Enter Ophelia.

GERTRUDE     [aside] To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is,

Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss,

So full of artless jealousy is guilt

It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

OPHELIA        Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?

GERTRUDE     How now, Ophelia?    (4.5.17-22)

Gertrude’s language is a return to that of the closet scene, and demonstrates the extent to which she has absorbed Hamlet’s reproaches: to my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. I’m in such a parlous state, morally, spiritually—I’m guilty—and that’s the nature of guilt, of sin, that’s how it works—that everything fills me with dread, even the slightest, most trivial encounter seeming to anticipate something appalling. Partly Gertrude’s trying to reassure and calm herself, don’t over-think, maybe this isn’t a big deal, maybe this is just something else, an incidental upset? Because so full of artless jealousy is guilt it spills itself in fearing to be spilt. Guilt makes you paranoid, doesn’t it? you spend so much time and effort trying not to be found out, trying not to betray yourself, that it all comes tumbling out anyway. (Again the language is not just of disease but of something uncontrollable within, that could at any moment burst out—although Gertrude’s image of spilling is less grotesque than Hamlet’s evocations of abscesses and ulcers.) The little aphoristic couplet is itself an attempt to contain, to neaten with conventional, reassuring wisdom. Stay calm, breathe.

But Ophelia’s there, imperious and odd. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark? It can be a slightly off-key compliment, calling Gertrude beautiful (or she could be asking for Claudius, no, I don’t want to see you, I want the boss), but it’s also existential, ubi sunt? Where’s it gone, majesty, sovereignty, grace, legitimate rule? Swallow, smile: how now, Ophelia? Hello! How are you? What’s the matter?