Enter HAMLET.

HAMLET         Now, mother, what’s the matter?

GERTRUDE     Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

HAMLET         Mother, you have my father much offended.

GERTRUDE     Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

HAMLET         Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

GERTRUDE     Why, how now, Hamlet!

HAMLET                                             What’s the matter now?

QUEEN           Have you forgot me?

HAMLET                                             No, by the rood, not so.

You are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife,

And, would it were not so, you are my mother.      (3.4.7-15)

Ooof, this scene just goes for it, no warm-up allowed, extraordinary, and Hamlet with no chance to come down (unless there’s an interval) from his near-murder of Claudius in the previous scene. Hamlet’s insufferable even on his entrance, spoiling for a fight, now, mother, what’s the matter? punning sarcastically on mother/mater/matter; what am I meant to have done NOW? A sense of two people reverting to old, messed-up family dynamics, this is a fight they’ve had before, familiar moves, familiar bruises to press on. Gertrude has her opening line prepared and it was never going to land well: Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. She means Claudius of course, although ironically it also immediately reminds Hamlet that, for all his crowing over the play scene’s revelation and confirmation, he still hasn’t done what he promised his dead father he’d do; he’s just failed again. But this is too easy: mother, you have my father much offended. Right in there: this is your fault! you’ve let him down, let me down, what do you think you’re DOING? She’s not backing down easily: come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. Stop taking the piss. Two can play at that game, a bit of stichomythia and easy parallelism: go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. You’re the one with the problem here. (You don’t understand, you’ve never understood me; it’s so painfully adolescent, they both realise they’re doing it.)

Why, how now, Hamlet! She regroups, perhaps, tries again. What’s up? What’s going on, why are you being like this? He’s not engaging, more sarcasm: what’s the matter now? You’re always complaining about something. Have you forgot me? Don’t you care about me anymore? Who do you think you’re talking to? (It’s striking, perhaps, that it’s not, have you forgot yourself? Gertrude’s not necessarily—only—pulling rank, how dare you talk to me like that; there’s bewilderment, anxiety, fear starting to build. This isn’t just a tricky confrontation about her remarriage, there’s something else.) No, by the rood, not so—and he can falter, perhaps, or else spit it out, angry, grieving for the loss of his mother as much as his father. I haven’t forgotten you, no, not by the holy cross. And I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done, either—Hamlet hammers the insult, the sarcasm: you are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife (he can enunciate each word with biting precision, emphasising the transgression). And, would it were not so, you are my mother. I wish you weren’t my mother! I wish I’d never been born!