SCENE FOURTH

A SECRET INTERVIEW

The fourth scene, save a few introductory remarks of Polonius, is wholly concerned with Hamlet and his mother. Full of surprises, of striking situations, of high moral senti ment, and of beautiful poetic diction, it is admired as one of the Poet's masterpieces. The Queen has summoned her son in accordance with the command of Claudius, who, highly incensed at Hamlet's offensive conduct at the Play, insists that she rebuke him, and stay further outbursts of his wilfulness. As her well-known motherly love for Hamlet might cause her to give an incomplete and prejudiced account of the interview, Polonius with the King's connivance resorts to his usual diplomacy of espionage. His real purpose, though not expressed, appears to be the restoration of his injured reputation; for, still clinging to his fond theory of Hamlet's madness, he hopes in the secret interview to obtain proofs which will at length force Claudius to admit the cor rectness of his judgment. He lays special stress on the King's injunction that Gertrude berate her son severely. If Claudius had tolerated his pranks in the past, it was because she had screened him; but now, in high offense, he is ill-dis posed to bear them longer. The Queen promises Polonius to chide her son severely, and, as she hears him calling from without "Mother, Mother!" she instantly commands the old minister to withdraw.

That Hamlet's conduct in the present scene appears to certain minds, undutiful, harsh, and even bordering on savagery, is due, no doubt, to their forgetfulness of his cir

cumstances and of the new relations which have sprung up between himself and his mother. If, however, we recall his filial love, which, intensified supremely by the lofty idealization of his mother's character, had been lacerated by her shameful conduct; if we consider his own nature, so highly sensitive to moral good and evil that, enamored of the one and abhorrent of the other, he feels a revulsion of soul at the disgraceful state of one so near and dear to him; if we reflect upon his own understanding of his duty of "revenge," a duty, which comprises not only the punishment of the usurper, by depriving him of life, crown, and Queen, but, moreover, the awakening of his mother's soul to a sense of her shameful guilt, in order to restore her to her former virtuous self: it seems evident that his conduct, far from being undutiful and harsh, is, on the contrary, clearly prompted by his strong filial love for an idol, which, though basely shattered, he is anxious to upgather, and, by induing it anew with his own esteem of virtue and of honor, to restore it to its lost dignity and splendor. Hence, his supreme filial love and sense of duty makes him the physician of her soul,-makes him apply the one sole remedy which, however painful, can alone revive her from a moribund state, and save her from a disgraceful moral death.

The scene is not only essential to the play, but, moreover, indispensable to Hamlet. As he had, by means of the interlude, disclosed to Claudius his twofold secret, the one of his feigned madness, the other of his knowledge of the murder, he perceives that his former method now worthless, must be superseded by some new device. But first of all, after his unmasking of the King, he must discover the extent of his mother's innocence or guilt, and expose to her his own position towards herself and the criminal.

A RASH INTRUDER

Polonius had scarcely time to conceal himself, before Hamlet enters upon the scene in an intense excitement, which is reflected in his burning looks and passionate words and action. Gertrude had nerved herself to rebuke her wayward son in terms most vigorous, but in surprise she is on the instant placed upon the defensive; for her son boldly and terribly direct, proceeds at once to the moral onslaught. His mother, he charges, has grievously sinned against his father, and now speaks with "a wicked tongue." In painful surprise at his accusing words, and in fear of his threatening anger, she, supposing him demented, imagines that he does not recognize her. Quick is his scathing reply, in which he swears by the holy rood, or crucifix that he knows her too well, the wife of his father's brother, and, in tones full of loathing and disgust, he affirms, "would it were not so!" But his next words, "you are my mother," are uttered in slow emphasis full of burning scorn, and all alive with feelings of regret, disdain, and overpowering shame. They fall like dagger's strokes, and, under their rankling wounds, she is roused to anger, and rises to depart. Stayed in her attempt, however, and forced back, she cowers beneath his wrathful mien, and hears in fear his fierce command, not to budge till he shall have unveiled to her gaze as in a mirror, the blackness of her heart and the hideousness of her sinstricken soul.

To appreciate Hamlet's position, it is necessary to recall the fact that the scene occurs within the hour after the interlude at which Claudius had betrayed his guilt; that, already on his way for the interview with his mother, he had paused, and excited in a brief monologue his fierce feelings of revenge; that the thought of her connivance at the crime had so roused his irascible nature to sentiments of rage and fury

as actually to inflame him with the cruel, murderous, spirit of a Nero; and that this spirit became still more violent and riotous for blood, when by chance he beheld the criminal

at prayer.

While in this state of mind he meets his mother a few moments later. Though restraining with difficulty his feelings of resentment, and firmly resolving to be cruel, but not unnatural, to speak daggers, but to use none, his anger is further heightened, when his mother, in irritation at his words, would break off the private interview, and so frustrate his purpose of sifting her guilty soul. His fire-flashing eye, his livid face, and commanding words alive with rage, cause her to quail before his fury. Seized with terror and fearing bodily harm and even murder, she cries aloud for aid.

Unfortunately, Polonius takes up the cry, and surprises Hamlet by the amazing fact that he is spied upon again. How can he imagine that the old chancellor lies concealed at that time of night behind the tapestry of the Queen's private apartment? That moving form can be none other than the King's. There within his reach, again detected in an act of treachery, is the horrid criminal and usurper, the foul murderer of his father, and the seducer of his mother. His hated presence together with these thoughts, suddenly conjure up all his sense of wrongs and shame, rack his frame to its inmost depths, and so fire his wrath to uncontrolled rage and consuming fury, that swept away beyond himself, forgetful of his better judgment, unmindful of his conscientious duty of a moral revenge, he instantaneously as a flash draws the deadly weapon, and gives the fatal stroke.

Hamlet turns to his victim behind the arras, and lifting the tapestry, discovers in surprise and amazement the corpse of Polonius. All intent upon the urgent business with his mother, he is too engrossed at the present moment to pro

nounce but a brief epitaph upon the "wretched, rash, intrud ing fool," whose shallow diplomacy says Horn, brought him to a sorry end:

"The death of Polonius forms a tragic epigram, the deepest, perhaps, which a poet ever conceived. One would willingly wish the half-honest, half-wise, witty fool of a man to live in his happy and ornamental fashion, but he is suddenly hurried off, so entirely without preparation, as it were in the intoxication of his clumsy intrigue, caught in the pitiful attitude of an eavesdropper, which he had just volunteered to take, in order to win a word of praise from a king rich only in phrases."

THUNDERS IN THE INDEX

After that deadly stroke, Hamlet turns his scornful glance upon the silent partner in this latest espying treachery. Now sure that he is free from listeners, he seizes instantly the opportunity to force his mother to confess by word or action, whether she in any way conspired to the murder of his father. Trembling in rage, with naked, bloody sword in hand, he stands before her, peering into her eyes, and ready to scan every passing look and move as he utters in changed tones the appalling charge: "Kill a king, and marry with his brother." Had she quaked or quailed at those terrible words so unexpectedly hurled against her, and so awful in their revelation; had she winced, and shrunk back unnerved and cowering beneath his questioning and torturing gaze; had she at that crushing charge, by telltale eye, affrighted countenance, and disconcerted action, in any manner betrayed her guilt like Claudius, we dread to surmise the horrible result. Unflinching, she stood that infallible test: only surprise and innocence seemed written on her face.

Critics are much divided between Gertrude's guilt and innocence. Hamlet, assured by the ghost of her infidelity to his father, seems, moreover, to doubt all along whether she was