Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Arcadia

three. I was waiting for you to delve. 'When is he going to start delving?' I asked myself.

GUIL: And two repetitions.

ROS: Hardly a leading question between us.

GUIL: We got his symptoms, didn't we?

ROS: Half of what he said meant something else, and the other half didn't mean anything at all.

GUIL: Thwarted ambition---a sense of grievance, that's my diagnosis.

ROS: Six rhetorical and two repetition, leaving nineteen, of which we answered fifteen. And what did we get in return? He's depressed!... Denmark's a prison and he'd rather live in a nutshell; some shadow-play about the nature of ambition, which never got down to cases, and finally one direct question which might have led somewhere, and led in fact to his illuminating, claim to tell a hawk from a handsaw.

Pause.

GUIL: When the wind is southerly.

ROS: And the weather's clear.

GUIL: And when it isn't he can't.

ROS: He's at the mercy of the elements. ( Licks his finger and holds it up-facing audience. ) Is that southerly?

They stare at audience.

GUIL: It doesn't look southerly. What made you think so?

ROS: I didn't say I think so. It could be northerly for all I know.

GUIL: I wouldn't have thought so.

ROS: Well, if you're going to be dogmatic.

GUIL: Wait a minute---we came from roughly south according to a rough map.

ROS: I see. Well, which way did we come in? (GUIL looks round vaguely. ) Roughly.

GUIL ( clears his throat): In the morning the sun would be easterly. I think we can assume that.

ROS: That it's morning?

GUIL: If it is, and the sun is over there ( his right as he faces the audience) for instance, that ( front) would be northerly. On the other hand, if it is not morning and the sun is over there ( his left)... that... ( lamely) would still be northerly. ( Picking up. ) To put it another way, if we came from down there ( front) and it is morning, the sun would be up there ( his left), and if it is actually over there ( his right) and it's still morning, we must have come from up there ( behind him), and if that is southerly ( his left) and the sun is really over there ( front), then it's the afternoon. However, if none of these is the case ROS: Why don't you go and have a look?

GUIL: Pragmatism?!---is that all you have to offer? You seem to have no conception of where we stand! You won't find the answer written down for you in the bowl of a compass, I can tell you that. ( Pause. ) Besides, you can never tell this far north---it's probably dark out there.

ROS: I merely suggest that the position of the sun, if it is out, would give you a rough idea of the time; alternatively clock, if it is going, would give you a rough idea of the position of the sun. I forget which you're trying to establish.

GUIL: I'm trying to establish the direction of the wind.

ROS: There isn't any wind. Draught, yes.

GUIL: In that case, the origin. Trace it to its source and it might give us a rough idea of the way we came in---which might give us a rough idea of south, for further reference.

ROS: It's coming up through the floor. ( He studies the floor. ) That can't be south, can it?

GUIL: That's not a direction. Lick your toe and wave it around a bit.

ROS considers the distance of his foot.

ROS: No, I think you'd have to lick it for me.

Pause.

GUIL: I'm prepared to let the whole matter drop.

ROS: Or I could lick yours, of course.

GUIL: No thank you.

ROS: I'll even wave it around for you.

GUIL ( down ROS 'S throat): What in God's name is the matter with you?

ROS: Just being friendly. GUIL: ( retiring): Somebody might come in. It's what were counting on, after all. Ultimately.

Good pause.

ROS: Perhaps they've all trampled each other to death in the rush... Give them a shout.

Something provocative. Intrigue them.

GUIL: Wheels have been set in motion, and they have their own pace, to which we are...

condemned. Each move is dictated by the previous one---that is the meaning of order. If we start being arbitrary it'll just be a shambles: at least, let us hope so. Because if we happened, just happened to discover, or even suspect, that our spontaneity was part of their order, we'd know that we were lost. ( He sits. ) A Chinaman of the T'ang Dynasty---

and, by which definition, a philosopher---dreamed he was a butterfly, and from that moment he was never quite sure that he was not a butterfly dreaming it was a Chinese philosopher. Envy him; in his two-fold security.

A good pause. ROS leaps up and bellows at the audience.

ROS: Fire!

GUIL jumps up.

GUIL: Where?

ROS: It's all right---I'm demonstrating the misuse of free speech. To prove that it exists. ( He regards the audience, that is the direction, with contempt---and other directions, then front again. ) Not a move. They should burn to death in their shoes. ( He takes out one of his coins. Spins it. Catches it. Looks at it. Replaces it. ) GUIL: What was it?

ROS: What?

GUIL: Heads or tails?

ROS: Oh. I didn't look.

GUIL: Yes you did.

ROS: Oh, did I? ( He takes out a coin, studies it. ) Quite right---it rings a bell.

GUIL: What's the last thing you remember?

ROS: I don't wish to be reminded of it.

GUIL: We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.

ROS approaches him brightly, holding a coin between finger and thumb. He covers it with his other hand, draws his fists apart and holds them for GUIL. GUIL considers them.

Indicate the left hand, ROS opens it to show it empty.

ROS: No.

Repeat process. GUIL indicates left hand again. ROS shows it empty. Double bluff!

Repeat process--- GUIL taps one hand, then the other hand, quickly.