PICK FROM THE PAST Natural History, August-September 1966 Shakespeare in the bush Africa and was taught the true meaning ofHamlet,X An American anthropologist set out to study the Tiu of we By Laura bohannan Just before i left Oxford for the Tiv in West Africa. conversation turned to the season at Stratford. "You americans, said a friend "often have difficulty with Shakespeare. He was, after all, a very English poet, and one can easily misinterpret the universal by misunderstanding the particular I protested that human nature is pretty much the same the whole world over; at least the general plot and motivation of the greater tragedies would always be clear-everywhere--although some details of custom might have to be explained and difficulties of translation might produce other slight changes To end an argument we It was my second field trip copy of hamlet to study in the Africa e could not conclude, my friend gave me to that African tribe, and i bush: it would, he hoped, lift my mind thought myself ready to live in above its primitive surroundings, and one of its remote sections- possibly I might, by prolonged an area difficult to cross even meditation, achieve the grace of correct on foot. I eventually settled interpretation. on the hillock of a very knowledgeable old man the It was my second field trip to that african head of a homestead of some tribe, and i thought myself ready to live hundred and forty people. in one of its remote sections-an area difficult to cross even on foot. I eventually settled on the hillock of a very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead of some hundred and forty people, all of whom were either his close relatives or their wives and children. Like the other elders of the vicinity, the old man spent most of his time performing ceremonies seldom seen these days in the more accessible parts of the tribe. I was delighted. Soon there would be three months of enforced isolation and leisure, between the harvest that takes place just
PICK FROM THE PAST Natural History, August-September 1966 Shakespeare in the Bush An American anthropologist set out to study the Tiv of West Africa and was taught the true meaning of Hamlet. By Laura Bohannan Just before I left Oxford for the Tiv in West Africa, conversation turned to the season at Stratford. “You Americans,” said a friend, “often have difficulty with Shakespeare. He was, after all, a very English poet, and one can easily misinterpret the universal by misunderstanding the particular.” I protested that human nature is pretty much the same the whole world over; at least the general plot and motivation of the greater tragedies would always be clear—everywhere—although some details of custom might have to be explained and difficulties of translation might produce other slight changes. To end an argument we could not conclude, my friend gave me a copy of Hamlet to study in the African bush: it would, he hoped, lift my mind above its primitive surroundings, and possibly I might, by prolonged meditation, achieve the grace of correct interpretation. It was my second field trip to that African tribe, and I thought myself ready to live in one of its remote sections—an area difficult to cross even on foot. I eventually settled on the hillock of a very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead of some hundred and forty people, all of whom were either his close relatives or their wives and children. Like the other elders of the vicinity, the old man spent most of his time performing ceremonies seldom seen these days in the more accessible parts of the tribe. I was delighted. Soon there would be three months of enforced isolation and leisure, between the harvest that takes place just It was my second field trip to that African tribe, and I thought myself ready to live in one of its remote sections— an area difficult to cross even on foot. I eventually settled on the hillock of a very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead of some hundred and forty people
before the rising of the swamps and the clearing of new farms when the water goes down. Then, I thought, they would have even more time to perform ceremonies and explain them to me. I was quite mistaken. Most of the ceremonies demanded the presence of elders from several homesteads. As the swamps rose, the old men found it too difficult to walk from one homestead to the next, and the ceremonies gradually ceased. As the swamps rose even higher, all activities but one came to an end. The women brewed beer from maize and millet. Men women and children sat on their hillocks and drank it People began to drink at dawn By midmorning the whole homestead was singing, dancing, and drumming. When it rained, people had to sit inside case, by noon or before, I either had to join the party or retire to my own yh their huts: there they drank and sang or they drank and told stories In any hut and my books. "One does not discuss serious matters when there is beer. Come drink with us Since i lacked their capacity for the thick native beer, I spent more and more time with hamlet. Before the end of the second month, grace descended on me. I was quite sure that Hamlet had only one possible interpretation, and that one universally obvious Early every morning, in the hope of having some serious talk before the beer party, I used to call on the old man at his reception hut-a circle of posts supporting a thatched roof above a low mud wall to keep out wind and rain. One day i crawled through the low doorway and found most of the men of the homestead sitting huddled in their ragged cloths on stools low plank beds, and reclining chairs, warming themselves against the chill of the rain around a smoky fire In the center were three pots of beer The party had started. The old man greeted me cordially. "Sit down and drink. " I accepted a large calabash full of beer, poured some into a small drinking gourd, and tossed it down. Then I poured some more into the same gourd for the man second in seniority to my host before I handed my calabash over to a young man for further distribution. Important people shouldnt ladle beer themselves It is better like this, the old man said, looking at me approvingly and plucking at the thatch that had caught in my hair. You should sit and drink with us more often. Your servants tell me that when you are not with us,you sit inside your hut looking at a paper. This morning they wanted to
before the rising of the swamps and the clearing of new farms when the water goes down. Then, I thought, they would have even more time to perform ceremonies and explain them to me. I was quite mistaken. Most of the ceremonies demanded the presence of elders from several homesteads. As the swamps rose, the old men found it too difficult to walk from one homestead to the next, and the ceremonies gradually ceased. As the swamps rose even higher, all activities but one came to an end. The women brewed beer from maize and millet. Men, women, and children sat on their hillocks and drank it. People began to drink at dawn. By midmorning the whole homestead was singing, dancing, and drumming. When it rained, people had to sit inside their huts: there they drank and sang or they drank and told stories. In any case, by noon or before, I either had to join the party or retire to my own hut and my books. “One does not discuss serious matters when there is beer. Come, drink with us.” Since I lacked their capacity for the thick native beer, I spent more and more time with Hamlet. Before the end of the second month, grace descended on me. I was quite sure that Hamlet had only one possible interpretation, and that one universally obvious. Early every morning, in the hope of having some serious talk before the beer party, I used to call on the old man at his reception hut—a circle of posts supporting a thatched roof above a low mud wall to keep out wind and rain. One day I crawled through the low doorway and found most of the men of the homestead sitting huddled in their ragged cloths on stools, low plank beds, and reclining chairs, warming themselves against the chill of the rain around a smoky fire. In the center were three pots of beer. The party had started. The old man greeted me cordially. “Sit down and drink.” I accepted a large calabash full of beer, poured some into a small drinking gourd, and tossed it down. Then I poured some more into the same gourd for the man second in seniority to my host before I handed my calabash over to a young man for further distribution. Important people shouldn’t ladle beer themselves. “It is better like this,” the old man said, looking at me approvingly and plucking at the thatch that had caught in my hair. “You should sit and drink with us more often. Your servants tell me that when you are not with us, you sit inside your hut looking at a paper.” This morning they wanted to
The old man was acquainted with four hear a story while they drank kinds of papers": tax receipts, bride price They threatened to tell me no receipts, court fee receipts, and letters. more stories until I told them The messenger who brought him letters one of mine .. Realizing from the chief used them mainly as a that here was my chance to was in them and told the old man intelligible, /agreed badge of office, for he always knew what prove Hamlet universally Personal letters for the few who had relatives in the government or mission stations were kept until someone went to a large market where there was a letter writer and reader. Since my arrival, letters were brought to me to be read. A few men also brought me bride price receipts, privately, with requests to change the figures to a higher sum. I found moral arguments were of no avail, since in-laws are fair game, and the technical hazards of forgery difficult to explain to an illiterate people. i did not wish them to think me silly enough to look at any such papers for days on end, and I hastily explained that my"paper"was one of the"things of long ago" of my country Ah, said the old man Tell us I protested that i was not a storyteller Storytelling is a skilled art among them; their standards are high, and the audiences critical-and vocal in their criticism. I protested in vain. This morning they wanted to hear a story while they drank. They threatened to tell me no more stories until i told them one of mine. Finally, the old man promised that no one would criticize my style, " for we know you are struggling with our language. " But, put in one of the elders, you must explain what we do not understand, as we do when we tell you our stories Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet universally intelligible, i agreed The old man handed me some more beer to help me on with my storytelling. Men filled their long wooden pipes and knocked coals from the fire to place in the pipe bowls; then, puffing contentedly, they sat back to listen. I began in the proper style, " Not yesterday, not yesterday, but long ago, a thing occurred. One night three men were keeping watch outside the homestead of the great chief, when suddenly they saw the former chief approach them Why was he no longer their chief? He was dead, I explained. That is why they were troubled and afraid when they saw him
The old man was acquainted with four kinds of “papers”: tax receipts, bride price receipts, court fee receipts, and letters. The messenger who brought him letters from the chief used them mainly as a badge of office, for he always knew what was in them and told the old man. Personal letters for the few who had relatives in the government or mission stations were kept until someone went to a large market where there was a letter writer and reader. Since my arrival, letters were brought to me to be read. A few men also brought me bride price receipts, privately, with requests to change the figures to a higher sum. I found moral arguments were of no avail, since in-laws are fair game, and the technical hazards of forgery difficult to explain to an illiterate people. I did not wish them to think me silly enough to look at any such papers for days on end, and I hastily explained that my “paper” was one of the “things of long ago” of my country. “Ah,” said the old man. “Tell us.” I protested that I was not a storyteller. Storytelling is a skilled art among them; their standards are high, and the audiences critical—and vocal in their criticism. I protested in vain. This morning they wanted to hear a story while they drank. They threatened to tell me no more stories until I told them one of mine. Finally, the old man promised that no one would criticize my style, “for we know you are struggling with our language.” “But,” put in one of the elders, “you must explain what we do not understand, as we do when we tell you our stories.” Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet universally intelligible, I agreed. The old man handed me some more beer to help me on with my storytelling. Men filled their long wooden pipes and knocked coals from the fire to place in the pipe bowls; then, puffing contentedly, they sat back to listen. I began in the proper style, “Not yesterday, not yesterday, but long ago, a thing occurred. One night three men were keeping watch outside the homestead of the great chief, when suddenly they saw the former chief approach them.” “Why was he no longer their chief?” “He was dead,” I explained. “That is why they were troubled and afraid when they saw him.” hear a story while they drank. They threatened to tell me no more stories until I told them one of mine. . . . Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet universally intelligible, I agreed
Impossible, began one of the elders, handing his pipe on to his neighbo who interrupted, "Of course it wasnt the dead chief. It was an omen sent by a witch.Goon.” Slightly shaken, I continued. One of these three was a man who knew things"the closest translation for scholar, but unfortunately it also meant witch. The second elder looked triumphantly at the first. So he spoke to the dead chief saying, Tell us what we must do so you may rest in your grave, but the dead chief did not answer. He vanished, and they could see him no more. Then the man who knew things-his name was Horatio-said this event was the affair of the dead chief s son hamlet There was a general shaking of heads round the circle. Had the dead chief no living brothers? Or was this son the chief? No, I replied. " That is, he had one living brother who became the chief when the elder brother died The old men muttered: such omens were matters for chiefs and elders not for youngsters; no good could come of going behind a chief s back; clearly Horatio was not a man who knew things Yes, he was, " I insisted shooing a chicken away from my beer "In our country the son is next to the father The dead chief s younger brother had become the great chief. He had also married his elder brothers widow only about a month after the funeral He did well. the old man beamed and announced to the others "I told you that if we knew more about Europeans, we would find they really were very like us In our country also, he added to me, the younger brother marries the elder brother's widow and becomes the father of his children Now, if your uncle, who married your widowed mother, is your fathers full brother then he will be a real father to you. Did Hamlet,'s father and uncle have one mother?” His question barely penetrated my mind; I was too upset and thrown too far off-balance by having one of the most important elements of Hamlet knocked straight out of the picture. Rather uncertainly I said that i thought they had the same mother, but I wasnt sure-the story didnt say. The old man told me severely that these genealogical details made all the difference and that when i got home i must ask the elders about it He shouted out the door to one of his younger wives to bring his goatskin bag
“Impossible,” began one of the elders, handing his pipe on to his neighbor, who interrupted, “Of course it wasn’t the dead chief. It was an omen sent by a witch. Go on.” Slightly shaken, I continued. “One of these three was a man who knew things”—the closest translation for scholar, but unfortunately it also meant witch. The second elder looked triumphantly at the first. “So he spoke to the dead chief saying, ‘Tell us what we must do so you may rest in your grave,’ but the dead chief did not answer. He vanished, and they could see him no more. Then the man who knew things—his name was Horatio—said this event was the affair of the dead chief’s son, Hamlet.” There was a general shaking of heads round the circle. “Had the dead chief no living brothers? Or was this son the chief?” “No,” I replied. “That is, he had one living brother who became the chief when the elder brother died.” The old men muttered: such omens were matters for chiefs and elders, not for youngsters; no good could come of going behind a chief’s back; clearly Horatio was not a man who knew things. “Yes, he was,” I insisted, shooing a chicken away from my beer. “In our country the son is next to the father. The dead chief’s younger brother had become the great chief. He had also married his elder brother’s widow only about a month after the funeral.” “He did well,” the old man beamed and announced to the others, “I told you that if we knew more about Europeans, we would find they really were very like us. In our country also,” he added to me, “the younger brother marries the elder brother’s widow and becomes the father of his children. Now, if your uncle, who married your widowed mother, is your father’s full brother, then he will be a real father to you. Did Hamlet’s father and uncle have one mother?” His question barely penetrated my mind; I was too upset and thrown too far off-balance by having one of the most important elements of Hamlet knocked straight out of the picture. Rather uncertainly I said that I thought they had the same mother, but I wasn’t sure—the story didn’t say. The old man told me severely that these genealogical details made all the difference and that when I got home I must ask the elders about it. He shouted out the door to one of his younger wives to bring his goatskin bag
Determined to save what I could of the mother motif, I took a deep breath and began again. The son Hamlet was very sad because his mother had married again so quickly. There was no need for her to do so, and it is our custom for a widow not to go to her next husband until she has mourned for two years Two years is too long, objected the wife, who had appeared with the old man's battered goatskin bag Who will hoe your farms for you while you have no husband?” Hamlet, I retorted, without thinking, " was old enough to hoe his mothers farms himself. There was no need for her to remarry No one looked convinced I gave up. His mother and the great chief told Hamlet not to be sad, for the great chief himself would be a father to Hamlet. Furthermore Hamlet would be the next chief: therefore he must stay to learn the things While I paused, perplexed at how to render Hamlet's disgusted soliloquy to an audience convinced that Claudius and gertrude had behaved in the best possible manner, one of the younger men asked me who had married the other wives of the dead chief He had no other wives " I told him But a chief must have many wives! How else can he brew beer and prepare food for all his guests? I said firmly that in our country even chiefs had only one wife, that they had servants to do their work, and that they paid them from tax money It was better, they returned, for a chief to have many wives and sons who would help him hoe his farms and feed his people; then everyone loved the chief who gave much and took nothing-taxes were a bad thing i agreed with the last comment, but for the rest fell back on their favorite way of fobbing off my questions: That is the way it is done, so that is how we do it i decided to skip the soliloquy. Even if Claudius was here thought quite right to marry his brothers widow, there remained the poison motif, and I knew they would disapprove of fratricide. More hopefully I resumed, "That
Determined to save what I could of the mother motif, I took a deep breath and began again. “The son Hamlet was very sad because his mother had married again so quickly. There was no need for her to do so, and it is our custom for a widow not to go to her next husband until she has mourned for two years.” “Two years is too long,” objected the wife, who had appeared with the old man’s battered goatskin bag. “Who will hoe your farms for you while you have no husband?” “Hamlet,” I retorted, without thinking, “was old enough to hoe his mother’s farms himself. There was no need for her to remarry.” No one looked convinced. I gave up. “His mother and the great chief told Hamlet not to be sad, for the great chief himself would be a father to Hamlet. Furthermore, Hamlet would be the next chief: therefore he must stay to learn the things of a chief. Hamlet agreed to remain, and all the rest went off to drink beer.” While I paused, perplexed at how to render Hamlet’s disgusted soliloquy to an audience convinced that Claudius and Gertrude had behaved in the best possible manner, one of the younger men asked me who had married the other wives of the dead chief. “He had no other wives,” I told him. “But a chief must have many wives! How else can he brew beer and prepare food for all his guests?” I said firmly that in our country even chiefs had only one wife, that they had servants to do their work, and that they paid them from tax money. It was better, they returned, for a chief to have many wives and sons who would help him hoe his farms and feed his people; then everyone loved the chief who gave much and took nothing—taxes were a bad thing. I agreed with the last comment, but for the rest fell back on their favorite way of fobbing off my questions: “That is the way it is done, so that is how we do it.” I decided to skip the soliloquy. Even if Claudius was here thought quite right to marry his brother’s widow, there remained the poison motif, and I knew they would disapprove of fratricide. More hopefully I resumed, “That
night Hamlet kept watch with the three who had seen his dead father. The dead chief again appeared, and although the others were afraid, Hamlet followed his dead father off to one side. When they were alone, Hamlet's dead father spoke.” Omens can't talk! The old man was emphatic Hamlet's dead father wasnt an omen. Seeing him might have been an omen, but he was not. " My audience looked as confused as I sounded."It was Hamlet's dead father It was a thing we call a ghost. "I had to use the English word, for unlike many of the neighboring tribes, these people didn't believe in the survival after death of any individuating part of the personality What is a ghost? ' An omen? "No, a ghost is someone who is dead but who walks around and can talk and people can hear him and see him but not touch him. They objected.“ One can touch zombis.” No, no! It was not a dead body the witches had animated to sacrifice and eat. No one else made hamlet's dead father walk. He did it himself Dead men cant walk, protested my audience as one man I was quite willing to compromise a'ghost' is the dead mans shadow But again they objected. Dead men cast no shadows. They do in my country, I snapped The old man quelled the babble of disbelief that arose immediately and told me with that insincere, but courteous, agreement one extends to the fancies of the young, ignorant, and superstitious, " No doubt in your country the dead can also walk without being zombis. From the depths of his bag he produced a withered fragment of kola nut, bit off one end to show it wasnt poisoned, and handed me the rest as a peace offering
night Hamlet kept watch with the three who had seen his dead father. The dead chief again appeared, and although the others were afraid, Hamlet followed his dead father off to one side. When they were alone, Hamlet’s dead father spoke.” “Omens can’t talk!” The old man was emphatic. “Hamlet’s dead father wasn’t an omen. Seeing him might have been an omen, but he was not.” My audience looked as confused as I sounded. “It was Hamlet’s dead father. It was a thing we call a ‘ghost.’” I had to use the English word, for unlike many of the neighboring tribes, these people didn’t believe in the survival after death of any individuating part of the personality. “What is a ‘ghost?’ An omen?” “No, a ‘ghost’ is someone who is dead but who walks around and can talk, and people can hear him and see him but not touch him.” They objected. “One can touch zombis.” “No, no! It was not a dead body the witches had animated to sacrifice and eat. No one else made Hamlet’s dead father walk. He did it himself.” “Dead men can’t walk,” protested my audience as one man. I was quite willing to compromise. “A ‘ghost’ is the dead man’s shadow.” But again they objected. “Dead men cast no shadows.” “They do in my country,” I snapped. The old man quelled the babble of disbelief that arose immediately and told me with that insincere, but courteous, agreement one extends to the fancies of the young, ignorant, and superstitious, “No doubt in your country the dead can also walk without being zombis.” From the depths of his bag he produced a withered fragment of kola nut, bit off one end to show it wasn’t poisoned, and handed me the rest as a peace offering
Anyhow, I resumed, "Hamlets dead father said that his own brother the one who became chief, had poisoned him. He wanted Hamlet to avenge him. Hamlet believed this in his heart for he did not like his fathers brother I took another swallow of beer In the country of the great chief living in the same homestead, for it was a very large one, was an important elder who was often with the chief to advise and help him. His name was Polonius. Hamlet was courting his daughter, but her father and her brother [I cast hastily about for some tribal analogy] warned her not to let Hamlet visit her when she was alone on her farm, for he would be a great chief and so could not marry her Why not? asked the wife, who had settled down on the edge of the old mans chair. He frowned at her for asking stupid questions and growled "They lived in the same homestead. That was not the reason, " I informed them. Polonius was a stranger who lived in the homestead because he helped the chief, not because he was a relative Then why couldn't Hamlet marry her? He could have, I explained, " but Polonius didn t think he would. After all Hamlet was a man of great importance who ought to marry a chiefs afraid that if Hamlet made love to his daughter, then no one else would i daughter, for in his country a man could have only one wife Polonius w give a high price for ner. love to That might be true, remarked one of the shrewder elders, but a chiefs more than make up the difference. Polonius sounds like a fool to me,6 son would give his mistress's father enough presents and patronage Many people think he was, I agreed. " Meanwhile Polonius sent his son Laertes off to Paris to learn the things of that country, for it was the homestead of a very great chief indeed. Because he was afraid that Laertes might waste a lot of money on beer and women and gambling, or get into trouble by fighting, he sent one of his servants to Paris secretly, to spy out what Laertes was doing. One day Hamlet came upon Polonius's daughter Ophelia. He behaved so oddly he frightened her Indeed"-I was fumbling for words to express the dubious quality of Hamlet's madness-"the chief and many others had also noticed that when hamlet talked one could understand the words but not what they meant. Many people thought that he had become mad. My audience suddenly became much more attentive
“Anyhow,” I resumed, “Hamlet’s dead father said that his own brother, the one who became chief, had poisoned him. He wanted Hamlet to avenge him. Hamlet believed this in his heart, for he did not like his father’s brother.” I took another swallow of beer. “In the country of the great chief, living in the same homestead, for it was a very large one, was an important elder who was often with the chief to advise and help him. His name was Polonius. Hamlet was courting his daughter, but her father and her brother . . . [I cast hastily about for some tribal analogy] warned her not to let Hamlet visit her when she was alone on her farm, for he would be a great chief and so could not marry her.” “Why not?” asked the wife, who had settled down on the edge of the old man’s chair. He frowned at her for asking stupid questions and growled, “They lived in the same homestead.” “That was not the reason,” I informed them. “Polonius was a stranger who lived in the homestead because he helped the chief, not because he was a relative.” “Then why couldn’t Hamlet marry her?” “He could have,” I explained, “but Polonius didn’t think he would. After all, Hamlet was a man of great importance who ought to marry a chief’s daughter, for in his country a man could have only one wife. Polonius was afraid that if Hamlet made love to his daughter, then no one else would give a high price for her.” “That might be true,” remarked one of the shrewder elders, “but a chief’s son would give his mistress’s father enough presents and patronage to more than make up the difference. Polonius sounds like a fool to me.” “Many people think he was,” I agreed. “Meanwhile Polonius sent his son Laertes off to Paris to learn the things of that country, for it was the homestead of a very great chief indeed. Because he was afraid that Laertes might waste a lot of money on beer and women and gambling, or get into trouble by fighting, he sent one of his servants to Paris secretly, to spy out what Laertes was doing. One day Hamlet came upon Polonius’s daughter Ophelia. He behaved so oddly he frightened her. Indeed”—I was fumbling for words to express the dubious quality of Hamlet’s madness—“the chief and many others had also noticed that when Hamlet talked one could understand the words but not what they meant. Many people thought that he had become mad.” My audience suddenly became much more attentive
The great chief wanted to know what was wrong with Hamlet, so he sent for two of Hamlet's age mates [school friends would have taken a long explanation] to talk to Hamlet and find out what troubled his heart Hamlet, seeing that they had been bribed by the chief to betray him, told them nothing Polonius, however, insisted that Hamlet was mad because he had been forbidden to see Ophelia, whom he loved. Why, inquired a bewildered voice, "should anyone bewitch Hamlet on that account? Bewitch him Yes, only witchcraft can make anyone mad, unless, of course, one sees the beings that lurk in the forest I stopped being a storyteller and took out my notebook and demanded to be told more about these two causes of madness. Even while they spoke and i jotted notes, I tried to calculate the effect of this new factor on the plot. Hamlet had not been exposed to the beings that lurk in the forests Only his relatives in the male line could bewitch him Barring relatives not mentioned by Shakespeare, it had to be Claudius who was attempting to harm him. And. of course. it was For the moment i staved off questions by saying that the great chief also refused to believe that hamlet was mad for the love of ophelia and nothing else. He was sure that something much more important was troubling Hamlet' s heart” Now Hamlet's age mates, I continued, had brought with them a famous toryteller Hamlet decided to have this man tell the chief and all his homestead a story about a man who had poisoned his brother because he desired his brother, s wife and wished to be chief himself. hamlet was sure the great chief could not hear the story without making a sign if he was indeed guilty, and then he would discover whether his dead father had told him the truth.” The old man interrupted, with deep cunning, "Why should a father lie to his son?” he asked I hedged: Hamlet wasn t sure that it really was his dead father It was impossible to say anything, in that language, about devil-inspired visions
“The great chief wanted to know what was wrong with Hamlet, so he sent for two of Hamlet’s age mates [school friends would have taken a long explanation] to talk to Hamlet and find out what troubled his heart. Hamlet, seeing that they had been bribed by the chief to betray him, told them nothing. Polonius, however, insisted that Hamlet was mad because he had been forbidden to see Ophelia, whom he loved.” “Why,” inquired a bewildered voice, “should anyone bewitch Hamlet on that account?” “Bewitch him?” “Yes, only witchcraft can make anyone mad, unless, of course, one sees the beings that lurk in the forest.” I stopped being a storyteller and took out my notebook and demanded to be told more about these two causes of madness. Even while they spoke and I jotted notes, I tried to calculate the effect of this new factor on the plot. Hamlet had not been exposed to the beings that lurk in the forests. Only his relatives in the male line could bewitch him. Barring relatives not mentioned by Shakespeare, it had to be Claudius who was attempting to harm him. And, of course, it was. For the moment I staved off questions by saying that the great chief also refused to believe that Hamlet was mad for the love of Ophelia and nothing else. “He was sure that something much more important was troubling Hamlet’s heart.” “Now Hamlet’s age mates,” I continued, “had brought with them a famous storyteller. Hamlet decided to have this man tell the chief and all his homestead a story about a man who had poisoned his brother because he desired his brother’s wife and wished to be chief himself. Hamlet was sure the great chief could not hear the story without making a sign if he was indeed guilty, and then he would discover whether his dead father had told him the truth.” The old man interrupted, with deep cunning, “Why should a father lie to his son?” he asked. I hedged: “Hamlet wasn’t sure that it really was his dead father.” It was impossible to say anything, in that language, about devil-inspired visions
The old men looked at each "You mean, he said, "it actually was an other in supreme disgust. "That omen, and he knew witches sometimes Polonius truly was a fool and a send false ones. Hamlet was a fool not man who knew nothing! to go to one skilled in reading omens and divining the truth in the first place A man-who-sees-the-truth could have told him how his father died, if he really had been poisoned, and if there was witchcraft in it: then hamlet could have called the elders to settle the matter The shrewd elder ventured to disagree Because his fathers brother was a great chief, one-who-sees-the-truth might therefore have been afraid to tell it. i think it was for that reason that a friend of hamlet's father-a witch and an elder-sent an omen so his friends son would know. Was the omen true?” Yes, I said, abandoning ghosts and the devil; a witch-sent omen it would have to be. "It was true, for when the storyteller was telling his tale before ll the homestead, the great chief rose in fear. Afraid that Hamlet knew his secret he planned to have him killed. The stage set of the next bit presented some difficulties of translation. I began cautiously. The great chief told Hamlet's mother to find out from her son what he knew. But because a womans children are always first in her heart, he had the important elder Polonius hide behind a cloth that hung against the wall of Hamlet,'s mothers sleeping hut. Hamlet started to scold his mother for what she had done There was a shocked murmur from everyone a man should never scold his mother She called out in fear, and Polonius moved behind the cloth Shouting, A rat! Hamlet took his machete and slashed through the cloth I paused for dramatic effect.“ He had killed polonius.” The old men looked at each other in supreme disgust. That Polonius truly was a fool and a man who knew nothing! What child would not know enough to shout, 'It's me! "With a pang, i remembered that these people are ardent hunters always armed with bow, arrow, and machete at the first rustle in the grass an arrow is aimed and ready, and the hunter shouts Game! "If no human voice answers immediately, the arrow speeds on its way. Like a good hunter, Hamlet had shouted, " Arat
“You mean,” he said, “it actually was an omen, and he knew witches sometimes send false ones. Hamlet was a fool not to go to one skilled in reading omens and divining the truth in the first place. A man-who-sees-the-truth could have told him how his father died, if he really had been poisoned, and if there was witchcraft in it; then Hamlet could have called the elders to settle the matter.” The shrewd elder ventured to disagree. “Because his father’s brother was a great chief, one-who-sees-the-truth might therefore have been afraid to tell it. I think it was for that reason that a friend of Hamlet’s father—a witch and an elder—sent an omen so his friend’s son would know. Was the omen true?” “Yes,” I said, abandoning ghosts and the devil; a witch-sent omen it would have to be. “It was true, for when the storyteller was telling his tale before all the homestead, the great chief rose in fear. Afraid that Hamlet knew his secret he planned to have him killed.” The stage set of the next bit presented some difficulties of translation. I began cautiously. “The great chief told Hamlet’s mother to find out from her son what he knew. But because a woman’s children are always first in her heart, he had the important elder Polonius hide behind a cloth that hung against the wall of Hamlet’s mother’s sleeping hut. Hamlet started to scold his mother for what she had done.” There was a shocked murmur from everyone. A man should never scold his mother. “She called out in fear, and Polonius moved behind the cloth. Shouting, ‘A rat!’ Hamlet took his machete and slashed through the cloth.” I paused for dramatic effect. “He had killed Polonius.” The old men looked at each other in supreme disgust. “That Polonius truly was a fool and a man who knew nothing! What child would not know enough to shout, ‘It's me!’” With a pang, I remembered that these people are ardent hunters, always armed with bow, arrow, and machete; at the first rustle in the grass an arrow is aimed and ready, and the hunter shouts “Game!” If no human voice answers immediately, the arrow speeds on its way. Like a good hunter, Hamlet had shouted, “A rat!” The old men looked at each other in supreme disgust. "That Polonius truly was a fool and a man who knew nothing!
I rushed in to save Polonius's reputation "Polonius did speak. Hamlet heard him. But he thought it was the chief and wished to kill him to avenge his father. He had meant to kill him earlier that evening .. I broke down unable to describe to these pagans, who had no belief in individual afterlife, the difference between dying at one's prayers and dying"unhousell'd, disappointed, unaneled This time i had shocked my audience seriously For a man to raise his hand against his father's brother and the one who has become his father- that is a terrible thing The elders ought to let such a man be bewitched i nibbled at my kola nut in some perplexity then pointed out that after all the man had killed Hamlet's father sitting behind the elders. "If your fathers brother has killed your father p No, pronounced the old man, speaking less to me than to the young me you must appeal to your fathers age mates: they may avenge him. No man may use violence against his senior relatives. Another thought struck him But if his father's brother had indeed been wicked enough to bewitch Hamlet and make him mad that would be a good story indeed, for it would be his fault that Hamlet, being mad, no longer had any sense and thus was ready to kill his fathers brother. There was a murmur of applause Hamlet was again a good story to them but it no longer seemed quite the same story to me. As I thought over the coming complications of plot and motive, I lost courage and decided to skim over dangerous ground quickly The great chief, I went on, was not sorry that Hamlet had killed Polonius. It gave him a reason to send Hamlet away, with his two treacherous age mates, with letters to a chief of a far country, saying that Hamlet should be killed. But Hamlet changed the writing on their papers so that the chief killed his age mates instead. "I encountered a reproachful glare from one of the men whom I had told undetectable forgery was not merely immoral but beyond human skill. I looked the other way Before Hamlet could return. Laertes came back for his father, s funeral The great chief told him Hamlet had killed Polonius. Laertes swore to kill Hamlet because of this, and because his sister Ophelia, hearing her father had been killed by the man she loved went mad and drowned in the river
I rushed in to save Polonius’s reputation. “Polonius did speak. Hamlet heard him. But he thought it was the chief and wished to kill him to avenge his father. He had meant to kill him earlier that evening. . . .” I broke down, unable to describe to these pagans, who had no belief in individual afterlife, the difference between dying at one’s prayers and dying “unhousell’d, disappointed, unaneled.” This time I had shocked my audience seriously. “For a man to raise his hand against his father’s brother and the one who has become his father— that is a terrible thing. The elders ought to let such a man be bewitched.” I nibbled at my kola nut in some perplexity, then pointed out that after all the man had killed Hamlet’s father. “No,” pronounced the old man, speaking less to me than to the young men sitting behind the elders. “If your father’s brother has killed your father, you must appeal to your father’s age mates: they may avenge him. No man may use violence against his senior relatives.” Another thought struck him. “But if his father’s brother had indeed been wicked enough to bewitch Hamlet and make him mad that would be a good story indeed, for it would be his fault that Hamlet, being mad, no longer had any sense and thus was ready to kill his father’s brother.” There was a murmur of applause. Hamlet was again a good story to them, but it no longer seemed quite the same story to me. As I thought over the coming complications of plot and motive, I lost courage and decided to skim over dangerous ground quickly. “The great chief,” I went on, “was not sorry that Hamlet had killed Polonius. It gave him a reason to send Hamlet away, with his two treacherous age mates, with letters to a chief of a far country, saying that Hamlet should be killed. But Hamlet changed the writing on their papers, so that the chief killed his age mates instead.” I encountered a reproachful glare from one of the men whom I had told undetectable forgery was not merely immoral but beyond human skill. I looked the other way. “Before Hamlet could return, Laertes came back for his father’s funeral. The great chief told him Hamlet had killed Polonius. Laertes swore to kill Hamlet because of this, and because his sister Ophelia, hearing her father had been killed by the man she loved, went mad and drowned in the river