Chapter VIII: Part 8

“Nought’s had, all’s spent,
When our desire is got without content;
’Tis safer to be that which we destroy,
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.”

That was the secret of their misery; Macbeth and Lady Macbeth had got their heart’s desire, and in the unworthy getting of it they found it brought them no content or peace of mind. Sick at heart, weary, dissatisfied, it would have been hard to find a sadder pair that day in Scotland than the King and Queen in their royal robes, on the eve of their grand state banquet.

But true to her old undaunted spirit, even in the midst of her own depression, Lady Macbeth tried to rouse her husband from his despondent gloom.

“How now, my lord?” she said. “Why do you keep alone, making companions of sorriest fancies? Things without all remedy should be without regard; what’s done is done.”

“We have but scotched the snake, not killed it,” returned Macbeth, whose mind was always brooding on the possible dangers ahead. All day he was thinking over the past, or plotting fresh wickedness to secure his own safety, and by night he was haunted by the most terrible dreams. In this constant state of unrest he could even think with envy of the quiet repose of the man he had killed. “Better be with the dead, whom we to gain our peace have sent to peace, than to live on in the restless torture of the mind. Duncan is in his grave; after life’s fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done its worst; nor steel, nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy--nothing can touch him further.”

“Come, my gentle lord,” said Lady Macbeth, “smooth your rugged looks; be bright and jovial among your guests to-night.”

“So I shall, love, and so I pray be you,” said Macbeth. “Oh, my mind is full of scorpions, dear wife! You know that Banquo and his son Fleance live.”

“But they will not live for ever,” said Lady Macbeth.

“There’s comfort yet; they can be assailed,” said Macbeth; and then, in dark, mysterious words, he gave his wife to understand that a deed of dreadful note was to be done that night, though he refused to tell her more precisely what it was. “Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, till thou applaud the deed,” he ended. “Thou marvellest at my words, but hold thee still: things bad begun make themselves strong by evil.”

* * * * *

In the great hall of the palace the banquet was spread. The King and Queen entered, with the Thanes of Lennox and Ross and many other noblemen of Scotland. Macbeth bade them be seated, and gave to one and all a hearty welcome. As the guests took their places at table, the arras hanging over a side-doorway was pushed apart, and a grim face peered in. Leaving the stool (for there were no chairs in those days) which he was about to occupy at the side of the table, in the midst of the guests, Macbeth went to speak to the intruder. It was one of the hired assassins, and he brought the news that Banquo was safely slain.

Macbeth was greatly pleased to hear this, but in another moment all his fear and discontent rushed back, for the young boy Fleance had escaped. The child of Banquo that was to be King hereafter! But Macbeth tried to console himself with the thought that, as he expressed it, “the grown serpent” was disposed of, and for the present, at least, the young snake had no teeth to bite.

Macbeth stood so wrapt in gloomy musing that Lady Macbeth was forced to recall him to a sense of his duties as host. Poor lady, she had a hard task that night. Not only had she to conceal her own unhappiness, but she had to support the flagging spirits of her husband, and try to screen his strange behaviour, while she scattered smiles and flattering words in all directions. Macbeth roused himself by fits and starts, but his gaiety was forced, and his wife dreaded that every moment he would betray himself. However, at Lady Macbeth’s rebuke, he tried to shake off his gloom, and, approaching the table, he made an effort to speak cheerfully to the guests.

“May it please your highness sit,” said the Thane of Lennox.

The seat which Macbeth had been about to occupy when he went to speak to the murderer had remained empty, but now, unnoticed by all the other guests, a figure glided in and took possession of it.

If only Banquo were present, Macbeth went on to say, their honour would be complete, and he hoped it was his own fault, and no mischance, that had kept him away.

The Thane of Ross replied that Banquo deserved blame for not keeping his promise, and again asked Macbeth to favour them with his company.

“The table’s full,” said Macbeth.

“Here is a place reserved, sir,” said Lennox.

“Where?”

“Here, my good lord,” said Lennox, pointing to the seat Macbeth had first chosen. “What is it that moves your Highness?” he added in alarm, for Macbeth stood gazing in horror at what seemed to the others nothing but an empty stool.

Well might the guilty King tremble and grow pale, for in the place that seemed vacant to everyone else he saw sitting the blood-stained figure of the murdered Banquo.

“Thou canst not say I did it; never shake thy gory locks at me!” he cried, recoiling in horror.

“Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is not well,” said the Thane of Ross.

But with eager words Lady Macbeth tried to calm the startled guests, assuring them that it was only a momentary fit of illness, such as Macbeth had been accustomed to from his youth. “Eat, and regard him not,” she implored them, and then, in a stern undertone, she tried to rouse her husband from his fit of dazed terror. But Macbeth was heedless of her entreaties. With starting eyes he watched the ghastly figure which his guilty brain alone could see, and it was only when the vision melted away that he recovered from the sort of stupor into which he had fallen. Then, for a brief moment, he spoke cheerfully, and, calling for wine, he drank to the health of all present.

“And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss,” he added boldly. “Would he were here! To all, and him, we drink!”

The words were scarcely uttered, when once more the vision of the murdered man rose before Macbeth. With a scream of terror he again recoiled, pouring forth a torrent of entreaties and defiance. Lady Macbeth once more tried to smooth matters over, but her husband’s frenzied ravings could not be so lightly covered, and, dreading the suspicions that his wild words must give rise to, she hastily dismissed the guests on the plea of his sudden illness.

When everyone had gone, and the husband and wife were left alone, she was too worn out and unhappy to utter any further reproaches or questions. Haggard and miserable, the guilty pair stood there in the deserted hall, amid the broken fragments of the disordered feast and the dying torches that flickered in the first gray twilight of dawn. Ashes of splendour, loneliness, despair--it seemed like the emblem of their own ruined lives.

Macbeth was quiet enough now; he seemed possessed with a sort of sullen desperation. He had waded so deep in blood, it would be as tedious to go back as to go forward, and he determined that any cause that hindered his own good should be ruthlessly swept aside. It was he, not Lady Macbeth, who was the leader now. Banquo’s murder he had arranged alone, and he asked no counsel from his wife about a fresh deed of iniquity he was already planning.

But in his guilty superstition he resolved to go early the next day to seek the weird sisters, to learn from them, if possible, what secrets fate still held in store.

The Witches’ Cavern

Macbeth had gained his throne by treachery, and he had no confidence in the loyalty of his subjects. He feared lest they should plot together to bring back the sons of Duncan, and he had secret spies in the households of all the great nobles. The one he feared most, next to Banquo, was Macduff, Thane of Fife, and when the latter refused to obey the tyrant’s bidding to attend the great feast, Macbeth knew that he was likely to prove a dangerous enemy, and resolved to get rid of him without delay. But before he could lay hands on him, Macduff fled the country, leaving his wife and children in his castle in Fife, and going himself to the Court of the English King to beg his help in placing Malcolm on the throne.

It was the day after the banquet at Macbeth’s palace. In a gloomy cavern, far removed from the haunts of men, the three witches were busy brewing a hideous compound for some dark and evil purpose. In the middle of the cavern was a boiling cauldron, and as the witches circled round it in a grotesque dance, each in turn flung in some horrible ingredient. The flames crackled, clouds of hissing steam arose from the cauldron, and as they danced the witches croaked a discordant chant:

“Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.”

The charm was just completed to their satisfaction, when there came a knocking at the entrance of the cavern. The second witch looked up with a cunning gleam in her sunken eyes.

“By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,
Whoever knocks!”

The door swung open by itself, and Macbeth entered. In spite of his curiosity, he stood almost appalled at the weird scene before him. The darkness of the cavern was fitfully lighted by the leaping flames of the fire, and the evil faces that peered back at him from the shadowy gloom might well bring discomfort to a guilty soul.

“How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags? What is it you do?” he demanded.

“A deed without a name,” answered the witches in chorus.

“I conjure you, by that which you profess, however you come to know it, answer me to what I ask you.”

“Speak!” “Demand!” “We’ll answer,” said the witches. “Say if you would rather hear it from our mouths or from our masters?”

“Call them; let me see them.”

The first witch flung some additional horrible charms into the cauldron, and then the three chanted together:

“Come, high or low;
Thyself and office deftly show!”

There was a flash of light, a roll of thunder, and in the midst of a cloud of blue steam there rose from the cauldron the Apparition of an armed Head.

“Tell me, thou unknown power----” began Macbeth.

“He knows thy thought,” said the first witch; “hear his speech, but say thou nought.”

“Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! beware Macduff;
Beware the Thane of Fife! Dismiss me. Enough.”

“Whate’er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks,” said Macbeth, as the Apparition sank from view. “Thou hast spoken my fear aright; but one word more----”

“He will not be commanded,” said the witch. “Here is another, more potent than the first.”

There was another roll of thunder, and a second Apparition arose from the cauldron, a blood-stained Child.

“Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!”

“Had I three ears, I’d hear thee.”

“Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn
The power of man, for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.”

“Then live, Macduff; what need I fear of thee?” cried Macbeth. “But yet I’ll make assurance double sure; thou shalt not live; that I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, and sleep in spite of thunder.”

There was a third roll of thunder, and a third Apparition rose--a Child crowned, with a tree in its hand.

“What is this that rises like the issue of a King, and wears upon his baby brow the round of sovereignty?”

“Listen, but do not speak to it,” commanded the witches; and the Apparition spoke on:

“Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are:
Macbeth shall never vanquished be until
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill
Shall come against him.”

“That will never be!” cried Macbeth, in delighted relief, as the vision of the baby King sank back into the cauldron. As he truly said, who could remove the forest, and bid the trees unfix their earth-bound roots? All the bodements were good. Fate seemed bright before him. But there was still one thing his heart throbbed to know.

“Tell me, if your art can tell so much,” he begged the witches, “shall Banquo’s issue ever reign in this kingdom?”

“Seek to know no more,” came the solemn warning.

”I _will_ be satisfied. Deny me this, and an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know! Why does that cauldron sink, and what noise is that?” For there was the sound of trumpets.

”Show!... Show!... Show!...
Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;
Come like shadows, so depart!”

Then in the dusk of the cavern shone a strange luminous glow, and slowly in procession passed a line of eight Kings; the last carried a mirror in his hand, and was followed by Banquo’s ghost.

Horrible sight! Then, after all, the witches had spoken truly, and it was Banquo’s children who should fill the throne of Scotland for untold generations. For in the mirror held by the eighth King were reflected many more, and some of them carried twofold orbs and treble sceptres.

“What, is this so?” demanded Macbeth, and the first witch answered:

“Ay, sir, all this is so; but why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites,
And show the best of our delights;
I’ll charm the air to give a sound,
While you perform your antic round,
That this great King may kindly say,
Our duties did his welcome pay.”

Then a strain of weird music was heard, and in a sort of wild, mocking dance the witches vanished, the cauldron sank into the earth, and Macbeth was left standing alone in the gloomy cavern.

Birnam Wood

When Macbeth learnt that Macduff had escaped from his power and fled to England, he took a fiendish revenge: he gave orders that his castle in Fife should be surprised and seized, and his wife and children slain. Macbeth’s barbarous commands were executed, and the Thane of Fife’s wife, children, servants, and every unfortunate soul in the castle, were ruthlessly slaughtered.

Scotland had long been groaning under the heavy yoke of the tyrant, and at this cruel deed it broke into open rebellion. Macduff returned from England, bringing the young Prince Malcolm with him, and many noblemen flocked to their standard. Macduff, burning with revenge for the loss of all his dear ones, swore that if ever the tyrant came within reach of his sword he should never escape alive.

In the troubles that now gathered thick and fast around him, Macbeth had no longer the counsel of his devoted wife to strengthen him. The punishment of her evil deeds had fallen upon Lady Macbeth. Her stern spirit was broken, for she was a prey to all the tortures of unavailing remorse. Her sleep was troubled, and in her dreams she acted over and over again the scene that had taken place on the night of Duncan’s murder. The doctor called in to attend her could not explain the cause of the illness that seemed consuming her, but her waiting gentlewoman told him that at night Lady Macbeth would rise in her sleep, and speak strange words and act in a strange manner. The doctor resolved to watch, himself, to see what happened. For two nights all was quiet, but on the third night, as he was speaking to the gentlewoman, Lady Macbeth entered, clad in a night-mantle, and carrying a lighted taper. Her eyes were open, but she evidently saw nothing; she was walking in her sleep. Setting down the taper, she began to rub her hands, as if she were washing them, speaking the while in a low voice. From her broken phrases it was easy to guess the scene of guilt that was haunting her brain. Mixed with words about Duncan’s murder came reproaches to her husband for his lack of courage, and then references to other crimes--the murder of Banquo, and the death of the Thane of Fife’s wife. And all the time Lady Macbeth kept rubbing and rubbing her hands; but it was of no use--nothing would ever make them clean again.

“Here’s the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand,” she moaned, as if her heart were breaking.

“What a sigh is there!” said the doctor. “The heart is sorely charged.”

“I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body,” said the gentlewoman.

“This disease is beyond my practice,” said the doctor: “yet I have known those that have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.”

“Wash your hands; put on your nightgown, look not so pale!” muttered Lady Macbeth. ”I tell you yet again, Banquo is buried; he cannot come out of his grave. To bed, to bed! There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed!” And, with a gesture as if she were dragging some invisible person reluctantly after her, Lady Macbeth took up her taper and slowly retreated.

The strain of this unceasing remorse by day and night was too much even for Lady Macbeth’s dauntless courage, and the days of her life were soon to be numbered.

Macbeth himself was bordering on a state of frenzy. Some said he was mad; others, who hated him less, called it valiant fury. Whichever it might be, certain it was that his excitement was beyond control, and that he could not direct his cause in a reasonable manner. Sick at heart, void of all hope, he yet summoned all his courage, and resolved to fight stubbornly to the end, like some savage animal brought to bay.

The English troops, led by Malcolm and Macduff, were close at hand, and the Scottish nobles with their followers were to meet them near Birnam Wood. From here the combined forces were to march on Dunsinane Castle, where Macbeth now was, and which he had strongly fortified.

Rumours of the enemy’s might filled the air, but Macbeth, trying to reassure himself with the witches’ prophecy, bade his people bring him no more reports.

“Till Birnam Wood remove to Dunsinane, I cannot quail with fear,” he declared. “What’s the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know all mortal consequences have said to me thus: ‘Fear not, Macbeth; no man that’s born of woman shall e’er have power upon thee.’”

So, when a white-faced, trembling messenger brought the news that ten thousand English soldiers were marching on Dunsinane, Macbeth silenced him with curses and abuse.

But his momentary rage over, he fell again into dejection.

“I am sick at heart,” he said; “I have lived long enough, my way of life has fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf; and that which should accompany old age, such as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but in their stead, curses not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not.”

Then, shaking off his despondency in a fresh outburst of fury, he rallied his men, determined to make a most stubborn resistance, no matter what forces were brought against him. “I will not be afraid of death and bane, till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane,” he cried, once more falling back for comfort on the witches’ prophecy.

News again came to Macbeth of the near approach of the English, and that the Scottish nobles were flocking to the standard of the young Prince. But he refused to be daunted.

“Hang out our banners on the outward walls,” he shouted. “The cry is still, ‘They come.’ Our castle’s strength will laugh a siege to scorn; here let them lie till famine and the ague eat them up.”

In the midst of his warlike commands, a cry of women was heard within the castle, and the news was told Macbeth that the Queen was dead. For a moment he was stunned. This, then, was the end of all their plotting and ambition! But now there was no time even to spend in grief.

“She should have died hereafter,” he said, with a bitter reflection on the vanity of human life. “There would have been time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

But his musing was interrupted; a messenger came hurrying up, his face full of terror.

“Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.”

The man sank on his knee before Macbeth.

“Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, but know not how to do it.”

“Well, say, sir,” said Macbeth impatiently.

“As I stood watching upon the hill, I looked towards Birnam, and anon, methought, the wood began to move.”

“Liar and slave!” cried Macbeth, livid with fury, and striking the man to the ground.

“Let me endure your wrath if it be not so,” persisted the messenger. “Within these three miles you may see it coming; I say, a moving grove.”

“If thou speak false, upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive till famine cling thee,” said Macbeth. “If thy speech be true, I care not if thou dost as much for me.”

His resolution faltered, and he began to doubt the falseness of the fiends that lied like truth. “Fear not till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane,” they had said. And now a wood was coming to Dunsinane!

“Arm, arm, and out!” thundered Macbeth.--“If this which he avouches be true, there is no flying hence nor tarrying here,” he thought, sick at heart. “I begin to be aweary of the sun, and wish the estate of the world were now undone.” Then, with a sudden return of fury, “Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back!”

The strange occurrence reported by the messenger was indeed true, but the explanation was simple. When the English and Scotch troops met near Birnam Wood, in order the better to conceal the soldiers as they marched to Dunsinane, Malcolm commanded that every man should hew down a leafy bough, and bear it before him, thereby making it impossible that the number of their host could be discovered. From a distance this mass of waving green boughs looked exactly as if Birnam Wood were advancing on Dunsinane.

The first of the witches’ safeguards had failed Macbeth, but he fell back with desperate reliance on the other. Besides, in any case, it was now too late to retreat; he must fight the matter out to the end, and either conquer or be lost for ever.

“They have tied me to a stake,” he cried. “I cannot fly, but, bear-like, I must fight the course. What’s he that was not born of woman? Such a one am I to fear, or none.”

In his furious fighting on the battle-field he presently encountered one of the English leaders, whom he promptly slew. Macbeth laughed in triumph, for he felt himself secure; he feared no weapon brandished by any man born of woman.

But the hour of fate was at hand. Macduff, scorning to strike the wretched peasants, hired to fight, sought everywhere for Macbeth, determined either to slay the tyrant or sheathe his sword unused. And at last he found him.

But Macbeth seemed to shrink from the furious challenge.

“Of all men else I have avoided thee,” he said. “But get thee back; my soul is too much charged with blood of thine already.”

“I have no words; my voice is in my sword,” returned Macduff.

They fought, but for awhile neither got the better. Then Macbeth told Macduff that he was losing labour, for it was as easy for his keen sword to hurt the air as to wound him. He bore a charmed life, which could not yield to one of woman born.

“Despair thy charm!” cried Macduff. And the next moment Macbeth knew that the witches had doubly deceived him, for his second hope had failed--Macduff proclaimed that his birth had been different from that of ordinary mortals, so that in a way he might be said never to have been born.

“Accursed be the tongue that tells me so!” exclaimed Macbeth, “for it hath cowed my better part of man. And be those juggling fiends no more believed, that palter with us in a double sense; that keep the word of promise to the ear, and break it to our hope. I’ll not fight with thee!”

“Then yield thee, coward!” taunted Macduff, “and live to be the show and gaze of the time; we’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, painted upon a pole, and underwrit, ‘Here you may see the tyrant.’”

His words goaded Macbeth’s failing nerve to fresh fury. Desperate and despairing, he flung his final challenge at his foe.

“I will not yield to kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, and to be baited with the rabble’s curse! Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane, and thou opposed, being of no woman born, yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff, and cursed be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”

* * * * *

The fight was over, and as the victorious generals gathered on the field of battle, with drums beating and flags flying, Macduff approached, bearing the head of the slain Macbeth, and saluted the young Prince Malcolm as King of Scotland.

“Hail, King! For so thou art. Behold where stands the usurper’s cursed head; the land is free. Hail, King of Scotland!”

And the trumpets sounded, and a universal shout rent the air:

“Hail, King of Scotland!”

Hamlet

A Vision at Midnight

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.”

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.”

Ophelia

The Lord Chamberlain to the Court of Denmark was an old man called Polonius, an ancient gray-bearded councillor, whose brain was stuffed with saws and proverbial sayings, and who had a very high opinion of his own sagacity. Polonius was ready to lay down the law on every occasion, and could always explain everything completely to his own satisfaction; the worldly wisdom of what he said was sometimes excellent, but his prosy moralising was often a severe tax on the patience of his hearers; in fact, he was not unfrequently what might be called “a tedious old bore.”

Polonius had two children--a handsome, fiery-natured son called Laertes, and a gentle, beautiful young daughter called Ophelia.

Like most young gallants in days of old, Laertes wished to see something of the world abroad, and directly the coronation was over, he begged permission to return to France, whence he had come to Denmark to show his duty to the new King. Hearing that Polonius had granted leave, though unwillingly, Claudius graciously gave his own consent, and Laertes prepared to depart at once.

Between Ophelia and the young Prince Hamlet a tender affection had grown up. As children, no doubt, they had been companions, for the boy Prince had no brothers or sisters of his own, though at school he had two friends of whom he was very fond, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. As Hamlet and Ophelia grew older this feeling became stronger. Their intimacy was watched with favour by Queen Gertrude, who dearly loved the gentle maiden, and wished nothing better than that she should become the wife of her son. So far, no definite engagement of marriage had taken place, but Hamlet was deeply attached to the young girl, and showed his affection by many gifts and words of love. As for Ophelia, her whole being was wrapt up in Hamlet. And small wonder, for peerless in grace and beauty, gallant in bearing as noble in nature, the young Prince shone forth far beyond any of his companions. As soldier, courtier, scholar, he was alike distinguished--ready in wit, skilled in manly exercises, highly accomplished, deeply thoughtful, studious in learning, a prince of courtesy, and an affectionate comrade. What marvel, then, that he had won for himself the absorbing love of a simple maiden like Ophelia, and the whole-hearted devotion of a loyal friend like Horatio?

Ophelia, in the quiet simplicity of her nature, accepted Hamlet’s love without question; but Laertes, with his larger experience of the world, was by no means confident that Hamlet intended anything serious, and on the eve of his departure for France he warned his sister not to place too much reliance on the young Prince’s favour. He bade her think of it as a fashion and a toy to amuse the passing hour--something sweet, but not lasting.

“No more but so?” said Ophelia wistfully.

“Think it no more,” counselled Laertes firmly. “Perhaps he loves you now, sincerely enough, but you must fear, weighing his greatness, his will is not his own; for he himself is subject to his birth. He may not, as unvalued persons do, choose for himself, for on his choice depends the safety and health of this whole State.”

Then, sensibly enough, Laertes pointed out that even if Hamlet truly loved her, reasons of state might prevent his ever marrying her, and therefore he begged his sister to be careful about bestowing her love too unguardedly on the Prince.

Poor Ophelia’s heart sank lower and lower at her brother’s words, but she meekly promised to remember his counsel. Then Polonius came in and gave some excellent parting words of advice to his son.

“Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well what I have said to you,” said Laertes, as he took his leave.

“What is it, Ophelia, he hath said to you?” asked Polonius.

“So please you, something touching the lord Hamlet.”

“Marry, well bethought,” said the old man; and then in his turn he proceeded to lecture his daughter on somewhat the same lines as Laertes had done.

In reply to his questions, Ophelia told him that Hamlet had lately made her many offerings of affection, and spoken many words of love. But, like Laertes, Polonius would not believe that Hamlet intended them seriously, or, at any rate, he pretended to think it only a passing fancy of the Prince’s. He ordered his daughter, therefore, to be more chary in seeing Hamlet--in fact, to avoid him as much as possible.

“I shall obey, my lord,” answered Ophelia dutifully.

It never seemed to occur to her to question her father’s will. She could love faithfully, but she could not struggle against opposition. So when the tempest came, she bent her head before it, like a frail reed, and was swept resistlessly away.

“Sweet Bells jangled, out of Tune and Harsh”

In accordance with her father’s injunctions, Ophelia now began to keep aloof from Hamlet; she sent no answers to his letters, and refused to see him. In the deeply-absorbing subject which had occupied Hamlet’s brain since the visit of the Ghost, it may be doubted whether he felt to the full this altered behaviour; but when all joy on earth seemed failing him, and nothing true or steadfast seemed left, it was perhaps an added pang that even the woman he loved should choose this moment to withdraw her sympathy and companionship. Hamlet had sworn to his father’s spirit henceforth to banish from his mind the remembrance of everything but revenge. His love for Ophelia, therefore, must take a secondary place; but he could not give it up so easily, though he made an attempt to do so. There was a constant struggle going on in his mind; his was the misery of one who has a harder task imposed on him than he has strength to carry out. He knew his duty, but he could not do it. He pondered and pondered over the matter, he reflected deeply over the problems and difficulties of life; he could think, and suffer, and plan, but he could not act. Time passed on, and still he had taken no decisive step. Day after day he saw the false, fawning smile of the traitor who had stolen his father’s crown. He knew himself to be thrust out of his own lawful place, a poor dependent on the will of the usurper, instead of enjoying his lawful rights as his father’s successor. But there was something in the sweet nobility of Hamlet which wrought its own downfall. A coarser, blunter nature that went straight to its mark, and either did not see, or did not trouble itself, about any side-issues, would have won its object; but Hamlet’s delicate, highly-strung spirit was not of the kind to command worldly success.

The perpetual trouble and perplexity in which he was plunged, and the bitter sense of his own irresolution, wrought a great change in the young Prince. Utterly out of sympathy with the whole Court of Denmark, and the better to conceal the workings of his mind, he adopted a strange mode of behaviour. He enjoyed the freedom this gave him of dispensing with the hypocrisy which was so prevalent at Court, and he took a half-bitter amusement in playing the part of one whose wits are wandering, and who is therefore privileged to indulge in wild and random speech. But at any instant he could lay aside this garb of eccentricity. With his old friends he was still the warm-hearted comrade, and to those in a lower position he was invariably a Prince of royal courtesy and kindness.

The King and Queen were much concerned at this change in Hamlet, and could not imagine what caused it, unless it were his father’s death. They sent in haste for two favourite friends of his boyhood to see if they could cheer him up with their company, and privately glean if there were anything afflicting him unknown to them. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern promised to do their best, and the Queen ordered them to be at once conducted to Hamlet.

In the meanwhile, old Polonius had solved the problem of Hamlet’s madness entirely to his own satisfaction, and he now came in triumph to impart his discovery to the King and Queen. It was, of course, quite impossible for him to tell his tale in a few words, but after an immense deal of beating round the bush, at last he came to the point. Briefly, it amounted to this: Hamlet had become mad because Ophelia had rejected his love. Oh, Polonius was quite certain about it, there was no doubt of the fact; and he carefully traced in detail all the various stages of Hamlet’s malady, which, it need scarcely be said, only existed in the old Chamberlain’s imagination. Polonius further produced as evidence a wild sort of letter that Hamlet had written to Ophelia, and was quite offended when the King and Queen seemed to hesitate a little in accepting his explanation of the problem.

“Hath there been such a time, I would fain know that, that I have positively said ‘’Tis so’ when it proved otherwise?”

“Not that I know,” said the King.

“Take this from this,” said Polonius, pointing to his head and shoulders, “if this be otherwise. If circumstances lead me, I will find where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed within the centre.”

“How may we try it further?” asked the King.

Polonius replied that Hamlet often walked for hours together in the lobby where they then were, and suggested that at such a time Ophelia should be sent to speak to him; he and the King, secretly hidden behind the arras, would watch the interview.

“If he love her not, and be not fallen from his reason because of it, let me be no assistant for a State, but keep a farm and carters,” concluded Polonius complacently.

“We will try it,” said the King.

“But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading,” said the Queen, as Hamlet himself entered the lobby at that moment, his eyes fixed on the open book he held in his hand.

“Away, I do beseech you--both away!” cried Polonius eagerly. “I will speak to him.--How does my good Lord Hamlet?” he added suavely, as Hamlet approached.

“Well, God have mercy!” said Hamlet, in a voice of vacant indifference.

“Do you know me, my lord?” said Polonius, still in the same coaxing tone.

The young Prince lifted his listless eyes from his book and surveyed the old man.

“Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.”

“Not I, my lord,” said Polonius, rather taken aback.

“Then I would you were so honest a man.”

“Honest, my lord?”

“Ay, sir! To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.”

“That’s very true, my lord,” Polonius was forced to agree. He had not come off very well in this first encounter of wits, but he resolved to make a further attempt. Hamlet had now returned to his book. “What do you read, my lord?”

“Words--words--words,” said the young Prince wearily.

“What is the matter, my lord?”

“Between who?”

“I mean, the matter that you read, my lord?”

“Slanders, sir,” said Hamlet, looking full at him, and pretending to point to a passage in the book, “for the satirical rogue says here that old men have gray beards, that their faces are wrinkled, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak limbs; all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for yourself, sir, should be as old as I am--if like a crab you could go backward.”

“Though this be madness, yet there is method in it,” said Polonius aside. “Will you walk out of the air, my lord?”

“Into my grave.”