rich.”
“Too much cider,” Hamlet thought. He gathered himself up. “Ladies and gentlemen, the play is about to begin. The name — well, I am calling it
The Mousetrap.
But don’t take that too literally. It is the story of a murder done in Vienna. Gonzago is the name of the duke, and his wife is Baptista. It’s a nasty story, but what if it is? It won’t affect us. Let the pained horse cringe when the saddle goes on him again: we are still unridden. We are all innocents here. Now be silent, please, so that these good fellows who have come so far can entertain us.”
He led the audience in a meager round of clapping, which petered out as soon as Hamlet stopped.
“Come and sit by me, Hamlet,” Gertrude called.
“No, mother, here’s a more attractive bush where a man can pitch his tent.” One of the servant girls giggled immoderately from the dark rear of the room and got a quick smack from a housekeeper. Hamlet strode to where Ophelia sat. He ignored the empty seat on her left and instead crouched beside her. “May I put myself between your legs?” he whispered.
The beautiful girl blushed. “No, my lord.”
“I meant, sit on the floor here, in front of you.”
“No, my lord.”
Polonius leaned across and muttered to the king, “He’s in love with her, all right.”
But neither of the young people heard him. Hamlet was too engrossed in flirting with Ophelia. “When I talked about pitching a tent,” he asked her teasingly, “did you think I meant in the country?”
She either did not understand or refused to play the game. “I thought nothing, my lord.”
Hamlet sighed theatrically. “And going between your legs, what did you think I had in mind?”
“Again, I say nothing, my lord.”
“You are right. And it’s a pretty piece of scenery to have between a maiden’s legs.”
“What is, my lord?”
“Nothing. Though there are some things I would not like to find. Indeed, a nothing can be a something, and the nothing something can be sweet indeed. As can the something nothing. But the something something — ah, I could tell you a story I heard of Rosencrantz in Copenhagen, and how one night he found a something something where he expected to find a something nothing.”
Ophelia could not help giggling, earning a glare from Polonius and a “shhh” from Gertrude. While the two young people were whispering, the play had begun, but so far all was in mime. Now a new actor took the stage and launched into a long speech, which quickly bored both Hamlet and Ophelia. They resumed their surreptitious conversation.
“You are in a good mood tonight, my lord,” murmured Ophelia.
“What should I do but be merry? Look at my mother, and her cheerful face. And it’s only two hours since my father died. Obviously there’s no reason for anyone to be sad about anything.”
“Oh no! It has been a long time since the king died, my lord.”
“A long time? A long time, you say? Well, then, let the devil wear the black, for I’ll get out my party clothes. A long time! And not forgotten yet! There must be hope that the memory of a great man may outlive him by a few years, then. If he’s so greedy that he wants more, then he’d better build a pyramid and put his name on it.”
“Ssssssshhhhhhhh,” hissed the queen.
Hamlet lapsed into silence again, leaning against Ophelia.
He always comes back to the same obsessions, she thought. Why can’t he let it go? Why can’t he just enjoy life?
By the time Ophelia could work out the story of the play, it was well advanced, although she soon decided it was too wordy. Ophelia’s intelligence was that of instinct and emotion; Hamlet’s was of books and science. The actor playing a king who has been married to his queen a long time tells her that he feels his life will soon be over. He starts to speak of the husband who will replace him when he is gone. At this point the queen becomes violently emotional and swears that she won’t be marrying anybody
“Too much cider,” Hamlet thought. He gathered himself up. “Ladies and gentlemen, the play is about to begin. The name — well, I am calling it
The Mousetrap.
But don’t take that too literally. It is the story of a murder done in Vienna. Gonzago is the name of the duke, and his wife is Baptista. It’s a nasty story, but what if it is? It won’t affect us. Let the pained horse cringe when the saddle goes on him again: we are still unridden. We are all innocents here. Now be silent, please, so that these good fellows who have come so far can entertain us.”
He led the audience in a meager round of clapping, which petered out as soon as Hamlet stopped.
“Come and sit by me, Hamlet,” Gertrude called.
“No, mother, here’s a more attractive bush where a man can pitch his tent.” One of the servant girls giggled immoderately from the dark rear of the room and got a quick smack from a housekeeper. Hamlet strode to where Ophelia sat. He ignored the empty seat on her left and instead crouched beside her. “May I put myself between your legs?” he whispered.
The beautiful girl blushed. “No, my lord.”
“I meant, sit on the floor here, in front of you.”
“No, my lord.”
Polonius leaned across and muttered to the king, “He’s in love with her, all right.”
But neither of the young people heard him. Hamlet was too engrossed in flirting with Ophelia. “When I talked about pitching a tent,” he asked her teasingly, “did you think I meant in the country?”
She either did not understand or refused to play the game. “I thought nothing, my lord.”
Hamlet sighed theatrically. “And going between your legs, what did you think I had in mind?”
“Again, I say nothing, my lord.”
“You are right. And it’s a pretty piece of scenery to have between a maiden’s legs.”
“What is, my lord?”
“Nothing. Though there are some things I would not like to find. Indeed, a nothing can be a something, and the nothing something can be sweet indeed. As can the something nothing. But the something something — ah, I could tell you a story I heard of Rosencrantz in Copenhagen, and how one night he found a something something where he expected to find a something nothing.”
Ophelia could not help giggling, earning a glare from Polonius and a “shhh” from Gertrude. While the two young people were whispering, the play had begun, but so far all was in mime. Now a new actor took the stage and launched into a long speech, which quickly bored both Hamlet and Ophelia. They resumed their surreptitious conversation.
“You are in a good mood tonight, my lord,” murmured Ophelia.
“What should I do but be merry? Look at my mother, and her cheerful face. And it’s only two hours since my father died. Obviously there’s no reason for anyone to be sad about anything.”
“Oh no! It has been a long time since the king died, my lord.”
“A long time? A long time, you say? Well, then, let the devil wear the black, for I’ll get out my party clothes. A long time! And not forgotten yet! There must be hope that the memory of a great man may outlive him by a few years, then. If he’s so greedy that he wants more, then he’d better build a pyramid and put his name on it.”
“Ssssssshhhhhhhh,” hissed the queen.
Hamlet lapsed into silence again, leaning against Ophelia.
He always comes back to the same obsessions, she thought. Why can’t he let it go? Why can’t he just enjoy life?
By the time Ophelia could work out the story of the play, it was well advanced, although she soon decided it was too wordy. Ophelia’s intelligence was that of instinct and emotion; Hamlet’s was of books and science. The actor playing a king who has been married to his queen a long time tells her that he feels his life will soon be over. He starts to speak of the husband who will replace him when he is gone. At this point the queen becomes violently emotional and swears that she won’t be marrying anybody
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