Enter OPHELIA.
POLONIUS How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter?
OPHELIA O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted.
POLONIUS With what, i’th’ name of God?
OPHELIA My lord, as I was sewing in my closet
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced,
No hat upon his head, his stockings fouled,
Ungartered and down-gyved to his ankle,
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors, he comes before me. (2.1.71-81)
Does Ophelia arrive as Reynaldo’s exiting? Does he give her a puzzled glance, if she’s visibly distressed? Much can be done, in terms of setting the parameters of her relationship with Polonius, if she gives him a formal curtsey before speaking—although of course Polonius can be immediately worried, go to console her. How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter, what’s going on? O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted. I’ve just had such a scare, I’m petrified! With what, i’ th’ name of God? Will he find her a chair, kneel down beside her, console her? Or is this just another bit of business for a busy man to deal with? My lord, as I was sewing in my closet—just minding my own business, in my own room (a closet was a room where there was some expectation of privacy; it could be used in various ways, especially by women—usually not a bedroom)—I was being GOOD. (Sewing is a standard way of establishing female virtue, on stage especially; it was usually a communal activity and there’s actually no confirmation that Ophelia was by herself here—although there are of course no other named women in the cast who could be with her, and the assumption that she was alone makes it more threatening and frightening.)
But, there I was, just now, sewing, and Hamlet came in! And he was looking—terrible! Mad! His doublet all unbraced, undone, dishevelled, no hat upon his head (normally worn indoors), his stockings fouled, ungartered and down-gyved to his ankle—he was practically undressed, his stockings were dirty, coming down, hanging around his ankles like fetters… He was pale as his shirt—and that she mentions his shirt, that it was amply on display, as well as his stockings (and implicitly his bare legs)—this makes it almost as if Hamlet has appeared in her room half naked—this is properly shocking, as well as unseemly and unsettling. His knees were knocking each other; he was shaking. And with a look so piteous in purport as if he had been loosed out of hell to speak of horrors, he comes before me. Ophelia’s shifted into the present tense, as if she’s seeing it all again at the same time as she’s recreating it for Polonius and for the audience. Hamlet looked ghastly, he looked like HELL, demonic, tormented, in agony. And there he was, standing in front of me—like a Ghost, sent from hell, with terrible, terrible news.