Never Doubt I Love

Hamlet (and Ophelia et cetera) kept lurking in my mind as my airplane left Osaka. In particular, Hamlet’s line, alas unspoken to him, concerning his love for Ophelia. Hence, I wrote this piece, imagining that Hamlet would seek for Ophelia before he departed for England. Hence, this piece is taken after Act 4 Scene 3 (where Hamlet admitted where he stored Polonius’ body) and before Act 4 Scene 4 (where Hamlet saw Fortinbras just before the former departed for England). At this stage, Ophelia had not found out that her father had been gruesomely murdered. I have Okada Masaki’s Hamlet and Kuroki Haru’s Ophelia completely in my mind as I wrote this. I hope you can imagine them enacting this part, albeit it is written in English…

Never Doubt I Love...

Prince Hamlet of Denmark stealthily crept amongst the balustrades of Polonius’ residence. He knew the alleys, the corridors, the nooks and the corners of that section rather well, or shall we say very well, for he had frequented this part of the Castle for countless times during his secret rendezvous with Ophelia months ago.

Passing by a big clock on the corridor, Hamlet realised that half an hour almost passed since the clock stroke ten. Oh, had he been able to turn back time, he would. He would undo what he did that night in his mother’s bedchamber. Nay... he would not only undo it, he would actually abandon his mad plan for good. To think that his mad plan had truly turned into madness...

Oh why did he think of this mad plan?! Why did dear Horatio not warn him of the folly of this plan? Would it not be better to just secretly investigate Claudius’ crime without pretending to be mad? Or if he still decided upon this course, why in the name of all that is holy that he did not confide in Ophelia about it?

Had he no trust in her? Was his love to her, professed in such a passionate way many moons ago, so lacking in depth, so shallow that he did not trust her with his plans?

Some approaching footsteps almost stopped Hamlet’s heartbeat. Fast as the wind, he ducked into a dark corner and stayed as silent as the grave. Two chamber maids passed him by without even noticing that their handsome prince was within a meter from them. One of them did say something though that caught Hamlet’s attention.

“She does not wish to eat again. What shall we do?”

“How would I know?” replied the other maid gloomily. “I wish Master Laertes is here that he could console his sister. Alas, he is not.”

The first chamber maid dropped something, so she stopped to pick it up. Illuminated by the waning moonlight, Hamlet noticed that it was one of Ophelia’s handkerchiefs and head dresses. Witnessing a maid carrying her mistress’ items was not a strange sight; chamber maids are often asked to fix dresses, head dress, handkerchief and whats not. However, Hamlet also recognised that it was a handkerchief Ophelia’s mother gave her. That much he knew, for she did confide in him about her dearest mother, during the beautiful months of him courting her. A sudden longing to see Ophelia right that moment gripped Hamlet’s heart mercilessly.

“Aye, her brother holds her heart the way her father doth not… Pray tell, has he not been kept abreast of the development?” The second maid asked as she waited for her friend.

“You mean Master Laertes?” The first maid stood up and shifted her position slightly; Hamlet could have touched the edge of her skirt had he wanted to, for the maid was now within his reach. Not that he wanted to, for the only skirt he wanted to touch, nay, the only woman he wanted to touch was Ophelia, and beautiful Ophelia alone.

“I understand that Master Polonius was contemplating writing a letter to the Young Master concerning his sister, yet the Old Master then considered such a love-sick drama unworthy of Master Laertes’ attention. Thus, I gather he would not be returning soon…” The first maid beckoned to the second maid and off they went, only their echoes remained behind.

Hamlet remained in the dark corner for some time before re-emerging, still hidden in the shadows, his thoughts pounding wild in his head. Contrary to what the maids speculated, once Polonius’ death was announced, Laertes would return soon. Thus, if he, Hamlet the Dane, did not confess his actions to Ophelia soon, he would lose her forever. Claudius would no doubt tell him who killed Polonius. And when it happened, Laertes would find it easy to convince Ophelia to truly leave Hamlet. There was no secret that Laertes wasn’t fond of Hamlet. In fact, had Laertes not clearly shown signs of brotherly love to Ophelia, Hamlet would have thought that Laertes fancied his own sister. But Hamlet also knew that Laertes’ aversion to him was that of a normal brother hating anyone his sister loved. Either way, Hamlet would lose Ophelia if he did not tell her tonight, just hours before he left for England, what actually happened.

With not a moment to lose, Hamlet hurried to Ophelia’s chamber. He had debated earlier whether climbing up her chamber from the outside was wiser, yet the waning moon in the cloudless night would make his efforts prone to failure. He thus decided to use the most dangerous, yet also gallant, way of inviting himself, i.e. knocking on her door.

That was what he did. Hamlet knew that Ophelia’s chamber was, more often than not, not guarded. She never liked it, and when he Hamlet started to visit her every now and then, she had made it clear to her family that she preferred some privacy. In those courting months, even a gentle thud of a pebble hitting the ground would alert her, for it might be Hamlet visiting her. Even the maid’s gentle knock on the door would raise her hope, for it might be Hamlet longing for her.

This time, Lady Fortuna blessed him with an unguarded door. Yet, after three knocks followed by another knock and two more knocks (his code only Ophelia knew), no one answered from behind the door. Hamlet debated for a while the merit of retreating and trying the creeping plants outside, thus exposing himself to the moonlight. Yet, when he turned back to try his luck, he heard the door unlocked.

Ophelia’s beautiful, pure face, paler than the moonlight, peeked through the very thin gap on the door. Her dark hair, gently framing her face, was damp as were her eyes. She had been crying.

Hamlet’s heart sank as he saw his love in such a state. “Beautiful Ophelia...”

“Your Highness, to what do I owe this visit?” Her voice, usually so sweet and comforting, was now cold and distant. “Were you here to inquire when I would get myself to the nunnery, I shall close this door at once.”

“No, please, no!” Before he knew it, Hamlet already reached for her face. She withdrew, sinking his heart further. “Beautiful Ophelia, I need to be granted an interview with you...” Regretting his nunnery remark a few days ago, he added, “- and it has nothing to do with the nunnery. In fact,” he shifted closer to the door gap, “I regretted my outburst that day.” Seeing how Ophelia still eyed him with doubts, he further added, “My wish for an interview has everything to do with my letters.”

“Your letters?” Ophelia whispered. “The ones I have -”

“You have returned to me, yes, the very ones. O Fair Ophelia -” this time, Hamlet managed to get hold of one of Ophelia’s hand, which somehow had positioned itself on the door gap. “Ophelia, dearest Ophelia, please grant me an interview. At least please let me in. Your servants might see me thus.”

Ophelia’s large, damp eyes blinked twice before she reluctantly opened the door to let Hamlet in. Gratefully, the Prince slipped into her chamber just as she closed the door again.

Then, silence reigned.

Ophelia, daughter of Polonius, sister of Laertes, stood by the door in her white sleeping gown for a while, the curls of her hair gently framing her pale face, the dimly lit room cast an ethereal glow on her skin, before she stepped away from Hamlet. The Prince himself was in trance, as if he saw her for the first time.

Yes, it wasn’t the first time he saw her in her bed chamber. True, his visits were always noble, as in, he never violated her, yet their conversations were so full of poems and passions that it was impossible not to notice the desire and tensions between them. At the end of each visit, Hamlet was always grateful that he kept being a gentleman, that he kept Ophelia’s honour, yet at the same time he was also regretful that he did nothing other than kissing her sweet lips despite the obvious desires they both shared.

True, Ophelia was beautiful, but to Hamlet, she never looked more angelic than that night. Yet, this time, it was the first time Hamlet’s visit was met with silence from Ophelia’s side. It made Hamlet very uncomfortable, for it was the first time that he saw this cold side of Ophelia’s. Yet, was it her fault to begin with? Had he told her about his mad plan, she would have understood it. She was a woman of knowledge and her heart was made of gold. He should’ve trusted that she would keep the secret from anyone, including from Polonius. Yet he kept her in the dark. He let everyone, including her, believed that his madness was because of her rejections.

Ah, but those rejections, were they true rejections? Indeed, Ophelia started to display signs of withdrawal just around the same time Hamlet concocted his mad plan. At first, Hamlet was too busy with his plan to notice Ophelia’s distancing herself from him. When he finally realised that, he saw through her facade at once. He knew Polonius was behind Ophelia’s strange behaviours, for Ophelia, despite not engaging in long talks with Hamlet, to the point of evading him, still looked at him with longings. Secure in his knowledge that Ophelia still loved him, Hamlet became more serious in his madness. In his mind, he thought he’d always have time to confide in Ophelia of his mad plan later, after his own family was convinced of his own madness.

But now, seeing the gentle Ophelia truly out of reach, Hamlet realised his mistakes. He should have confided in her. He should have assured her of his love. He should have assured her that their love would survive, against all odds. Yes, even without the blessings from Polonius and Laertes, the love between Hamlet and Ophelia should survive.

Yet he didn’t do that. Thus, he lost her.

“Have I lost thee?” The words were uttered so suddenly that Hamlet himself was surprised.

To her credit, Ophelia just blinked back her tears and - after a moment of silence - shakily replied, “I understand you not, Milord.”

“Are we beyond repair?”

“Milord?”

The way Ophelia asked him made Hamlet thought whether he still wore the deranged look he was accustomed to display for the last few weeks. He glanced at the nearby mirror to check his own reflection. No, he looked normal. He wore a clean black suit, his face was clean with no clownish marks, no signs of a mad man.

“What I meant was...” Hamlet swallowed before uttering his fear, “- is it over between us?”

Ophelia’s face couldn’t display a more ridiculous expression than what she had now had she tried. “Milord, you instructed me to get myself to the nunnery. Several times, if I were to recall correctly. And you also said you loved me no more. How else would I interpret it other than that you have lost interest in me...Milord?”

“I lost interest in you?!” Despite himself, the young Hamlet couldn’t stand Ophelia’s words, which to him sounded like an accusation. “Were you not the one who first withdrew from me? Were you not the one who returned my letters, just when I needed you the most?!”

“You needed me the most?” Forgetting their situation, Ophelia also raised her voice, albeit still in a whisper. “You advised me, earnestly if I may remind you, to get myself to the nunnery! And you also confessed that you loved me not!”

“Because you returned my letters!”

“Oh for the love of God, Lord Hamlet!” Ophelia reached her limits. All her frustrations for the last few weeks, starting with her herculean attempt to withdraw from Hamlet at the behest of her father (despite her hoping that Hamlet would see through her facade), then going through Hamlet’s madness, and then being told to go to the nunnery afterwards, erupted. “Can you not see that I only did that at the behest of my father?! You used to be sharper than this, Milord, you once said that you would always know me, however I would pretend, for you know that I love thee.”

She sighed upon seeing the stunned Hamlet withdrawing into himself. Gently, she added, “For you said that you loved me...”

Hamlet tensed. Trembling, he tentatively whispered,

“Doubt thou the stars are fire...”

“Doubt that the sun doth move...” Ophelia slowly whispered back.

“Doubt truth to be a liar...” Hamlet shifted closer to Ophelia, who showed no sign of withdrawal. Despite himself, he slowly smiled, for a faint hope grew in his heart.

“...But never doubt I love...” Ophelia smiled back as she said the same line together in unison with Hamlet.

It was a while before Hamlet spoke. “You remember. I thought you have forgotten what I wrote you.”

“I never forget your words...” Ophelia’s eyes glistened with tears. “Those words kept me alive despite your erratic behaviours as of late... despite my father’s request to leave you...”

She wanted to add that she was also faithful to Hamlet’s love as of late, but truth be told, Hamlet’s heartless speech of the nunnery mark and his cold comment that he loved her no more had made it very difficult for her to believe in his love.

“I earnestly regret my behaviours to you as of late...” Hamlet spoke again, even gentler this time. “Particularly that day when you returned my letters.”

Upon witnessing such a pain etched on Hamlet’s handsome face, Ophelia’s heart sank. Only now did she realise the effect she had on him for her inability to defend her own love. “Did I hurt you so, Milord?”

Hamlet shook his head gently, and in doing so, a stray of curly hair fell on his forehead. Ophelia found herself reaching out to that stubborn strand of hair, caressing it ever so gently.

“No more than I hurt you, Beautiful Ophelia...” Without Hamlet realising it, his hands already found their way to Ophelia’s face. “Forgive me, my love, for hurting you so...”

“No, Milord. Forgive me for hurting you.” She clasped her hands on his tired face, softly glancing at his thin moustache, growing green amidst his pale face. She caressed him the way she was, even when he told her off to the nunnery. “Forgive me for not standing for our love in the face of my family’s opposition...”


“Sshhhh...Fair Ophelia, enough apologies...let me see you...” She let her lord examined her pure face as she glanced at the curls of his hair, falling yet again softly on his forehead. And yet, upon receiving such an intense love from him, she trembled.

“Let me kiss you...”

She said nothing, only to open her sweet lips for him to own.

-xxx-

(photos from the Theatre Cocoon Hamlet 2019 photobook)

An hour had passed in Ophelia’s chamber, where just moments before, was filled with her passionate moans and his fiery groans, which culminated in a unison release that filled their hearts with rainbows. Despite his initial resolve of keeping her honour, Hamlet couldn’t restrain himself when he found Ophelia crying in his arms, telling him how much she missed him so. He knew he had to tell her about her father, but somehow he couldn’t do that. He kept saying to himself that after this kiss, he’d stop and tell her.

Yet, he found his resolve growing weaker by the moment... until he realised that he had undressed her just as she undressed him. He still tried to stop, despite him being breathless upon seeing Ophelia’s pure white bosoms, but when she whispered for him to take her, he lost it. He lowered himself to taste her secret chambers, and moments later he lost himself in her pulsating charm, until they both re-emerged in a volcanic eruption of love.

“Ophelia...” he caressed her silky dark hair that was at the moment crowning his chest. She said nothing, but he knew she was listening.

“My apologies... I didn’t come here to dishonour you at all...” When he saw her slim shoulders shaking, he realised she was crying. “Oh pure, white, innocent Ophelia, please know I did not mean to take your honour in such a way... all along, I was hoping for your father’s blessings before -” he stopped. How could he confess what he did now?

“My father...” her muffled voice was heard. Hamlet tensed, waiting for what she wanted to say. “My father will be happy to know you honoured me with such a gallantry...” She suddenly looked up. “You were so gentle yet so passionate, Milord, I never thought... Oh, my father would be so surprised!” Then, as she witnessed the clouds settling in Hamlet’s eyes, she misinterpreted his sadness. “Oh, but rest assure, Milord, I cannot possibly tell him about this now, Milord. For once, it is almost midnight. And I trust that you would…still ask for my hand…?”

Slowly, Hamlet sat on the bed. He had to say this. “Ophelia -”

“Milord?” She started to look troubled. Would he refrain from being a gentleman now that he had her body?

A flash of inspiration crossed Hamlet’s mind. He could tell Ophelia that he would return to ask for her hand in marriage (truly, he would), but then by then Ophelia would know of Polonius’ death in his hands. Should he let Ophelia think that Claudius somehow planned the gruesome death of Polonius?...

But ah, he had told her too many lies.

He couldn’t do that anymore, not to her. Yet at the same time, he couldn’t stop admiring the glow that suddenly filled Ophelia’s whole being. As if the purer, more angelic form of Ophelia had emerged as he united with her. In telling her the truth, he would destroy that beautiful angelic light within her.

Then, to his dismay, the giant clock tower stroke. An hour ago, as he was torn between stop kissing Ophelia or devouring her, he vaguely heard the giant clock stroke the eleventh hour. Now, it was midnight. His ship was to leave for England in half an hour. He should’ve been at the port by now.

He had no time. He had no time to tell Ophelia the truth now, for he couldn’t be there with her to face the repercussion. Not leaving for England would invite more suspicion from Claudius, who had started to suspect that his madness was but a mask.

He had no time. Guildenstern and Rosencrantz were waiting for him. Those two two-faced clowns who couldn’t refuse Claudius’ order to deliver Hamlet to death in England...

Then he knew it. He would take care of the two clowns en route to England and return to Denmark himself anon. Then he would have a true mature conversation with Ophelia, in the daylight, to prevent a temptation of tasting her once more. Then, if Ophelia hated him, so be it. At least he would be an honest man to her. At least, she must know that he loved her.

“Milord?”

Ophelia’s voice returned him to the present moment. Tilting his head to examine his beloved, he cast a rueful smile. “Beloved...as much as I would like to stay to ask your father for your hand in marriage, I must take my leave. My ship leaves in half an hour, and I must do what the King asked me to.” When he saw how disappointed Ophelia was, he hastily added, “Oh please do not give me such a look, Fair Ophelia... you knew I was going to England before I came to you tonight...”

“But that was before –”

“I will honour you, Fair Ophelia, by asking your hand in marriage as soon as I return from England. I will cut short my trip there - do not ask me how, just trust me - and thence I shall ask for your hand in marriage.”

Which meant that he would ask Laertes for that; but he’d do that, truly, if he could avoid Laertes killing him for killing his father.

And of course, he’d also ask for her consent if Ophelia forgave him for his wrongdoings to Polonius...

Or he could confess his sins right now. But once again, upon seeing the stars in her eyes, courage deserted him. Thus, when Ophelia whispered her consent, Hamlet found that he was disappointed. He wanted to stay and confess his crimes to her, yet frail as he actually was, he needed her to push him, just like she did just now before everything changed between them. Yet, here she was, giving her consent, despite him hurting her, despite him leaving her.

“What have I done to deserve you, O Fair Angel?”

She said nothing, only kissing his hands ever so gently. He kissed them back with longing.

"Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him..."

Despite the stars in Ophelia's eyes begging for more kisses, Hamlet reluctantly dressed up and made way for the balcony. The clouds had covered the sky, thus hiding the moon. The balcony exit was a safe option this time. Yet, as he walked away, he found Ophelia walking next to him, her hands leading his hands to circle her waist, thus making them walking together in such a close proximity. She had worn her white gown again, but he still felt her pulsating skin underneath the silky dress.

“Ophelia?” He reluctantly separated himself from her before he climbed down.

“Milord?”

“I thank thee, Milady, for the experience that made me a man.” When she blushed, his heart was once again gripped with sorrow for his lies. Trembling, he once again whispered the words he so longed for her to understand...

“Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love...”

He kissed the tears that flowed down her face before kissing her very lips. Then, he clenched his jaws and resolutely disappeared into the night.

He’d take care of the two clowns Rosencrantz and Guildenstern before he reached for England. Then he would return to Denmark anon, avenge his father, apologise to Ophelia… and if Lady Fortuna blesses him again, he would wed her properly.

For one should never doubt that he, Hamlet the Dane, loved Ophelia.




Author's note:

I debated for a while whether Hamlet was truly heartless in his action of accidentally murdering Polonius. As in, whether he truly did not regret it. However, Gertrude answered that question for me. In Act 4, Scene 1, Line 27, Gertrude said, "He weeps for what is done."

Therefore, Masaki crying as he dragged Polonius' lifeless body was true to the source. Hamlet did regret killing Polonius; the script was just not enough to explore it, but the clue was there. 


“Doubt thou the stars are fire, 
Doubt that the sun doth move, 
Doubt truth to be a liar, 
But never doubt I love”

and

"Thine evermore, most dear lady,
Whilst this machine is to him"

are the Bard's quotes from Act 2, Scene 2 (Hamlet's letter read by Polonius)