Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead (10 page)

We're tragedians, you see. We follow directions—there is no
choice
involved. The bad end unhappily, the good unluckily. That is what tragedy means.
(Calling.)
Positions!

The
TRAGEDIANS
have taken up positions for the continuation of the mime: which in this case means a love scene, sexual and passionate, between the
QUEEN
and the
POISONER/KING.

PLAYER: GO!

The lovers begin. The
PLAYER
contributes a breathless commentary for
ROS
and
GUIL.

Having murdered his brother and wooed the widow—the poisoner mounts the throne! Here we see him and his queen give rein to their unbridled passion! She little knowing that the man she holds in her arms——!

ROS
: Oh, I say—here—really! You can't do that!

PLAYER
: Why not?

ROS
: Well, really—I mean, people want to be
entertained
—they don't come expecting sordid and gratuitous filth.

PLAYER
: You're wrong—they do. Murder, seduction and incest —what do you want—
jokes!

ROS
: I want a good story, with a beginning, middle and end.

PLAYER
(to
GUIL
): And you?

GUIL
: I'd prefer art to mirror life, if it's all the same to you.

PLAYER
: It's all the same to me, sir.
(To the grappling
LOVERS:)
All right, no need to indulge yourselves.
(They get up. Te
GUIL
:) I come on in a minute. Lucianus, nephew to the king!
(Turns his attention to the
TRAGEDIANS
.) Next!

They disport themselves to accommodate the next piece of mime, which consists of the
PLAYER
himself exhibiting an excitable anguish (choreographed, stylized) leading to an impassioned scene with the
QUEEN
(cf. “The Closet Scene,” Shakespeare Act HI, scene iv) and a very stylized reconstruction of a
POLONIUS
figure being stabbed behind the arras (the murdered
KING
to stand in for
POLONIUS)
while the
PLAYER
himself continues his breathless commentary for the benefit of
ROS
and
GUIL.

PLAYER
: Lucianus, nephew to the king. . . usurped by his uncle and shattered by his mother's incestuous marriage . . . loses his reason . . . throwing the court into turmoil and disarray as he alternates between bitter melancholy and unrestricted lunacy . . . staggering from the suicidal
(a pose)
to the homicidal
(here he kills
“POLONIUS
”) . . . he at last confronts his mother and in a scene of provocative ambiguity—
(a somewhat oedipal embrace)
begs her to repent and recant——
(He springs up, still talking.)
The King—
(he pushes forwardthe
POISONER/KING
) tormented by guilt—haunted by fear —decides to despatch his nephew to England—and entrusts this undertaking to two smiling accomplices—friends—courtiers—to two spies——

He has swung round to bring together the
POISONER/KING
and the two cloaked
TRAGEDIANS;
the latter kneel and accept a scroll from the
KING.

—giving them a letter to present to the English court——! And so they depart—on board ship——

The two
SPIES
position themselves on either side of the
PLAYER
,
and the three of them sway gently in unison, the motion of a boat; and then the
PLAYER
detaches himself
.

—and they arrive——

One
SPY
shades his eyes at the horizon
.

—and disembark—and present themselves before the English king——
(He wheels round.)
The English king——

An exchange of headgear creates the
ENGLISH KING
from the remaining player—that is, the
PLAYER
who played the original murdered king
.

But where is the Prince? Where indeed? The plot has thickened—a twist of fate and cunning has put into their hands a letter that seals their deaths!

The two
SPIES
present their letter; the
ENGLISH KING
reads it and orders their deaths. They stand up as the
PLAYER
whips off their cloaks preparatory to execution
.

Traitors hoist by their own petard?—or victims of the gods? —we shall never know!

The whole mime has been fluid and continuous but now
ROS
moves forward and brings it to a pause. What brings
ROS
forward is the fact that under their cloaks the two
SPIES
are wearing coats identical to those worn by
ROS
and
GUIL
,
whose coats are now covered by their cloaks
,
ROS
approaches “his”
SPY
doubtfully. He does not quite understand why 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'J
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
,
who takes his dagger out of his belt
.

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.