HAMLET                     Soft you now,

The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remembered.

OPHELIA                    Good my lord,

How does your honour for this many a day?

HAMLET         I humbly thank you, well.

OPHELIA        My lord, I have remembrances of yours

That I have longed long to redeliver.

I pray you now receive them.

HAMLET         No, not I. I never gave you aught.    (3.1.87-95)

Because of course it’s not a soliloquy at all; Ophelia’s there (sometimes Hamlet notices her, sometimes not; sometimes she’s not visible, or at least not very) and because she is now visible, it’s a reminder that there are other watchers and listeners too, Polonius and Claudius. Hamlet only just notices her, though, and hushes himself: soft you now, shut UP, loser, it’s the fair Ophelia. Horrified that she might have heard him? Horrified to see her at all? Or desperately pleased to be alone with her, as if in a scene from another life, bittersweet? He can play the next line straight, or mockingly (especially if he suspects she’s been set up with a prayerbook): nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered. Pray for me, darling! If there’s been a suggestion of an intimate relationship between them, then there can even be a hint of erotic reminiscence in all my sins; there can be the suggestion of a shared joke, too, I know you’re not at all pious, what are you playing at? And then he can work it out, Polonius’s little ploy. (This is the first time they’ve been seen to exchange words, in fact.)

Ophelia can be acutely conscious of the eavesdroppers; she’s formal, distant: good my lord, how does your honour—and then drops her guard a little—for this many a day? how have you been really, it’s been so long, I’ve been so worried? He can be taken aback at the formality, and reflect it back, or can mock it, surprised, even laughing: I humbly thank you, well, utterly correct in his courtesy, well if that’s how you want to do this, two can play that game. Or, look, it’s just the two of us here, can’t we have a proper talk, I’ve missed you so much!

But she steels herself again, pushes on with the really hard thing, the thing that goes beyond the stupid pretend reading, that perhaps even her father hasn’t asked her to do. My lord, I have remembrances of yours that I have longed long to redeliver. I pray you now receive them. I need to give you back your stuff?—and it’s not just letters, as it’s still sometimes played, it’s things, mementoes, gifts—shared books and music, photographs, jewellery, a scarf, a teddy—whatever. One can be historicist and say, ah yes, gift-exchange was a crucial part of early modern courtship, in effect forming a contract or at least an expectation—but it’s also simply human, a bit pathetic, deeply sad. Something that was happy, that maybe imagined a future, started to build a little nest, hasn’t worked out; it needs to be undone, dispersed.

But Hamlet’s not playing (and this is a moment that gets me every time). No, not I. I never gave you aught. Didn’t give you a thing. You must be thinking of someone else. It’s cruel, it’s gas-lighting, apparently disputing her experience, her memories (not just the things, the whole relationship); it’s perhaps partly directed to those cynical listeners, Claudius and Polonius (I’m not going to give you what you want)—but it’s also so sad for Hamlet, as well as so confusing and hurtful for Ophelia, the possibility that he’s (also) saying, I can’t remember being loved or loving someone else, I can’t remember being a person who was lovable or capable of love. That’s someone else’s life now.