By Dennis Abrams
Harold Bloom, in The Western Canon, writes that “If we could conceive of a universal canon, multicultural and multivalent, its one essential book would not be a scripture, whether Bible, Koran, or Eastern text, but rather Shakespeare, who is acted and read everywhere, in every language and circumstance. Whatever the conviction of our current New Historicists, for whom Shakespeare is only a signifier for the social energies of the English Renaissance, Shakespeare for hundreds of millions who are not white Europeans is a signifier for their own pathos, their own sense of identity with the characters that Shakespeare fleshed out by his language. For them his universality is not historical but fundamental; he puts their lives upon his sage. In his characters they behold and confront their own anguish and their own fantasies, not the manifested social energies of early mercantile London.”
Indeed, as noted Shakespeare scholar and critic Jonathan Bate pointed out in the New Delhi DNA,
“’After God,” said the 19th-century novelist Alexandre Dumas, “Shakespeare has created most.” No other body of writing in the history of world literature has been peopled with characters and situations of such variety, such breadth and depth. No other writer has exercised such a universal appeal.
My first date with my future wife was a production of Richard III in Romanian. We didn’t understand a word of the dialogue, but the atmosphere in the little theatre in Manchester was electric. I have seen a mesmerising Titus Andronicus in Japanese and another that came straight from the townships of post-apartheid South Africa. One of the most influential modern books on the plays, entitled Shakespeare Our Contemporary, was by a Polish Communist. During the Iran-Iraq war, a general spurred his tanks into battle by quoting from Henry V. Half the schoolchildren in the world are at some point exposed to Shakespeare’s work.
April 23rd – St George’s Day – is the anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth and death. This year, it marks the launch of a World Shakespeare Festival, curated by the Royal Shakespeare Company, which will be at the heart of the Cultural Olympiad to celebrate London 2012. Over the coming months, it will be possible to see all 38 of his plays, in 38 different languages, at the Globe Theatre. There is a blockbuster exhibition at the British Museum, a BBC season offering everything from Neil MacGregor’s radio history of Shakespeare’s world in 20 objects to new filmed productions by the likes of Sam Mendes, Rupert Goold and Richard Eyre… and as soon as it’s all over, we will be gearing up to start again, looking forward to the celebration of the 450th anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth in 2014 and the 400th of his death in 2016.
But what is the source of the universal appeal of this balding middle-class gentleman, born in a little Warwickshire market town in the reign of the first Queen Elizabeth? Why would the world’s newest country, South Sudan, choose to put on a production of Cymbeline? Or Sunnis and Shias opt to relocate the story of Romeo and Juliet in Baghdad? What is it about Richard III that appeals to Brazilians, or Othello to the Greeks?
When his collected plays were published a few years after his death in the weighty book known as the First Folio, his friend and rival Ben Jonson wrote a prefatory poem claiming that Shakespeare was as great a dramatist as the classicists of ancient Greece and Rome, and that one day “all scenes of Europe” would pay homage to him. This proved prophetic: Shakespeare did indeed exercise a decisive influence on the cultural and political history of Europe in the 18th and 19th centuries, shaping key aspects of the Romantic movement, the Revolutionary consciousness, the rise of nationalism and the nation state, of the novel, the idea of romantic love, the notion of the existential self, and much more. In the 20th century, thanks to translation and film, that influence spread around the world.
Jonson’s poem described Shakespeare in two contradictory ways, and in that contradiction is to be found the key to his universality. He was, says Jonson, the “Soul of the Age”, yet he was also “not of an age, but for all time”. Shakespeare recognised that human affairs always embody a combination of permanent truths and historical contingencies (in his own terms, “nature” and “custom”). He was “not of an age” because he worked with archetypal characters, core plots and perennial conflicts, dramatising the competing demands of the living and the dead, the old and the young, men and women, self and society, integrity and role-play, insiders and outsiders. He grasped the structural conflicts shared by all societies: religious against secular, country against city, birth against education, strong leadership against the people’s voice, the code of masculine honour against the energies of erotic desire.
Yet he also addressed the conflicts of his own historical moment: the transition from Catholicism to Protestantism and feudalism to modernity, the origins of global consciousness, the conflict between new ideas and old superstitions, the formation of national identity, the growth of trade and immigration, the encounter with a “brave new world” overseas, the politics of war, new attitudes to blacks and Muslims, new voices for women and children.
Shakespeare endures because with each new turn of history, a new dimension of his work opens up before us. When King George III went mad, King Lear was kept off the stage – it was just too close to the truth. During the Cold War, Lear again became Shakespeare’s hottest play, its combination of starkness and absurdity answering to the mood of the age, leading the Polish critic Jan Kott to compare it to Samuel Beckett’s Endgame and inspiring both the Russian Grigori Kozintsev and the Englishman Peter Brook to make darkly brilliant film versions.
Because Shakespeare was supremely attuned to his own historical moment, but never wholly constrained within it, his works lived on after his death through something similar to the Darwinian principle of adaptation. The key to Darwin’s theory of evolution is the survival of the fittest. Species survive according to their capacity to adapt, to evolve according to environmental circumstances. As with natural selection, the quality that makes a really successful, enduring cultural artifact is its capacity to change in response to new circumstances. Shakespeare’s plays, because they are so various and so open to interpretation, so lacking in dogma, have achieved this trick more fully than any other work of the human imagination.
Throughout his posthumous life, Shakespeare has been used to extraordinary political effect. In eastern Europe during the Soviet era, productions of the tragedies – with their tyrannical rulers, spies, informers and paranoia – became a way of criticising party and regime without incurring the wrath of the censor, as would have happened with explicitly contemporary plays. In Africa, Julius Caesar had particular impact: it offered a paradigm for rebellion against imperial rule. The first president of Tanzania, Julius Nyerere, personally translated the play into Swahili. When a group of young black politicians from South Africa, including Nelson Mandela, formed the Youth League of the African National Congress in 1944, in order to advocate a more militant African nationalism, its first manifesto ended with lines from the play: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves, that we are underlings.”
Later, when the ANC leaders were imprisoned on Robben Island, they found a common bond and source of solace in the plays. “Somehow, Shakespeare always had something to say to us,” recalled Ahmed Kathrada, one of Mandela’s fellow inmates. The prisoners smuggled in a complete Shakespeare – it will be a prize exhibit in this summer’s exhibition at the British Museum – and each of them underlined a favourite passage. Mandela chose some lines from Julius Caesar about courage in the face of death, that “necessary end” which “will come when it will come”.
Shakespeare’s life did not cease with the “necessary end” of his death 398 years ago on April 23 1616. His plays continue to live, and to give life, four centuries on, all the way across the great theatre of the world.”
But even so, despite the overwhelming evidence OF Shakespeare’s universal appeal (and I think Bloom is right on this), those initial encounters between two very different cultures and Shakespeare, and specifically our next play, Hamlet, can sometimes be…interesting.
First off, Japan meets Hamlet, from Kaori Ashizu’s “What’s Hamlet to Japan?”
1. Enter Hamlet: 1841-1900
Japanese intellectuals first encountered references to Shakespeare in the mid-nineteenth century, in books translated from Dutch and Chinese. The earliest reference is in Rokuzo Shibukawa’s translation of the Dutch version of Lindley Murray’s English Grammar,in the section on syntax (1841, 1:8). The second appearance of Shakespeare’s name was in the Japanese reprint, in 1853, of Ch’en Feng-heng’s short Chinese history of England (1853). (For further details, see Toyota, 4-5.) For a long period Japan had been thoroughly isolated from the rest of the world, carrying on a limited trade only with China and Holland. But from the 1850s an increasing number of foreigners resided in Japan and an extensive English press was established which came to employ many allusions to and quotations from Shakespeare’s work. The Japan Herald commenced publication in 1861, the Japan Times in 1865, the Japan Gazette in 1867, and the Japan Weekly Mail in 1870. Although only tangentially relevant to Japan’s “reception” of Shakespeare, the very existence of an English press on this scale points to the increasingly international perspectives the Japanese were forced to adopt after Commodore Matthew Perry demanded the opening of trade relations in 1853. It was the overthrow of the feudalistic shogunate in 1868 that allowed Japan’s “reception” of Shakespeare to begin in earnest, however. The new Meiji government (1868-1911) pursued an ambitious and vigorous policy of modernization, essentially understood as a need for “Westernization.” Yukichi Fukuzawa’s famous slogan, Datsua-Nyuo (“Escape Asia, join the West”), is often cited as summing up the reformist project. Shakespeare arrived in Japan as part of a flood of Western culture, explaining why Japanese responses to Shakespeare in general, and Hamlet in particular (the play which seemed to afford the best window into the Western mind), have, in complex ways, been bound up with larger questions of national self-identity and Japan’s relationship to the West. From the start, Japan’s attitude to the West was ambivalent: both fearful and emulative.
Under the Meiji government a huge amount of Western learning and literary culture was rapidly translated into Japanese. One of the three best-selling books in the early years was Masanao (Keiu) Nakamura’s version of Samuel Smiles’s Self-Help [Saigoku Risshiden, 1871]. Nakamura was an active enlightenment campaigner whose original writings included famous proposals for “altering the people’s minds,” and “creating good mothers,” and he translated Self-Help in this spirit. Smiles’s book represented Shakespeare as an exemplary “self-helper”: he was “a hard worker” who “sprang from a humble rank” and his “writings continue to exercise a powerful influence on the formation of English character” (Nakamura 68-9). This character sketch was much in tune with Japanese aspirations subsequent to the collapse of feudalism. Elsewhere Smiles quoted Polonius’s admonition to his son respecting borrowing and lending and, prosaically enough, in the utilitarian spirit of the time these were the first lines of Hamlet to achieve Japanese celebrity (Nakamura 366). They had something of the gnomic character of traditional Confucian wisdom and soon found a place in Taisei Meigen [Golden Sayings from the West, 1874]. The quotation “Kinsen wo karuhito to narukoto nakare, mata kinsen wo kasuhito to narukoto nakare. . . .” (Nakamura 366) [“Neither a borrower nor a lender be . . .”] (540-2) was not, however, attributed to Hamlet.
The first “translation” of a more extended passage of Hamlet into Japanese appeared in the satirical English magazine, The Japan Punch, and was a joke.
Japan Punch, (January 1874). Written and drawn by Charles Wirgman.
The translation of the first thirteen lines of the prince’s fourth soliloquy (1710-22) into romanized Japanese appeared under a cartoon of a brooding Japanese Samurai Hamlet and the title “Extract from the new Japanese Drama Hamuretu san, ‘Danumarku no Kami’” [Extract from the new Japanese drama Mr Hamlet, “the prince of Denmark”] (January 1874). Although some scholars have supposed that the cartoon referred to an actual production of Hamlet, Masao Tanaka has shown that it was designed to make fun of Hoffman Atkinson’s Exercises in the Yokohama Dialect (1873). Atkinson’s book had included “test” passages of Shakespeare rendered into Yokohama slang and was being widely ridiculed at the time the cartoon appeared. Contemporary Yokohama was in fact preoccupied with the issue of translatability between Japanese and English, and the Punch translation, which follows Atkinson’s guidelines but is in quite incomprehensible Japanese, highlights some of the problems. Significantly, perhaps, the fourth soliloquy has often seemed central to Japanese attempts to assimilate Hamlet.
As the 1870s advanced two writers attempted to adapt Hamlet for the Japanese kabuki theater. In 1875 the popular comic writer Robun Kanagaki (a pen name of Nozaki Bunzo, 1829-94) began publishing his Seiyo Kabuki Hamuretto [Western Kabuki Hamlet] serially in the Hiragana Eiri Shinbun [Hiragana Illustrated Newspaper] (7, 9, 10 September 1875). The names of the characters were given in kanji (Chinese characters) which preserved the sounds of the originals. The work did not prove popular, so the publication was abandoned after the appearance of the three installments, taking the story to the end of Act 1. Kanagaki later accepted that he had expected too much of the public, whose taste, in this period of rapid change, had not yet adapted sufficiently for them to have an interest in serious Western literature. He did not altogether abandon his project, however, and finally completed a new adaptation, which is discussed below, eleven years later. In 1878-9 the famous kabuki scriptwriter Kawatake Mokuami (Kawatake Shinshichi the Second) made a (prose) abridgement of Hamlet with a view to a stage performance, though it was never produced. It is reasonably faithful to Shakespeare’s play with some Japanization. Kawatake surmises that Mokuami’s Hamlet was not acted because of the theater’s temporary conservative turn in 1879—a reaction to its previously having succumbed to various government attempts to reform the stage (Kawatake 1972, 73-81).
In the end Hamlet became popular in Japan as literature rather than as a work for the stage. During the 1880s Japanese intellectuals and avant-garde writers responded to, assimilated, and expressed the “modernity” and poetry of Hamlet in various translations which proved significant in the formation of modern Japanese literature. The enlightenment advocate Shoichi Toyama, who taught at the University of Tokyo, played a crucial role in this process. Widely acquainted with Western thought, as well as traditional Asian learning, he became fascinated by Shakespeare’s understanding of human beings and inwardness, as expressed in Hamlet. Under the title of Reigen Oji no Adauchi [A Prince’s Preternatural Revenge], he made as many as five incomplete translations, the longest extending to Act 3, scene 2, all, probably, in 1881 (Kawatake 1972, 101-47; 1997, 396). A conflation of his various translations was published in 1909 in Chuzan Sonko [Chuzan’s Posthumous Manuscripts] (Chuzan was Toyama’s literary name). Toyama’s translation was simple, faithful to the original, and colloquial by the standards of the period. In a competitive spirit, he and Ryokichi Yatabe, his colleague at the University of Tokyo, published rival translations of the fourth soliloquy in Shintaishisho [Poetry of the New Style, 1882], a publication designed to present Western poetry as the model for a new, “modern” culture, and said to have become an essential book for every school in Japan. The Hamlet translations, which seemed to express the “depth” of Western literature, triggered a long-lasting idolatry of Hamlet / Hamlet among young men of letters. Further translations were made, and Shakespeare’s play began to inspire original work.
Indicative of the difficulty of Shakespeare’s English for Japanese readers is the fact that the various 1880s translations from Hamlet were generally far from complete. Much easier was Charles and Mary Lamb’s prose Hamlet for children, of which four translations were published (1883, 1886, 1887, 1888). According to Taro Akiba’s Nihon Shingekishi [Japanese Shingeki History], Keizo Kawashima completed a full, faithful translation of Shakespeare’s tragedy in 1883-5, but no part of it survives unfortunately (115-6). Shoyo Tsubouchi, known as the father of modern Japanese drama and literature, published fragments of a translation in 1885, but did not get beyond the first act. His translation employed a formal, old-fashioned style and language. Bimyo Yamada’s translation published in 1888 was modern and colloquial by comparison, but he too abandoned the project before completing Act 1. Ogai Mori, a pioneering figure in the Japanese Romantic movement, published a translation of Ophelia’s song “How should I your true love know . . .” (2769-82) in 1889, responding to its lyricism (“Oferia no Uta” [Ophelia’s Song]). By 1890 Hamlet had entered the main current of Japanese literature, inspiring the imaginations of writers and thinkers whose translations and adaptations reflect their own tastes, their view of literature and style of writing.
Enthusiasm continued among the young literati in the 1890s and 1900s: writers and poets like Tokoku Kitamura, Homei Iwano and Toson Shimazaki had a sympathetic attraction to the young, suffering, soliloquizing prince who seemed to embody the problems of modern anxiety and selfhood. Tokoku Kitamura was profoundly influenced by the translations of Hamlet’s soliloquy, as is shown by his verse drama Horaikyoku (1891). A more direct influence can be observed in works by the novelist Toson Shimazaki, Tokoku’s comrade, all written in 1893: “Hikyoku: Biwahoushi” [An Elegy: Biwahoushi], “Ishiyamadera e Hamuretto wo Osamuru no Ji” [An address at offering Hamlet to Ishiyama Temple], “Hikyoku: Chano kefuri” [An Elegy: Smoke from the Tea Leaves], “Shumon no Urehi” [The Sorrow of the Noble]. Homei Iwano also wrote a very free adaptation of Hamlet, Tama wa Mayou Getchu no Yaiba [The Wandering Spirit: Sword in the Moonlight, 1894]. Something of the atmosphere of the time is illustrated by the well-known suicide of a young student of philosophy, Misao Fujimura (1903): he flung himself into the Kegon Falls at Nikko, his suicide note deploring that “the truth of the universe” was simply “incomprehensible” and that “Horatio’s philosophy” did not help.
You can read the rest of the article here.
And then, there’s this classic 1966 article from Natural History Magazine by Laura Bohannan, which points out that while Shakespeare, and Hamlet in particular, may indeed be universal, its meanings to another culture can be startlingly different.
Shakespeare in the Bush
Just before I left Oxford for the Tiv in West Africa, conversation turned to the season at Stratford. “You Americans,” said a friend, “often have difficulty with Shakespeare. He was, after all, a very English poet, and one can easily misinterpret the universal by misunderstanding the particular.”
I protested that human nature is pretty much the same the whole world over; at least the general plot and motivation of the greater tragedies would always be clear—everywhere—although some details of custom might have to be explained and difficulties of translation might produce other slight changes. To end an argument we could not conclude, my friend gave me a copy of Hamlet to study in the African bush: it would, he hoped, lift my mind above its primitive surroundings, and possibly I might, by prolonged meditation, achieve the grace of correct interpretation.
It was my second field trip to that African tribe, and I thought myself ready to live in one of its remote sections—an area difficult to cross even on foot. I eventually settled on the hillock of a very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead of some hundred and forty people, all of whom were either his close relatives or their wives and children. Like the other elders of the vicinity, the old man spent most of his time performing ceremonies seldom seen these days in the more accessible parts of the tribe. I was delighted. Soon there would be three months of enforced isolation and leisure, between the harvest that takes place just before the rising of the swamps and the clearing of new farms when the water goes down. Then, I thought, they would have even more time to perform ceremonies and explain them to me.
I was quite mistaken. Most of the ceremonies demanded the presence of elders from several homesteads. As the swamps rose, the old men found it too difficult to walk from one homestead to the next, and the ceremonies gradually ceased. As the swamps rose even higher, all activities but one came to an end. The women brewed beer from maize and millet. Men, women, and children sat on their hillocks and drank it.
People began to drink at dawn. By midmorning the whole homestead was singing, dancing, and drumming. When it rained, people had to sit inside their huts: there they drank and sang or they drank and told stories. In any case, by noon or before, I either had to join the party or retire to my own hut and my books. “One does not discuss serious matters when there is beer. Come, drink with us.” Since I lacked their capacity for the thick native beer, I spent more and more time with Hamlet. Before the end of the second month, grace descended on me. I was quite sure that Hamlet had only one possible interpretation, and that one universally obvious.
Early every morning, in the hope of having some serious talk before the beer party, I used to call on the old man at his reception hut—a circle of posts supporting a thatched roof above a low mud wall to keep out wind and rain. One day I crawled through the low doorway and found most of the men of the homestead sitting huddled in their ragged cloths on stools, low plank beds, and reclining chairs, warming themselves against the chill of the rain around a smoky fire. In the center were three pots of beer. The party had started.
The old man greeted me cordially. “Sit down and drink.” I accepted a large calabash full of beer, poured some into a small drinking gourd, and tossed it down. Then I poured some more into the same gourd for the man second in seniority to my host before I handed my calabash over to a young man for further distribution. Important people shouldn’t ladle beer themselves.
“It is better like this,” the old man said, looking at me approvingly and plucking at the thatch that had caught in my hair. “You should sit and drink with us more often. Your servants tell me that when you are not with us, you sit inside your hut looking at a paper.”
The old man was acquainted with four kinds of “papers”: tax receipts, bride price receipts, court fee receipts, and letters. The messenger who brought him letters from the chief used them mainly as a badge of office, for he always knew what was in them and told the old man. Personal letters for the few who had relatives in the government or mission stations were kept until someone went to a large market where there was a letter writer and reader. Since my arrival, letters were brought to me to be read. A few men also brought me bride price receipts, privately, with requests to change the figures to a higher sum. I found moral arguments were of no avail, since in-laws are fair game, and the technical hazards of forgery difficult to explain to an illiterate people. I did not wish them to think me silly enough to look at any such papers for days on end, and I hastily explained that my “paper” was one of the “things of long ago” of my country.
“Ah,” said the old man. “Tell us.” I protested that I was not a storyteller. Storytelling is a skilled art among them; their standards are high, and the audiences critical—and vocal in their criticism. I protested in vain. This morning they wanted to hear a story while they drank. They threatened to tell me no more stories until I told them one of mine. Finally, the old man promised that no one would criticize my style, “for we know you are struggling with our language.” “But,” put in one of the elders, “you must explain what we do not understand, as we do when we tell you our stories.” Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet universally intelligible, I agreed.
The old man handed me some more beer to help me on with my storytelling. Men filled their long wooden pipes and knocked coals from the fire to place in the pipe bowls; then, puffing contentedly, they sat back to listen. I began in the proper style, “Not yesterday, not yesterday, but long ago, a thing occurred. One night three men were keeping watch outside the homestead of the great chief, when suddenly they saw the former chief approach them.”
“Why was he no longer their chief?”
“He was dead,” I explained. “That is why they were troubled and afraid when they saw him.”
“Impossible,” began one of the elders, handing his pipe on to his neighbor, who interrupted, “Of course it wasn’t the dead chief. It was an omen sent by a witch. Go on.”
Slightly shaken, I continued. “One of these three was a man who knew things”—the closest translation for scholar, but unfortunately it also meant witch. The second elder looked triumphantly at the first. “So he spoke to the dead chief saying, ‘Tell us what we must do so you may rest in your grave,’ but the dead chief did not answer. He vanished, and they could see him no more. Then the man who knew things—his name was Horatio—said this event was the affair of the dead chief’s son, Hamlet.”
There was a general shaking of heads round the circle. “Had the dead chief no living brothers? Or was this son the chief?”
“No,” I replied. “That is, he had one living brother who became the chief when the elder brother died.”
The old men muttered: such omens were matters for chiefs and elders, not for youngsters; no good could come of going behind a chief’s back; clearly Horatio was not a man who knew things.
“Yes, he was,” I insisted, shooing a chicken away from my beer. “In our country the son is next to the father. The dead chief’s younger brother had become the great chief. He had also married his elder brother’s widow only about a month after the funeral.”
“He did well,” the old man beamed and announced to the others, “I told you that if we knew more about Europeans, we would find they really were very like us. In our country also,” he added to me, “the younger brother marries the elder brother’s widow and becomes the father of his children. Now, if your uncle, who married your widowed mother, is your father’s full brother, then he will be a real father to you. Did Hamlet’s father and uncle have one mother?”
His question barely penetrated my mind; I was too upset and thrown too far off-balance by having one of the most important elements of Hamlet knocked straight out of the picture. Rather uncertainly I said that I thought they had the same mother, but I wasn’t sure—the story didn’t say. The old man told me severely that these genealogical details made all the difference and that when I got home I must ask the elders about it. He shouted out the door to one of his younger wives to bring his goatskin bag.
Determined to save what I could of the mother motif, I took a deep breath and began again. “The son Hamlet was very sad because his mother had married again so quickly. There was no need for her to do so, and it is our custom for a widow not to go to her next husband until she has mourned for two years.”
“Two years is too long,” objected the wife, who had appeared with the old man’s battered goatskin bag. “Who will hoe your farms for you while you have no husband?”
“Hamlet,” I retorted, without thinking, “was old enough to hoe his mother’s farms himself. There was no need for her to remarry.” No one looked convinced. I gave up. “His mother and the great chief told Hamlet not to be sad, for the great chief himself would be a father to Hamlet. Furthermore, Hamlet would be the next chief: therefore he must stay to learn the things of a chief. Hamlet agreed to remain, and all the rest went off to drink beer.”
While I paused, perplexed at how to render Hamlet’s disgusted soliloquy to an audience convinced that Claudius and Gertrude had behaved in the best possible manner, one of the younger men asked me who had married the other wives of the dead chief.
“He had no other wives,” I told him.
“But a chief must have many wives! How else can he brew beer and prepare food for all his guests?”
I said firmly that in our country even chiefs had only one wife, that they had servants to do their work, and that they paid them from tax money.
It was better, they returned, for a chief to have many wives and sons who would help him hoe his farms and feed his people; then everyone loved the chief who gave much and took nothing—taxes were a bad thing.
I agreed with the last comment, but for the rest fell back on their favorite way of fobbing off my questions: “That is the way it is done, so that is how we do it.”
I decided to skip the soliloquy. Even if Claudius was here thought quite right to marry his brother’s widow, there remained the poison motif, and I knew they would disapprove of fratricide. More hopefully I resumed, “That night Hamlet kept watch with the three who had seen his dead father. The dead chief again appeared, and although the others were afraid, Hamlet followed his dead father off to one side. When they were alone, Hamlet’s dead father spoke.”
“Omens can’t talk!” The old man was emphatic.
“Hamlet’s dead father wasn’t an omen. Seeing him might have been an omen, but he was not.” My audience looked as confused as I sounded. “It was Hamlet’s dead father. It was a thing we call a ‘ghost.’” I had to use the English word, for unlike many of the neighboring tribes, these people didn’t believe in the survival after death of any individuating part of the personality.
“What is a ‘ghost?’ An omen?”
“No, a ‘ghost’ is someone who is dead but who walks around and can talk, and people can hear him and see him but not touch him.”
They objected. “One can touch zombis.”
“No, no! It was not a dead body the witches had animated to sacrifice and eat. No one else made Hamlet’s dead father walk. He did it himself.”
“Dead men can’t walk,” protested my audience as one man.
I was quite willing to compromise.
“A ‘ghost’ is the dead man’s shadow.”
But again they objected. “Dead men cast no shadows.”
“They do in my country,” I snapped.
The old man quelled the babble of disbelief that arose immediately and told me with that insincere, but courteous, agreement one extends to the fancies of the young, ignorant, and superstitious, “No doubt in your country the dead can also walk without being zombis.” From the depths of his bag he produced a withered fragment of kola nut, bit off one end to show it wasn’t poisoned, and handed me the rest as a peace offering.
“Anyhow,” I resumed, “Hamlet’s dead father said that his own brother, the one who became chief, had poisoned him. He wanted Hamlet to avenge him. Hamlet believed this in his heart, for he did not like his father’s brother.” I took another swallow of beer. “In the country of the great chief, living in the same homestead, for it was a very large one, was an important elder who was often with the chief to advise and help him. His name was Polonius. Hamlet was courting his daughter, but her father and her brother . . . [I cast hastily about for some tribal analogy] warned her not to let Hamlet visit her when she was alone on her farm, for he would be a great chief and so could not marry her.”
“Why not?” asked the wife, who had settled down on the edge of the old man’s chair. He frowned at her for asking stupid questions and growled, “They lived in the same homestead.”
“That was not the reason,” I informed them. “Polonius was a stranger who lived in the homestead because he helped the chief, not because he was a relative.”
“Then why couldn’t Hamlet marry her?”
“He could have,” I explained, “but Polonius didn’t think he would. After all, Hamlet was a man of great importance who ought to marry a chief’s daughter, for in his country a man could have only one wife. Polonius was afraid that if Hamlet made love to his daughter, then no one else would give a high price for her.”
“That might be true,” remarked one of the shrewder elders, “but a chief’s son would give his mistress’s father enough presents and patronage to more than make up the difference. Polonius sounds like a fool to me.”
“Many people think he was,” I agreed. “Meanwhile Polonius sent his son Laertes off to Paris to learn the things of that country, for it was the homestead of a very great chief indeed. Because he was afraid that Laertes might waste a lot of money on beer and women and gambling, or get into trouble by fighting, he sent one of his servants to Paris secretly, to spy out what Laertes was doing. One day Hamlet came upon Polonius’s daughter Ophelia. He behaved so oddly he frightened her. Indeed”—I was fumbling for words to express the dubious quality of Hamlet’s madness—“the chief and many others had also noticed that when Hamlet talked one could understand the words but not what they meant. Many people thought that he had become mad.” My audience suddenly became much more attentive. “The great chief wanted to know what was wrong with Hamlet, so he sent for two of Hamlet’s age mates [school friends would have taken a long explanation] to talk to Hamlet and find out what troubled his heart. Hamlet, seeing that they had been bribed by the chief to betray him, told them nothing. Polonius, however, insisted that Hamlet was mad because he had been forbidden to see Ophelia, whom he loved.”
“Why,” inquired a bewildered voice, “should anyone bewitch Hamlet on that account?”
“Yes, only witchcraft can make anyone mad, unless, of course, one sees the beings that lurk in the forest.”
I stopped being a storyteller and took out my notebook and demanded to be told more about these two causes of madness. Even while they spoke and I jotted notes, I tried to calculate the effect of this new factor on the plot. Hamlet had not been exposed to the beings that lurk in the forests. Only his relatives in the male line could bewitch him. Barring relatives not mentioned by Shakespeare, it had to be Claudius who was attempting to harm him. And, of course, it was.
For the moment I staved off questions by saying that the great chief also refused to believe that Hamlet was mad for the love of Ophelia and nothing else. “He was sure that something much more important was troubling Hamlet’s heart.”
“Now Hamlet’s age mates,” I continued, “had brought with them a famous storyteller. Hamlet decided to have this man tell the chief and all his homestead a story about a man who had poisoned his brother because he desired his brother’s wife and wished to be chief himself. Hamlet was sure the great chief could not hear the story without making a sign if he was indeed guilty, and then he would discover whether his dead father had told him the truth.”
The old man interrupted, with deep cunning, “Why should a father lie to his son?” he asked.
I hedged: “Hamlet wasn’t sure that it really was his dead father.” It was impossible to say anything, in that language, about devil-inspired visions.
“You mean,” he said, “it actually was an omen, and he knew witches sometimes send false ones. Hamlet was a fool not to go to one skilled in reading omens and divining the truth in the first place. A man-who-sees-the-truth could have told him how his father died, if he really had been poisoned, and if there was witchcraft in it; then Hamlet could have called the elders to settle the matter.”
The shrewd elder ventured to disagree. “Because his father’s brother was a great chief, one-who-sees-the-truth might therefore have been afraid to tell it. I think it was for that reason that a friend of Hamlet’s father—a witch and an elder—sent an omen so his friend’s son would know. Was the omen true?”
“Yes,” I said, abandoning ghosts and the devil; a witch-sent omen it would have to be. “It was true, for when the storyteller was telling his tale before all the homestead, the great chief rose in fear. Afraid that Hamlet knew his secret he planned to have him killed.”
The stage set of the next bit presented some difficulties of translation. I began cautiously. “The great chief told Hamlet’s mother to find out from her son what he knew. But because a woman’s children are always first in her heart, he had the important elder Polonius hide behind a cloth that hung against the wall of Hamlet’s mother’s sleeping hut. Hamlet started to scold his mother for what she had done.”
There was a shocked murmur from everyone. A man should never scold his mother.
“She called out in fear, and Polonius moved behind the cloth. Shouting, ‘A rat!’ Hamlet took his machete and slashed through the cloth.” I paused for dramatic effect. “He had killed Polonius.”
The old men looked at each other in supreme disgust. “That Polonius truly was a fool and a man who knew nothing! What child would not know enough to shout, ‘It’s me!’” With a pang, I remembered that these people are ardent hunters, always armed with bow, arrow, and machete; at the first rustle in the grass an arrow is aimed and ready, and the hunter shouts “Game!” If no human voice answers immediately, the arrow speeds on its way. Like a good hunter, Hamlet had shouted, “A rat!”
I rushed in to save Polonius’s reputation. “Polonius did speak. Hamlet heard him. But he thought it was the chief and wished to kill him to avenge his father. He had meant to kill him earlier that evening….” I broke down, unable to describe to these pagans, who had no belief in individual afterlife, the difference between dying at one’s prayers and dying “unhousell’d, disappointed, unaneled.”
This time I had shocked my audience seriously. “For a man to raise his hand against his father’s brother and the one who has become his father—that is a terrible thing. The elders ought to let such a man be bewitched.”
I nibbled at my kola nut in some perplexity, then pointed out that after all the man had killed Hamlet’s father.
“No,” pronounced the old man, speaking less to me than to the young men sitting behind the elders. “If your father’s brother has killed your father, you must appeal to your father’s age mates: they may avenge him. No man may use violence against his senior relatives.” Another thought struck him. “But if his father’s brother had indeed been wicked enough to bewitch Hamlet and make him mad that would be a good story indeed, for it would be his fault that Hamlet, being mad, no longer had any sense and thus was ready to kill his father’s brother.”
There was a murmur of applause. Hamlet was again a good story to them, but it no longer seemed quite the same story to me. As I thought over the coming complications of plot and motive, I lost courage and decided to skim over dangerous ground quickly.
“The great chief,” I went on, “was not sorry that Hamlet had killed Polonius. It gave him a reason to send Hamlet away, with his two treacherous age mates, with letters to a chief of a far country, saying that Hamlet should be killed. But Hamlet changed the writing on their papers, so that the chief killed his age mates instead.” I encountered a reproachful glare from one of the men whom I had told undetectable forgery was not merely immoral but beyond human skill. I looked the other way.
“Before Hamlet could return, Laertes came back for his father’s funeral. The great chief told him Hamlet had killed Polonius. Laertes swore to kill Hamlet because of this, and because his sister Ophelia, hearing her father had been killed by the man she loved, went mad and drowned in the river.”
“Have you already forgotten what we told you?” The old man was reproachful. “One cannot take vengeance on a madman; Hamlet killed Polonius in his madness. As for the girl, she not only went mad, she was drowned. Only witches can make people drown. Water itself can’t hurt anything. It is merely something one drinks and bathes in.”
I began to get cross. “If you don’t like the story, I’ll stop.”
The old man made soothing noises and himself poured me some more beer. “You tell the story well, and we are listening. But it is clear that the elders of your country have never told you what the story really means. No, don’t interrupt! We believe you when you say your marriage customs are different, or your clothes and weapons. But people are the same everywhere; therefore, there are always witches and it is we, the elders, who know how witches work. We told you it was the great chief who wished to kill Hamlet, and now your own words have proved us right. Who were Ophelia’s male relatives?”
“There were only her father and her brother.” Hamlet was clearly out of my hands.
“There must have been many more; this also you must ask of your elders when you get back to your country. From what you tell us, since Polonius was dead, it must have been Laertes who killed Ophelia, although I do not see the reason for it.”
We had emptied one pot of beer, and the old men argued the point with slightly tipsy interest. Finally one of them demanded of me, “What did the servant of Polonius say on his return?”
With difficulty I recollected Reynaldo and his mission. “I don’t think he did return before Polonius was killed.”
“Listen,” said the elder, “and I will tell you how it was and how your story will go, then you may tell me if I am right. Polonius knew his son would get into trouble, and so he did. He had many fines to pay for fighting, and debts from gambling. But he had only two ways of getting money quickly. One was to marry off his sister at once, but it is difficult to find a man who will marry a woman desired by the son of a chief. For if the chief’s heir commits adultery with your wife, what can you do? Only a fool calls a case against a man who will someday be his judge. Therefore Laertes had to take the second way: he killed his sister by witchcraft, drowning her so he could secretly sell her body to the witches.”
I raised an objection. “They found her body and buried it. Indeed Laertes jumped into the grave to see his sister once more—so, you see, the body was truly there. Hamlet, who had just come back, jumped in after him.”
“What did I tell you?” The elder appealed to the others. “Laertes was up to no good with his sister’s body. Hamlet prevented him, because the chief’s heir, like a chief, does not wish any other man to grow rich and powerful. Laertes would be angry, because he would have killed his sister without benefit to himself. In our country he would try to kill Hamlet for that reason. Is this not what happened?”
“More or less,” I admitted. “When the great chief found Hamlet was still alive, he encouraged Laertes to try to kill Hamlet and arranged a fight with machetes between them. In the fight both the young men were wounded to death. Hamlet’s mother drank the poisoned beer that the chief meant for Hamlet in case he won the fight. When he saw his mother die of poison, Hamlet, dying, managed to kill his father’s brother with his machete.”
“You see, I was right!” exclaimed the elder.
“That was a very good story,” added the old man, “and you told it with very few mistakes.” There was just one more error, at the very end. The poison Hamlet’s mother drank was obviously meant for the survivor of the fight, whichever it was. If Laertes had won, the great chief would have poisoned him, for no one would know that he arranged Hamlet’s death. Then, too, he need not fear Laertes’ witchcraft; it takes a strong heart to kill one’s only sister by witchcraft.
“Sometime,” concluded the old man, gathering his ragged toga about him, “you must tell us some more stories of your country. We, who are elders, will instruct you in their true meaning, so that when you return to your own land your elders will see that you have not been sitting in the bush, but among those who know things and who have taught you wisdom.”
Have a very Happy New Year everyone! My next post will be on January 3rd, with some introductory material for Hamlet.