The Diary of Ophelia

Purple and red flowers dotted the path through the forest
to the old woman's house.
I had been forewarned by my father, not my real father,
for I was borne of a wealthy family-not to traverse here-for weird things creep
and crawl in the forest and seek to steal little children like me.
But I did not listen to these headings-for children have a
mind of their own. It is when they become women that they must give them
up and relinquish everything to another, more powerful beast called man.
In that forest glad, I, Ophelia, met the old woman by the
stream, singing. I was six years old then, still a child.
I am now fourteen.
And that woman, that strange woman, for she had no
real name-taught me of life, and of the flowers and the trees.
I shall remember.
The pathway was well lit. The grove hid most of the
trappings she had laid for the unwary. The belladonna had signaled me here.
(What strange growth is this in the forest?) I followed the trail. The green called me.
The forest floor was bedecked with hempsbane and herbs and mandrake
and nightshade.That is where I found her, amongst the herbs, singing
peacefully to herself. I shall call her Wise woman-for she has no name known
to mortal man. We talked, and she became my friend.
She taught me about the flowers and the trees and how they were all living beings. I learned how to heal with flowers, as well as how to kill. I learned how to treat the diseases of the mind or body with these plants.
She also taught me how to sing.
She taught me how to sing the songs of the sun and the
moon. She taught me the songs of the dawn and the dusk. Simple songs.
Elaborate songs. Peasant songs. Bawdy songs and glorious songs. I knew them
all. And I could sing them very well.
In my traversing through this forest of which I have such
fond memories, I come across these past thoughts with a faint sadness.
For tomorrow, I must be off to court, to return to my father. He is calling me to my
destiny. Though I know not what that may be.
Forgive me, reader, you know not of my upbringing. As I have said, I am the
child of a noble.
I was born a motherless child.
I was torn from the black womb of a dying woman.
Stared at and hated by the prodigy of years before-by my brother Laertes. He shall
never understand me. He never did. After my birth, my father-Polonius-for lack of
patience or sense-sent me to his brother's house in the country to be raised. He
said that I would fare better there than at court. So off I went, to the country.
And now, I am old enough-alas! I am fourteen! I am old enough to go to court
and be presented properly. So, with this news, I travel to say goodbye to my
friend, the old woman.
I felt that she knew-in sensing the atmosphere around her house I could see
the tension in the air-the tingling, rippling of energy.
She knew that I was leaving, and she was sad.
She cried when I told her that I was going to court.
She said that court would be bad for me. She said that my real father would
show mild contempt for me-this ripe new burden-and seek to sell me off through
marriage.
She pulled a coal out of the fire with long tongs and watched it glow and then
die out at her feet. She then frowned.
And I saw a tear form at the corner of her eye.
But she would not tell me why.
"The flowers shall be your only friends. The flowers and the madman"
She then told me to remember my teachings-and to tell no one of what I had
learned. She said that I would perhaps need them later on. She told me that she
would be with me always-somehow.
We hugged, and then parted ways forever.
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At Court. Day 10. Ophelia's diary
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Daddy wants me to marry. Hamlet, my love, where are
you? Laertes is leaving me. He speaks nothing of you, saying that your love is
trifling and as wispy as the wind. Yet I know that you will hold steadfast. That you
are true. That one day,we shall be wed.
Laertes spoke of a waning love-that grows wide with all but
that will wax and draw away-like a moon doth a tide at dawn.
Men, then, are subject to the will of their flesh. Are they not? Do I not pain
for his pain? Yes-but I shall not falter. Laertes, my brother-a treasure stored is a
treasure well kept. Daddy wants me to marry. He has often thought that I
breached my virtues with this Hamlet. He asked me to tell him what we were
doing-what was going on.
I replied of the like as to what fathers would want to hear. Such precocious
vanities my father did lap up as milk with a hungry tiger.
Yet, it puzzles me about this Hamlet. What is his true intent?
Yet Daddy wants me to marry.
Hamlet, my love, where are you?
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Wise woman commentary
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From the wilderness-nature looks down upon all that
has unfolded. Crystal pools are her eyes. She has known what to behold, and
casts a saddening, teary eye downward at what Ophelia is starting to become.
I have no need to see further into what has erupted on
this day. Ay!-sweet flower of nature-my cultivated young mind, has lost all
that she has esteemed most gracious.
The liberty of mind, Ah! Her mind's freedom has been
bound like her chastity,
and now must be sold to the highest bidder (or should I
say, 'bitter'?) She has turned into a mindless drone, that child. Alas,
maiden, do not rely on other's judgment as you have done all your life! Rely on your
own! Chastity-that gift with which you were imbued by nature-is not above the
truth!
But she cannot hear. She has silenced my words before
they have even reached her ears.
Alas, fair maiden, you have no chance is this world. The dominance of the
male world has planted its seed-which is festering to growth even now. When a
young sapling is pulled away from the hard, fertile earth and put elsewhere, who
should expect it to grow when it cannot take root but in loose soil? Her eyes are
blinded. Her ears are closed.
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At Court. Day-. Ophelia's dairy
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He does taunt me with his words! And attempt to seduce
me with his giles!
Nay, you shall not lie in my lap, dear Hamlet. Nor shall
your head dally
what is it you say thus? With others you have
been? Oh untruth. Be it not so. 'Tis brief, you say, like a woman's love, milord? But
not so brief a thing as Constance. And if I have failed you and your love be
true-then you love me not-Laertes rue. But then if not, and 'tis a proverbial
joust you which then,dally-with head in hands and not in lap-for well, you
shall. I'll merry that.
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At Court. Day-Ophelia's diary
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Polonius, Dead? All the hopes that were in this pale,
weak breast have gone.
Weakened am I, without a hand to lay at my forehead in comfort. Without a reprimanding word or deed.
Save, just Hamlet. My love, where are you?
They bespeak of injustice done to me-that I have wronged you with my
looks and my fairness.
My strong will has deserted me. Where is the Ophelia that was once strong?
When love set my heart to beat as free as the wind, and freedom burned with me?
No. I live in a world where women are but lapdogs to men. They seek to pet and
pamper us and show us for sport-but then to ignore.
Women have no mind, save but their husband, and that is all.
For sale are all the envies of my youth-my chastity bears
the price of a gold band.
Never.
But as love command, and as need be, I shall. For I love Hamlet, though he
has greatly wronged me.
I have nothing else, but this. So this I must pursue, since
I have lost myself.
Perhaps I can find a new visage within Hamlet's eyes?
He can judge me well.
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Wise woman commentary
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Judgment has died by loves' hand! And what is to
become of Ophelia but madness? For love without judgment leads only to
chaos. The only voice that she had is now extinguished. She walks naked in a hungry den of tigers. She is swimming in a sea of fools.
Now, alas, she must become one.
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At court. Day-, Ophelia's diary
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Get thee- get thee;how I wish I could get thee. To have thee all to myself.
What wonderful mind there lies in the mad! Truth. Truth is faulty in that it is
veiled.
"What vaileth trouth? Or by it to take payn?
To strive by steadfastnes for to be tayne?
To be juste and true, and flee from dowblenes?
Synthens all alike, where rueleth craftiness,
Reward is boeth fals and plain.
Sonest he spedeth that moost can fain,
True meanyng hert is had in disdayn.
Against deceipte and downblenes,
What vaileth trouth?"
SIR THOMAS WYATT

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Wise woman commentary
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Get thee to a nunnery, dear Hamlet? You mock her
chastity to hypocrisy!
Under such a guise, women are hateful creatures, black
veiled, with no moral
sense-save but dragging their crosses of guilt on their
backs like their god, and
chains be their crosses that they wear so dutifully around
a pale and tender neck.
Rather, give them a noose to protect their fair chastity-
for the nunnery cannot
keep them virtuous!
Shame, poor Ophelia! You are lost, fair child! Lost to the
haplessness of man! I
pray that nature can give you care. For I can no longer.

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At court. Day-, Ophelia's diary
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My anguish cannot be quenched, nor drowned. Although
in the wind the leaves blow and sing to me their solemn song. The
flowers speak to me with their petals open and fairies dance jigs in the forest stream.
I do hear them call me.
The beg me not to leave them. But perhaps I shall look
for them again later. I shall return to them, for I have been
away too long. I shall go to the river, and hope that the water of the Lethe shall calm my restless spirit. I shall talk to the trees of my sorrow-and they shall rain down their flowers upon me-to try to boost my spirits.
Nay, it has failed.
And I feel as if I have failed.
I am going mad.
This pining away for love-this absence of all reason-this hatred for the man
that I know and cared for ; this is eating away at the very fibers of my soul. I have
given away my chastity to him, and he has taken it, and given me sorrow.
I am coming apart.
I tried to tell the queen of my sorrow through the purest was my mind knew
fit-through song-but she would not listen. She did not understand.
Only the flowers understand me.
I shall prepare a poultice for my madness.
Perhaps that shall cure me. The wise woman told me of a tree that bears a poisoned fruit, but the flower, it harbors remedy. The remedy for
madness.
Perhaps I shall share this with my love.
They say he is mad-or is he simply too sane?
The tree lies on the edge of the stream. The flower hangs perilously over the
lethey water. The tree is calling me.
And I shall go to it.