hy the coats are familiar. ROS
stands close, touches the coat, thoughtfully....)
ROS: Well, if it isn't--! No, wait a minute, don't tell me-it's a long
time since-where was it? Ah, this is taking me back to-when was it? I know
you, don't I? I never forget a face-(he looks into the SPY'S face). not that
I know yours that is. For a moment I thought- no, I don't know you, do I?
Yes, I'm afraid you're quite wrong. You must have mistaken me for someone
else.
(GUIL meanwhile has approached the other SPY, brow creased in thought.)
PLAYER (to GUIL): Are you familiar with this play?
GUIL: No.
PLAYER: A slaughterhouse-eight corpses all told. It brings out the best
in us.
GUIL (tense, progressively rattled during the whole mime and
commentary): You!-What do you know about death?
PLAYER: It's what the actors do best. They have to exploit whatever
talent is given to them, and their talent is dying. They can die heroically,
comically, ironically, slowly, suddenly, disgustingly, charmingly, or from a
great height. My own talent is more general. I extract significance from
melodrama, a significance which it does not in fact contain; but
occasionally, from out of this matter, there escapes a thin beam of light
that, seen at the right angle, can crack the shell of mortality.
ROS: Is that all they can do-die?
PLAYER: No, no-they kill beautifully. In fact some of them kill even
better than they die. The rest die better than they kill. They're a team.
ROS: Which ones are which?
PLAYER: There's not much in it.
GUIL (fear, derision): Actors! The mechanics of cheap melodrama! That
isn't death! (More quietly.) You scream and choke and sink to your knees,
but it doesn't bring death home to anyone-it doesn't catch them unawares and
start the whisper in their skulls that says-"One day you are going to die."
(He straightens up.) You die so many times; how can you expect them to
believe in your death?
PLAYER: On the contrary, it's the only kind they do believe. They're
conditioned to it. I had an actor once who was condemned to hang for
stealing a sheep-or a lamb, I forget which-so I got permission to have him
hanged in the middle of a play-had to change the plot a bit but I thought it
would be effective, you know-and you wouldn't believe it, he just wasn't
convincing! It was impossible to suspend one's, disbelief-and what with the
audience jeering and throwing peanuts, the whole thing was a disaster!-he
did nothing but cry all the time-right out of character-just stood there and
cried... Never again.
(In good humour he has already turned back to the mime: the two SPIES
awaiting execution at the hands of the PLAYER.) Audiences know what to
expect, and that is all that they are prepared to believe in. (To the
SPIES.)
Show!
(The SPIES die at some length, rather well.)
(The light has begun to go, and it fades as they die, and as GUIL
speaks.)
GUIL: No, no, no... you've got it all wrong... you can't act death. The
fact of it is nothing to do with seeing it happen - it's not gasps and blood
and falling about - that isn't what makes it death. It's just a man failing
to reappear, that's all - now you see him, now you don't that's the only
thing that's real: here one minute and gone the next and never coming back -
an exit, unobtrusive and unannounced, a disappearance gathering weight as it
goes on, until, finally, it is heavy with death.
(The two SPIES lie still, barely visible. The PLAYER comes forward and
throws the SPIES' cloaks over their bodies. ROS starts to clap, slowly.)
BLACKOUT.
(A second of silence, then much noise. Shouts ... "The King rises!" ...
"Give o'er the play!"... and cries for "Lights, lights, lights!")
(When the light comes, after a few seconds, it comes as a sunrise.)
(The stage is empty save for two cloaked FIGURES sprawled on the ground
in the approximate positions last held by the dead SPIES. As the light
grows, they are seen to be ROS and GUIL, and to be resting quite
comfortably. ROS raises himself on his elbows and shades his eyes as he
stares into the auditorium. Finally:)
ROS: That must be east, then. I think we can assume that.
GUIL: I'm assuming nothing.
ROS: No, it's all right. That's the sun. East.
GUIL (looks up): Where?
ROS: I watched it come up.
GUIL: No... it was light all the time, you see, and you opened your
eyes very, very slowly. If you'd been facing back there you'd be swearing
that was east.
ROS (standing up): You're a mass of prejudice.
GUIL: I've been taken in before.
ROS (looks out over the audience): Rings a bell.
GUIL: They're waiting to see what we're going to do.
ROS: Good old east.
GUIL: As soon as we make a move they'll come pouring in from every
side, shouting obscure instructions, confusing us with ridiculous remarks,
messing us about from here to breakfast and getting our names wrong.
(ROS starts to protest but he has hardly opened his mouth before:)
CLAUDIUS (off-stage - with urgency): Ho, Guildenstern!
(GUIL is still prone. Small pause.)
ROS AND GUIL: You're wanted...
(GUIL furiously leaps to his feet as CLAUDIUS and GERTRUDE enter. They
are in some desperation.)
CLAUDIUS: Friends both, go join you with some further aid: Hamlet in
madness hath Polonius slain, and from his mother's closet hath he dragged
him. Go seek him out; speak fair and bring the body into the chapel. I pray
you haste in this. (As he and GERTRUDE are hurrying out.) Come Gertrude,
we'll call up our wisest friends and let them know both what we mean to
do...
(They've gone.)
(ROS and GUIL remain quite still.)
GUIL: Well....
ROS: Quite....
GUIL: Well, well.
ROS: Quite; quite. (Nods with spurious confidence.) Seek him out.
(Pause.) Etcetera.
GUIL: Quite.
ROS: Well. (Small pause.) Well, that's a step in the right direction.
GUIL: You didn't like him?
ROS: Who?
GUIL: Good God, I hope more tears are shed for us! ...
ROS: Well, it's progress, isn't it? Something positive. Seek him out.
(Looks round without moving his feet) Where does one begin... ? (Takes one
step towards the wings and halts.)
GUIL: Well, that's a step in the right direction.
ROS: You think so? He could be anywhere.
GUIL: All right-you go that way, I'll go this way.
ROS: Right.
(They walk towards opposite wings. ROS halts.)
No.
(GUIL halts.)
You go this way-I'll go that way.
GUIL: All right.
(They march towards each other, cross. ROS halts.)
ROS: Wait a minute.
(GUIL halts.)
I think we should stick together. He might be violent.
GUIL: Good point. I'll come with you.
(GUIL marches across to ROS. They turn to leave. ROS halts.)
ROS: No, I'll come with you...
GUIL: Right.
(They turn, march across to the opposite wing. ROS halts. GUIL halts.)
ROS: I'll come with you, my way.
GUIL: All right.
(They turn again and march across. ROS halts. GUIL halts.)
ROS: I've just thought. If we both go, he could come here. That would
be stupid, wouldn't it?
GUIL: All right-I'll stay, you go.
ROS: Right.
(GUIL marches to midstage.)
I say.
(GUIL wheels and carries on marching back towards ROS who starts
marching downstage. They cross. ROS halts.)
I've just thought.
(GUIL halts.)
We ought to stick together; he might be violent.
GUIL: Good point.
(GUIL marches down to join ROS. They stand still for a moment in their
original positions.)
Well, at last we're getting somewhere.
(Pause.)
GUIL: Of course, he might not come.
ROS (airily): Oh, he'll come.
GUIL: We'd have some explaining to do.
ROS: He'll come. (Airily wanders upstage.) Don't worry-take my word for
it-(looks out-is appalled.) He's coming!
GUIL: What's he doing?
ROS: Walking.
GUIL: Alone?
ROS: No.
GUIL: Who's with him?
ROS: The old man.
GUIL: Walking?
ROS: No.
GUIL: Not walking?
ROS: No.
GUIL: Ah. That's an opening if ever there was one. (And is suddenly
galvanized into action.) Let him walk into the trap!
ROS: What trap?
GUIL: You stand there! Don't let him pass!
(He positions ROS with his back to one wing, facing HAMLET's entrance.)
(GUIL positions himself next to ROS, a few feet away, so that they are
covering one side of the stage, facing the opposite side. GUIL unfastens his
belt. ROS does the same. They join the two belts, and hold them taut between
them. ROS's trousers slide slowly down.)
(HAMLET enters opposite, slowly, dragging POLONIUS's BODY. He enters
upstage, makes a small arc and leaves by the same side, a few feet
downstage.)
(ROS and GUIL, holding the belts taut, stare at him in some
bewilderment.)
(HAMLET leaves, dragging the BODY. They relax the strain on the belts.)
ROS: That was close.
GUIL: There's a limit to what two people can do.
(They undo the belts: ROS pulls up his trousers.)
ROS (worriedly-he walks a few paces towards HAMLET's exit): He was
dead.
GUIL: Of course he's dead!
ROS (turns to GUIL): Properly.
GUIL (angrily): Death's death, isn't it?
(ROS falls silent. Pause.)
Perhaps he'll come back this way.
(ROS starts to take off his belt.)
No, no, no!-if we can't learn by experience, what else have we got?
(ROS desists.)
(Pause.)
ROS: Give him a shout.
GUIL: I thought we'd been into all that.
ROS (shouts): Hamlet!
GUIL: Don't be absurd.
ROS (shouts): Lord Hamlet!
(HAMLET enters. ROS is a little dismayed.)
What have you done, my lord, with the dead body?
HAMLET: Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin.
ROS: Tell us where 'tis, that we may take it thence and bear it to the
chapel.
HAMLET: Do not believe it.
ROS: Believe what?
HAMLET: That I can keep your counsel and not mine own. Besides, to be
demanded of a sponge, what replication should be made by the son of a king?
ROS: Take you me for a sponge, my lord?
HAMLET: Ay, sir, that soaks up the king's countenance, his rewards, his
authorities. But such officers do the King best service in the end. He keeps
them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw, first mouthed, to be last
swallowed. When he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you and,
sponge, you shall be dry again.
ROS: I understand you not, my lord.
HAMLET: I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.
ROS: My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the
King.
HAMLET: The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body.
The King is a thing-
GUIL: A thing, my lord -?
HAMLET: Of nothing. Bring me to him.
(HAMLET moves resolutely towards one wing. They move with him,
shepherding. Just before they reach the exit, HAMLET, apparently seeing
CLAUDIUS approaching from off stage, bends low in a sweeping bow. ROS and
GUIL, cued by HAMLET, also bow deeply-a sweeping ceremonial bow with their
cloaks swept round them. HAMLET, however, continues the movement into an
about-turn and walks off in the opposite direction. ROS and GUIL, with their
heads low, do not notice. No one comes on. ROS and GUIL squint upwards and
find that they are bowing to nothing.
CLAUDIUS enters behind them. At his first words they leap up and do a
double-take.)
CLAUDIUS: How now? What hath befallen?
ROS: Where the body is bestowed, my lord, we cannot get from him.
CLAUDIUS: But where is he?
ROS (fractional hesitation): Without, my lord; guarded to know your
pleasure.
CLAUDIUS (moves): Bring him before us.
(This hits ROS between the eyes but only his eyes show it. Again his
hesitation is fractional. And then with great deliberation he turns to
GUIL.)
ROS: Ho! Bring in the lord.
(Again there is a fractional moment in which ROS is smug, CUIL is
trapped and betrayed. GUIL opens his mouth and closes it.)
(The situation is saved;)
(HAMLET, escorted, is marched in just as CLAUDIUS leaves. HAMLET and
his ESCORT cross the stage and go out, following CLAUDIUS.)
(Lighting changes to Exterior.)
ROS (moves to go): All right, then?
GUIL (does not move: thoughtfully): And yet it doesn't seem enough; to
have breathed such significance. Can that be ail? And why us?-anybody would
have done. And we have contributed nothing.
ROS: It was a trying episode while it lasted, but they've done with us
now.
GUIL: Done what?
ROS: I don't pretend to have understood. Frankly, I'm not very
interested. If they won't tell us, that's their affair. (He wanders upstage
towards the exit.) For my part, I'm only glad that that's the last we've
seen of him- (And he glances offstage and turns front, his face betraying
the fact that HAMLET is there.)
GUIL: I knew it wasn't the end....
ROS (high): What else?!
GUIL: We're taking him to England. What's he doing?
(ROS goes upstage and returns.)
ROS: Talking.
GUIL: To himself?
(ROS makes to go, GUIL cuts him off.)
Is he alone?
ROS: No, he's with a soldier,
GUIL: Then he's not talking to himself, is he?
ROS: Not by himself... Should we go?
GUIL: Where?
ROS: Anywhere.
GUIL: Why?
(ROS puts up his head listening.)
ROS: There it is again. (In anguish.) All I ask is a change of ground!
GUIL (coda): Give us this day our daily round...
(HAMLET enters behind them, talking with a soldier in arms. ROS and
GUIL don't look round.)
ROS: They'll have us hanging about till we're dead. At least. And the
weather will change. (Looks up.) The spring can't last for ever.
HAMLET: Good sir, whose powers are these?
SOLDIER: They are of Norway, sir.
HAMLET: How purposed, sir, I pray you?
SOLDIER: Against some part of Poland.
HAMLET: Who commands them, sir?
SOLDIER: The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.
ROS: We'll be cold. The summer won't last.
GUIL: It's autumnal.
ROS (examining the ground): No leaves.
GUIL: Autumnal-nothing to do with leaves. It is to do with a certain
brownness at the edges of the day... Brown is creeping up on us, take my
word for it... Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very
outside edge of the senses... deep shining ochres, burnt umber and
parchments of baked earth-reflecting on itself and through itself, filtering
the light. At such times, perhaps, coincidentally, the leaves might fall,
somewhere, by repute. Yesterday was blue, like smoke.
ROS (head up, listening): I got it again then.
(They listen-faintest sound of TRAGEDIANS' band.)
HAMLET: I humbly thank you, sir.
SOLDIER: God by you, sir. (Exit.)
(ROS gets up quickly and goes to HAMLET.)
ROS: Will it please you go, my lord?
HAMLET: I'll be with you straight. Go you a little before.
(HAMLET turns to face upstage. ROS returns down. GUIL faces front,
doesn't turn.)
GUIL: Is he there?
ROS: Yes.
GUIL: What's he doing?
(ROS looks over his shoulder.)
ROS: Talking.
GUIL: To himself?
ROS: Yes.
(Pause. ROS makes to leave.)
ROS: He said we can go. Cross my heart.
GUIL: I like to know where I am. Even if I don't know where I am, I
like to know that. If we go there's no knowing.
ROS: No knowing what?
GUIL: If we'll ever come back.
ROS: We don't want to come back.
GUIL: That may very well be true, but do we want to go?
ROS: We'll be free.
GUIL: I don't know. It's the same sky.
ROS: We've come this far.
(He moves towards exit. GUIL follows him.)
And besides, anything could happen yet.
(They go.)
BLACKOUT
Act three
Opens in pitch darkness.
Soft sea sounds.
After several seconds of nothing, a voice from the dark .
GUIL: Are you there?
ROS: Where?
GUIL (bitterly): A flying start....
(Pause.)
ROS: Is that you?
GUIL: Yes.
ROS: How do you know?
GUIL (explosion): Oh-for-God's-sake!
ROS: We're not finished, then?
GUIL: Well, we're here, aren't we?
ROS: Are we? I can't see a thing.
GUIL: You can still think, can't you?
ROS: I think so.
GUIL: You can still talk.
ROS: What should I say?
GUIL: Don't bother. You can feel, can't you?
ROS: Ah! There's life in me yet!
GUIL: What are you feeling?
ROS: A leg. Yes, it feels like my leg.
GUIL: How does it feel?
ROS: Dead.
GUIL: Dead?
ROS (panic): I can't feel a thing!
GUIL: Give it a pinch! (Immediately he yelps.)
ROS: Sorry.
GUIL: Well, that's cleared that up.
(Longer pause: the sound builds a little and identifies itself-the sea.
Ship timbers, wind in the rigging, and then shouts of sailors calling
obscure but inescapably nautical instructions from all directions, far and
near: A short list:
Hard a larboard!
Let go the stays!
Reef down me hearties!
Is that you, cox'n?
Hel-llo! Is that you?
Hard a port!
Easy as she goes!
Keep her steady on the lee!
Haul away, lads!
SNATCHES OF SEA SHANTY MAYBE
Fly the jib!
Tops'I up, me maties!)
(When the point has been well made and more so.)
ROS: We're on a boat. (Pause.) Dark, isn't it?
GUIL: Not for night.
ROS: No, not for night.
GUIL: Dark for day.
(Pause.)
ROS: Oh yes, it's dark for day.
GUIL: We must have gone north, of course.
ROS: Off course?
GUIL: Land of the midnight sun, that is.
ROS: Of course.
(Some sailor sounds.)
(A lantern is lit upstage-in fact by HAMLET.)
(The stage lightens disproportionately.)
(Enough to see:
ROS and GUIL sitting downstage.)
(Vague shapes of rigging, etc., behind.)
I think it's getting light.
GUIL: Not for night.
ROS: This far north.
GUIL: Unless we're off course.
ROS (small pause): Of course.
(A better light-Lantern? Moon? ... Light.)
(Revealing, among other things, three large man-sized casks on deck,
upended, with lids. Spaced but in line. Behind and above-a gaudy striped
umbrella, on a pole stuck into the deck, tilted so that we do not see behind
it-one of those huge six-foot diameter jobs. Still dim upstage.)
(ROS and GUIL still facing front.)
ROS: Yes, it's lighter than it was. It'll be night soon. This far
north. (Dolefully.) I suppose we'll have to go to sleep. (He yawns and
stretches.)
GUIL: Tired?
ROS: No.... I don't think I'd take to it. Sleep all night, can't see a
thing all day.... Those eskimos must have a quiet life.
GUIL: Where?
ROS: What?
GUIL: I thought you - (Relapses.) I've lost all capacity for disbelief.
I'm not sure that I could even rise to a little gentle scepticism. (Pause.)
ROS: Well, shall we stretch our legs?
GUIL: I don't feel like stretching my legs.
ROS: I'll stretch them for you, if you like.
GUIL: No.
ROS: We could stretch each other's. That way we wouldn't have to go
anywhere.
GUIL (pause): No, somebody might come in.
ROS: In where?
GUIL: Out here.
ROS: In out here?
GUIL: On deck.
(ROS considers the floor: slaps it.)
ROS: Nice bit of planking, that.
GUIL: Yes, I'm very fond of boats myself. I like the way
they're-contained. You don't have to worry about which way to go, or whether
to go at all-the question doesn't arise, because you're on a boat, aren't
you? Boats are safe areas in the game of tag ... the players will hold their
positions until the music starts.... I think I'll spend most of my life on
boats.
ROS: Very healthy.
(ROS inhales with expectation, exhales with boredom. GUIL stands up and
looks over the audience.)
GUIL: One is free on a boat. For a time. Relatively.
ROS: What's it like?
GUIL: Rough.
(ROS joins him. They look out over the audience.)
ROS: I think I'm going to be sick.
(GUIL licks a finger, holds it up experimentally.)
GUIL: Other side, I think.
(ROS goes upstage: Ideally a sort of upper deck joined to the downstage
lower deck by short steps. The umbrella being on the upper deck. ROS pauses
by the umbrella and looks behind it.)
(GUIL meanwhile has been resuming his own theme - looking out over the
audience - )
Free to move, speak, extemporise, and yet. We have not been cut loose.
Our truancy is defined by one fixed star, and our drift represents merely a
slight chance of angle to it: we may seize the moment, toss it around while
the moment pass, a short dash here, an exploration there, but we are brought
round full circle to face again the single immutable fact - that we,
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, are taking Hamlet to England.
(By which time, ROS has returned, tiptoeing with great import, teeth
clenched for secrecy, get to GUIL, points surreptitiously behind him - and a
tight whisper:)
ROS: I say - he's here!
GUIL (unsurprised): What's he doing?
ROS: Sleeping.
GUIL: It's all right for him.
ROS: What is?
GUIL: He can sleep.
ROS: It's all right for him.
GUIL: He's got us now.
ROS: He can sleep.
GUIL: It's all done for him.
ROS: He's got us.
GUIL: And we've got nothing. (A cry.) All I ask is our common due!
ROS: For those in peril of the sea...
GUIL: Give us this day our daily cue.
(Beat, pause. Sit. Long pause.)
ROS (after shifting, looking around): What now?
GUIL: What do you mean?
ROS: Well, nothing is happening.
GUIL: We're on a boat.
ROS: I'm aware of that.
GUIL (angrily): Then what do you expect? (Unhappily.) We act on scraps
of information... sifting half-remembered directions that we can hardly
separate from instinct.
(ROS puts a hand into his purse, then both hands behind his back, then
holds his fists out.)
(GUIL taps one fist.)
(ROS opens it to show a coin.)
(He gives it to GUIL.)
(He puts his hand back into his purse. Then both hands behind his back,
then holds his fists out.)
(GUIL taps one fist.)
(ROS opens it to show a coin. He gives it to GUIL.)
(Repeat.)
(Repeat.)
(GUIL getting tense. Desperate to lose.)
(Repeat.)
(GUIL taps a hand, changes his mind, taps the other, and ROS
inadvertently reveals that he has a coin in both fists.)
GUIL: You had money in both hands.
ROS (embarrassed): Yes.
GUIL: Every time?
ROS: Yes.
GUIL: What's the point of that?
ROS (pathetic): I wanted to make you happy.
(Beat.)
GUIL: How much did he give you?
ROS: Who?
GUIL: The king. He gave us some money.
ROS: How much did he give you?
GUIL: I asked you first.
ROS: I got the same as you.
GUIL: He wouldn't discriminate between us.
ROS: How much did you get?
GUIL: The same.
ROS: How do you know?
GUIL: You just told me - how do you know?
ROS: He wouldn't discriminate between us.
GUIL: Even if he could.
ROS: Which he never could.
GUIL: He couldn't even be sure of mixing us up.
ROS: Without mixing us up.
GUIL (turning on him furiously): Why don't you say something original!
No wonder the whole thing is so stagnant! You don't take me up on
anything-you just repeat it in a different order.
ROS: I can't think of anything original. I'm only good in support.
GUIL: I'm sick of making the running.
ROS (humbly): It must be your dominant personality. (Almost in tears.)
Oh, what's going to become of us!
(And GUIL comforts him, all harshness gone.)
GUIL: Don't cry... it's all right... there... there, I'll see we're all
right.
ROS: But we've got nothing to go on, we're out on our own.
GUIL: We're on our way to England - we're taking Hamlet there.
ROS: What for?
GUIL: What for? Where have you been?
ROS: When? (Pause.) We won't know what to do when we get there.
GUIL: We take him to the king.
ROS: Will he be there?
GUIL: No - the king of England.
ROS: He's expecting us?
GUIL: No.
ROS: He won't know what we're playing at. What are we going to say?
GUIL: We've got a letter. You remember the letter.
ROS: Do I?
GUIL: Everything is explained in the letter. We count on that.
ROS: Is that it, then?
GUIL: What?
ROS: We take Hamlet to the English king, we hand over the letter - what
then?
GUIL: There may be something in the letter to keep us going a bit.
ROS: And if not?
GUIL: Then that's it-we're finished.
ROS: At a loose end?
GUIL: Yes.
(Pause.)
ROS: Are there likely to be loose ends? (Pause.) Who is the English
King?
GUIL: That depends on when we get there.
ROS: What do you think it says?
GUIL: Oh... greetings. Expressions of loyalty. Asking of favours,
calling in of debts. Obscure promises balanced by vague threats....
Diplomacy. Regards to the family.
ROS: And about Hamlet?
GUIL: Oh yes.
ROS: And us-the full background?
GUIL: I should say so.
(Pause.)
ROS: So we've got a letter which explains everything.
GUIL: You've got it.
(ROS takes that literally. He starts to pat his pockets, etc.)
What's the matter?
ROS: The letter.
GUIL: Have you got it?
ROS (rising fear): Have I? (Searches frantically.) Where would I have
put it?
GUIL: You can't have lost it.
ROS: I must have!
GUIL: That's odd-I thought he gave it to me.
(ROS looks at him hopefully.)
ROS: Perhaps he did.
GUIL: But you seemed so sure it was you who hadn't got it.
ROS (high): It was me who hadn't got it!
GUIL: But if he gave it to me there's no reason why you should have had
it in the first place, in which case I don't see what all the fuss is about
you not having it.
ROS (pause): I admit it's confusing.
GUIL: This is all getting rather undisciplined... The boat, the night,
the sense of isolation and uncertainty... all these induce a loosening of
the concentration. We must not lose control. Tighten up. Now. Either you
have lost the letter or you didn't have it to lose in the first place, in
which case the king never gave it to you, in which case he gave it to me, in
which case I would have put it into my inside top pocket in which case
(calmly producing the letter)... it will be... here. (They smile at each
other.) We mustn't drop off like that again.
(Pause. ROS takes the letter gently from him.)
ROS: Now that we have found it, why were we looking for it?
GUIL (thinks): We thought it was lost.
ROS: Something else?
GUIL: No.
(Deflation.)
ROS: Now we've lost the tension.
GUIL: What tension?
ROS: What was the last thing I said before we wandered off?
GUIL: When was that?
ROS (helplessly): I can't remember.
GUIL (leaping up): What a shambles! We're just not getting anywhere.
ROS (mournfully): Not even England. I don't believe in it anyway.
GUIL: What?
ROS: England.
GUIL: Just a conspiracy of cartographers, you mean?
ROS: I mean I don't believe it! (Calmer.) I have no image. I try to
picture us arriving, a little harbour perhaps... roads... inhabitants to
point the way... horses on the road... riding for a day or a fortnight and
then a palace and the English king,... That would be the logical kind of
thing... But my mind remains a blank. No. We're slipping off the map.
GUIL: Yes... yes... (Rallying.) But you don't believe anything till it
happens. And it has all happened. Hasn't it?
ROS: We drift down time, clutching at straws. But what good's a brick
to a drowning man?
GUIL: Don't give up, we can't be long now.
ROS: We might as well be dead. Do you think death could possibly be a
boat?
GUIL: No, no, no... Death is... not. Death isn't. You take my meaning.
Death is the ultimate negative. Not-being. You can't not-be on a boat.
ROS: I've frequently not been on boats.
GUIL: No, no, no - what you've been is not on boats.
ROS: I wish I was dead. (Considers the drop.) I could jump over the
side. That would put a spoke in their wheel.
GUIL: Unless they're counting on it.
ROS: I shall remain on board. That'll put a spoke in their wheel.
(The futility of it, fury.) All right! We don't question, we don't
doubt. We perform. But a line must be drawn somewhere, and I would like to
put it on record that I have no confidence in England. Thank you. (Thinks
about this.) And even if it's true, it'll just be another shambles.
GUIL: I don't see why.
ROS (furious): He won't know what we're talking about - What are we
going to say?
GUIL: We say - Your majesty, we have arrived.
ROS (kingly): And who are you?
GUIL: We are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
ROS (barks): Never heard of you!
GUIL: Well, we're nobody special -
ROS (regal and nasty): What's your game?
GUIL: We've got our instructions -
ROS: First I've heard of it -
GUIL (angrily): Let me finish - (Humble.) We've come from Denmark,
ROS: What do you want?
GUIL: Nothing-we're delivering Hamlet -
ROS: Who's he?
GUIL (irritated): You've heard of him--
ROS: Oh, I've heard of him all right and I want nothing to do with it.
GUIL: But -
ROS: You march in here without so much as a by your leave and expect me
to take every lunatic you try to pass off with a lot of unsubstantiated -
GUIL: We've got a letter -
(ROS snatches it and tears it open.)
ROS (efficiently): I see... I see... well, this seems to support your
story such as it is - it is an exact command from the king of Denmark, for
several different reasons, importing Denmark's health and England's too,
that on the reading of this letter, without delay, I should have Hamlet's
head cut off -!
(GUIL snatches the letter. ROS, doubletaking, snatches it back, GUIL
snatches it halfback. They read it together, and separate.)
(Pause.)
(They are well downstage looking front.)
ROS: The sun's going down. It will be dark soon.
GUIL: Do you think so?
ROS: I was just making conversation. (Pause.) We're his friends.
GUIL: How do you know?
ROS: From our young days brought up with him.
GUIL: You've only got their word for it.
ROS: But that's what we depend on.
GUIL: Well, yes, and then again no. (Airily.) Let us keep things in
proportion. Assume, if you like, that they're going to kill him. Well, he is
a man, he is mortal, death comes to us all, etcetera, and consequently he
would have died anyway, sooner or later. Or to look at it from the social
point of view-he's just one man among many, the loss would be well within
reason and convenience. And then again, what is so terrible about death? As
Socrates so philosophically put it, since we don't know what death is, it is
illogical to fear it. It might be... very nice. Certainly it is a release
from the burden of life, and, for the godly, a haven and a reward. Or to
look at it another way - we are little men, we don't know the ins and outs
of the matter, there are wheels within wheels, etcetera - it would be
presumptuous of us to interfere with the designs of fate or even of kings.
All in all, I think we'd be well advised to leave well alone. Tie up the
letter - there - neatly - like that - They won't notice the broken seal,
assuming you were in character.
ROS: But what's the point?
GUIL: Don't apply logic.
ROS: He's done nothing to us.
GUIL: Or justice.
ROS: It's awful.
GUIL: But it could have been worse. I was beginning to think it was.
(And his relief comes out in a laugh.)
(Behind them HAMLET appears from behind the umbrella. The light has
been going. Slightly. HAMLET is going to the lantern.)t
ROS: The position as I see it, then. We, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,
from our young days brought up with him, awakened by a man standing on his
saddle, are summoned, and arrive, and are instructed to glean what afflicts
him and draw him on to pleasures, such as a play, which unfortunately, as it
turns out, is abandoned in some confusion owing to certain nuances outside
our appreciation - which, among other causes, results in, among other
effects, a high, not to say, homicidal, excitement in Hamlet, whom we, in
consequence, are escorting, for his own good, to England. Good. We're on top
of it now.
(HAMLET blows out the lantern. The stage goes pitch black.)
(The Black resolves itself to moonlight, by which HAMLET approaches the
sleeping ROS and GUIL. He extracts the letter and takes it behind his
umbrella; the tight of his lantern shines through the fabric, HAMLET emerges
again with a letter, and replaces it, and retires, blowing out his lantern.)
(Morning comes.)
(ROS watches it coming-from the auditorium. Behind him is a gay sight.
Beneath the re-tilted umbrella, reclining in a deckchair, wrapped in a rug,
reading a book, possibly smoking, sits Hamlet.)
(ROS watches the morning come, and brighten to high noon.)
ROS: I'm assuming nothing. (He stands up. GUIL wakes.) The position as
I see it, then. That's west unless we're off course, in which case it's
night; the king gave me the same as you, the king gave you the same as me:
the king never gave me the letter, the king gave you the letter, we don't
know what's in the letter; we take Hamlet to the English king, it depending
on when we get there who he is, and we hand over the letter, which may or
may not have something in it to keep us going, and if not, we are finished
and at a loose end, if they have loose ends. We could have done worse. I
don't think we missed any chance... Not that we're getting much help. (He
sits down again. They lie down - prone.) If we stopped breathing we'd
vanish.
(The muffled sound of a recorder. They sit up with disproportionate
interest.) Here we go.
Yes, but what?
(They listen to the music.)
GUIL (excitedly): Out of the void, finally, a sound; while on a boat
(admittedly) outside the action (admittedly) the perfect and absolute
silence of the wet lazy slap of water against water and the rolling creak of
timber-breaks; giving rise at once to the speculation or the assumption or
the hope that something is about to happen; a pipe is heard. One of the
sailors has pursed his lips against a woodwind, his fingers and thumb
governing, shall we say, the ventages, whereupon, giving it breath, let us
say, with his mouth, it, the pipe, discourses, as the saying goes, most
eloquent music. A thing like that, it could change the course of events.
(Pause.) Go and see what it is.
ROS: It's someone playing on a pipe.
GUIL: Go and find him.
ROS: And then what?
GUIL: I don't know - request a tune.
ROS: What for?
GUIL: Quick-before we lose our momentum.
ROS: Why!-something is happening. It had quite escaped my attention!
(He listens: Makes a stab at an exit. Listens more carefully: Changes
direction:)
(GUIL takes no notice.)
(ROS wanders about trying to decide where the music comes from. Finally
he tracks it down - unwillingly - to the middle barrel. There is no getting
away from it. He turns to GUIL who takes no notice. ROS, during this whole
business, never quite breaks into articulate speech. His face and his hands
indicate his incredulity. He stands gazing at the middle barrel. The pipe
plays on within. He kicks the barrel. The pipe stops. He leaps back towards
GUIL. The pipe starts up again. He approaches the barrel cautiously. He
lifts the lid. The music is louder. He slams down the lid. The music is
softer. He goes back towards GUIL. But a drum starts, muffled. He freezes.
He turns. Considers the left-hand barrel. The drumming goes on within, in
time to the flute. He walks back to GUIL. He opens his mouth to speak.
Doesn't make it. A lute is heard. He spins round at the third barrel. More
instruments join in. Until it is quite inescapable that inside the three
barrels, distributed, playing together a familiar tune which has been heard
three times before, are the TRAGEDIANS.)
(They play on.)
(ROS sits beside GUIL. They stare ahead.)
(The tune comes to an end.)
(Pause.)
ROS: I thought I heard a band. (In anguish.) Plausibility is all I
presume!
GUIL (coda): Call us this day our daily tune....
(The lid of the middle barrel flies open and the PLAYER's head pops
out.)
PLAYER: Aha! All in the same boat, then! (He climbs out. He goes round
banging on the barrels.)
Everybody out!
(Impossibly, the TRAGEDIANS climb out of the barrels. With their
instruments, but not their cart. A few bundles. Except ALFRED. The PLAYER is
cheerful.)
(To ROS.) Where are we?
ROS: Travelling.
PLAYER: Of course, we haven't got there yet.
ROS: Are we all right for England?
PLAYER: You look all right to me. I don't think they're very particular
in England. Al-I-fred!
(ALFRED emerges from the PLAYER's barrel.)
GUIL: What are you doing here?
PLAYER: Travelling. (To TRAGEDIANS.) Right-blend into the background!
(The TRAGEDIANS are in costume (from the mime): A King with crown,
ALFRED as Queen, Poisoner and the two Cloaked figures.)
(They blend.)
(To GUIL.) Pleased to see us? (Pause.) You've come out of it very well,
so far.
GUIL: And you?
PLAYER: In disfavour. Our play offended the king.
GUIL: Yes.
PLAYER: Well, he's a second husband himself. Tactless, really.
ROS: It was quite a good play nevertheless.
PLAYER: We never really got going-it was getting quite interesting when
they stopped it.
(Looks up at HAMLET.)
That's the way to travel...
GUIL: What were you doing in there?
PLAYER: Hiding. (Indicating costumes.) We had to run for it just as we
were.
ROS: Stowaways.
PLAYER: Naturally-we didn't get paid, owing to circumstances ever so
slightly beyond our control, and all the money we had we lost betting on
certainties. Life is a gamble, at terrible odds-if it was a bet you wouldn't
take it. Did you know that any number doubled is even?
ROS: Is it?
PLAYER: We learn something every day, to our cost. But we troupers just
go on and on. Do you know what happens to old actors?
ROS: What?
PLAYER: Nothing. They're still acting. Surprised, then?
GUIL: What?
PLAYER: Surprised to see us?
GUIL: I knew it wasn't the end.
PLAYER: With practically everyone on his feet. What do you make of it,
so far?
GUIL: We haven't got much to go on.
PLAYER: You speak to him?
ROS: It's possible.
GUIL: But it wouldn't make any difference.
ROS: But it's possible.
GUIL: Pointless.
ROS: It's allowed.
GUIL: Allowed, yes. We are not restricted. No boundaries have been
defined, no inhibitions imposed. We have, for the while, secured, or
blundered into, our release, for the while. Spontaneity and whim are the
order of the day. Other wheels are turning but they are not our concern. We
can breathe. We can relax. We can do what we like and say what we like to
whomever we like, without restriction.
ROS: Within limits, of course.
GUIL: Certainly within limits.
(HAMLET comes down to footlights and regards the audience. The others
watch but don't speak. HAMLET clears his throat noisily and spits into the
audience. A split second later he claps his hand to his eye and wipes
himself. He goes back upstage.)
ROS: A compulsion towards philosophical introspection is his chief
characteristic, if I may put it like that. It does not mean he is mad. It
does mean he isn't. Very often, it does not mean anything at all. Which may
or may not be a kind of madness.
GUIL: It really boils down to symptoms. Pregnant replies, mystic
allusions, mistaken identities, arguing his father is his mother, that sort
of thing; intimations of suicide, forgoing of exercise, loss of mirth, hints
of claustrophobia not to say delusions of imprisonment; invocations of
camels, chameleons, capons, whales, weasels, hawks, handsaws - riddles,
quibbles and evasions; amnesia, paranoia, myopia; day-dreaming,
hallucinations; stabbing his elders, abusing his parents, insulting his
lover, and appearing hatless in public - knock-kneed, droop-stockinged and
sighing like a love-sick schoolboy, which at his age is coming on a bit
strong.
ROS: And talking to himself.
GUIL: And talking to himself.
(ROS and GUIL move apart together.)
Well, where has that got us?
ROS: He's the Player.
GUIL: His play offended the king-
ROS: -offended the king-
GUIL: -who orders his arrest-
ROS: -orders his arrest-
GUIL: -so he escapes to England-
ROS: On the boat to which he meets-
GUIL: Guildenstern and Rosencrantz taking Hamlet-
ROS: -who also offended the king-
GUIL: -and killed Polonius-
ROS: -offended the king in a variety of ways-
GUIL: -to England. (Pause.) That seems to be it.
(ROS jumps up.)
ROS: Incidents! All we get is incidents! Dear God, is it too much to
expect a little sustained action?!
(And on the word, the PIRATES attack. That is to say:
Noise and shouts and rushing about. "Pirates".)
(Everyone visible goes frantic. HAMLET draws his sword and rushes
downstage. GUIL, ROS and PLAYER draw swords and rush upstage, collision.
HAMLET turns his back up. They turn back down. Collision. By which time
there is general panic right upstage. All four charge upstage with ROS, GUIL
and PLAYER shouting:
At last!
To arms!
Pirates!
Up there!
Down there!
To my sword's length!
Action!
(All four reach the top, see something they don't like, waver, run for
their lives downstage:)
(HAMLET, in the lead, leaps into the left barrel. PLAYER leaps into the
right barrel. ROS and GUIL leap into the middle barrel. All closing the lids
after them.)
(The lights dim to nothing while the sound of fighting continues. The
sound fades to nothing. The lights come up.)
(The middle barrel (ROS's and GUIL's) is missing.)
(The lid of the right-hand barrel is raised cautiously, the heads of
ROS and GUIL appear.)
(The lid of the other barrel (HAMLET's) is raised. The head of the
PLAYER appears.)
(All catch sight of each other and slam down lids.)
(Pause.)
(Lids raised cautiously.)
ROS (relief): They've gone. (He starts to climb out.) That was close.
I've never thought quicker.
(They are all three out of barrels. GUIL is wary and nervous. ROS is
light-headed. The PLAYER is phlegmatic. They note the missing barrel.)
(ROS look round.)
ROS: Where's -?
(The PLAYER takes off his hat in mourning.)
PLAYER: Once more, alone-on our own resources.
GUIL (worried): What do you mean? Where is he?
PLAYER: Gone.
GUIL: Gone where?
PLAYER: Yes, we were dead lucky there. If that's the word I'm after.
ROS (not a pick up): Dead?
PLAYER: Lucky.
ROS (he means): Is he dead?
PLAYER: Who knows?
GUIL (rattled): He's not coming back?
PLAYER: Hardly.
ROS: He's dead then. He's dead as far as we're concerned.
PLAYER: Or we are as far as he is. (He goes and sits on the floor to
one side.) Not too bad, is it?
GUIL (rattled): But he can't - We're supposed to be - We've got a
letter-We're going to England with a letter for the king -
PLAYER: Yes, that much seems certain. I congratulate you on the
unambiguity of your situation.
GUIL: But you don't understand - it contains - we've had our
instructions - The whole thing's pointless without him.
PLAYER: Pirates could happen to anyone. Just deliver the letter.
They'll send ambassadors from England to explain...
GUIL (worked up): Can't see - the pirates left us home and high - dry
and home -drome- (furiously). The pirates left us high and dry!
PLAYER (comforting): There...
GUIL (near tears): Nothing will be resolved without him...
PLAYER: There... !
GUIL: We need Hamlet for our release!
PLAYER: There!
GUIL: What are we supposed to do?
PLAYER: This.
(He turns away, lies down if he likes. ROS and GUIL apart.)
ROS: Saved again.
GUIL: Saved for what?
(ROS sighs.)
ROS: The sun's going down. (Pause.) It'll be night soon. (Pause.) If
that's west. (Pause.) Unless we've -
GUIL (shouts): Shut up! I'm sick of it! Do you think conversation is
going to help us now?
ROS (hurt, desperately ingratiating): I - I bet you all the money I've
got the year of my birth doubled is an odd number.
GUIL (moan): No-o.
ROS: Your birth!
(GUIL smashes him down.)
GUIL (broken): We've travelled too far, and our momentum has taken
over; we move idly towards eternity, without possibility of reprieve or hope
of explanation.
ROS: Be happy-If you're not even happy what's so good about surviving?
(He picks himself up.) We'll be all right. I suppose we just go on.
GUIL: Go where?
ROS: To England.
GUIL: England! That's a dead end. I never believed in it anyway.
ROS: All we've got to do is make our report and that'll be that.
Surely.
GUIL: I don't believe it - A shore, a harbour, say - and we get off and
we stop someone and say - Where's the king?- And he says, oh, you follow
that road there and take the first left and -( furiously). I don't believe
any of it!
ROS: It doesn't sound very plausible.
GUIL: And even if we came face to face, what do we say?
ROS: We say - We've arrived!
GUIL (kingly): And who are you?
ROS: We are Guildenstern and Rosencrantz.
GUIL: Which is which?
ROS: Well, I'm - You're -
GUIL: What's it all about? -
ROS: Well, we were bringing Hamlet - but then some pirates -
GUIL: I don't begin to understand. Who are all these people, what's it
got to do with me? You turn up out of the blue with some cock and bull story
-
ROS (with letter): We have a letter -
GUIL (snatches it, opens it): A letter - yes - that's true. That's
something... a letter... (reads). "As England is Denmark's faithful
tributary... as love between them like the palm might flourish, etcetera...
that on the knowing of this contents, without delay of any kind, should
those bearers, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, put to sudden death-"
(He double takes. ROS snatches the letter. GUIL snatches it back. ROS
snatches it halfback. They read it again and look up.)
(The PLAYER gets to his feet and walks over to his barrel and kicks it
and shouts into it.)
PLAYER: They've gone-It's all over!
(One by one the players emerge, impossibly, from the barrel, and form a
casually menacing circle round ROS and GUIL who are still appalled and
mesmerised.)
GUIL (quietly): Where we went wrong was getting on a boat. We can move,
of course, change direction, rattle about, but our movement is contained
within a larger one that carries us along as inexorably as the wind and
current...
ROS: They had it in for us, didn't they? Right from the beginning.
Who'd have thought that we were so important?
GUIL: But why? Was it all for this? Who are we that so much should
converge on our little deaths? (In anguish to the PLAYER.) Who are we?
PLAYER: You are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. That's enough.
GUIL: No - it is not enough. To be told so little - to such an end -
and still, finally, to be denied an explanation...
PLAYER: In our experience, most things end in death.
GUIL (fear, vengeance, scorn): Your experience?-Actors!
(He snatches a dagger from the PLAYER's belt and holds the point at the
PLAYER's throat: the PLAYER backs and GUIL advances, speaking more quietly.)
I'm talking about death-and you've never experienced that. And you
cannot act it. You die a thousand casual deaths-with none of that intensity
which squeezes out life... and no blood runs cold anywhere. Because even as
you die you know that you will come back in a different hat. But no one gets
up after death-there is no applause-there is only silence and some
second-hand clothes, and that's - death -
(And he pushes the blade in up to the hilt. The PLAYER stands with
huge, terrible eyes, clutches at the wound as the blade withdraws: he makes
small weeping sounds and falls to his knees, and then right down:)
(While he is dying, GUIL, nervous, high, almost hysterical, wheels on
the TRAGEDIANS-)
If we have a destiny, then so had he - and if this is ours, then that
was his - and if there are no explanations for us, then let there be none
for him -
(The TRAGEDIANS watch the PLAYER die: they watch with some interest.
The PLAYER finally lies still. A short moment of silence. Then the
tragedians start to applaud with genuine admiration. The PLAYER stands up,
brushing himself down.)
PLAYER (modestly): Oh, come, come, gentlemen - no flattery - it was
merely competent-
(The tragedians are stilt congratulating him. The PLAYER approaches
GUIL, who stands rooted, holding the dagger.)
What did you think? (Pause.) You see, it is the kind they do believe in
- it's what is expected.
(He holds his hand out for the dagger. GUIL slowly puts the point of
the dagger on to the PLAYER's hand, and pushes ... the blade slides back
into the handle. The PLAYER smiles, reclaims the dagger.)
For a moment you thought I'd - cheated.
(ROS relieves his own tension with loud nervy laughter.)
ROS: Oh, very good! Very good! Took me in completely - didn't he take
you in completely-(claps his hands.) Encore! Encore!
PLAYER (activated, arms spread, the professional): Deaths for all ages
and occasions! Deaths by suspension, convulsion, consumption, incision,
execution, asphyxiation and malnutrition-! Climatic carnage, by poison and
by steel-! Double deaths by duel-! Show!
(ALFRED, still in his queen's costume, dies by poison: the PLAYER, with
rapier, kills the "KING" and duels with a fourth TRAGEDIAN, inflicting and
receiving a wound: the two remaining tragedians, the two "SPIES" dressed in
the same coats as ROS and GUIL, are stabbed, as before.)
(And the light is fading over the deaths which take place right
upstage.)
(Dying amid the dying-tragically; romantically.) So there's an end to
that-it's commonplace: light goes with life, and in the winter of your years
the dark comes early...
GUIL (tired, drained, but stilt an edge of impatience; over the mime):
No... no... not for us, not like that. Dying is not romantic, and death is
not a game which will soon be over... Death is not anything ... death is
not... It's the absence of presence, nothing more ... the endless time of
never coming back ... a gap you can't see, and when the wind blows through
it, it makes no sound...
(The light has gone upstage. Only GUIL and ROS are visible as ROS's;
clapping falters to silence.)
(Small pause.)
ROS: That's it, then, is it?
(No answer, he looks out front.)
The sun's going down. Or the earth's coming up, as the fashionable
theory has it.
(Small pause.) Not that it makes any difference.
(Pause.)
What was it all about? When did it begin?
(Pause, no answer.)
Couldn't we just stay put? I mean no one is going to come on and drag
us off.... They Ml just have to wait. We're still young ... fit... we've got
years...
(Pause. No answer.)
(A cry.) We've nothing wrong! We didn't harm anyone. Did we?
GUIL: I can't remember.
(ROS pulls himself together.)
ROS: All right, then. I don't care. I've had enough. To tell you the
truth, I'm relieved.
(And he disappears from view.)
(GUIL does not notice.)
GUIL: Our names shouted in a certain dawn ... a message ... a
summons... there must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could
have said-no. But somehow we missed it.
(He looks round and sees he is alone.)
Rosen--?
Guil--?
(He gathers himself.)
Well, we'll know better next time. Now you see me, now you -
(And disappears.)
(Immediately the whole stage is lit up, revealing, upstage, arranged in
the approximate positions last held by the dead TRAGEDIANS, the tableau of
court and corpses which is the last scene of "Hamlet".)
(That is: The KING, QUEEN, LAERTES and HAMLET all dead. HORATIO holds
HAMLET. FORTINBRAS is there.)
(So are two AMBASSADORS from England.)
AMBASSADORS: The signal is dismal;
and our affairs from England come too late.
The ears are senseless that should give us hearing to
tell him his commandment is fulfilled, that
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.
Where should we have our thanks?
HORATIO: Not from his mouth, had it the ability of life to thank you:
He never gave commandment for their death. But since, so jump upon this
bloody question, you from the Polack wars, and you from England, are here
arrived, give order that these bodies high on a stage be placed to the view;
and let me speak to the yet unknowing world how these things came about: so
shall you hear of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, of accidental
judgements, casual slaughters, of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause,
and, in this upshot, purposes mistook fallen on the inventors' heads: all
this can I truly deliver.
(But during the above speech the play fades, overtaken by dark and
music.)
THE END