Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Arcadia

ROS: What is your line?

PLAYER: Tragedy, sir. Deaths and disclosures, universal and particular, denouements both unexpected and inexorable, transvestite melodrama on all levels including the suggestive. We transport you into a world of intrigue and illusion... clowns, if you like, murderers---we can do you ghosts and battles, on the skirmish level, heroes, villains, tormented lovers---set pieces in the poetic vein; we can do you rapiers or rape or both, by all means, faithless wives and ravished virgins---flagrante delicto at a price, but that comes under realism for which there are special terms. Getting warm, am I?

ROS ( doubtfully): Well, I don't know...

PLAYER: It costs little to watch, and little more if you happen to get caught up in the action, if that's your taste and times being what they are.

ROS: What are they?

PLAYER: Indifferent.

ROS: Bad?

PLAYER: Wicked. Now what precisely is your pleasure? ( He turns to the TRAGEDIANS . ) Gentlemen, disport yourselves.

The TRAGEDIANS shuffle into some kind of line.

There! See anything you like?

ROS ( doubtful, innocent): What do they do?

PLAYER: Let your imagination run riot. They are beyond surprise.

ROS: And how much?

PLAYER: To take part?

ROS: To watch.

PLAYER: Watch what?

ROS: A private performance.

PLAYER: How private?

ROS: Well, there are only two of us. Is that enough?

PLAYER: For an audience, disappointing. For voyeurs, about average..

ROS: What's the difference?

PLAYER: Ten guilders.

ROS ( horrified): Ten guilders!

PLAYER: I mean eight.

ROS: Together?

PLAYER: Each.

ROS: I don't think you understand--- What are you saying?

PLAYER: What am I saying---seven.

ROS: Where have you been?

PLAYER: Roundabout. A nest of children carries the custom of the town. Juvenile companies, they are the fashion. But they cannot match our repertoire... we'll stoop to anything if that's your bent.

He regards ROS meaningfully but ROS returns the stare blankly.

ROS: They'll grow up.

PLAYER ( giving up): There's one born every minute. ( To TRAGEDIANS :) On-ward!

The TRAGEDIANS Start to resume their burdens and their Journey. GUIL stirs himself at last.

GUIL: Where are you going?

PLAYER: Ha-altl They halt and turn. Home, sir.

GUIL: Where from?

PLAYER: Home. We're travelling people. We take our chances where we find them.

GUIL: It was chance, then?

PLAYER: Chance?

GUIL: You found us.

PLAYER: Oh yes.

GUIL: You were looking?

PLAYER: Oh no.

GUIL: Chance, then.

PLAYER: Or fate.

GUIL: Yours or ours?

PLAYER: It could hardly be one without the other.

GUIL: Fate, then.

PLAYER: Oh yes. We have no control. Tonight we play to the court. Or the night after. Or to the tavern. Or not.

GUIL: Perhaps I can use my influence.

PLAYER: At the tavern?

GUIL: At the court. I would say I have some influence.

PLAYER: Would you say so?

GUIL: I have influence yet.

PLAYER: Yet what?

GUIL seizes the PLAYER violently.

GUIL: I have influence!

The PLAYER does not resist. GUIL loosens his hold.

(More calmly.): You said something---about getting caught up in the action.

PLAYER ( gaily freeing himself): I did!---I did!---You're quicker than your friend...

( Confidingly. ) Now for a handful of guilders I happen to have a private and uncut performance of The Rape of the Sabine Women---or rather woman, or rather Alfred---

( Over his shoulder. ) Get your skirt on, Alfred...

BOY starts struggling into a female robe

... and for eight you can participate.

GUIL backs, PLAYER follows

... taking either part.

GUIL backs

... or both for ten.

GUIL tries to turn away, PLAYER holds his sleeve.

... with encores.

GUIL smashes the PLAYER across the face. The PLAYER recoils. GUIL stands trembling.

( Resigned and quiet). Get your skirt off, Alfred.

ALFRED struggles out of his half-on robe...

GUIL ( shaking with rage and fright): It could have been---it didn't have to be obscene... It could have been---a bird out of season, dropping bright-feathered on my shoulder... I could have been a tongueless dwarf standing by the road point the way... I was prepared. But it's this, is it? No enigma, no dignity, nothing classical, portentous, only this ---a comic pornographer and a rabble of prostitutes. .

PLAYER ( acknowledging the description with a sweep of his he bowing; sadly):