In Shakespeare’s body of work, fate is a compass. 

Its trajectory is a blueprint through which to interpret a character’s actions as being right or wrong, as being in accordance with or in opposition to God’s will. Given that fate is predestined, an inevitability, action in opposition to God’s will results in course-correction – often through a tragic downfall. 

In Hamlet, however, it is the course of fate that is corrected. It exists, it calls, it directs, and thus it acts upon – but, paradoxically, it is also acted upon. Its relationship with its subjects is mutual.

This concept counters the prevailing Elizabethan belief in predetermination. They expect that while characters may exercise the freedom to ignore the cries of fate, this ignorance ultimately dooms them. In Macbeth, for example, Shakespeare reinforces the supremacy of the natural order by depicting the downfall of an agent who acts against it. It is understood from Act I that Macbeth’s ascension to the throne spawns from autonomy; he is aware that he has no divine right to kingship, and acts instead according to witches’ prophecies. To make plain the malignance of his actions, several omens appear during Macbeth’s rise to power, including a particularly potent image of an owl killing a falcon (II.iv). The natural world itself is arranged in parallel to the play’s messaging – God speaks through all his creations to warn Macbeth of his perversion. Macbeth ignores these warnings and quells his conscience, propelled instead by hubris and ambition. For this he is beheaded. Consequently, the rightful head may now bear the crown, and the great chain of being is restored. There is no mutual relationship between fate and free will here, despite their coexistence; the latter is necessarily superceded by the former. 

Conversely, in Hamlet, fate seems not to hold the same sovereignty. It is, however, present and vital, providing the titular character with a central framework to operate within, and to press against the boundaries of. “My fate cries out!” (I.iv.81) Hamlet exclaims, as the ghost of his father emerges out of the dark. This ghost is not a figment of his imagination; Barnado and Banquo, having seen him first, name him “portentous figure” (I.i.109), the “harbinger preceding” the play’s events (I.i.122), and beseech him to speak – but he has no message for them. He is the mouthpiece of a particular destiny, come to call Hamlet to action. 

Hamlet speaks with the ghost of his father on a few occasions throughout the play, opening a literal dialogue with his fate. After he kills Polonius, for example, it returns to “whet [his] almost blunted purpose.” (III.iv.111). This is underscored by a deeper, metanarrative dialogue, opened by a tragic hero aware not only of his own calling, but of his own ineptitude. “O cursèd spite!” he moans, “that ever I was born to set it right!” (I.v.195-6). In resisting his fate, Hamlet simultaneously reinforces its existence. He believes irrevocably that he is trapped within its mechanism, “lay[ing] worse than the mutines [chained up] in the bilboes.” (V.ii.5-6). He even scripts his conviction into his metatheatrical play, wherein the Player King claims that “our wills and fates do so contrary run / that our devices still are overthrown; / our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.” (III.ii.207-9). Hamlet thus aligns himself explicitly with the tragic heroes of Shakespeare’s other works, agents who operate within a system that predetermines the courses of their lives. He utters the famous lines in the final moments of his life, “there is a divinity that shapes our ends / rough-hew them how we will,” (V.ii.10-1) seemly bringing the play to its denouement with a conclusive, didactic answer to the question of predestination.

Famously, though, Hamlet is a character of constant self-contradiction. in response to the ghost’s instructions, he cries out in oxymoron: “thy commandment alone shall live / within the book and volume of my brain, / unmixed with baser matter —” (I.v.102-4). Here, Hamlet promises to lend his father’s bloodlust the space which now hosts a scholar’s library, but in his conviction he creates a paradox. If Hamlet’s brain be of “book and volume”, it lacks the “baser matter” of barbarism. Yet, here, he “book and volume of [his] brain” is reserved for blood, and he demotes his intellect to “baser” distraction. By nature, Hamlet is unable to reconcile dichotomies. Hamlet is a man whose twin selves sit either side of the fence, staring at it. He inhabits two opposite ideas at once, debating which is superior. For instance, in his frenzied promises to “sweep to revenge” with his “wings as swift / as meditation” (I.v.29-31), he attempts to combine the concepts of action and thought together, creating an awkward juxtaposition of ideas, trapping him in an abstract exercise, and preventing him from acting decisively. Hamlet could not even, after all, decide whether he wanted “to be”. Life and death, violence and scholarship, action and thought, destiny and choice – the counterparts of every incompatible pair begin to converge. 

See Hamlet as Polonius lays dying at his feet, callously urging him to “take [his] fortune,” (III.iv.32), as though Polonius’ death were due to his “intru[sions]” and not Hamlet’s own fatal error; as though some omniscient entity was wielding the weapon in Hamlet’s weary arm. This cry, “take thy fortune”, is the cry of a free actor whose folly made him the wrong man’s murderer, and who is floundering, trying to find fault in an external force. Fate, fortune and freedom each have a hand on the wheel.

This inconsistency precipitates a larger series of diversions from divine providence. These diversions constitute the manner in which Hamlet is able to affect his fate; to seal his symbiosis with it. Claudius’ original regicide was obviously against God’s will, for he – like Macbeth – was not chosen for the throne. Thus the dead king’s ghost must call on Hamlet to course-correct. A failure to comply with this call must, according to convention and to fate’s compass, correspond to Hamlet’s downfall. And he does fail, by virtue of his tragic flaw: procrastination. So then he must die, and it must be fate that kills him. It doesn’t.

Claudius is the man Hamlet was unwilling to slaughter, and this unwillingness was his crime. Twice Claudius attempts to kill Hamlet, and the success of either would be a fitting fatal consequence of Hamlet’s procrastination. In the first instance, Hamlet’s boatride-toward-death is intercepted by pirates, who spare his life and return him home. It is dumb luck afforded by fellow rogues which saves him. The second time, he saves himself. Claudius hands him a poisoned chalice, and Hamlet refuses. Refuses to relent to this resolution. Again, again, again, his fate knocks, and Hamlet leaves the door unanswered. 

He is killed, instead, by Laertes. Laertes, who cares not, knows not, of Hamlet’s assignment. Laertes, nephew to Polonius, who simply wants revenge.

Given that Polonius’ death runs adjacent to Hamlet’s failure to kill Claudius, it is tempting to believe that this ending is still the work of fate, its power therefore ultimately unaffected by Hamlet’s erring. Critically, however, this particular error did not spawn from Hamlet’s fatal flaw of inaction. It was, in fact, the only moment where Hamlet defied his own nature, discarded his passivity, and acted in line with his assignment. This kind of impulsivity was the necessary trait for success, the necessary antidote to his lack of conviction, and it was indeed “fortune”, sheer chance, that it was not Claudius behind that curtain.

If it is this moment which led to his downfall, it was not a course-correction. It was an interweaving of the lives of individuals, who make choices of their own. Fate failed to kill Hamlet for his crimes, so someone else did instead. 

The narrative of Hamlet is therefore one where free will may supercede fate, but where fate must exert influence. The ghost, fate’s canonical mouthpiece, emerges and remerges to establish its existence, and the narrative conventions of predetermination are present throughout. Nevertheless, as the play’s characters act and react, they leave fate to adjust and readjust, mutating endlessly. Ultimately, our tragic hero is felled not by his flaws but simply by a foe, who too is autonomous. In his head, Hamlet may not be able to reconcile fate with free will, but in his world they are evenly matched.

If Hamlet must relent to God, then God must relent to him too.