Hamlet Page #4

"Hamlet" by Aleksandr Kuprin is a reimagining of Shakespeare's classic tragedy, exploring the psychological depth and moral dilemmas faced by the central character, Prince Hamlet. Set against the backdrop of a decaying royal court, Kuprin delves into themes of madness, revenge, and existential contemplation. The novel captures the complex emotions and conflicts of Hamlet as he grapples with betrayal, loyalty, and the quest for truth, offering a fresh perspective on the timeless struggle between duty and desire. Kuprin's lyrical prose and rich characterizations breathe new life into Shakespeare's iconic narrative, inviting readers to reflect on the enduring nature of human experience.

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the ground and stamp with his feet upon that delicate face, with its
large dark eyes looking up at him with love and pity. But he restrained
himself, and answered in lowered tones:

    "I humbly thank you; well, well, well."

After this scene Kostromsky was recalled, but he heard, much louder
than his own name, the shouts from the gallery, full with students, for
Yureva, who, however, refused to appear.

VI

The strolling players were playing "The Murder of Gonzago." Kostromsky
was half sitting, half lying on the floor opposite to the court, his
head on Ophelia's knees. Suddenly he turned his face upward to her,
and giving forth an overwhelming odour of spirit, whispered in drunken
tones:

"Listen, madam. What's your name? Listen!"

She bent down a little towards him, and said in an answering whisper:

"What is it?"

"What pretty feet you have!" said he. "Listen! You must be pretty ...
everywhere."

Yureva turned away her face in silence.

"I mean it, by heaven!" Kostromsky went on, nothing daunted. "No doubt
you have a lover here, haven't you?"

She made no reply.

Kostromsky wanted to insult her still more, to hurt her, and her
silence was a new irritation to him.

"You have? Oh, that's very very foolish of you. Such a face as yours is
... is your whole capital.... You will pardon my frankness, but you're
no actress. What are you doing on the stage?"

Fortunately, it was necessary for him to take part in the acting.
Yureva was left in peace, and she moved a little away from him. Her
eyes filled with tears. In Kostromsky's face she had seen a spiteful
and merciless enemy.

But Kostromsky became less powerful in each scene, and when the act was
finished there was very slight applause to gratify him. But no one else
was clapped.

VII

The fourth act commenced. As soon as Ophelia came on to the stage in
her white dress, adorned with flowers and straw, her eyes wide open and
staring, a confused murmur ran through the audience, and was followed
by an almost painful silence.

And when Ophelia sang her little songs about her dear love, in gentle,
naïve tones, there was a strange breathing among the audience as if a
deep and general sigh had burst from a thousand breasts:

    "How should I your true love know,
    From another one?
    By his cockle hat and staff,
    And his sandal shoon."

"Oh, poor Ophelia! What are you singing?" asked the queen
sympathetically.

The witless eyes of Ophelia were turned on the queen in wonder, as if
she had not noticed her before.

"What am I singing?" she asked in astonishment. "Listen to my song:

    "'He is dead and gone, lady,
      He is dead and gone;
    At his head a grass-green turf,
      At his heels a stone.'"

No one in the theatre could look on with indifference, all were in the
grip of a common feeling, all sat as if enchanted, never moving their
eyes from the stage.

But more persistently, and more eagerly than anyone else, Kostromsky
stood in the wings and watched her every movement. In his soul, his
sick and proud soul, which had never known restraint or limit to its
own desires and passions, there now blazed a terrible and intolerable
hatred. He felt that this poor and modest girl-student had definitely
snatched from his hands the evening's success. His drunkenness had,
as it were, quite gone out of his head. He did not yet know how this
envious spite which boiled in him could expend itself, but he awaited
impatiently the time when Ophelia would come off the stage.

    "I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot
    choose but weep to think they should lay him in the cold
    ground,"

he heard Ophelia say, in a voice choked with the madness of grief.

    "My brother shall know of it, and so I thank you for your
    good counsel. Come, my coach! Good-night, ladies; good-night,
    sweet ladies; good-night, good-night."

Yureva came out in the wings, agitated, breathing deeply, pale even
under her make-up. She was followed by deafening cries from the
audience. In the doorway she stumbled up against Kostromsky. He
purposely made no way for her, but she, even when her shoulder brushed
against his, did not notice him, so excited was she by her acting and
the rapturous applause of the public.

"Yureva! Yureva! Brav-o-o!"

She went back and bowed.

As she returned again to the wings she again stumbled against
Kostromsky, who would not allow her to pass. Yureva looked at him with
a terrified glance, and said timidly:

"Please allow me to pass!"

"Be more careful please, young person!" answered he, with malicious
haughtiness. "If you are applauded by a crowd of such idiots, it
doesn't mean you can push into people with impunity." And seeing her
silent and frightened, he became still more infuriated, and taking her
roughly by the arm he pushed her on one side and cried out:

"Yes, you can pass, devil take you, blockhead that you are!"

VIII

When Kostromsky had quieted down a little after this rude outburst of
temper, he at once became weaker, slacker and more drunken than before;
he even forgot that the play had not yet finished. He went into his
dressing-room, slowly undressed, and began lazily to rub the paint from
his face with vaseline.

The manager, puzzled by his long absence, ran into his room at last and
stared in amazement.

"Alexander Yevgrafitch! Please! What are you doing? It's time for you
to go on!"

"Go away, go away!" muttered Kostromsky tearfully, speaking through
his nose, and wiping his face with the towel. "I've finished everything
... go away and leave me in peace!"

"What d'you mean, go away? Have you gone out of your mind? The audience
is waiting!"

"Leave me alone!" cried Kostromsky.

The manager shrugged his shoulders and went out. In a few moments
the curtain was raised, and the public, having been informed of
Kostromsky's sudden illness, began to disperse slowly and silently as
if they were going away from a funeral.

They had indeed been present at the funeral of a great and original
talent, and Kostromsky was right when he said that he had "finished."
He had locked the door, and sat by himself in front of the mirror
in his dressing-room between two gas burners, the flames of which
flared with a slight noise. From old habit he was carefully wiping
his face, all smeared over with drunken but bitter tears. His mind
recalled, as through a mist, the long line of splendid triumphs which
had accompanied the first years of his career. Wreaths ... bouquets
... thousands of presents ... the eternal raptures of the crowd ...
the flattery of newspapers ... the envy of his companions ... the
fabulous benefits ... the adoration of the most beautiful of women....
Was it possible that all this was past? Could his talent really have
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