Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead (13 page)

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
.

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.