7 February 1602

            A babe, whether boy or girl, is growing within me as I presently write.

            I know not why the realization that I am with child has taken me so long to accept. I have felt ill for quite some time and have not bled since September. My belly has even swollen some, although it is only noticeable when I am undressed. However, it was not until this week, when I felt something tumbling within me, when I knew I could not deny it any longer.

            I am carrying Hamlet’s child.

How sad it makes me to imagine what life could have been like had Hamlet and I conceived this child in wedlock. Instead of panicked, I would be thrilled to give life to this child. The distressed tears in my eyes presently would instead be tears of joy. I would love this child as much as I loved its father. And Hamlet would be by my side, holding my hand and kissing my cheek, instead of in England, unaware of his future fatherhood.

Oh, what will I do?

I know not what I shall do! In another life, I would surely love to have this child, but not in this life. All I know is that I most certainly cannot give birth to this child. An unmarried woman giving birth to the prince’s son or daughter? I shudder at the thought of the difficult life awaiting me.

            My mind is plagued with regretful questions. Why did I let Hamlet into my bed? How could I have been so naïve? Why did I not heed the advice my father and brother have always taught me?

            Laertes. My poor brother. He is all I have left in this world and I am going to shame him immensely. What will become of him after it is known that his bawdy sister is carrying the prince’s bastard child? As the last man in charge of me, he will most certainly suffer the most, blamed for my faults. He is only eighteen, left with so many years ahead of him. How could I live knowing I had ruined the rest of his life along with mine?

            I wish I could, but I know I cannot have this child. What would become of me? Of the child? I know I cannot be a fitting mother, especially not under the circumstances. How would I care for the child? As a woman, unfortunately, I will find it difficult to provide for us and I would not be able to marry a man who could. And Laertes, I know as much as he loves me, he would not care for us. No respectable man would. My life will be ruined and there is not much hope for the life of the child.

            Is that life worth having?

            Perhaps the question is no longer whether to have or not to have the babe. Perhaps the question is whether it is worth to live or not to live. Once the child is born, there is no return. Our lives would lack companionship, friendship, and love from neighbors, friends, and family. Lack of food and shelter are surely in our future without anyone to care for us. The heartache we will suffer, the pain of a grueling life, cannot surely be worse than the pain of death.

            Death may be painless. Perchance to die is to sleep, to dream. It is truly uncertain what lies after life has left the body. The fear of the undiscovered afterlife is enough to keep one fighting to live. But what if the suffering of life is worse than any afterlife imaginable? If one can be brave enough to face the uncertainty…

            I am left without any other resolve then. Facing a life where I will have nothing but my child, and knowing that my child will have a life barely worth living, I am left with only one solution to save my child and me from a heinous future.

            I must take my own life.

            Although the thought is frightening, it is the only solution that is comprehensible. I must plan my suicide. I believe I know when to do it. Hamlet cannot know of the child so I must be buried before his return. He is said to arrive a few days after his seventeenth birthday and his birthday is only one week from today, on Saint Valentine’s Day.

That is the day I shall take my own life.

            How ironic. On a day designed for love, I will be destroying the result of the love Hamlet and I shared, or at least what I believed to be love at the time when the child was conceived.

             Nevertheless, the day commemorating the father’s birth will also mark the death of the mother and child.

            There is not much left to plan. I own little and care not what becomes of my few belongings. Both my parents are dead and I do not have a husband or any other children to worry about. I am left with considering the only person I will leave behind.

            Laertes.

            He can never know the true reason for my suicide. I know not what he will think of it, perhaps choosing to believe that the grief from our father’s death was too much for me. I hope my death, so close to that of our father’s, will not be too much for Laertes. All I can do is make my death as easy to accept for him as I can. 

            I will have to make my death seem as passive as possible, a suicide one would expect of a woman. I do not wish to shock Laertes by having him believe I am breaking a woman’s role by taking my life into my own hands, although that is exactly what I wish to do. Until the very end of my life, I must play the dutiful role of a woman for my brother’s sake.

            Yes, I know where and how to do it then. There is a weeping willow by a brook nearby the castle. I shall fall like a tear from a branch of the tree into the stream below. Right before, I shall make and overindulge in a sleeping potion my father used to make for my brother and me when we were restless children at night. That way, it will seem as if I simply fell and let myself drown, too ladylike to fight even until the end.

              And I shall take my diary, the only evidence of the truth, with me so that it can be destroyed in the depths of the river. My writing has been a friend to me for some time, but I need it not where I am going. The secrets I have shared here must remain secrets long after I have gone. I am thankful, though, for the opportunity to be heard, even if it is by an inanimate object.

There is one last chore I must do. I must pray for repentance, although I feel as if no matter how much I ask it will not be enough. The Lord has given me a good life and I know I am the one to have destroyed it through my own sinful actions. I do not deny them. I gave my virtue to a man who did not deserve it and now I must take my life to destroy the result of that error. I pray for forgiveness for that too.

And yet, though I regret my actions, I cannot find it in me to regret the love.

For a moment, Hamlet and I were in love. Perhaps it was one sided, but at the time, all I sensed and felt was love. When Hamlet would knock softly, I would let him in as silently as possible, but our hearts would fill with such excitement to be together that we could not help but smile and giggle. The moment the door was closed, Hamlet would whisper sweet words into my ear, promises of the future, comments of my beauty, and vows of love. I remember how he would look deeply into my eyes as he brushed any loose strands of my hair behind my ear before kissing me softly. And, except for the last time, we never lay together without Hamlet ensuring me of his affection.

            Now that is the very ecstasy of love and I was lucky enough to have experienced it, if only for a while.

16 January 1602

            Hamlet has taken his plan too far! He has killed my father, run his princely sword through my father’s flesh as if he were a rat. I applaud King Claudius’ decision to send Hamlet away!

            How could Hamlet do this to me? What action could I have possibly committed to deserve the way he has treated me? I loved him with the entirety of my soul, my heart, and my body. I believed he loved me as well, and although I realize I was incorrect, that is no justification for Hamlet’s actions!

            My father is gone! The spark of life has escaped the only parent I have ever known. Laertes and I, we are orphans now, alone in this world. How I wished Laertes could have been by my side when I first heard the news, just as he had always been there for me when we were children. However, my brother did not return until a few days after my father’s death, so I originally grieved alone, both angry and despondent, primarily at Hamlet.

            I yearn to despise Hamlet, to be rid of the emotions for him that remains engraved deep within me, but I cannot. After all the pain he has caused me to feel, I cannot cease to love him any more than I can cease to be a woman.

            Oh, how cruel is fate! Being a woman is the reason for all of my misfortune. My father and brother, as much as I love them, have repressed me because of my gender. Obedience to them kept me in the place expected of me as a woman, as an object meant to be silent and admired. Hamlet has rejected me, even taking my virtue and spoiling me for any other man in the process, and has every right to because of HIS gender.

I have decided that I will not concede any longer! I have had to remain silent for far too long as a result of my gender. If Hamlet can feign madness for his own purpose, so can I. I have a voice and I demand to be heard!

Throughout the castle, I have wandered around aimlessly, singing songs with more meaning than many will ever know. Most of what I speak makes only half sense as part of my charade and it is working. Eventually, I was amazed at the realization that people actually FEARED me for the way I have been acting. The other day, even Queen Gertrude did not wish to speak to me because of my madness!

It gave me an immense sense of power, not just the fact that the queen feared me, but that I had the freedom to say whatever I pleased without any repercussions for it. I mourned aloud for all to hear, singing of my father’s death, which I am sure even those of the dullest wit could interpret.

I also sang of the events that transpired between Hamlet and me, telling all who listened of truth I was tired of keeping secret. I sang of how we made love and how Hamlet took my maidenhood:

“Then up he rose and donned his clothes

And dupped the chamber door;

Let in the maid that out a maid

Never departed more.”

            I sang of how Hamlet deceived me, vowing to love and marry me, when all he wanted was to take part in my bed:

“Quote she, ‘Before you tumbled me,

You promised me to wed.’

He answers – So would I ha’done, by yonder sun,

And thou hadst not come to my bed.”

            Most exhilarating of all, though, was when I was able to confront the King and Queen with my opinion of the events that occurred, but no one noticed. I gave Queen Gertrude fennel and columbines, which are flowers symbolic of faithfulness, referring to her hasty second marriage. It was my way of rebuking her for being disloyal to her first husband. Next, I gave King Claudius rue, symbolic of repentance. My gift accused him of his murderous sin and instructed him to repent.

            Of course, to everyone else, my floral gifts meant nonsense. As I left that day, I noticed everyone’s eyes were full of both pity and fear, watching me as if they both wanted to help me with and feared the actions of my madness. I have never felt so free from my cage, so free to chirp my song, so free to feel the power of the wind beneath my wings.

            It was utterly and undeniably intoxicating.

            By feigning madness, I have been able to lift the restraints of my gender. For the most part, that is. There is still one aspect of my gender that worries me, one that I have a lack of control over.

            There is the possibility that I may be with child, Hamlet’s child, another prince or a princess for Denmark.

            No amount of madness could change the outcome if I am with child. The child would be evidence of my loss of virtue, a symbol of my own sin. As unfair as it is, Hamlet’s life would not be ruined because he is a man, but as a woman, my life would be. I cannot even imagine Laertes’ reaction! At least my father would not be alive to witness his daughter’s downfall. I can begrudgingly thank Hamlet for that.  

            All I can do is wait, mourn my father’s death, and pray that God will have mercy on me, despite my sins, and that my bleeding will commence momentarily.

            If my prayers remain unanswered, I know not what I shall do.

6 January 1602

            I believe I have done it! I have discovered the reason for Hamlet’s feigned madness and the plan he has been working on so diligently lately.

            Earlier this evening, Hamlet had a group of actors put on a play here at Elsinore. People were quite enthused, excited at the notion of some entertainment to take their minds off King Hamlet’s death and Queen Gertrude’s marriage.

            The irony was surely part of Hamlet’s plan!

            Parts of the play were similar to that of Elsinore’s tragic events, a king’s death and a queen’s second marriage. The only difference was that the king was murdered and the queen married the murderer.

            At first, I was just as puzzled as the rest of the audience. What was the point of putting on a production such as this? Would it not serve only to disturb instead of console everyone? I attempted to ask Hamlet, who sat by me despite having broken my heart and against my inner wishes. He replied, “It means mischief,” and would not relay any more helpful information. I watched the rest of the play in complete contemplation.

            That was when I became aware of King Claudius. He made it clear that he was uncomfortable by rising while the play was still in production and commanding that the lights come on and the actors be sent away.

            I worried about King Claudius’ reaction. Surely it could not have been Hamlet’s intentions to upset him with the play, could it have been? Moreover, why would King Claudius react in such a manner? It could not be simply because it alluded to his brother’s death. We all mourn for King Hamlet, but no one else rose and instructed for the end of the play.

            Then it occurred to me that perhaps the play was more similar to the true events of Elsinore than I had originally believed.

            What if King Hamlet had been murdered instead of dying from a serpent’s bite, as it has been commonly believed? In addition, what if it had been King Claudius who murdered his brother? Envy of the throne would definitely be an appropriate motive for such an action. Furthermore, the action would also explain why King Claudius married Queen Gertrude so hastily! It would take attention away from his murderous actions, creating another source for gossip.

It has all been made perfectly clear to me!

            As soon as I came to this conclusion, I recalled what Hamlet said to me when he broke my heart. “Those that are married already, all but one shall live.” It had sounded like a threat to a married couple, but perhaps it was only a threat to one part of the married couple.

            Hamlet must be planning to avenge his father! The madness, as well, must be a cover for Hamlet to put his plan into action. Just like Queen Gertrude’s second marriage, it distracts people from the truth.

            Elsinore is a much darker place than I have ever realized. In every corrupted corner, one can find deception, dishonesty, and disdain. It is like a two-faced bride. During the day, she is beautiful, grand, and takes one’s breath away. At night, the veil is lifted, revealing the perverse nature that is hidden within her.

            I know not what to do with the immoral information I have deciphered. There is nothing for me to do! It is not my place to stop Hamlet’s plan as a lady and especially not now that I am no longer Hamlet’s lady. Moreover, should I even want to stop his plan? If my deduction is indeed correct, does not King Hamlet deserve to be revenged and does not King Claudius deserve to be punished?

             Oh, I am not feeling well once again. I cannot continue this deliberation.

I am fatigued and there is a pain in my head. Nausea has also plagued me for the past month or so. Perhaps I have become ill. Although, illness would not explain for the tenderness in my breasts I have noticed lately. Normally, I would align these symptoms with my monthly bleeding, but it has not occurred for the past two months.

            Has it really been two months? Then, that could mean…

            Can it be? Truly? Am I with child? Is Hamlet’s child growing within me as I write at this very moment?

            Nay, it cannot be! I know not of motherhood for I have grown without a mother. I cannot be a mother! It would be the one sign of my lack of virtue. I cannot even imagine the reactions of my father and brother. And Hamlet? He could not be a father, especially not at his present state. There MUST be another explanation for the symptoms that have afflicted me.

            I am ill. That is all. Perchance some rest shall do me good. Yes, that is it.