HAMLET         Up from my cabin,

My sea-gown scarfed about me, in the dark

Groped I to find out them, had my desire,

Fingered their packet, and in fine withdrew

To mine own room again, making so bold,

My fears forgetting manners, to unfold

Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio,

A royal knavery, an exact command

(Larded with many several sorts of reasons

Importing Denmark’s health, and England’s too)

With – ho! – such bugs and goblins in my life,

That on the supervise, no leisure bated

– No, not to stay the grinding of the axe! –

My head should be struck off.          (5.2.12-25)

It’s a breathless single sentence (nowhere to break, that’s the point) that manages to create atmosphere and tension and to delay its reveal through Hamlet’s characteristic parentheses (he’s got to fit in more details along the way)—and it’s absolutely textbook in its rhetorical account of circumstance, the things which make this account believable and persuasive, all the who how when where what. In a play full of letters and messengers, Hamlet’s his own reporter here. Onboard ship, in the middle of the night, and Hamlet has his own cabin, he’s still the prince, even though he’s under guard—so he gets up, creeps out; his sea-gown, the voluminous outer layer (probably canvas) he’s wearing for warmth and protection scarfed, gathered closely about him, he’s hugging himself, moving slowly, stealthily (shades of his inky cloak; of the play’s opening scenes, those cold, frightened guards), so, there I was, outside my cabin. And groped I to find them, no light, slowly, carefully, to find Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (he’s not naming them, not personalising this). I had my desire—found them!—fingered their packet, found the wallet containing their papers (and it’s vivid, a flashing picture of Hamlet, not daring to breath, slowly sliding an envelope, a folder, a bag from under an arm—or left carelessly to one side, after all, they’re not the brightest; there’s the suggestion of pickpocketing, a glimpse of that other prince, Prince Hal). Got it! So, slowly, slowly, in fine, in the end, withdrew to mine own room again—and breathe!—making so bold, my fears forgetting manners, to unfold their grand commission. I opened the packet, broke the seal (this was no time for observing proprieties), read what was within.

Breath. Where I found, Horatio (are you paying attention? of course he is, hanging on every word), a royal knavery, such skulduggery by the king (Hamlet’s disgusted, as well as enraged), an exact command (yes it would be exact, Claudius knows how to do the admin and give orders)—but also larded with many several sorts of reasons importing Denmark’s health, and England’s too, oh yes, he was covering his back, putting it all in proper diplomatic language, this is a question of national security; it was stuffed with all of that. With—ho! such bugs and goblins in my life—I am the problem, don’t you see? the cause of every bit of trouble in Denmark, it’s all my fault—that on the supervise, no leisure bated, as soon as the letter had been read, no delay at all (and there’s a picture of the English king reading the letter, glancing up at Hamlet, waiting a beat, and then giving a nod to an official)—no, not to stay the grinding of the axe! that fast, that brutal—my head should be struck off.

Hamlet conveys the fear, the danger—reading this, alone, on board ship—but it’s also a cracking story, a drama, and he’s shaped it beautifully, the building tension, the big reveal in those choppy monosyllables of the final clause. Hamlet the playwright.