husband by a handsome knave. Elnora would punish me for reading such a book! She would forbid me even to touch its binding! But night after night, Gertrude and I spent an hour or more in such devotions, reading tales of love and desire. Then the queen would return the book to its place and wish me good night. I would go to my room heavy with guilt yet consumed by curiosity.
One night when I had finished reading, Gertrude gave me some trinkets—a pearled comb for my hair and a small looking glass with a crack. I knelt and thanked her. Then, made bold by her show of kindness, I dared to ask a question.
"My lady, you are the queen. Why do you read this book in secret?"
Gertrude sighed.
"Good Ophelia," she said, "the king is a godly and proper man." She fingered a miniature painting of him she wore on a ribbon about her neck. "He would be grieved to know that I read such tales, which men say are not fit for a lady's ear."
"And because I am no lady, they will not harm me?" I said.
Gertrude laughed, a musical sound, like chimes.
"You are both wise and witty, Ophelia. Your words are saved and spent in good measure. Moreover, you are honest. I know you can be trusted not to gossip about my taste for romance."
"I, too, have developed a liking for these stories," I confessed, "for it pleases me to read of clever women who find love."
"You have the spirit of a lady, Ophelia. Though you were not born to high estate, you will rise to greatness," said Gertrude, kissing my forehead lightly.
I almost wept at her touch, which lingered like a memory. Were my mother's lips this soft?
"Why am I so favored?" I whispered.
"Because Elnora is a puritan and Cristiana is vain and foolish," she said, misunderstanding me. It was the kiss, more than the reading, that I treasured. "You, Ophelia, are sensible, but unschooled in matters of love and passion. It is necessary to learn the ways of the world and the wiles of men, so that you may resist them. So read freely, my dear."
I was surprised that Gertrude, who had not seemed to notice me at all, in truth understood me well. So at her bidding I read much, though in secret, and the stones completed my courtly education. While I learned the importance of virtue from Elnora's conduct books, Gertrude's romances held out the delights of love and the means to achieve them. I imagined and longed for the time when I would be old enough to enjoy such pleasures.
At times, however, I doubted the use of some story or another. One night I read to Gertrude about a jealous official who killed his wife with poisoned salad greens because she had taken a young lover. The tale made Gertrude merry, but I did not share her mirth.
"What, are you a puritan who will not laugh?" she chided.
"No, but it disturbs me to read that the woman's wrongdoing led her husband to kill her. She was more weak than wicked," I said.
"This is fiction, Ophelia, not a true history. Often we love to read of deeds and desires we would not dare to perform ourselves. That is the pleasure of a tale like this."
"But I cannot believe that men and women would do such wicked things in the name of love," I said.
"Oh, but they do, and they will," she replied in a knowing way, and that ended our conversation.
With my eyes opened by Gertrude's wisdom, my ears attended more closely to the gossip of Cristiana and the other ladies. I found it to be true that life at Elsinore was much like the stones Gertrude and I shared. Men and women alike sought ample delights with fewest sorrows. But while ladies desired to satisfy themselves in love, it was the lure of power that most tempted men.
My father, I realized, was among those men. It was knowledge he wanted, some secret intelligence that he could use for his gain. I began to be wary of him when he would visit me in company, wearing the mask of a loving father. For when he took me aside, his questions were pointed.
"My girl, what news from the queen's inner chamber?"
"None, my lord," I said,
One night when I had finished reading, Gertrude gave me some trinkets—a pearled comb for my hair and a small looking glass with a crack. I knelt and thanked her. Then, made bold by her show of kindness, I dared to ask a question.
"My lady, you are the queen. Why do you read this book in secret?"
Gertrude sighed.
"Good Ophelia," she said, "the king is a godly and proper man." She fingered a miniature painting of him she wore on a ribbon about her neck. "He would be grieved to know that I read such tales, which men say are not fit for a lady's ear."
"And because I am no lady, they will not harm me?" I said.
Gertrude laughed, a musical sound, like chimes.
"You are both wise and witty, Ophelia. Your words are saved and spent in good measure. Moreover, you are honest. I know you can be trusted not to gossip about my taste for romance."
"I, too, have developed a liking for these stories," I confessed, "for it pleases me to read of clever women who find love."
"You have the spirit of a lady, Ophelia. Though you were not born to high estate, you will rise to greatness," said Gertrude, kissing my forehead lightly.
I almost wept at her touch, which lingered like a memory. Were my mother's lips this soft?
"Why am I so favored?" I whispered.
"Because Elnora is a puritan and Cristiana is vain and foolish," she said, misunderstanding me. It was the kiss, more than the reading, that I treasured. "You, Ophelia, are sensible, but unschooled in matters of love and passion. It is necessary to learn the ways of the world and the wiles of men, so that you may resist them. So read freely, my dear."
I was surprised that Gertrude, who had not seemed to notice me at all, in truth understood me well. So at her bidding I read much, though in secret, and the stones completed my courtly education. While I learned the importance of virtue from Elnora's conduct books, Gertrude's romances held out the delights of love and the means to achieve them. I imagined and longed for the time when I would be old enough to enjoy such pleasures.
At times, however, I doubted the use of some story or another. One night I read to Gertrude about a jealous official who killed his wife with poisoned salad greens because she had taken a young lover. The tale made Gertrude merry, but I did not share her mirth.
"What, are you a puritan who will not laugh?" she chided.
"No, but it disturbs me to read that the woman's wrongdoing led her husband to kill her. She was more weak than wicked," I said.
"This is fiction, Ophelia, not a true history. Often we love to read of deeds and desires we would not dare to perform ourselves. That is the pleasure of a tale like this."
"But I cannot believe that men and women would do such wicked things in the name of love," I said.
"Oh, but they do, and they will," she replied in a knowing way, and that ended our conversation.
With my eyes opened by Gertrude's wisdom, my ears attended more closely to the gossip of Cristiana and the other ladies. I found it to be true that life at Elsinore was much like the stones Gertrude and I shared. Men and women alike sought ample delights with fewest sorrows. But while ladies desired to satisfy themselves in love, it was the lure of power that most tempted men.
My father, I realized, was among those men. It was knowledge he wanted, some secret intelligence that he could use for his gain. I began to be wary of him when he would visit me in company, wearing the mask of a loving father. For when he took me aside, his questions were pointed.
"My girl, what news from the queen's inner chamber?"
"None, my lord," I said,
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