by Tom Stoppard
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 (angry): 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 in 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, double-taking, snatches it back.
GUIL snatches it half back. 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.
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 light 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 deck-chair, 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 chances. . . . 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.
GUIL : Here we go.
ROS : 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 H. 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 musk 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 presumel
GUIL (coda): Call us this day our daily tune. . . .
The lid of the middle barrel flies open and the PLAYER’J 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-l-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 not 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 Ham
let———
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 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’J and GUIL’J) 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’J) 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 looks 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?