Six Media in Search of a Dane

Seruant to His Majesty.

Time

People

Brooding, sometimes psychotic Prince ("Melancholy Dane") Hamlet of Denmark (see Foreign News), still mourning the mysterious, untimely death of his father (Time, Sept. 17, 1600), suddenly turned historic, treasure-filled Elsinore Castle (see Art) into a rapier-thrusting, poison-quaffing blood bath (see Sport). Following a spirited conversation with his late father, during which he learned that his power-hungry, opportunist uncle, King Claudius, had "murthered" (sic) his predecessor by pouring juice of cursed hebenon in his ear (see Medicine), the prince took, matters into' his own calloused, stubby-fingered hands. Hamlet, feigning madness, which creaky, cranky Lord Chamberlain ("this above all – to thine own self be true") Polonius attributed to unrequited love for the latter's daughter, shapely (38-23-37) nunnery-dispatched (see Religion) Ophelia, touched off a Dane reaction of explosives. When the smoke had cleared, here was the grim, grisly toll: Polonius dead (stabbed), Ophelia dead (drowned), Queen Gertrude (Hamlet's doting, sometimes incestuous mother) dead (poisoned), King Claudius dead (stabbed and poisoned), Laertes (Ophelia's impetuous, sometimes bon vivant brother) dead (stabbed), Hamlet dead (stabbed) (see Milestones). Commented a passing minstrel: "We have learned much (see Education) from this spectacle (see Show Business) of bloody 'murther' (see Sic)."

The Reader's Digest

The Most Unforgettable Character I've Met

By Prince Hamlet

I first met this most unforgettable character one evening late in the Sixteenth Century on one of the fortifications of Elsinore Castle, in Denmark. "I am thy father's spirit," he said to me in a manner so frank and honest that I found myself liking him at once.

We chatted about blood, damnation, tormenting flames, and other warm, uplifting subjects. And while I couldn't help chuckling to myself at his outlandish mode of dress and his shrill, cracked voice, I knew we two would become fast friends.

"I am doomed for a certain term to walk the night," he remarked in that earnest way of his that made you feel so good inside. "And for the day confin'd to fast in fires, till the foul crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away."

With these words he displayed one of his most valuable qualities: adaptability.

I wondered: What could this marvelous figure's formula be for a long and admirable spirit life? And immediately the answer came to me: good spectral health, a keen interest in people, an everlasting trust in God, and perhaps most important of all, his eternal subscription to the Purgatory Edition of Reader's Digest.

Promising to clear up a matter for him that involved my uncle, poison, blood, incest, death, and other sticky family problems hardly suited for these pages, I took leave of this truly amazing character and went off to sharpen my sword.

Of this I am certain, I shall never forget him. Even if I live to be twenty-two.

True Story

I Wish I Wasn't Such A Nice Girl

by Ophelia

Ham's kisses had burned like fire. "Stop – stop before it's too late," my nagging conscience had warned me. "You both may be under the same roof but you're in different worlds."

But I didn't want to stop and maybe, I had thought, maybe I wouldn't. In sleepless agony I wept silent, desperate tears. And then, after that fateful talk with my father, my mind was made up. This could never be.

I met Ham in one of the rooms in the castle. Oh Lordie, how my heart pounded! Ham . . . dear dear Ham – I wanted to say – how strange you look with that mad gleam in your eye, your doublet unbraced and your stockings ungartered. How I long to be in your arms feeling your kisses – kisses that feed me when I'm hungry, comfort me when I'm cold. For a fleeting instant my lips came to warm, quivering life. But no ... I must not ... I dare not ... I could not recapture the past.

Sadly I returned the little gifts he had given me, and then . . . then he said that he had never loved me! Dear dear God, whom could I turn to? Where could I go? What could I get me to?

"Get thee to a nunnery," Ham said icily.

Somewhere along the way I had forgotten to be the most important thing of all – a woman to my man!

Next Month: "The Brook and I"

Danish Report

Our man Stanley, recently returned from Denmark, stopped by the office on Tuesday with the following dispatch:

"Have attended fencing match in Elsinore Castle. Affair held in main hall. Much pomp. With other roisterers sipped cocktails and munched on mutton pâté. Buttonholed King Claudius. Tall, black-haired, big-faced, amplewaisted man in fifties. Offered me goblet of 1563 Château Haut Henri. Accepted and quaffed. Asked him if I could sample chalice of odd-colored liquid near him. He became flustered. Said he was saving for someone else. I insisted. I mentioned popular American custom of guest selecting own drinks. Said we call it, 'Name your poison.' Smiled. He didn't. So instead quaffed goblet of 1584 Château Haut Raoul and devoured five terribly réussis soufflés. Fencing match began. Hamlet tall, blond-haired, small-faced, slim-waisted man in early twenties. Laertes tall, brown-haired, vital-looking, average-waisted man in midle twenties. Would have liked to see match but spied tray of crépes farcis in corner. Also courtier with flagon of 1542 Château Haut Pierre. Nibbled and quaffed. Buttonholed Queen Gertrude. Tall, dark-haired, medium-faced, corsetwaisted woman in late forties. Asked her who Claudius was saving special chalice for. Wanted some. Dry, you know. Hadn't had drop since 1542 Château Haut Pierre seven lines back. She didn't know but decided to sample. Wasn't for her. She collapsed. Died. Hamlet stabbed. Also Laertes. King stabbed and poisoned. All dead. Buttonholed Horatio. Tall, black-haired, you know, usual hyphened adjectives. Munched poulet sauté with him and quaffed 1578 Château Haut Georges. Departed immediately. Didn't want to miss cocktail party at King Lear's palace."

The Saturday Evening Post

The Perfect Squelch

Ever since big, blustering Claudius had moved into the neighborhood, things weren't the same at the castle. Particularly disturbed by the newcomer was his young nephew, Hamlet.

Claudius continually annoyed the young man with his bossy manner and his possessiveness. Much against Hamlet's wishes, he also tried to send his nephew off to faraway places.

Being a patient person, Hamlet suffered Claudius' boorishness without audible complaint until one afternoon when his patience ran its course.

A group of people from the neighborhood were gathered about in the castle watching Hamlet and his friend Laertes fence. Unexpectedly Hamlet walked over and touched Claudius with the tip of his sword. The latter looked about in that smug way of his and then said sneeringly, "O yet defend me, friends! I am but hurt."

Whereupon to the delight of everyone present, Hamlet, his eyes twinkling, forced a poisoned chalice to his uncle's lips, saying, "Here, thou incestuous, murd'rous, damned Dane, drink off this potion."

It was the most perfect squelch this publication has come across in the last hundred and fifty years.

Playboy

Castle Playmate

Once upon a recent impulse, we found ourself visiting Elsinore Castle, in Denmark. After glomming that certain nous ne savons quoi that you always find in castles, our eyes fell upon the beautiful young lady featured on these pages. Her name, she told us, was and is Ophelia. Eschewing any obvious puns on her name, we questioned her further and learned that she embroiders, reads voraciously, chants snatches of old tunes, and likes to take long walks near weeping brooks. While she shows a preference for moody, complex princes, she assured us that she is still very much playing the field. Reluctant to pose for any of Copenhagen's hundreds of portrait painters, she has made an exception for Playboy, for which we're grateful. While taking our leave of the royal pad, we noticed an unhip prince wearing a non-Ivy doublet, going through various stages of agony; a crotchety Lord Chamberlain who had been stabbed through an arras; two somber-miened monarchs whom we didn't dig at all; and an apparition whose raucous cries for revenge grated on our sensitive, stereo-attuned ears. Elsewhere in this issue you'll find ten pages devoted to a Danish house party attended by Ophelia and four other lively young ladies.