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psalm_onethirtyoneI have no words for what I have just done, except perhaps I LOVE YOU ZARA OMG OMG OMG WTF DID I JUST DO? &c.
I owe Waen, for helping me figure out how to do this.
I owe Horatio, for letting me do this.
I owe Zara, for telling me to do this in the first place and for having the horrible idea. :D
I owe Miss Kylee, because she made the icon I'm posting with.
Et voila: Horatio the murderer.
More Things
There are more things dreamt of in heaven and earth-- more in heaven and in earth-- heaven and earth-- and earth-- in earth--
There are more things; and he is gentle. He is gentle and good. Even now his hands are gentle-- he is waiting for Hamlet, waiting for his Lord, the Prince, and while he waits he stands on one of the docks at the harbour. A secret small boat will bring Hamlet in from the ship which secretly brought him home again to Elsinore-- it's funny how Horatio thinks 'home'. Hamlet wouldn't call it 'home'. He hates it now.
The wind is cold and the sea is grey, which is always the case in Denmark in fall, spring, winter, or summer. The sailors shout to each other and spit, curse and swagger, laugh and throw things about and trade knives for coins and the other way around. They're loud and yet the wind and sea are louder.
Horatio doesn't like the sea. He doesn't like water. He never had the stomach for sailing, and the journey to Wittenburg was horrible. He remembers it in a kind of haze, the way it felt like rolling, the way he was unsteady always, the way the sailors laughed at him (they're always laughing except when they're fighting). The journey back was worse--Hamlet had gone ahead, and this meant that he was travelling alone. He went on deck once, and was sick over the side, and the sailors laughed harder than ever; and this time he felt too ill to manage any pretence of dignity. The first time Hamlet had given them haughty looks and steadied Horatio with a hand on his arm. Now, as Horatio waits, he tries to imagine Hamlet coming back alone. Hamlet is far steadier--he will be standing in the front of the ship, watching ahead, looking towards the harbour--surely--no-- No, Hamlet will be in the secret small boat, sitting, for to stand would be to overturn it-- but perhaps he will still be watching. Perhaps he will be looking for Horatio.
Even now, Horatio's hands are gentle-- they wait gently by his sides, waiting to welcome and warm Hamlet's hands, waiting to greet and love-- but Horatio suddenly feels the same rolling wave of sickness, and looks down. Looking down is looking into the harbour, and the water. He puts a hand to his head--his hands are gentle are gentle are gentle--and it touches dryness (he isn't sweating) and then he doubles over and is sick, horribly sick, trying to hold himself up and clutching at something that isn't there--
If Hamlet is not looking for Horatio, Horatio will go mad, and he is afraid of what things are in heaven and earth because he is afraid he will dream of them.
---
Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.
Horatio obeys. He always obeys when he is commanded; that is his duty, and Horatio always does his duty.
Ophelia is so beautiful. It makes his heart and his eyes ache-- so beautiful. She is only wearing white, a long white dress that drags behind her, a long white dress-- She is like a white spirit, she has turned pale now and wears only a white dress that is cut too long and trails on the ground behind her. Her face looks paler next to the flowers in her hair. The flowers are bright colours and bright lights woven badly into her hair and pinned to the sleeves of her dress.
Horatio starts after her, heart aching, eyes aching, wishing down Heaven, wishing back Hamlet, wishing back Laertes, wishing back Polonius. That it should come to this...! She's a beautiful girl and she would have been a beautiful queen, but-- As he turns, his hand falls to the hilt of his sword and he draws it some measure, and then lets it fall back.
He remembers her when she was a child. She loved him better than Hamlet. Hamlet was always playing with Laertes, and they made noise and chased one another in the halls and were always wrestling or taking their fencing lessons against one another. They wouldn't play with Ophelia, partly because her mother didn't allow it and partly because she was only a little maiden. They wouldn't play with Horatio, either, because he was always reading and was not strong enough for fighting, and his fencing was poor.
He learned to dance better than either of them. Ophelia helped him practise, in the library, in secret, in between books and books and books, histories and philosophy and plays and dreams and words, words, words-- they danced until Horatio never forget how to make a step or turn about, to spin Ophelia with only his fingers or to draw her close. She was small and light and easy to lead, but she whispered the proper place to put his feet or the proper way to change places, when he faltered.
She loved him better until they were all much older, and Hamlet fell out of love with fighting and into love with love. Hamlet could fence better than Laertes when he was in practise, but he couldn't write poetry; all the same, Ophelia showed it all to Horatio and praised the metre and the turn of phrase. Horatio had only lately begun to feel envy when she did.
It was terrible poetry.
Horatio envied Ophelia.
She is still a light little maiden, but now her dances are wild circles, throwing her arms wide and shrieking with joy and grief. The flowers fall from her arms and she dances down to pick them up, laughs, suddenly takes Horatio's face in her hands and smiles, suddenly wraps her arms around Horatio's shoulders and kisses him, suddenly bursts into tears and begins to scream that he is dead he is dead he is dead dead dead dead dead and then suddenly she is singing, singing a rondeau by herself.
Horatio wants her back.
Horatio wants her gone.
Horatio wants--Horatio has never wanted anything. He has always been happy, or, if not happy, satisfied. It is enough that his father should have been picked out of any number of men to be the King's favourite, and enough that he should have been chosen as Prince Hamlet's companion when Laertes went to France and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's fathers fell out of favour and were banished with their families from the court. It is enough that he is the only one now who Hamlet will tell secrets to. It is enough that no one is afraid to speak in front of him because everyone believes in his discretion. It is enough, it is enough, that Hamlet is glad to be in his company--it is enough. He is not foolish enough to think himself Ophelia's rival. His love is private and his own, a thing to be pondered at night or worried at like a boy with an itching wound. It is a sin and a secret all his own. He does not want anything. He does not want to be a lover. It is enough to be a companion. If he is perverse and loves in spite of God, it is enough to be judged in hell for a lesser crime than a greater one.
He will not protest his love. He would never murder in its name.
His heart aches worse because he put his hand to the hilt of his sword. That is more than enough. To touch, to start, to think the thought as less than laughable, to let the idea--ay, if it were less even than an idea, if it were something so small that it was hardly recognisable, like the turning of a leaf, like the flick of mothwings under a light--to let the flutter seem conceivable-- that is more than enough. It should not have happened.
His heart aches, his eyes ache, and Ophelia is still dancing, and singing, singing a rondeau by herself.
---
A small rowboat is finally let down from the side of one of the ships anchored in the harbour, away from the cold grey sea, safe but not entirely. Horatio watches it detach and come forward, and prays. He has recovered himself and moved to the other side of the docks, hesitating and waiting. His legs feel not quite real and somewhat shaky, which is only to be expected after the suddenness and violence of his sickness. He can smell fish on the air, and it doesn't help--his whole body feels not quite real and somewhat shaky, and he wonders if he looks the way he feels. His hands are on a post, holding him upright with more effort than he is able to notice.
That small rowboat is getting closer and closer. He is sure it is the right one. There is a young man in the front, not rowing but trailing his fingers in the water and looking ahead. It must be Hamlet.
Horatio is so relieved he thinks he may be sick again, but in truth he hasn't the strength. His hands are so gentle, used more to writing and turning pages than anything else. They don't really know how to hold a weapon properly--he spends so little time fencing that he isn't really sure how to do anything except the simplest parries and attacks--sometimes he can disengage, when he remembers whether his blade should go above or below his opponent's. It's not much good. They're only meant to be gentle, they're kissing hands-- the only elegant part of him, long and slender and trained to hold a pen. They're oratorical hands, for drawing worlds in the air while he speaks. They're even somewhat pale, as though they were somewhat bloodless.
This time Horatio does not believe he will be sick, but only because the small rowboat has stopped by the stone steps leading down into the harbour, and the young man in front has stepped out onto solid stone, paid the men in the boat, and turned away. He wears a long grey travelling cloak that matches the sea and the stone, and one can hardly see his face. He climbs the stairs and at the top looks about, as though he were searching for a familiar face.
This time Horatio is so relieved he thinks his shaky legs will give.
"My Lord," he calls softly.
The young man turns towards him.
"Horatio! Thou'rt here! I knew thou wouldst not fail me."
"No, my Lord," Horatio says, and, "I am yours, my Lord."
"I'll be sworn thou art. Hast come to take me back to my prison, then?"
"My Lord."
"Then I would thou wouldst lead me on. 'Tis cold here, and I do not love the cold." Before Horatio can answer, Hamlet embraces him. "Yet do I love thee, and thou hast a thousand times the charms of that ice-finger'd maid, so I will come with thee, my good Horatio, and let her try her bitter frozen hand to weave her love-knots in some other poor man's hair. Let us back to prison! At least 'tis sheltered there."
"Ay, my Lord. At once."
"Art thou not glad to see me? I tell thee truly my heart doth rejoice at thee."
"My joy is too great to speak, my Lord, yet there is much terrible hath occurred that I must impart to you, and it stills me from my pleasure."
"Alas, poor me, that I must suffer for't! So be't, then, tell all: but out o' the weather." For all of everything, Hamlet is still smiling. Perhaps he does not believe something more terrible can have happened now than has already gone before. Horatio hardly cares. He cannot find his tongue, because he does not know yet what to tell and where to lie.
They think he only tells the truth, good gentle Horatio, but to be gentle and good does not make a man honest.
---
Ophelia is still singing. She will not stop singing. He thinks the sound will drive him mad.
It is love-songs now. His mother used to sing them to him. Horatio's mother and Ophelia's both died in the same winter, Horatio's mother in childbirth and Ophelia's of the cold. Ophelia's mother was as small and light and beautiful as her daughter. Horatio's mother was strong and short and he looks a good deal like her, the same eyes the same hands. She knew a hundred-thousand love-songs, and when he was only a boy she used to sing them. Ophelia would listen, too. They loved Horatio's mother.
Horatio tries not to hear, now.
They are not Ophelia's songs. They belonged always to his mother. Ophelia would not even sing them before she died, and afterwards never either. Sometimes, though, she asked Horatio to sing them to her (she is younger than he is, back then seemed even younger, needed someone to sing to her after her mother died); but he was not a good singer. She asked anyway. He tried. They are his mother's, then, and half his by right. They are not Ophelia's.
He should not be bitter. He should not feel anything against her. She was like a sister-- she was always a sister--
And there is no reason, no reason at all, and he knows this. There is no reason. Love is no reason. The love-songs are no reason. He himself is no reason. He is gentle as spring--but spring is when the hardest rains begin, and it is still cold because winter does not want to let go-- he is kind as a mother to her children--but mothers have slain or beaten their children before now-- he is as good as Prince Hamlet is mad--but he himself does not know whether Hamlet is truly mad-- and Horatio feels as though there is thunder in his ears, thunder for a ridiculous thought.
The hand to his sword meant nothing. He would never harm her.
He would never harm her.
The love-songs go on and on and on, and he is quietly certain that it is driving him mad.
---
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass green turf,
At his heels a stone.
Larded all with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
---
The sailors are leading him away from the castle, and he cannot help but feel as though he is abandoning her. The Queen (or the King?) told him to look after her, to see that no harm came to her-- for a sudden brief moment he buries his face in his hands and believes that she is less likely to come to harm with him gone from her than guarded by him-- and he is leaving her. Something could happen--something could happen.
She is alone somewhere.
No, not somewhere. --He can hear her singing. He can hear her singing. As he follows--he is always following--as he follows he can hear her. Her voice is a little broken, sometimes laughing in the middle of the words and almost shouting the song, sometimes stopping to weep, a wild, miserable, childish weeping, as though something special has been taken away from her.
She is not somewhere, because he knows where she is.
Horatio believes he does not know himself. He is gentle, he is gentle he is gentle he is good-- He believes he has been listening to her sing for-ever. He believes everyone can hear her.
Ophelia sings too softly and too far away; no one hears but Horatio.
No one else knows where she is.
She is driving him mad.
Now the leaf turns. Now the moth gives one quick flicker of its grey wings; the shadow spreads, and Horatio can picture her perfectly. She is somewhere singing--there is a stream by the castle, outside the castle, a shallow muddy one with willow trees growing around it thickly, and cattails and rosebriars, sawgrass and little burrs. It can't be seen from outside the thicket around it. Inside, close down by the water, there are tiny little flowers in full spectrums of colour.
He does not know himself at all. He is afraid for her, desperately afraid. Suppose she fell, if perhaps she drowned? It is only a shallow muddy stream, but a girl could drown there-- he is abandoning her, and if she fell it would be upon his head.
It is more than enough to be what he is.
It is not that he is going mad--she is driving him mad.
He falls behind, and when the sailors turn to be sure he is still there, he whispers--he cannot help but whisper it--that he has forgotten something. He must bring the Prince something--he has left it behind. They watch him too seriously, and he wonders whether they really believe he would ever harm Ophelia--
Heaven in earth, he wants to shout. Heaven in earth, I am mad.
He does not know why he thought it in the first place. He wishes he had not. It only began with that flicker or flutter or what was it he can't remember perhaps it was a moth. A moth made him think it? He aspires to nothing, desires nothing, expects nothing-- it would not even matter. Hamlet would not turn to him as the Queen turned to the King after the King was murdered. It means nothing.
Suddenly he turns and runs.
He is a poor runner, and it is a lagging run-- he comes to the stream sooner or later than he believed he would. Ophelia is wading in the shallow muddy water, picking the tiny flowers, making tiny crowns and chains and still singing the love-songs-- she is still singing the love-songs--
He has the barest moment. He has no moment at all. His leaf falls, his moth flies into the candle and burns.
"Ophelia!"
"Laertes!" She laughs and puts her fingers up to her mouth. They're stained yellow from the stems of the flowers. "Laertes, thou dost look all as thou hast been kissed. Thine eyes--! Laertes, thou wast speaking lies again to me, lies lies lies lies-- o, thou'rt bold! Thou canst but dance with me--everyone doth see us. I do not doubt truth to be a liar, my Lord, no--"
Horatio, who is not himself, takes her hands. "Nay, 'tis time to sleep."
"Am I tired, my Lord?"
"Ay--lie thyself down. The sun hath gone all around, and 'tis time for dreams."
"O, I do not desire to dream, my Lord!"
"Then thou shalt only sleep. Wilt lie down?"
She smiles. Her smile used to make him happy. He does not love her now. Perhaps he never loved her. She lies down in the shallow muddy water, and Horatio kneels beside her. He is still holding both her hands. "O! I sleep, my Lord."
"Let thine eyes close, then."
"Ay, my Lord."
She begins to sing again, with her eyes closed. He is mad he is mad he is mad he cannot let anything befall her he swore it he promised he went after her with-- with his hand on his sword-- it is a thousand hours, or perhaps only a hundred, or perhaps double a million, double the hours by the number of stars. She sings his mother's song. He used to dance with her in the library when she was only a girl. He is still holding both her hands. She is still singing. She would have been a beautiful queen...!
Horatio bends down to kiss her and finds his face is wet. Yet she is still singing, she is singing, he can hear it, over and over, the same song-- he begins to weep, and he remembers that his Prince--his Lord--Hamlet, ay, Hamlet--is waiting for him, and he is going, he is obeying, as he always obeys. He gets to his feet very slowly and realises that he is wet and covered with mud and he is still weeping, even as he looks around him and understands what is happening and where he must be, very calmly, very carefully, ready, ready ready ready-- he steps out of the stream, and walks back through the grass. Suddenly he stops, and breathes once, slowly. He is not weeping now.
The sailors laugh at him, but he is used to being laughed at by sailors.
"Found you what you sought, sir?" one asks, and Horatio stares at him only for a moment.
"Ay, indeed, sir."
"Had you a fall, sir?" the other asks, snorting and showing his teeth. It rained the night before. The grass is still wet and the earth is still mud.
Horatio looks at him evenly. "Ay, indeed. Did not you tell me the Prince wast awaiting me?"
"Ay, sir," the first one says. They turn away from him to lead again, and he follows--they are laughing between themselves. They do not look at him again. He does not believe anything in the world is real. There is more dreamt of in heaven and earth-- in heaven and earth-- the earth, the earth-- more to dream--
Horatio follows, and nothing in the world is real-- but all he can hear is silence, for Ophelia is not singing any longer. He cannot hear her singing. Apart from that, nothing has happened, and nothing ever will.
---
"Well, tell me, Horatio, what is this terror hast befallen that it robs thee of thy joy in me? I have a quarrel with it on that count."
They are out of the cold, now, away from the sea. It is some walk back to the castle, but the sun makes it better. Everything feels warmer away from the sea, and Horatio might almost smile. Hamlet smiles. His smile is so honest that Horatio suddenly believes he was never mad, never once mad-- Horatio knew that it was a pretence sometimes, but sometimes he was sure it was true madness, and he was afraid then, for he was afraid Hamlet would no longer know him. But it is not true, none of it is true. Hamlet smiles and lifts his face to the sky.
Hamlet is joyous, perhaps, because he has not died after all. He is alive. He is alive! He has escaped the cold grey sea and come home to a place that isn't home, and it is good.
Horatio suddenly believes he may fall.
"My Lord, Laertes hath returned, and it hath been made known to him of his father's death."
"Then doth he hate me?"
"Ay, my Lord, he is incensed against you."
Hamlet holds his arms out to the air around them, and laughs and sighs both at once. "I shall beg his forgiveness."
"Your uncle is aggrieved to hear you live. He hath been told."
"Out of question he hath. I did send unto the villain myself, to tell him in all innocence contrary to that which he in his guilt believed. Ay, that, too, I shall make right, my good Horatio."
"Your mother is glad of your return."
"Good! I am glad of it myself. What of Lady Ophelia?"
"Lady Ophelia is mad, my Lord."
"Mad?" Hamlet stops.
"Ay, my Lord."
"Mine ears do not play tricks to spite me--'tis more spite to have known the truth. Alas, Ophelia! that do I weep to hear."
"Perchance your return, my Lord, will comfort her."
"Dost not thou grieve for her?" For one moment, Hamlet looks at him, and he may weep again. It is a struggle--he will weep or he will be sick again. Hamlet's eyes soften. "Ay, I see thou dost. Forgive me, friend."
"There is no need, my Lord. My sorrow is sometime of a quiet kind, and I cannot outwardly show what mine eyes and my heart wouldst proclaim. 'Tis certain 'twould be misread, this reticence--it doth not befit such a maiden as wast the Lady Ophelia." He means it. He means it. He is not lying--he has not lied at all. He has only kept back part of the truth. Perhaps he did love Ophelia after all-- he danced with her. He danced with her for hours and she taught him to learn and now he could never misstep, even now-- Hamlet takes his hands, and he may be sick or he may fall.
"Sweet philosopher, I prithee--thy grief doth not deserve chastisement, as would be proper for some child or callous fellow who did but counterfeit. If thou hast not wept thy tears, it doth make them honest and unshed, and that exceeds a hundredfold the false tears that run like rivers. Comfort thyself--I believe in thee."
"Ay, my Lord."
"I shall with all my heart do aught that can be done to draw back the fair reason of her mind."
Hamlet smiles and kisses his cheek. Horatio smiles and finds he is weeping instead.
---
Ophelia is dead.
When she is buried, Hamlet locks himself in the room that was his, and still is, still is--as long as he was gone, it hasn't changed anything.
Horatio sits alone. He cannot stop hearing the words Hamlet shouted in her grave, the challenge to Laertes. He cannot stop hearing that Hamlet loved Ophelia. He cannot stop hearing-- he cannot stop hearing-- he will hear it for-ever, more than the love-songs, more than--
There are more things in--
More things--
To be dreamt of than in your--
To be dreamt of--
There are more things more things more things he is mad mad mad mad mad he will dream he will dream and he will hear it over and over and everything and every word and he will hear he will hear--
and suddenly he realises that he hears nothing at all.
There is only silence.
The silence roars.
No one would believe him capable of harming her. He does not even believe himself that he could harm her. He loves--loved--loves-- he loves-- He loves his Prince.
Suddenly Horatio is sick again, over and over, like the words before the silence, although nothing comes and he cannot breathe and he cannot stand, and he falls to his knees on the floor-- he cannot even feel disgusted. He cannot feel at all.
He cannot bear the sea, and now he cannot bear the stream, and now he hates water and wants never to touch it to see it again-- She drowned she drowned she drowned he did not even hold her down he only held her hands he is mad he is mad he did it for no reason because he had no reason he is content he has always been everything is enough--
Everything is enough.
He will dream of water for-ever, and everything will always be enough, and now he knows how useless philosophy is. His gentle hands held her little hands and that was enough. Philosophy means nothing, and there is more--
He will dream of the sea for-ever, for nothing, and that is everything.
I owe Waen, for helping me figure out how to do this.
I owe Horatio, for letting me do this.
I owe Zara, for telling me to do this in the first place and for having the horrible idea. :D
I owe Miss Kylee, because she made the icon I'm posting with.
Et voila: Horatio the murderer.
There are more things dreamt of in heaven and earth-- more in heaven and in earth-- heaven and earth-- and earth-- in earth--
There are more things; and he is gentle. He is gentle and good. Even now his hands are gentle-- he is waiting for Hamlet, waiting for his Lord, the Prince, and while he waits he stands on one of the docks at the harbour. A secret small boat will bring Hamlet in from the ship which secretly brought him home again to Elsinore-- it's funny how Horatio thinks 'home'. Hamlet wouldn't call it 'home'. He hates it now.
The wind is cold and the sea is grey, which is always the case in Denmark in fall, spring, winter, or summer. The sailors shout to each other and spit, curse and swagger, laugh and throw things about and trade knives for coins and the other way around. They're loud and yet the wind and sea are louder.
Horatio doesn't like the sea. He doesn't like water. He never had the stomach for sailing, and the journey to Wittenburg was horrible. He remembers it in a kind of haze, the way it felt like rolling, the way he was unsteady always, the way the sailors laughed at him (they're always laughing except when they're fighting). The journey back was worse--Hamlet had gone ahead, and this meant that he was travelling alone. He went on deck once, and was sick over the side, and the sailors laughed harder than ever; and this time he felt too ill to manage any pretence of dignity. The first time Hamlet had given them haughty looks and steadied Horatio with a hand on his arm. Now, as Horatio waits, he tries to imagine Hamlet coming back alone. Hamlet is far steadier--he will be standing in the front of the ship, watching ahead, looking towards the harbour--surely--no-- No, Hamlet will be in the secret small boat, sitting, for to stand would be to overturn it-- but perhaps he will still be watching. Perhaps he will be looking for Horatio.
Even now, Horatio's hands are gentle-- they wait gently by his sides, waiting to welcome and warm Hamlet's hands, waiting to greet and love-- but Horatio suddenly feels the same rolling wave of sickness, and looks down. Looking down is looking into the harbour, and the water. He puts a hand to his head--his hands are gentle are gentle are gentle--and it touches dryness (he isn't sweating) and then he doubles over and is sick, horribly sick, trying to hold himself up and clutching at something that isn't there--
If Hamlet is not looking for Horatio, Horatio will go mad, and he is afraid of what things are in heaven and earth because he is afraid he will dream of them.
Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.
Horatio obeys. He always obeys when he is commanded; that is his duty, and Horatio always does his duty.
Ophelia is so beautiful. It makes his heart and his eyes ache-- so beautiful. She is only wearing white, a long white dress that drags behind her, a long white dress-- She is like a white spirit, she has turned pale now and wears only a white dress that is cut too long and trails on the ground behind her. Her face looks paler next to the flowers in her hair. The flowers are bright colours and bright lights woven badly into her hair and pinned to the sleeves of her dress.
Horatio starts after her, heart aching, eyes aching, wishing down Heaven, wishing back Hamlet, wishing back Laertes, wishing back Polonius. That it should come to this...! She's a beautiful girl and she would have been a beautiful queen, but-- As he turns, his hand falls to the hilt of his sword and he draws it some measure, and then lets it fall back.
He remembers her when she was a child. She loved him better than Hamlet. Hamlet was always playing with Laertes, and they made noise and chased one another in the halls and were always wrestling or taking their fencing lessons against one another. They wouldn't play with Ophelia, partly because her mother didn't allow it and partly because she was only a little maiden. They wouldn't play with Horatio, either, because he was always reading and was not strong enough for fighting, and his fencing was poor.
He learned to dance better than either of them. Ophelia helped him practise, in the library, in secret, in between books and books and books, histories and philosophy and plays and dreams and words, words, words-- they danced until Horatio never forget how to make a step or turn about, to spin Ophelia with only his fingers or to draw her close. She was small and light and easy to lead, but she whispered the proper place to put his feet or the proper way to change places, when he faltered.
She loved him better until they were all much older, and Hamlet fell out of love with fighting and into love with love. Hamlet could fence better than Laertes when he was in practise, but he couldn't write poetry; all the same, Ophelia showed it all to Horatio and praised the metre and the turn of phrase. Horatio had only lately begun to feel envy when she did.
It was terrible poetry.
Horatio envied Ophelia.
She is still a light little maiden, but now her dances are wild circles, throwing her arms wide and shrieking with joy and grief. The flowers fall from her arms and she dances down to pick them up, laughs, suddenly takes Horatio's face in her hands and smiles, suddenly wraps her arms around Horatio's shoulders and kisses him, suddenly bursts into tears and begins to scream that he is dead he is dead he is dead dead dead dead dead and then suddenly she is singing, singing a rondeau by herself.
Horatio wants her back.
Horatio wants her gone.
Horatio wants--Horatio has never wanted anything. He has always been happy, or, if not happy, satisfied. It is enough that his father should have been picked out of any number of men to be the King's favourite, and enough that he should have been chosen as Prince Hamlet's companion when Laertes went to France and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's fathers fell out of favour and were banished with their families from the court. It is enough that he is the only one now who Hamlet will tell secrets to. It is enough that no one is afraid to speak in front of him because everyone believes in his discretion. It is enough, it is enough, that Hamlet is glad to be in his company--it is enough. He is not foolish enough to think himself Ophelia's rival. His love is private and his own, a thing to be pondered at night or worried at like a boy with an itching wound. It is a sin and a secret all his own. He does not want anything. He does not want to be a lover. It is enough to be a companion. If he is perverse and loves in spite of God, it is enough to be judged in hell for a lesser crime than a greater one.
He will not protest his love. He would never murder in its name.
His heart aches worse because he put his hand to the hilt of his sword. That is more than enough. To touch, to start, to think the thought as less than laughable, to let the idea--ay, if it were less even than an idea, if it were something so small that it was hardly recognisable, like the turning of a leaf, like the flick of mothwings under a light--to let the flutter seem conceivable-- that is more than enough. It should not have happened.
His heart aches, his eyes ache, and Ophelia is still dancing, and singing, singing a rondeau by herself.
A small rowboat is finally let down from the side of one of the ships anchored in the harbour, away from the cold grey sea, safe but not entirely. Horatio watches it detach and come forward, and prays. He has recovered himself and moved to the other side of the docks, hesitating and waiting. His legs feel not quite real and somewhat shaky, which is only to be expected after the suddenness and violence of his sickness. He can smell fish on the air, and it doesn't help--his whole body feels not quite real and somewhat shaky, and he wonders if he looks the way he feels. His hands are on a post, holding him upright with more effort than he is able to notice.
That small rowboat is getting closer and closer. He is sure it is the right one. There is a young man in the front, not rowing but trailing his fingers in the water and looking ahead. It must be Hamlet.
Horatio is so relieved he thinks he may be sick again, but in truth he hasn't the strength. His hands are so gentle, used more to writing and turning pages than anything else. They don't really know how to hold a weapon properly--he spends so little time fencing that he isn't really sure how to do anything except the simplest parries and attacks--sometimes he can disengage, when he remembers whether his blade should go above or below his opponent's. It's not much good. They're only meant to be gentle, they're kissing hands-- the only elegant part of him, long and slender and trained to hold a pen. They're oratorical hands, for drawing worlds in the air while he speaks. They're even somewhat pale, as though they were somewhat bloodless.
This time Horatio does not believe he will be sick, but only because the small rowboat has stopped by the stone steps leading down into the harbour, and the young man in front has stepped out onto solid stone, paid the men in the boat, and turned away. He wears a long grey travelling cloak that matches the sea and the stone, and one can hardly see his face. He climbs the stairs and at the top looks about, as though he were searching for a familiar face.
This time Horatio is so relieved he thinks his shaky legs will give.
"My Lord," he calls softly.
The young man turns towards him.
"Horatio! Thou'rt here! I knew thou wouldst not fail me."
"No, my Lord," Horatio says, and, "I am yours, my Lord."
"I'll be sworn thou art. Hast come to take me back to my prison, then?"
"My Lord."
"Then I would thou wouldst lead me on. 'Tis cold here, and I do not love the cold." Before Horatio can answer, Hamlet embraces him. "Yet do I love thee, and thou hast a thousand times the charms of that ice-finger'd maid, so I will come with thee, my good Horatio, and let her try her bitter frozen hand to weave her love-knots in some other poor man's hair. Let us back to prison! At least 'tis sheltered there."
"Ay, my Lord. At once."
"Art thou not glad to see me? I tell thee truly my heart doth rejoice at thee."
"My joy is too great to speak, my Lord, yet there is much terrible hath occurred that I must impart to you, and it stills me from my pleasure."
"Alas, poor me, that I must suffer for't! So be't, then, tell all: but out o' the weather." For all of everything, Hamlet is still smiling. Perhaps he does not believe something more terrible can have happened now than has already gone before. Horatio hardly cares. He cannot find his tongue, because he does not know yet what to tell and where to lie.
They think he only tells the truth, good gentle Horatio, but to be gentle and good does not make a man honest.
Ophelia is still singing. She will not stop singing. He thinks the sound will drive him mad.
It is love-songs now. His mother used to sing them to him. Horatio's mother and Ophelia's both died in the same winter, Horatio's mother in childbirth and Ophelia's of the cold. Ophelia's mother was as small and light and beautiful as her daughter. Horatio's mother was strong and short and he looks a good deal like her, the same eyes the same hands. She knew a hundred-thousand love-songs, and when he was only a boy she used to sing them. Ophelia would listen, too. They loved Horatio's mother.
Horatio tries not to hear, now.
They are not Ophelia's songs. They belonged always to his mother. Ophelia would not even sing them before she died, and afterwards never either. Sometimes, though, she asked Horatio to sing them to her (she is younger than he is, back then seemed even younger, needed someone to sing to her after her mother died); but he was not a good singer. She asked anyway. He tried. They are his mother's, then, and half his by right. They are not Ophelia's.
He should not be bitter. He should not feel anything against her. She was like a sister-- she was always a sister--
And there is no reason, no reason at all, and he knows this. There is no reason. Love is no reason. The love-songs are no reason. He himself is no reason. He is gentle as spring--but spring is when the hardest rains begin, and it is still cold because winter does not want to let go-- he is kind as a mother to her children--but mothers have slain or beaten their children before now-- he is as good as Prince Hamlet is mad--but he himself does not know whether Hamlet is truly mad-- and Horatio feels as though there is thunder in his ears, thunder for a ridiculous thought.
The hand to his sword meant nothing. He would never harm her.
He would never harm her.
The love-songs go on and on and on, and he is quietly certain that it is driving him mad.
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass green turf,
At his heels a stone.
Larded all with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
The sailors are leading him away from the castle, and he cannot help but feel as though he is abandoning her. The Queen (or the King?) told him to look after her, to see that no harm came to her-- for a sudden brief moment he buries his face in his hands and believes that she is less likely to come to harm with him gone from her than guarded by him-- and he is leaving her. Something could happen--something could happen.
She is alone somewhere.
No, not somewhere. --He can hear her singing. He can hear her singing. As he follows--he is always following--as he follows he can hear her. Her voice is a little broken, sometimes laughing in the middle of the words and almost shouting the song, sometimes stopping to weep, a wild, miserable, childish weeping, as though something special has been taken away from her.
She is not somewhere, because he knows where she is.
Horatio believes he does not know himself. He is gentle, he is gentle he is gentle he is good-- He believes he has been listening to her sing for-ever. He believes everyone can hear her.
Ophelia sings too softly and too far away; no one hears but Horatio.
No one else knows where she is.
She is driving him mad.
Now the leaf turns. Now the moth gives one quick flicker of its grey wings; the shadow spreads, and Horatio can picture her perfectly. She is somewhere singing--there is a stream by the castle, outside the castle, a shallow muddy one with willow trees growing around it thickly, and cattails and rosebriars, sawgrass and little burrs. It can't be seen from outside the thicket around it. Inside, close down by the water, there are tiny little flowers in full spectrums of colour.
He does not know himself at all. He is afraid for her, desperately afraid. Suppose she fell, if perhaps she drowned? It is only a shallow muddy stream, but a girl could drown there-- he is abandoning her, and if she fell it would be upon his head.
It is more than enough to be what he is.
It is not that he is going mad--she is driving him mad.
He falls behind, and when the sailors turn to be sure he is still there, he whispers--he cannot help but whisper it--that he has forgotten something. He must bring the Prince something--he has left it behind. They watch him too seriously, and he wonders whether they really believe he would ever harm Ophelia--
Heaven in earth, he wants to shout. Heaven in earth, I am mad.
He does not know why he thought it in the first place. He wishes he had not. It only began with that flicker or flutter or what was it he can't remember perhaps it was a moth. A moth made him think it? He aspires to nothing, desires nothing, expects nothing-- it would not even matter. Hamlet would not turn to him as the Queen turned to the King after the King was murdered. It means nothing.
Suddenly he turns and runs.
He is a poor runner, and it is a lagging run-- he comes to the stream sooner or later than he believed he would. Ophelia is wading in the shallow muddy water, picking the tiny flowers, making tiny crowns and chains and still singing the love-songs-- she is still singing the love-songs--
He has the barest moment. He has no moment at all. His leaf falls, his moth flies into the candle and burns.
"Ophelia!"
"Laertes!" She laughs and puts her fingers up to her mouth. They're stained yellow from the stems of the flowers. "Laertes, thou dost look all as thou hast been kissed. Thine eyes--! Laertes, thou wast speaking lies again to me, lies lies lies lies-- o, thou'rt bold! Thou canst but dance with me--everyone doth see us. I do not doubt truth to be a liar, my Lord, no--"
Horatio, who is not himself, takes her hands. "Nay, 'tis time to sleep."
"Am I tired, my Lord?"
"Ay--lie thyself down. The sun hath gone all around, and 'tis time for dreams."
"O, I do not desire to dream, my Lord!"
"Then thou shalt only sleep. Wilt lie down?"
She smiles. Her smile used to make him happy. He does not love her now. Perhaps he never loved her. She lies down in the shallow muddy water, and Horatio kneels beside her. He is still holding both her hands. "O! I sleep, my Lord."
"Let thine eyes close, then."
"Ay, my Lord."
She begins to sing again, with her eyes closed. He is mad he is mad he is mad he cannot let anything befall her he swore it he promised he went after her with-- with his hand on his sword-- it is a thousand hours, or perhaps only a hundred, or perhaps double a million, double the hours by the number of stars. She sings his mother's song. He used to dance with her in the library when she was only a girl. He is still holding both her hands. She is still singing. She would have been a beautiful queen...!
Horatio bends down to kiss her and finds his face is wet. Yet she is still singing, she is singing, he can hear it, over and over, the same song-- he begins to weep, and he remembers that his Prince--his Lord--Hamlet, ay, Hamlet--is waiting for him, and he is going, he is obeying, as he always obeys. He gets to his feet very slowly and realises that he is wet and covered with mud and he is still weeping, even as he looks around him and understands what is happening and where he must be, very calmly, very carefully, ready, ready ready ready-- he steps out of the stream, and walks back through the grass. Suddenly he stops, and breathes once, slowly. He is not weeping now.
The sailors laugh at him, but he is used to being laughed at by sailors.
"Found you what you sought, sir?" one asks, and Horatio stares at him only for a moment.
"Ay, indeed, sir."
"Had you a fall, sir?" the other asks, snorting and showing his teeth. It rained the night before. The grass is still wet and the earth is still mud.
Horatio looks at him evenly. "Ay, indeed. Did not you tell me the Prince wast awaiting me?"
"Ay, sir," the first one says. They turn away from him to lead again, and he follows--they are laughing between themselves. They do not look at him again. He does not believe anything in the world is real. There is more dreamt of in heaven and earth-- in heaven and earth-- the earth, the earth-- more to dream--
Horatio follows, and nothing in the world is real-- but all he can hear is silence, for Ophelia is not singing any longer. He cannot hear her singing. Apart from that, nothing has happened, and nothing ever will.
"Well, tell me, Horatio, what is this terror hast befallen that it robs thee of thy joy in me? I have a quarrel with it on that count."
They are out of the cold, now, away from the sea. It is some walk back to the castle, but the sun makes it better. Everything feels warmer away from the sea, and Horatio might almost smile. Hamlet smiles. His smile is so honest that Horatio suddenly believes he was never mad, never once mad-- Horatio knew that it was a pretence sometimes, but sometimes he was sure it was true madness, and he was afraid then, for he was afraid Hamlet would no longer know him. But it is not true, none of it is true. Hamlet smiles and lifts his face to the sky.
Hamlet is joyous, perhaps, because he has not died after all. He is alive. He is alive! He has escaped the cold grey sea and come home to a place that isn't home, and it is good.
Horatio suddenly believes he may fall.
"My Lord, Laertes hath returned, and it hath been made known to him of his father's death."
"Then doth he hate me?"
"Ay, my Lord, he is incensed against you."
Hamlet holds his arms out to the air around them, and laughs and sighs both at once. "I shall beg his forgiveness."
"Your uncle is aggrieved to hear you live. He hath been told."
"Out of question he hath. I did send unto the villain myself, to tell him in all innocence contrary to that which he in his guilt believed. Ay, that, too, I shall make right, my good Horatio."
"Your mother is glad of your return."
"Good! I am glad of it myself. What of Lady Ophelia?"
"Lady Ophelia is mad, my Lord."
"Mad?" Hamlet stops.
"Ay, my Lord."
"Mine ears do not play tricks to spite me--'tis more spite to have known the truth. Alas, Ophelia! that do I weep to hear."
"Perchance your return, my Lord, will comfort her."
"Dost not thou grieve for her?" For one moment, Hamlet looks at him, and he may weep again. It is a struggle--he will weep or he will be sick again. Hamlet's eyes soften. "Ay, I see thou dost. Forgive me, friend."
"There is no need, my Lord. My sorrow is sometime of a quiet kind, and I cannot outwardly show what mine eyes and my heart wouldst proclaim. 'Tis certain 'twould be misread, this reticence--it doth not befit such a maiden as wast the Lady Ophelia." He means it. He means it. He is not lying--he has not lied at all. He has only kept back part of the truth. Perhaps he did love Ophelia after all-- he danced with her. He danced with her for hours and she taught him to learn and now he could never misstep, even now-- Hamlet takes his hands, and he may be sick or he may fall.
"Sweet philosopher, I prithee--thy grief doth not deserve chastisement, as would be proper for some child or callous fellow who did but counterfeit. If thou hast not wept thy tears, it doth make them honest and unshed, and that exceeds a hundredfold the false tears that run like rivers. Comfort thyself--I believe in thee."
"Ay, my Lord."
"I shall with all my heart do aught that can be done to draw back the fair reason of her mind."
Hamlet smiles and kisses his cheek. Horatio smiles and finds he is weeping instead.
Ophelia is dead.
When she is buried, Hamlet locks himself in the room that was his, and still is, still is--as long as he was gone, it hasn't changed anything.
Horatio sits alone. He cannot stop hearing the words Hamlet shouted in her grave, the challenge to Laertes. He cannot stop hearing that Hamlet loved Ophelia. He cannot stop hearing-- he cannot stop hearing-- he will hear it for-ever, more than the love-songs, more than--
There are more things in--
More things--
To be dreamt of than in your--
To be dreamt of--
There are more things more things more things he is mad mad mad mad mad he will dream he will dream and he will hear it over and over and everything and every word and he will hear he will hear--
and suddenly he realises that he hears nothing at all.
There is only silence.
The silence roars.
No one would believe him capable of harming her. He does not even believe himself that he could harm her. He loves--loved--loves-- he loves-- He loves his Prince.
Suddenly Horatio is sick again, over and over, like the words before the silence, although nothing comes and he cannot breathe and he cannot stand, and he falls to his knees on the floor-- he cannot even feel disgusted. He cannot feel at all.
He cannot bear the sea, and now he cannot bear the stream, and now he hates water and wants never to touch it to see it again-- She drowned she drowned she drowned he did not even hold her down he only held her hands he is mad he is mad he did it for no reason because he had no reason he is content he has always been everything is enough--
Everything is enough.
He will dream of water for-ever, and everything will always be enough, and now he knows how useless philosophy is. His gentle hands held her little hands and that was enough. Philosophy means nothing, and there is more--
He will dream of the sea for-ever, for nothing, and that is everything.
