Стоппард Том. Розенкранц и Гиндельстейн мертвы (engl)

      GUIL: Do you speak from knowledge?
      PLAYER: Precedent.
      GUIL: You've been here before.
      PLAYER: And I know which way the wind is blowing.
      GUIL: Operating on two levels, are we?! How clever! I expect it comes
naturally to you, being in the business so to speak.
      (The PLAYER's grave face does not change. He makes to move off again.
GUIL for the second time cuts him off.)
      The truth is, we value your company, for want of any other. We have
been left so much to our own devices - after a while one welcomes the
uncertainty of being left to other people's.
      PLAYER: Uncertainty is the normal state. You're nobody special.
      (He makes to leave again. GUIL loses his cool.)
      GUIL: But for God's sake what are we supposed to do?
      PLAYER: Relax. Respond. That's what people do. You can't go through
life questioning your situation at every turn.
      GUIL: But we don't know what's going on, or what to do with ourselves.
We don't know how to act.
      PLAYER: Act natural. You know why you're here at least.
      GUIL: We only know what we're told, and that's little enough. And for
all we know it isn't even true.
      PLAYER: For all anyone knows, nothing is. Everything has to be taken on
trust; truth is only that which is taken to be true. It's the currency of
living. There may be nothing behind it, but it doesn't make any difference
so long as it is honoured. One acts on assumptions. What do you assume?
      ROS: Hamlet is not himself, outside or in. We have to glean what
afflicts him.
      GUIL: He doesn't give much away.
      PLAYER: Who does, nowadays?
      GUIL: He's - melancholy.
      PLAYER: Melancholy?
      ROS: Mad.
      PLAYER: How is he mad?
      ROS: Ah. (To GUIL.) How is he mad?
      GUIL: More morose than mad, perhaps.
      PLAYER: Melancholy.
      GUIL: Moody.
      ROS: He has moods.
      PLAYER: Of moroseness?
      GUIL: Madness. And yet.
      ROS: Quite.
      GUIL: For instance.
      ROS: He talks to himself, which might be madness.
      GUIL: If he didn't talk sense, which he does.
      ROS: Which suggests the opposite.
      PLAYER: Of what?
      (Small pause.)
      GUIL: I think I have it. A man talking sense to himself is no madder
than a man talking nonsense not to himself.
      ROS: Or just as mad.
      GUIL: Or just as mad.
      ROS: And he does both.
      GUIL: So there you are.
      ROS: Stark raving sane.
      (Pause.)
      PLAYER: Why?
      GUIL: Ah. (To ROS.) Why?
      ROS: Exactly.
      GUIL: Exactly what? .
      ROS: Exactly why.
      GUIL: Exactly why what?
      ROS: What?
      GUIL: Why?
      ROS: Why what, exactly?
      GUIL: Why is he mad?!
      ROS: I don't know!
      (Beat.)
      PLAYER: The old man thinks he's in love with his daughter.
      ROS (appalled): Good God! We're out of our depth here.
      PLAYER: No, no, no - he hasn't got a daughter - the old man thinks he's
in love with his daughter.
      ROS: The old man is?
      PLAYER: Hamlet, in love with the old man's daughter, the old man
thinks.
      ROS: Ha! It's beginning to make sense! Unrequited passion!
      (The PLAYER moves.)
      GUIL (Fascist): Nobody leaves this room! (Pause, lamely.) Without a
very good reason.
      PLAYER: Why not?
      GUIL: All this strolling about is getting too arbitrary by half - I'm
rapidly losing my grip. From now on reason will prevail.
      PLAYER: I have lines to learn.
      GUIL: Pass!
      (The PLAYER passes into one of the wings. ROS cups his hands and shouts
into the opposite one.)
      ROS: Next!
      (But no one comes.)
      GUIL: What did you expect?
      ROS: Something ... someone ... nothing. (They sit facing front.)
      Are you hungry?
      GUIL: No, are you?
      ROS (thinks): No. You remember that coin?
      GUIL: No.
      ROS: I think I lost it.
      GUIL: What coin?
      ROS: I don't remember exactly.
      (Pause.)
      GUIL: Oh, that coin ... clever.
      ROS: I can't remember how I did it.
      GUIL: It probably comes natural to you.
      ROS: Yes, I've got a show-stopper there.
      GUIL: Do it again.
      (Slight pause.)
      ROS: We can't afford it.
      GUIL: Yes, one must think of the future.
      ROS: It's the normal thing.
      GUIL: To have one. One is, after all, having it all the time... now...
and now... and now....
      ROS: It could go on for ever. Well, not for ever, I suppose. (Pause.)
Do you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on
it?
      GUIL: No.
      ROS: Nor do I, really.... It's silly to be depressed by it. I mean one
thinks of it like being alive in a box, one keeps forgetting to take into
account the fact that one is dead ... which should make a difference ...
shouldn't it? I mean, you'd never know you were in a box, would you? It
would be just like being asleep in a box. Not that I'd like to sleep in a
box, mind you, not without any air - you'd wake up dead, for a start and
then where would you be? Apart from inside a box. That's the bit I don't
like, frankly. That's why I don't think of it....
      (GUIL stirs restlessly, pulling his cloak round him.)
      Because you'd be helpless, wouldn't you? Stuffed in a box like that, I
mean you'd be in there for ever. Even taking into account the fact that
you're dead, really ... ask yourself, if I asked you straight off - I'm
going to stuff you in this box now, would you rather be alive or dead?
Naturally, you'd prefer to be alive. Life in a box is better than no life at
all. I expect. You'd have a chance at least. You could lie there thinking -
well, at least I'm not dead! In a minute someone's going to bang on the lid
and tell me to come out. (Banging on the floor with his fists.) "Hey you,
whatsyername! Come out of there!"
      GUIL (jumps up savagely): You don't have to flog it to death!
      (Pause.)
      ROS: I wouldn't think about it, if I were you. You'd only get
depressed. (Pause.) Eternity is a terrible thought. I mean, where's it going
to end? (Pause, then brightly.) Two early Christians chanced to meet in
Heaven. "Saul of Tarsus yet!" cried one. "What are you doing here?!" ...
"Tarsus-Schmarsus", replied the other, "I'm Paul already."
      (ROS stands up restlessly and flaps his arms.)
      They don't care. We count for nothing. We could remain silent till
we're green in the face, they wouldn't come.
      GUIL: Blue, red.
      ROS: A Christian, a Moslem and a Jew chanced to meet in a closed
carriage.... "Silverstein!" cried the Jew, "Who's your friend?" ... "His
name's Abdullah", replied the Moslem, "but he's no friend of mine since he
became a convert." (He leaps up again, stamps his foot and shouts into the
wings.) All right, we know you're in there! Come out talking! (Pause.) We
have no control. None at all.... (He paces.) Whatever became of the moment
when one first knew about death? There must have been one, a moment, in
childhood when it first occurred to you that you don't go on for ever. It
must have been shattering - stamped into one's memory. And yet I can't
remember it. It never occurred to me at all. What does one make of that? We
must be born with an intuition of mortality. Before we know the words for
it, before we know that there are words, out we come, bloodied and squalling
with the knowledge that for all the compasses in the world, there's only one
direction, and time is its only measure. (He reflects, getting more
desperate and rapid.) A Hindu, a Buddhist and a lion-tamer chanced to meet,
in a circus on the Indo-Chinese border. (He breaks out.) They're taking us
for granted! Well, I won't stand for it! In future, notice will be taken.
(He wheels again to face into the wings.) Keep out, then! I forbid anyone to
enter! (No one comes - Breathing heavily.) That's better....
      (Immediately, behind him a grand procession enters, principally
CLAUDIUS, GERTRUDE, POLONIUS and OPHELIA. CLAUDIUS takes ROS's elbow as he
passes and is immediately deep in conversation: the context is Shakespeare
Act III, Scene i. GUIL still faces front as CLAUDIUS, ROS, etc., pass
upstage and turn.)
      GUIL: Death followed by eternity ... the worst of both worlds. It is a
terrible thought.
      (He turns upstage in time to take over the conversation with CLAUDIUS.
GERTRUDE and ROS head downstage.)
      GERTRUDE: Did he receive you well?
      ROS: Most like a gentleman.
      GUIL (returning in time to take it up): But with much forcing of his
disposition.
      ROS (a flat lie and he knows it and shows it, perhaps catching GUIL's
eye): Niggard of question, but of our demands most free in his reply.
      GERTRUDE: Did you assay him to any pastime?
      ROS: Madam, it so fell out that certain players
      We o'erraught on the way: of these we told him
      And there did seem in him a kind of joy
      To hear of it. They are here about the court,
      And, as I think, they have already order
      This night to play before him.
      POLONIUS: 'Tis most true
      And he beseeched me to entreat your Majesties
      To hear and see the matter.
      CLAUDIUS: With all my heart, and it doth content me
      To hear him so inclined.
      Good gentlemen, give him a further edge
      And drive his purpose into these delights.
      ROS: We shall, my lord.
      CLAUDIUS (leading out procession):
      Sweet Gertrude, leave us, too,
      For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,
      That he, as t'were by accident, may here
      Affront Ophelia....
      (Exeunt CLAUDIUS and GERTRUDE.)
      ROS (peevish): Never a moment's peace! In and out, on and off, they're
coming at us from all sides.
      GUIL: You're never satisfied.
      ROS: Catching us on the trot.... Why can't we go by them!
      GUIL: What's the difference?
      ROS: I'm going.
      (ROS pulls his cloak round him. GUIL ignores him. Without confidence
ROS heads upstage. He looks out and comes back quickly.)
      He's coming.
      GUIL: What's he doing?
      ROS: Nothing.
      GUIL: He must be doing something.
      ROS: Walking.
      GUIL: On his hands?
      ROS: No, on his feet.
      GUIL: Stark naked?
      ROS: Fully dressed.
      GUIL: Selling toffee apples?
      ROS: Not that I noticed.
      GUIL: You could be wrong?
      ROS: I don't think so.
      (Pause.)
      GUIL: I can't for the life of me see how we're going to get into
conversation.
      (HAMLET enters upstage, and pauses, weighing up the pros and cons of
making his quietus.)
      (ROS and GUIL watch him.)
      ROS: Nevertheless, I suppose one might say that this was a chance....
One might well ... accost him.... Yes, it definitely looks like a chance to
me.... Something on the lines of a direct informal approach ... man to man
... straight from the shoulder.... Now look here, what's it all about ...
sort of thing. Yes. Yes, this looks like one to be grabbed with both hands,
I should say ... if I were asked.... No point in looking at a gift horse
till you see the whites of its eyes, etcetera. (He has moved towards HAMLET
but his nerve fails. He returns.) We're overawed, that's our trouble. When
it comes to the point we succumb to their personality....
      (OPHELIA enters, with prayerbook, a religious procession of one.)
      HAMLET: Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.
      (At his voice she has stopped for him, he catches her up.)
      OPHELIA: Good my lord, how does your honour for this many a day?
      HAMLET: I humbly thank you - well, well, well.
      (They disappear talking into the wing.)
      ROS: It's like living in a public park!
      GUIL: Very impressive. Yes, I thought your direct informal approach was
going to stop this thing dead in its tracks there. If I might make a
suggestion - shut up and sit down. Stop being perverse.
      ROS (near tears): I'm not going to stand for it!
      (A FEMALE FIGURE, ostensibly the QUEEN, enters. ROS marches up behind
her, puts his hands over her eyes and says with a desperate frivolity.)
      ROS: Guess who?!
      PLAYER (having appeared in a downstage corner): Alfred!
      (ROS lets go, spins around. He had been holding ALFRED, in his robe and
blonde wig. PLAYER is in the downstage corner still. ROS comes down to that
exit. The PLAYER does not budge. He and ROS stand toe to toe.)
      ROS: Excuse me.
      (The PLAYER lifts his downstage foot. ROS bends to put his hand on the
floor. The PLAYER lowers his foot. ROS screams and leaps away.)
      PLAYER (gravely): I beg your pardon.
      GUIL (to ROS): What did he do?
      PLAYER: I put my foot down.
      ROS: My hand was on the floor!
      GUIL: You put your hand under his foot?
      ROS: I - -
      GUIL: What for?
      ROS: I thought - - (Grabs GUIL.)
      Don't leave me!
      (He makes a break for an exit. A TRAGEDIAN dressed as a king enters,
ROS recoils, breaks for the opposite wing. Two cloaked tragedians enter. ROS
tries again but another tragedian enters, and ROS retires to midstage. The
PLAYER claps his hands matter-of-factly.)
      PLAYER: Right! We haven't got much time.
      GUIL: What are you doing?
      PLAYER: Dress rehearsal. Now if you two wouldn't mind just moving
back... there ... good.... (To TRAGEDIANS.) Everyone ready? And for goodness
sake, remember what we're doing. (To ROS and GUIL.) We always use the same
costumes more or less, and they forget what they are supposed to be in you
see.... Stop picking your nose, Alfred. When Queens have to they do it by a
cerebral process passed down in the blood.... Good. Silence! Off we go!
      PLAYER-KING: Full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart - -
      (PLAYER jumps up angrily.)
      PLAYER: No, no, no! Dumbshow first, your confounded majesty! (To ROS
and GUIL.) They're a bit out of practice, but they always pick up
wonderfully for the deaths - it brings out the poetry in them.
      GUIL: How nice.
      PLAYER: There's nothing more unconvincing than an, unconvincing death.
      GUIL: I'm sure.
      (PLAYER claps his hands.)
      PLAYER: Act One - moves now.
      (The mime. Soft music from a recorder. PLAYER-KING and PLAYER-QUEEN
embrace. She kneels and makes a show of protestation to him. He takes her
up, declining his head upon her neck. He lies down. She, seeing him asleep,
leaves him.)
      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 had 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. (As he
leaves, OPHELIA tottering upstage, he speaks into her ear a quick clipped
sentence.) To a nunnery, go.
      (He goes out. OPHELIA falls on 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, we'll 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-To 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 III, 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 forward the
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'S 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.) 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-I'll 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. I'll come with you.
      (GUIL marches across to ROS. They turn to leave. ROS halts.)
      ROS: No, I'll 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.)
      GUIL: 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: Who's with him?
      ROS: The old man.
      GUIL: Walking?
      ROS: No.
      GUIL: Not 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's 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's exit): He was
dead.
      GUIL: Of course he's dead!
      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 his 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.