The death of OpheliaThere is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them:
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
as told by Queen Gertrude.
My HS English teacher did find this troubling, because, for all the world, this reflects a first-hand account. Was the Queen nearby, watching this horrific event unfold? Wherefore, then, was she a mere spectator, a passive witness to the eddy demise of her own son’s favored one, raising no hand to forestall the tragedy? Did she consider it a mercy, to allow Ophelia to free herself from the strangling grip of dementia? Was the some hidden hostility in her, toward this girl who threatened to come between her and her son? Or was there some other thing at play here?
My theory is that Gertrude was occupied at the moment, focused on taking a crap.