LAERTES                                Where is my father?

CLAUDIUS                                          Dead.

GERTRUDE     But not by him.

CLAUDIUS                              Let him demand his fill.

LAERTES        How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with.

To hell allegiance, vows to the blackest devil,

Conscience and grace to the profoundest pit.

I dare damnation. To this point I stand –

That both the worlds I give to negligence.

Let come what comes, only I’ll be revenged

Most throughly for my father.          (4.5.127-135)

Where is my father? That great cry of grief, loss, accusation, that is as ancient as drama (or time) itself, from the women of Troy to the mothers of Palestine, the women of Richard III: where are they? Only here it’s a son crying for his father, not women crying for husbands, children, and Laertes is crying not simply out of grief but for revenge. Someone will pay. Claudius is defiant, measured: dead. Unarguable, defiant. Gertrude adds a desperate qualification, not quite reading the room, this isn’t just about the facts or about the present moment: but not by him, it wasn’t his fault, not directly. Preparing to drop her own son in it, perhaps because she knows he’s safely out of the way? Claudius is in control, letting this play out, the long(er) game: let him demand his fill. It’s alright, let the man speak, ask his questions. We’re not at all threatened by that; we’ve got nothing to hide.

Laertes lets rip: how came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with. I want the truth, none of your spin, no cover-up. Don’t mess me about, don’t try to fob me off. Here he sounds not only not like Hamlet—except Hamlet in some of his solo moments, swearing revenge at shadows, excoriating himself—but like Pyrrhus; it’s a darkly grim kaleidoscope of grieving, furious sons, out to revenge their fathers’ deaths. To hell allegiance, vows to the blackest devil—I don’t care that you’re the bloody king, I don’t care about whatever oaths of loyalty I may have sworn; conscience and grace to the profoundest pit: I don’t care if this is imperilling my soul. I don’t care if revenge should be left to God alone. I dare damnation. Bring it on. To this point I stand, absolutely adamant, firm and resolved: that both the worlds I give to negligence. I don’t care what happens to my body or my soul, about the consequences either earthly or spiritual. Let come what comes, only I’ll be revenged most throughly for my father. That’s the only thing I care about.

This is everything that Hamlet could have said at least an hour ago, if not two…