1 PLAYER       Anon he finds him,

Striking too short at Greeks. His antique sword,

Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,

Repugnant to command. Unequal matched,

Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide,

But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword

Th’unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium

Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top

Stoops to his base and with a hideous crash

Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear.  (2.2.406-415)

The pro takes over: anon he—Pyrrhus—finds him—Priam—striking too short at Greeks. A fleeting glimpse, as if through Pyrrhus’s eyes, of a little old man fighting valiantly against tall, faceless warriors, unable to get at them, unable to land a blow, flailing, at the limit of his strength or beyond—and in any case, his antique sword, old as he is, older, rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls—he’s dropped his sword, he can’t get to it; anyway, it’s now repugnant to command. It won’t do what Priam wants it to do; neither will his arm. He’s out of strength, out of options, out of time. It’s a scene of bathos as much as pathos. Unequal matched—it’s no contest (and the focus switches to Pyrrhus, but it’s unequal for both of them of course) Pyrrhus at Priam drives, this targeted wedge of fierce, unstoppable strength—but he’s so full of rage (not so much anger, perhaps, as adrenaline, passion, big feelings) that he strikes wide, he somehow doesn’t land the fatal blow. He doesn’t need to: with the whiff and wind of his fell sword th’unnerved father falls. The movement of the blade through the air is enough; the merest breath is sufficient to strike Priam down, he’s so exhausted and weak, like a puppet with its strings cut. Father here is crucial: he’s a king, a grandsire, and father is an honorific for an old, old man—but he’s every father in this moment, and Hamlet’s in particular, helpless and in extremis, no one coming to his aid. Then senseless Ilium, seeming to feel this blow—the citadel itself, its famous towers, as if struck too—with flaming top stoops to his base. The city falls, literally as well as metaphorically, falls in flames, cut down like its king, laid low like a great body bowed down in defeat. And with a hideous crash it takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear: the noise of stone and wood falling in flames to the ground, a great groaning, cracking screaming—in a scene that has been (in retrospect) completely silent in the telling distracts Pyrrhus, it captivates him. He pauses, arrested.