s person, to speak to
it, though all the spirits of evil should bid him hold his peace. He
begged the officers to keep silence about what they had already seen,
and about whatsoever else might happen, and promised to visit them on
the platform between eleven and twelve o’clock that night.
At the appointed hour Hamlet was on the spot, and a few minutes after
the clock had struck twelve the Ghost appeared. Deeply amazed, but
resolute to know the cause why his father’s spirit could not rest, but
thus revisited the earth, Hamlet implored the Ghost to speak and tell
him the meaning.
“Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?” he entreated.
The apparition made no answer, but beckoned to Hamlet to follow it, as
if it wished to speak to him alone.
“Look, with what courteous action it waves you to more retired
ground. But do not go with it,” said Marcellus.
“No, by no means,” said Horatio.
“It will not speak; then I will follow it,” said Hamlet.
“Do not, my lord,” entreated Horatio.
“Why, what should be the fear?” said Hamlet. “I do not set my life at
a pin’s fee; and for my soul, what can it do to that, being a thing
immortal as itself? It waves me forth again. I’ll follow it.”
Again Hamlet’s companions did their utmost to hinder him, even seizing
hold of him to prevent his going, for they feared lest the mysterious
visitant should lure him on to his own destruction. But Hamlet shook
off their detaining hands, and, bidding the Ghost go before, he boldly
followed.
Having led the young Prince to a lonely part of the ramparts, the
Ghost at last consented to speak. He told Hamlet that he was indeed
the spirit of his father, doomed for a certain term to walk the night,
and by day to suffer various penalties, till the sins committed in
his life had been atoned for. He then went on to exhort Hamlet that,
if ever he had loved his father, he should revenge his foul and most
unnatural murder.
“Murder!” gasped Hamlet.
“Murder most foul, as in the best it is; but this most foul, strange,
and unnatural,” returned the Ghost solemnly. “Now, Hamlet, hear.
’Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, a serpent stung me; so
the whole ear of Denmark is by a forged account of my death rankly
deceived. But know, thou noble youth, the serpent that stung thy
father’s life now wears his crown.”
“O my prophetic soul! My uncle!” exclaimed Hamlet.
“Ay!” answered the Ghost; and then he broke into rage against the
wicked Claudius, who, after murdering his brother, had, with his
subtle craft and traitorous gifts, contrived to win the affections of
the widowed Queen. “O Hamlet, what a falling off was there!” lamented
the Ghost, for he could not help knowing how infinitely beneath him,
even in natural gifts, was his contemptible brother.
“Sleeping within my orchard, my custom always of the afternoon,” he
continued, “thy uncle stole on me, with juice of henbane in a vial,
which he poured into my ears.”
[Illustration: “Sleeping within my orchard.”]
The effect of this poison was instant and horrible death, and again
the Ghost urged Hamlet to avenge his murder. But he commanded his son
that, whatever he did against his uncle, he was to contrive no harm
against his mother.
“Leave her to heaven, and to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, to
prick and sting,” he concluded. “Fare thee well! The glow-worm shows
the matin to be near, and begins to pale his uneffectual fire. Adieu,
adieu, adieu! Remember me.”
“Remember thee! Ay, thou poor Ghost, while memory holds a seat in this
distracted globe,” cried Hamlet, as the vision faded away, and far
across the sea a faint lightening of the eastern horizon showed that
the dawn would soon appear. “Remember thee! Yea, from the table of
my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, all saws of books
that youth and observation copied there, and thy commandment all alone
shall live within the book and volume of my brain, unmixed with baser
matter; yes, by heaven!--O villain, villain, smiling, cursed villain!
My tables--meet it is I set it down, that one may smile and smile, and
be a villain--at least, I’m sure it may be so in Denmark. So, uncle,
there you are,” putting his tablets away. “Now to my word. It is
‘Adieu, adieu! Remember me!’ I have sworn it!”
Horatio and Marcellus now came hurrying up, much alarmed for the
safety of their young lord. They found him in a strange mood. The news
he had heard from the Ghost had been such a shock to Hamlet that for
the moment he seemed quite unstrung, and, not having yet made up his
mind how to act, he did not feel inclined to confide to his companions
what he had just been told. He therefore put off their questionings
with flippant speeches, and dismissed them in a somewhat summary
fashion.
“How is it, my noble lord?” cried Marcellus.
“What news, my lord?” asked Horatio.
“Oh, wonderful!” said Hamlet.
“Good my lord, tell it,” said Horatio.
“No; you will reveal it.”
“Not I, my lord, by heaven!” said Horatio, and Marcellus added: “Nor
I, my lord.”
“How say you then? Would heart of man once think it----But you’ll be
secret?”
“Ay, by heaven, my lord!” cried Horatio and Marcellus together.
Hamlet lowered his voice to a tone of mysterious importance:
“There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark but he’s an--arrant
knave.”
“There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave to tell us this,”
said Horatio, hurt at Hamlet’s lack of confidence.
“Why, right; you are in the right,” said Hamlet. “And so, without
more circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part,
you as your business and desire shall point you--for every man hath
business and desire, such as it is--and, for my own poor part, look
you, I’ll go pray.”
“These are but wild and whirling words, my lord,” said Horatio, justly
aggrieved.
“I am sorry they offend you, heartily--yes, faith, heartily!”
“There’s no offence, my lord,” said Horatio, rather stiffly.
“Yes, by St. Patrick, but there is, Horatio, and much offence, too,”
returned Hamlet, but it was of the wrong done by his uncle he was
thinking. “Touching this vision here, it is an honest ghost, that let
me tell you. For your desire to know what is between us, overmaster it
as you may. And now, good friends, as you are friends, scholars, and
soldiers, give me one poor request.”
“What is it, my lord? We will,” said Horatio.
“Never make known what you have seen to-night.”
“My lord, we will not.”
“Nay, but swear it; swear by my sword.”
And from underneath the ground sounded a solemn voice, “Swear!”
Twice again they shifted their places, and each time from beneath the
ground came the hollow voice, “Swear!”
“O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!” marvelled Horatio.
“And therefore as a stranger give it welcome,” said Hamlet. “There are
more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our
philosophy.”
Then he made them swear that never, however strange or odd he bore
himself, as he perchance hereafter should think meet to put on an
antic disposition--that never at such times, seeing him, were they by
word or sign to show that they knew anything, or with meaning nods and
smiles pretend they could explain his strange behaviour if they chose.
“Swear!” said the Ghost beneath.
“Rest, rest, perturbed spirit!” said Hamlet, and his companions took
the oath demanded of them. “So, gentlemen, with all my love I do
commend me to you; and what so poor a man as Hamlet is, may do to
express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack.
Let us go in together; and still your fingers on your lips, I pray.
The time is out of joint; O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set
it right!--Nay, come, let us go together.”