Hamlet by John Marsden Read Free Book Online Page B

Gonzago.
”
    “I did, Highness, but we can do
Romeo and Juliet
if that is your wish. It’s not a bad bit of work, although a bit far-fetched. Or we have a new comedy, a satiric piece, rather short, but most diverting, judging by the reactions we got in the south, where we —”
    “No, no,
The Murder of Gonzago
is an excellent choice. But tell me, if I wrote a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, you could learn that and insert it in the play, could you not?”
    Rather startled, the actor was nevertheless good enough at his craft to show no emotion. “Certainly, if that is what Your Highness wishes.”
    “Good. Then, for now, follow the others. Mention nothing of this to the old man Polonius. I’ll write the speech and deliver it to you by dinnertime. We can have the play tomorrow night.”
    “Very good, Your Royal Highness.”
    And off he went, leaving the prince with his thoughts, which tumbled around in his mind, busy as a line of laundry in a windstorm. What can I say for myself? Hamlet wondered. I, who have done nothing? What can I say in my defense? I have seen these actors stand upon a stage and make themselves weep over the dead children of Hecuba. Real tears come out of their eyes! Hecuba, who lived, if she lived at all, two thousand years ago! Hecuba, who was turned into a dog and drowned. What’s Hecuba to them or they to Hecuba? Yet the tears run down their faces as they ponder her fate! If they can do that in a play, what would they do if they had real cause for passion? What would any of them do?
    By God, if they were in my situation, they would weep. They would drown the stage with tears and burn the audience with the fire of their words. They would make the guilty mad and appall the innocent. The eyes and ears of the spectators would fill to overflowing. And yet, here I am, and what do I do? Why, that’s easy. I play games with a racquet and a ball. A king has his kingdom and his life stolen away, and I am silent. My father is murdered, and I sit down to table with his murderer. What does that make me? A coward, nothing else. One who has the liver of a pigeon.
    If I were anything else, if I had a heart, and the guts to match it, I would have scattered the insides of this treacherous king across the fields to fatten the crows. That traitor. That bastard. That bloody, bawdy villain, remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, and vile. And all I can do, with my father come from heaven and hell or somewhere in between, telling me to take revenge, is to wallow in words. Muttering and cursing and bellowing.
    Well, at least I have a plan now. I have heard that guilty creatures faced with a reenactment of their crimes fall on their knees and confess. I’ll have these actors play something like the murder of my father in front of my uncle tomorrow night. I’ll watch him, I’ll study him, and if he so much as blanches or trembles, I’ll know the truth, and I’ll know my course of action.
    After all, I still cannot be certain what I saw that night. Was it my father? Did it tell me the truth? Or was it some fiend sent to lie and confuse and do evil? The devil can take any shape he wants, including that of my father. And while I am so sad about his passing, the devil has the perfect chance to take advantage of me.
    That is what holds me back. It is a terrible thing to be a coward, but it is not so bad to be prudent. Well, tomorrow shall tell the next chapter of my story.
    The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll test the conscience of the king!

The performance started late. The servants were supposed to take out all the tables from the state dining hall after dinner, but the head butler said it was nothing to do with him; furniture moving wasn’t his job; his responsibilities ended with clearing the meal. And apparently no one had told the comptroller of the royal household, who was in charge of entertainment, and the deputy housekeeper, who looked after the reception rooms, was laid up with pleurisy, so in the