by Tom Stoppard
GUIL : What is the dumbshow for?
PLAYER : Well, it’s a device, really—it makes the action that follows more or less comprehensible; you understand, we are tied down to a language which makes up in obscurity what it lacks in style.
The mime (continued)—enter another. He takes off the SLEEPER’S crown, kisses it. He has brought in a small bottle of liquid. He pours the poison in the SLEEPER’S ear, and leaves him. The SLEEPER convulses heroically, dying.
ROS : Who was that?
PLAYER : The King’s brother and uncle to the Prince.
GUIL : Not exactly fraternal
PLAYER : Not exactly avuncular, as time goes on.
The QUEEN returns, makes passionate action, finding the KING dead. The POISONER comes in again, attended by two others (the two in cloaks). The POISONER seems to console with her. The dead body is carried away. The POISONER woos the QUEEN with gifts. She seems harsh awhile but in the end accepts his love. End of mime, at which point, the wail of a woman in torment and OPHELIA appears, wailing, closely followed by HAMLET in a hysterical state, shouting at her, circling her, both midstage.
HAMLET : Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath made me mad!
She falls on her knees weeping.
I say we will have no more marriage! (His voice drops to include the TRAGEDIANS, who have frozen.) Those that are married already (he leans close to the PLAYER-QUEEN and POISONER, speaking with quiet edge) all but one shall live. (He smiles briefly at them without mirth, and starts to back out, his parting shot rising again.) The rest shall keep as they are. (Ashe leaves, OPHELIA tottering upstage, he speaks into her ear a quick clipped sentence.) To a nunnery, go.
He goes out. OPHELIA falls on to her knees upstage, her sobs barely audible. A slight silence.
PLAYER-KING : Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart
CLAUDIUS enters with POLONIUS and goes over to OPHELIA and lifts her to her feet. The TRAGEDIANS jump back with heads inclined.
CLAUDIUS : Love? His affections do not that way tend, Or what he spake, though it lacked form a little, Was not like madness. There’s something In his soul o’er which his melancholy sits on Brood, and I do doubt the hatch and the Disclose will be some danger; which for to Prevent I have in quick determination thus set It down: he shall with speed to England . . .
Which carries the three of them—CLAUDIUS, POLONIUS, OPHELIA— out of sight. The PLAYER moves, clapping his hands for attention.
PLAYER : Gentlemen! (They look at him.) It doesn’t seem to be coming. We are not getting it at all. (To GUIL :) What did you think?
GUIL : What was I supposed to think?
PLAYER (to TRAGEDIANS) : You’re not getting across!
ROS had gone halfway up to OPHELIA; he returns.
ROS : That didn’t look like love to me.
GUIL : Starting from scratch again . . .
PLAYER (to TRAGEDIANS) : It was a mess.
ROS (to GUIL) : It’s going to be chaos on the night.
GUIL : Keep back—we’re spectators.
PLAYER : Act Two! Positions!
GUIL : Wasn’t that the end?
PLAYER : Do you call that an ending?—with practically everyone on his feet? My goodness no—over your dead body.
GUIL: HOW am I supposed to take that?
PLAYER : Lying down. (He laughs briefly and in a second has never laughed in his life.) There’s a design at work in all art— surely you know that? Events must play themselves out to aesthetic, moral and logical conclusion.
GUIL : And what’s that, in this case?
PLAYER : It never varies—we aim at the point where everyone who is marked for death dies.
GUIL : Marked?
PLAYER : Between “just desserts” and “tragic irony” we are given quite a lot of scope for our particular talent
Generally speaking, things have gone about as far as they can possibly go when things have got about as bad as they reasonably get. (He switches on a smile.)
GUIL : Who decides?
PLAYER (switching off his smile): Decides? It is written.
He turns away, GUIL grabs him and spins him back violently.
(Unflustered.) Now if you’re going to be subtle, well miss each other in the dark. I’m referring to oral tradition. So to speak.
GUIL releases him.
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 vict
ims 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.
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—111 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. Ill come with you.
GUIL marches across to ROS. They turn to leave, ROS halts.
ROS: NO, 111 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.
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 : Not walking?
ROS: NO.
GUIL : Who’s with him?
ROS : The old man.
GUIL: 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’J 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’J exit): He was dead.
GUIL : Of course he’s dead!
