GERTRUDE    He’s fat and scant of breath.

Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows –

The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.

HAMLET         Good madam.

CLAUDIUS      Gertrude, do not drink.

GERTRUDE    I will, my lord. I pray you pardon me.

CLAUDIUS      [aside] It is the poisoned cup! It is too late.

HAMLET         I dare not drink yet, madam. By and by.

GERTRUDE    Come, let me wipe thy face.  (5.2.269-277)

Tension tension tension: Gertrude hasn’t said anything in the scene so far, and her first intervention can get a laugh, as Hamlet’s mother fondly observes that he’s fat and scant of breath. What does fat mean here? critics ponder. Sweaty is my suggestion, both from the context and Gertrude’s next suggestion—although that hasn’t prevented less-than-lithe Hamlets casting an injured look in her direction, thanks, mum, for pointing out that I’m not exactly at my best fighting weight. Look, he’s all sweaty and puffed, she says, here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows. Wipe the sweat away at least. What does she know? What does she guess, perhaps, as she takes up a cup—the cup—and pledges Hamlet as she drinks: the Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet. Here’s to you, my son! It can be an ironic shared joke between mother and son, her crowning a bit of loving mockery with a courtly gesture—Good madam, thanks a lot, mum, he replies, perhaps with a little bow—or else she knows exactly what’s in the cup and she’s taking control of her own destiny, she’s had enough. If the latter, Claudius confirms it with his studiedly calm intervention: Gertrude, do not drink. Oh, I will, my lord. I know what I’m doing. I pray you pardon me. (Can that be directed to Hamlet, too? Sorry, I can’t do this anymore.) And DON’T tell me what to do. Screw you, and screw all of this. (This is sometimes clear in performance; does she think, even, that she’s saving Hamlet’s life by sacrificing her own?) It is the poisoned cup! It is too late (just in case anyone in the audience has missed this—but who on stage notices? Laertes, probably. Horatio, perhaps.) Hamlet doesn’t notice anything amiss yet: I dare not drink yet, madam—oh the irony—by and by. I just need to get this closed down, press home my advantage. I need all my reflexes, all my concentration. In a minute. At least come, let me wipe thy face—and if she does it for him, it’s a moment of contact, intimacy even, between mother and son. A glance, a gesture, a warning? Perhaps. Tension tension tension.