LAERTES Let this be so.
His means of death, his obscure funeral –
No trophy, sword nor hatchment o’er his bones,
No noble rite, nor formal ostentation –
Cry to be heard as ’twere from heaven to earth
That I must call’t in question.
CLAUDIUS So you shall,
And where th’offence is let the great axe fall.
I pray you go with me. (Exeunt.) (4.5.204-211)
Let this be so, responds Laertes, and he might, finally, lower his weapon. But he’s lost, even as he may still think that he’s got some agency; whatever happens next will be on Claudius’s terms. He rehearses his suspicions about Polonius’s death, but it’s details, not anything concrete or especially incriminating; I just think there’s been a cover-up, he says: his means of death, his obscure funeral, it was all a bit dodgy, not properly done, unclear? Then he changes focus, slightly, to a sense of grievance, insult: no trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, no noble rite, nor formal ostentation: it wasn’t a proper funeral! there was no procession, the heralds weren’t involved, you didn’t give him his due! It sort of makes sense in an early modern context, because those things would be expectable for an aristocratic funeral—but they’re also chivalric, the sword and armour hung above the grave, after being processed in front of the coffin, a coat of arms hung up—and Polonius hasn’t been that kind of guy. It doesn’t just jar in a modern dress production, it would seem at odds with this fussy statesman anyway. (High-ranking courtiers in fact sometimes specified in their wills that they did not want to have ‘proper’ heraldic funerals, because the cost was so immense.) All these things, he concludes, cry to be heard as ’twere from heaven to earth that I must call’t in question. I’ve got to do something!
But that Laertes is now quibbling about the details of his father’s funeral and positing a conspiracy, rather than pointing the finger, or a weapon, is a win for Claudius; a terrible mess, dear boy, but not a conspiracy, not a cover-up. Oh, so you shall—we’ll have a proper enquiry!—and where th’offence is let the great axe fall. If anyone is found responsible, there will be consequences, I can promise you that. (Implicitly, although of course Laertes has no idea about this—it’s Hamlet’s fault, and I will make him pay.) I pray you go with me. Claudius, back in control—and Laertes, poor bereft Laertes, is reduced to niggling about the proprieties of Polonius’s funeral, rather than the circumstances of his death, and not at all the parlous state of his sister. The end of a tumultuous scene.
