(A couple of scattered lines in the middle, irrelevant to the extent that they can be ignored in a monologue with no other modifications)
The Player: We can’t look each other in the face! You don’t understand the humiliation of it-to be tricked out of the single assumption which makes our existence viable-that somebody is watching…The plot was two corpses gone before we caught sight of ourselves, in the middle of nowhere and pouring ourselves down a bottomless well.
(Rosencrantz: Is that thirty-eight?)
The Player: There we were-demented children mincing about in clothes that no one ever wore, speaking as no man ever spoke, swearing love in wigs and rhymed couplets, killing each other with wooden swords, hollow protestations of faith hurled after empty promises of vengeance-and every gesture, every pose, vanishing into the thin, unpopulated air. We ransomed our dignity to the clouds, and the uncomprehending birds listened. Don’t you see? We’re actors-we’re the opposite of people! Think in your head, now, think of the most...private...secret...intimate thing you have ever done secure in the knowledge of its privacy.... Are you thinking of it? Well, I saw you do it!
(Rosencrantz: You never! It’s a lie!)
The Player: We’re actors.... We pledged our identities, secure in the conventions of our trade that someone would be watching. And then, gradually, no one was. We were caught, high and dry. It was not until the murderer’s long soliloquy that we were able to look around; frozen as we were in profile, our eyes searched you out, first confidently, then hesitantly, then desperately as each patch of turf, each log, every exposed corner in every direction proved uninhabited, and all the while the murderous King addressed the horizon in his dreary, interminable guilt.... Our heads began to move, wary as lizards, the corpse of unsullied Rosalinda peeped through his fingers, and the King faltered. Even then, habit and a stubborn trust that our audience spied on us from behind the nearest bush, forced our bodies to blunder on long after they had emptied of meaning, until like runaway carts they dragged to a halt. No one came forward. No one shouted at us. The silence was unbreakable, it imposed itself on us, it was obscene. We took off our crowns and swords and cloth of gold and moved silent on the road to Elsinore.
A bit of background: The Player and his troupe are reasonably desperate. They've been reduced to performing what is essentially porn most of the time, and it's said that for a certain price they will let their audience "participate." In the previous scene in which they appeared, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were going to watch their act, but then wandered off before they began. There's almost no character information on him. I've used it many times although it's written as a man's role. When I don't have enough time to do the whole thing, I usually cut it at "Well, I saw you do it."
Current Mood: sleepy