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.  

20 December 1601

            Oh, woe is me! Hamlet has returned the heart I had so willingly given him. Returned? Nay! It is more appropriate to say he has used his sword to carve out the portions of my heart that most faithfully belonged to him before tossing them to the ground for me to gather.

            Today, Hamlet spoke four words I never fathomed I would ever hear from his lips, those lips I have kissed more times than I can number.

            “I loved you not.” My heart stings with a surprising strength at the mere memory of the words…

            Well, I suppose I should first explain the circumstance before I continue further.

            King Claudius and my father sent me to Hamlet to find whether or not love for me was the true source of the prince’s madness while they observed secretly. I strongly disapproved of deceiving Hamlet in such a manner, but there were two reasons why I conceded. Primarily, I knew I must obey both my father and the king. The true reason, though, was out of my own curiosity.

            Ever since Hamlet came into my chamber room so wildly earlier this week, I have been unable to keep my thoughts elsewhere. I have heard much of Hamlet’s madness, which has upset many, particularly here at Elsinore. I know, for instance, Queen Gertrude is concerned greatly with the mental state of her only son.

            I wanted to learn for myself if there was any validity to Hamlet’s madness, so when my father told me of his plan, I eagerly agreed. If Hamlet was not mad, I believed he would tell me the truth, if only to relieve me from worry because he loved me.

            I had not expected Hamlet to treat me with such disdain. I see now that I have been a fool!

            My conversation with Hamlet had reached no further than a few phrases before he began to hurt me in a way that was unexpected and irrational, making me incline towards the notion of Hamlet’s madness for a moment.

            When I attempted to return some gifts, as instructed by my father, Hamlet denied ever having given me them. He then began to question my honesty and fairness, leaving me utterly perplexed.

            That was when he revealed his lack of love for me, when he engraved those four words into my heart, “I loved you not.”

            The punishment did not cease there. Hamlet repeatedly told me to go to a nunnery, the meaning of which I still do not comprehend. Was he referring to our physical relationship? Does he regret coming to my chamber room at night to express our love in my bed?

            Was this Hamlet’s way of telling me he no longer wishes to be my husband? He had mentioned he “will have no mo marriages.” He even told me to marry a fool! Does Hamlet truly no longer want me as his wife?

            Hamlet must be mad or else I have been deceived. Had I been wrong that night when I thought I saw reason in his eyes? Nay, I know I did not see madness in them. Even as Hamlet spoke such cruel words to me today, I continued to look into those sane, recognizable blue eyes.

            Perhaps Hamlet knew we were being watched and the way I was treated was part of his plan. Even so, I do not see how treating me with such contempt would fit into any plan. Did he simply not want others to think his madness was due to our love or did he truly want to be rid of me?

            There was a phrase Hamlet mentioned that strengthens my belief that he is not mad. He said, “Those that are married already, all but one shall live.” It seemed like a threat to a married couple. The only marriage that comes to mind is the one between King Claudius and Queen Gertrude and it is no secret that Hamlet is against the union. Why else would he mention such a thing unless he knew either King Claudius or Queen Gertrude was listening? Surely Hamlet cannot be mad in such a case!

            If Hamlet is not mad, though, then it is true. I have been deceived!

            I am no longer pure. I have given my most precious treasure to the man I thought would treasure me the most. No man would marry me now. Perhaps that is why Hamlet wishes for me to go to a nunnery. He is accusing me of moral frailty, of being damaged now that I am no longer virtuous. The only place I can go to even attempt to regain some of that virtue is a convent, where I can abstain from sinning.

I hesitate to admit it, but Laertes and my father were right.

            Hamlet has merely used me to gratify his own desire. I have meant little to him. I have been the toy he played with when there was nothing else to do and he has thrown me aside now that he has found a more pressing pastime: pretending to be mad for a greater purpose only he fully comprehends.

            Oh, how I have been naïve!

.          

I feel anger surge within me, building up with heat like a fire that grows faster than one expects it to. I am not quite sure to whom my anger is addressed towards. Myself for my naivety? Hamlet for using me? Both?

My own gender irritates me. After all, I am not the only one who sinned. Hamlet and I made love TOGETHER. So why am I the only one to be tarnished? Why am I the one Hamlet tells to go to a nunnery? I do not see him presently preparing to leave for a monastery.

Enough. I have made myself nauseous from all this contemplation and do not feel like writing any longer. I shall go find some mint to calm my belly.

15 December 1601

            Since I have had to keep my distance from Hamlet, no event of particular interest has passed in which to cause me to write. Except for today, when Hamlet gave me the greatest fright of my life!

Having denied Hamlet love in all forms, except for deep within my heart, I have kept myself busy sewing as a way to distract myself (although it does not do much good). Whenever my thoughts wander to Hamlet and cannot find another subject to dwell upon, I sew.

Today was one of those days. I was working on a new dress when, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door, startling me half to death! I immediately answered and let in a raving Hamlet, so unlike the Hamlet I have grown to love.

His clothes were disheveled and his skin was paler than his shirt. Before I could even question him, Hamlet grabbed my wrist, then my arm, and pulled me towards him. Uncomfortable, I attempted to pull away, but he did no harm. He simply stared intricately at my face with wide eyes. Then, he let me go and left.

Unsure what to make of the entire ordeal, and frightened out of my wits, I went to find my father and told him everything. According to him, Hamlet’s actions are “the very ecstasy of love.” I supposedly made Hamlet mad by following my father’s orders and denying Hamlet’s access to me.

If my father is accurate, then I am truly a fool! How could I have obeyed my father’s orders without explaining to Hamlet the reason for my sudden distance? I had planned to tell Hamlet the next night he visited my chamber, but he has abstained since the month before last. I assumed he was simply occupied with his grief over his father’s death and mother’s marriage. In addition, he had still written me love letters, which let me know he still favors me.

I kept them tucked under my pillow at night to remind me of him, although I did not read them out of fear they would make me long for Hamlet more. My father has them now to show the king.

It does perplex me, though, why Hamlet has not returned at least once to my chamber. Although he does still write me love letters, would he not wish for the comfort of my love during such difficult times? I cannot come up with a satisfactory reason. The puzzle has indeed given me much stress, even to the point where my bleeding has not occurred for a month. 

Nevertheless, it does not seem plausible to me that Hamlet would act the way he did simply because I have recently neglected him. It was too strange. Yes, he came to me without a hat and his socks were soiled. Yes, he looked pale and his knees were knocking together as if he were shaking. Yes, he grabbed me with such a hard grip that I feared him.

Yet, as I looked into Hamlet’s crystal, blue eyes, I did not see the eyes of a mad man. When I gazed back into those eyes I love so, I saw reason, logic, and contemplation, just as I have always seen. I did not by any means find senseless, irrational, and foreign eyes observing me.

Perhaps I cannot explain why Hamlet acted as he did today. However, I do know I disagree with my father. He may feel confident enough in his deduction that he could bring it to the king, but I do not. Hamlet has a plan underneath those blonde curls I adore so. All I must do is discover it.

My father beckons. I shall rush to his side for he has news of his meeting with King Claudius and Queen Gertrude.