by Tom Stoppard
ROS leaps up, dissembling madly.
ROS : You never! It’s a lie! (He catches himself with a giggle in a vacuum and sits down again.)
PLAYER : We’re actors We pledged our identities, secure in the conventions of our trade, that someone would be watching. And then, gradually, no one was. We were caught, high and dry. It was not until the murderer’s long soliloquy that we were able to look around; frozen as we were in profile, our eyes searched you out, first confidently, then hesitantly, then desperately as each patch of turf, each log, every exposed corner in every direction proved uninhabited, and all the while the murderous King addressed the horizon with his dreary interminable guilt. . . . Our heads began to move, wary as lizards, the corpse of unsullied Rosalinda peeped through his fingers, and the King faltered. Even then, habit and a stubborn trust that our audience spied upon us from behind the nearest bush, forced our bodies to blunder on long after they had emptied of meaning, until like runaway carts they dragged to a halt. No one came forward. No one shouted at us. The silence was unbreakable, it imposed itself upon us; it was obscene. We took off our crowns and swords and cloth of gold and moved silent on the road to Elsinore.
Silence. Then GUIL claps solo with slow measured irony.
GUIL : Brilliantly recreated—if these eyes could weep! . . . Rather strong on metaphor, mind you. No criticism—only a matter of taste. And so here you are—with a vengeance. That’s a figure of speech . . . isn’t it? Well let’s say we’ve made up for it, for you may have no doubt whom to thank for your performance at the court.
ROS : We are counting on you to take him out of himself. You are the pleasures which we draw him on to— (he escapes a fractional giggle but recovers immediately) and by that I don’t mean your usual filth; you can’t treat royalty like people with normal perverted desires. They know nothing of that and you know nothing of them, to your mutual survival. So give him a good clean show suitable for all the family, or you can rest assured you’ll be playing the tavern tonight.
OUIL : Or the night after.
ROS : Or not.
PLAYER : We already have an entry here. And always have had.
GUIL : You’ve played for him before?
PLAYER : Yes, sir.
ROS : And what’s his bent?
PLAYER : Classical.
ROS : Saucy!
GUIL : What will you play?
PLAYER: The Murder of Gonzago.
GUIL : Full of fine cadence and corpses.
PLAYER : Pirated from the Italian. . . .
ROS : What is it about?
PLAYER : It’s about a King and Queen. . . .
GUIL : Escapism! What else?
PLAYER : Blood
GUIL : —Love and rhetoric.
PLAYER : Yes. (Going.)
GUIL : Where are you going?
PLAYER : I can come and go as I please.
GUIL : You’re evidently a man who knows his way around.
PLAYER : I’ve been here before.
GUIL : We’re still finding our feet.
PLAYER : I should concentrate on not losing your heads.
GUIL : Do you speak from knowledge?
PLAYER : Precedent
GUIL : You’ve been here before.
PLAYER : And I know which way the wind is blowing.
GUIL : Operating on two levels, are we?! How clever! I expect it comes naturally to you, being in the business so to speak.
The PLAYER’* grave face does not change. He makes to move off again, GUIL for the second time cuts him off.
The truth is, we value your company, for want of any other. We have been left so much to our own devices— after a while one welcomes the uncertainty of being left to other people’s.
PLAYER : Uncertainty is the normal state. You’re nobody special.
He makes to leave again, GUIL loses his cool.
GUIL : But for God’s sake what are we supposed to dol?!
PLAYER : Relax. Respond. That’s what people do. You can’t go through life questioning your situation at every turn.
GUIL : But we don’t know what’s going on, or what to do with ourselves. We don’t know how to act.
PLAYER : Act natural. You know why you’re here at least
GUIL : We only know what we’re told, and that’s little enough. And for all we know it isn’t even true.
PLAYER : For all anyone knows, nothing is. Everything has to be taken on trust; truth is only that which is taken to be true. It’s the currency of living. There may be nothing behind it, but it doesn’t make any difference so long as it is honoured. One acts on assumptions. What do you assume?
ROS : Hamlet is not himself, outside or in. We have to glean what afflicts him.
GUIL : He doesn’t give much away.
PLAYER : Who does, nowadays?
GUIL : He’s—melancholy.
PLAYER : Melancholy?
ROS : Mad.
PLAYER : How is he mad?
ROS : Ah. (To GUIL:) HOW is he mad?
GUIL : More morose than mad, perhaps.
PLAYER : Melancholy.
GUIL : Moody.
ROS : He has moods.
PLAYER : Of moroseness?
GUIL : Madness. And yet.
ROS : Quite.
GUIL : For instance.
ROS : He talks to himself, which might be madness.
GUIL : If he didn’t talk sense, which he does.
ROS : Which suggests the opposite.
PLAYER : Of what?
Small pause.
GUIL : I think I have it. A man talking sense to himself is no madder than a man talking nonsense not to himself.
ROS : Or just as mad.
GUIL : Or just as mad.
ROS : And he does both.
GUIL: SO there you are.
ROS : Stark raving sane.
Pause.
PLAYER : Why?
GUIL : Ah. (ToROS :) Why?
ROS : Exactly.
GUIL : Exactly what?
ROS : Exactly why.
GUIL : Exactly why what?
ROS : What?
GUIL: Why?
ROS : Why what, exactly?
GUIL : Why is he mad?!
ROS : I don’t know!
Beat.
PLAYER : The old man thinks he’s in love with his daughter.
Ros (appalled): Good God! We’re out of our depth here.
PLAYER: NO , no, no— he hasn’t got a daughter—the old man thinks he’s in love with his daughter.
ROS : The old man is?
PLAYER : Hamlet, in love with the old man’s daughter, the old man thinks.
ROS : Ha! It’s beginning to make sense! Unrequited passion!
The PLAYER moves.
GUIL: (Fascist.) Nobody leaves this room! (Pause, lamely.) Without a very good reason.
PLAYER : Why not?
GUIL : All this strolling about is getting too arbitrary by half— I’m rapidly losing my grip. From now on reason will prevail.
PLAYER : I have lines to learn.
GUIL : Pass!
The PLAYER passes into one of the wings, ROS cups his hands and shouts into the opposite one.
ROS : Next!
But no one comes.
GUIL : What did you expect?
ROS : Something . . . someone . . . nothing.
They sit facing front.
Are you hungry?
GUIL: NO , are you?
ROS (thinks): No. You remember that coin? GUIL: NO.
ROS: I think I lost it.
GUIL : What coin?
ROS : I don’t remember exactly.
Pause.
GUIL : Oh, that coin . . . clever.
ROS : I can’t remember how I did it.
GUIL : It probably comes natural to you.
ROS : Yes, I’ve got a show-stopper there.
GUIL : Do it again.
Slight pause.
ROS : We can’t afford it.
GUIL : Yes, one must think of the future.
ROS : It’s the normal thing.
GUIL : To have one. One is, after all, having it all the time . . . now . . . and now . . . and now. . . .
ROS : It could go on for ever. Well, not for ever, I suppose. (Pause.) Do you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on it?
GUIL : No.
ROS : Nor do I, really. . . . It’s silly to be depressed by it. I mean one thinks of it like being alive in a box, one keeps forgetting to take into account the fact that one is dead . .. which should make all the difference . . . shouldn’t it? I mean, you’d never know you were in a box, would you? It would be just like being asleep in a box. Not that I’d like to sleep in a box, mind you, not without any air—you’d wake up dead, for a start, and then where would you be? Apart from inside a box. That’s the bit I don’t like, frankly. That’s why I don’t think of if. . . .
GUIL stirs restlessly, pulling his cloak round him.
Because you’d be helpless, wouldn’t you? Stuffed in a box like that, I mean you’d be in there for ever. Even taking into account the fact that you’re dead, it isn’t a pleasant thought. Especially if you’re dead, really . . . ask yourself, if I asked you straight off—I’m going to stuff you in this box now, would you rather be alive or dead? Naturally, you’d prefer to be alive. Life in a box is better than no life at all. I expect. You’d have a chance at least. You could lie there thinking— well, at least I’m not dead! In a minute someone’s going to bang on the lid and tell me to come out. (Banging the floor with his fists.) “Hey you, whatsyername! Come out of there!”
GUIL (jumps up savagely): You don’t have to flog it to death!
Pause.
ROS : I wouldn’t think about it, if I were you. You’d only get depressed. (Pause.) Eternity is a terrible thought. I mean, Where’s it going to end? (Pause, then brightly.) Two early Christians chanced to meet in Heaven. “Saul of Tarsus yet!” cried one. “What are you doing here?!” . . . “Tarsus-Schmarsus,” replied the other, “I’m Paul already.” (He stands up restlessly and flaps his arms.) They don’t care. We count for nothing. We could remain silent till we’re green in the face, they wouldn’t come.
GUIL : Blue, red.
ROS : A Christian, a Moslem and a Jew chanced to meet in a closed carriage. . . . “Silverstein!” cried the Jew. “Who’s your friend?” . . . “His name’s Abdullah,” replied the Moslem, “but he’s no friend of mine since he became a convert.” (He leaps up again, stamps his foot and shouts into the wings.) All right, we know you’re in there! Come out talking! (Pause.) We have no control. None at all. . . (He paces.) Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one, a moment, in childhood when it first occurred to you that you don’t go on for ever. It must have been shattering—stamped into one’s memory. And yet I can’t remember it. It never occurred to me at all. What does one make of that? We must be born with an intuition of mortality. Before we know the words for it, before we know that there are words, out we come, bloodied and squalling with the knowledge that for all the compasses in the world, there’s only one direction, and time is its only measure. (He reflects, gettingmore desperate and rapid.) A Hindu, a Buddhist and a lion-tamer chanced to meet, in a circus on the Indo-Chinese border. (He breaks out.) They’re taking us for granted! Well, I won’t stand for it! In future, notice will be taken. (He wheels again to face into the wings.) Keep out, then! I forbid anyone to enter! (No one comes. Breathing heavily.) That’s better. . . .
Immediately, behind him a grand procession enters, principally CLAUDIUS, GERTRUDE, POLONIUS and OPHELIA. CLAUDIUS takes ROS’ s elbow as he passes and is immediately deep in conversation: the context is Shakespeare Act III, scene i. GUIL still faces front as CLAUDIUS, ROS, etc., pass upstage and turn.
GUIL : Death followed by eternity . . . the worst of both worlds. It is a terrible thought.
He turns upstage in time to take over the conversation with CLAUDIUS. GERTRUDE and ROS head downstage.
GERTRUDE : Did he receive you well?
ROS : Most like a gentleman.
GUIL (returning in time to take it up): But with much forcing of his disposition.
ROS (a flat lie and he knows it and shows it, perhaps catching GUIL’* eye): Niggard of question, but of our demands most free in his reply.
GERTRUDE : Did you assay him to any pastime?
ROS : Madam, it so fell out that certain players
We o’erraught on the way: of these we told him
And there did seem in him a kind of joy
To hear of it. They are here about the court,
And, as I think, they have already order
This night to play before him.
POLONIUS : Tis most true
And he beseeched me to entreat your Majesties
To hear and see the matter.
CLAUDIUS : With all my heart, and it doth content me To hear him so inclined.
Good gentlemen, give him a further edge
And drive his purpose into these delights.
ROS : We shall, my lord.
CLAUDIUS (leading out procession)*:
Sweet Gertrude, leave us, too,
For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,
That he, as t’were by accident, may here
Affront Ophelia. . . .
Exeunt CLAUDIUS and GERTRUDE.
ROS (peevish): Never a moment’s peace! In and out, on and off, they’re coming at us from all sides.
GUIL : You’re never satisfied.
ROS : Catching us on the trot Why can’t we go by them!
GUIL : What’s the difference?
ROS : I’m going.
ROS pulls his cloak round him. GUIL ignores him. Without confidence ROS heads upstage. He looks out and comes back quickly.
He’s coming.
GUIL : What’s he doing?
ROS : Nothing.
GUIL : He must be doing something.
ROS : Walking.
GUIL : On his hands?
ROS: NO , on his feet.
GUIL : Stark naked?
ROS : Fully dressed.
GUIL : Selling toffee apples?
ROS : Not that I noticed.
GUIL : You could be wrong?
ROS : I don’t think so.
Pause.
GUIL : I can’t for the life of me see how we’re going to get into conversation.
HAMLET enters upstage, and pauses, weighing up the pros and cons of making his quietus.
ROS and GUIL watch Mm.
ROS : Nevertheless, I suppose one might say that this was a chance. . . . One might well. . . accost him. . . . Yes, it definitely looks like a chance to me Something on the lines of a direct informal approach . . . man to man . . . straight from the shoulder. . . . Now look here, what’s it all about. . . sort of thing. Yes. Yes, this looks like one to be grabbed with both hands, I should say . . . if I were asked. . . . No point in looking at a gift horse till you see the whites of its eyes, etcetera. (He has moved towards HAMLET but his nerve fails. He returns.) We’re overawed, that’s our trouble. When it comes to the point we succumb to their personality. . . .
OPHELIA enters, with prayerbook, a religious procession of one.
HAMLET : Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.
At his voice she has stopped for him, he catches her up.
OPHELIA : Good my lord, how does your honour for this many a day?
HAMLET : I humbly thank you—well, well, well.
They disappear talking into the wing.
ROS : It’s like living in a public park!
GUIL : Very impressive. Yes, I thought your direct informal approach was going to stop this thing dead in its tracks there. If I might make a suggestion—shut up and sit down. Stop being perverse.
ROS (near tears): I’m not going to stand for it!
A FEMALE FIGURE, ostensibly the QUEEN, enters, ROS marches up behind her, puts his hands over her eyes and says with a desperate frivolity.
R
OS : Guess who?!
PLAYER (having appeared in a downstage corner): Alfred!
ROS lets go, spins around. He has been holding ALFRED, in his robe and blond wig. PLAYER is in the downstage corner still, ROS comes down to that exit. The PLAYER does not budge. He and ROS stand toe to toe.
ROS : Excuse me.
The PLAYER lifts his downstage foot. ROS bends to put his hand on the floor. The PLAYER lowers his foot, ROS screams and leaps away.
PLAYER (gravely): I beg your pardon.
GUIL (to ROS): What did he do?
PLAYER : I put my foot down.
ROS : My hand was on the floor!
GUIL: YOU put your hand under his foot?
ROS : I
GUIL : What for?
ROS : I thought (Grabs GUIL .) Don’t leave me!
He makes a break for an exit. A TRAGEDIAN dressed as a KING enters, ROS recoils, breaks for the opposite wing. Two cloaked TRAGEDIANS enter, ROS tries again but another TRAGEDIAN enters, and ROS retires to midstage. The PLAYER claps his hands matter-of-factly.
PLAYER : Right! We haven’t got much time.
GUIL : What are you doing?
PLAYER : Dress rehearsal. Now if you two wouldn’t mind just moving back . . . there . . . good. . . . (To TRAGEDIANS.; Everyone ready? And for goodness’ sake, remember what we’re doing. (To ROS and GUIL :) We always use the same costumes more or less, and they forget what they are supposed to be in you see. . . . Stop picking your nose, Alfred. When Queens have to they do it by a cerebral process passed down in the blood. . . . Good. Silence! Off we go!
PLAYER-KING : Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart
PLAYER jumps up angrily.
PLAYER: NO , no, no! Dumbshow first, your confounded majesty!
(To ROS and GUIL :) They’re a bit out of practice, but they always pick up wonderfully for the deaths—it brings out the poetry in them.
GUIL : How nice.
PLAYER : There’s nothing more unconvincing than an unconvincing death.
GUIL : I’m sure.
PLAYER claps his hands.
PLAYER : Act One—moves now.
The mime. Soft music from a recorder, PLAYER-KING and PLAYER-QUEEN embrace. She kneels and makes a show of protestation to him. He takes her up, declining his head upon her neck. He lies down. She, seeing him asleep, leaves him.