by Tom Stoppard
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 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, GUIL 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 all? 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 off stage 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 well 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 : Well 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 : Arc 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’l 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 thedownstage lower deck by short steps. The umbrella beingon the upper deck, ROS pauses by the umbrella and looksbehind 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 change of angle to it: we may seize the moment, toss it around while the moments 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, bearing a letter from one king to another, are taking Hamlet to England.
By which time, ROS has returned, tiptoeing with great import, teeth clenched for secrecy, gets to GUIL, points surreptitiously behind him—and a tight whisper:
ROS : I say—he’s there!
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 on 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.
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 mi
xing 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.
