HAMLET         O wonderful son that can so ’stonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration? Impart.

ROSENCRANTZ          She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed.

HAMLET         We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?

ROSENCRANTZ          My lord, you once did love me.

HAMLET         And do still, by these pickers and stealers.

ROSENCRANTZ          Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend.

HAMLET         Sir, I lack advancement.

ROSENCRANTZ          How can that be, when you have the voice of the King himself for your succession in Denmark?

HAMLET         Ay, sir, but while the grass grows – the proverb is something musty.       (3.2.319-336)

Wow, that’s AMAZING, says Hamlet, just fancy, o wonderful son that can so ’stonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration? Impart. Do you actually have a message from my mother or are you just, you know, making conversation? Come on, out with it! She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed. It sounds verbatim: go and see your mother, in private, just the two of you, before bedtime. The closet is important: it’s not her bedchamber, and it’s her private space, like a study, an office, an oratory even; it’s not a space that she shares with Claudius. It’s where they can speak in private, without interruption: there’s absolutely the suggestion that Hamlet is being summoned for a telling-off, but the privacy matters, it’s potentially a space of revelation, reconciliation, reconnection. Hamlet’s mockingly formal: we shall obey, were she ten times our mother. But of course! Have you any further trade with us? Anything else, losers? Now that you’re reduced to carrying messages?

Rosencrantz is wounded: my lord, you once did love me. I thought we were friends! We were, we were mates from way back! And now you’re being HORRIBLE. I do still love you, by these pickers and stealers—by these hands, absolutely, we’re still friends, I swear it. (Swearing by pickers and stealers—echoing the term used for theft in the catechism, picking and stealing—is not exactly a passionate avowal of friendship.) So Rosencrantz tries one more time to discover what they’ve been meant to all along: good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? Why are you behaving like this, both generally and specifically? What’s wrong? And there’s a bit of a threat, or at least a warning? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend. You’re doing yourself no favours, bottling it all up—troubles shared, and all that—but also, if you don’t tell us what’s going on, give us something to report back to Claudius: well, then, it might not go so well for you. There might be consequences, especially after tonight’s fiasco.

Sir, I lack advancement. It’s a cliché that could well raise a bitter laugh in a fin de siècle audience of young men, anxious for war, for patronage, for career progression but no, stuck, waiting for the death of the old queen, a new regime, new opportunities. I’m stuck, says Hamlet, I’m not getting on, getting the promotion I deserve. Rosencrantz is puzzled, taking the response very literally: how can that be, when you have the voice of the King himself for your succession in Denmark?You’re his actual heir, he’s said so, in public. Ay, sir, but while the grass grows – the proverb is something musty. That’s all very well, isn’t it, but jam tomorrow isn’t jam today. I’m stuck now, and so the promise of succession is meaningless. But so what, who cares…