Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Tom Stoppard
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They are well dressed—hats, cloaks, sticks and all.
Each of them has a large leather money bag.
GUILDENSTERN’s bag is nearly empty.
ROSENCRANTZ’s bag is nearly full.
The reason being: they are betting on the toss of a coin, in the following manner: Guildenstern (hereafter “GUIL”) takes a coin out of his bag, spins it, letting it fall. Rosencrantz (hereafter “ROS”) studies it, announces it as “heads” (as it happens) and puts it into his own bag. Then they repeat the process. They have apparently been doing this for some time.
The run of “heads’’ is impossible, yet Ros betrays no surprise at all—he feels none. However, he is nice enough to feel a little embarrassed at taking so much money off his friend. Let that be his character note.
Guil is well alive to the oddity of it. He is not worried about the money, but he is worried by the implications; aware but not going to panic about it—his character note.
Guil sits. Ros stands (he does the moving, retrieving coins).
Guil spins. Ros studies coin.
ROS Heads.
He picks it up and puts it in his bag. The process is repeated.
Heads.
Again.
Heads.
Again.
Heads.
Again.
Heads.
GUIL (flipping a coin) There is an art to the building up of suspense.
ROS Heads.
GUIL (flipping another) Though it can be done by luck alone.
ROS Heads.
GUIL If that’s the word I’m after.
ROS (raises his head at Guil) Seventy-six—love.
Guil gets up but has nowhere to go. He spins another coin over his shoulder without looking at it, his attention being directed at his environment or lack of it.
Heads.
GUIL A weaker man might be moved to re-examine his faith, if in nothing else at least in the law of probability. (He slips a coin over his shoulder as he goes to look upstage.)
ROS Heads.
Guil, examining the confines of the stage, flips over two more coins as he does so, one by one of course. Ros announces each of them as “heads.”
GUIL (musing) The law of probability, it has been oddly asserted, is something to do with the proposition that if six monkeys (he has surprised himself) . . . if six monkeys were . . .
ROS Game?
GUIL Were they?
ROS Are you?
GUIL (understanding) Game. (Flips a coin.) The law of averages, if I have got this right, means that if six monkeys were thrown up in the air for long enough they would land on their tails about as often as they would land on their—
ROS Heads. (He picks up the coin.)
GUIL Which even at first glance does not strike one as a particularly rewarding speculation, in either sense, even without the monkeys. I mean you wouldn’t bet on it. I mean I would, but you wouldn’t . . . (As he flips a coin.)
ROS Heads.
GUIL Would you? (Flips a coin.)
ROS Heads.
Repeat.
Heads. (He looks up at Guil—embarrassed laugh.) Getting a bit of a bore, isn’t it?
GUIL (coldly) A bore?
ROS Well . . .
GUIL What about the suspense?
ROS (innocently) What suspense?
Small pause.
GUIL It must be the law of diminishing returns. . . . I feel the spell about to be broken. (Energizing himself somewhat. He takes out a coin, spins it high, catches it, turns it over on to the back of his other hand, studies the coin—and tosses it to Ros. His energy deflates and he sits.)
Well, it was an even chance . . . if my calculations are correct.
ROS Eighty-five in a row—beaten the record!
GUIL Don’t be absurd.
ROS Easily!
GUIL (angry) Is that it, then? Is that all?
ROS What?
GUIL A new record? Is that as far as you are prepared to go?
ROS Well . . .
GUIL No questions? Not even a pause?
ROS You spun them yourself.
GUIL Not a flicker of doubt?
ROS (aggrieved, aggressive) Well, I won—didn’t I?
GUIL (approaches him—quieter) And if you’d lost? If they’d come down against you, eighty-five times, one after another, just like that?
ROS (dumbly) Eighty-five in a row? Tails?
GUIL Yes! What would you think?
ROS (doubtfully) Well. . . . (Jocularly.) Well, I’d have a good look at your coins for a start!
GUIL (retiring) I’m relieved. At least we can still count on self-interest as a predictable factor. . . . I suppose it’s the last to go. Your capacity for trust made me wonder if perhaps . . . you, alone . . . (He turns on him suddenly, reaches out a hand.) Touch.
Ros clasps his hand. Guil pulls him up to him.
GUIL (more intensely) We have been spinning coins together since—(He releases him almost as violently.) This is not the first time we have spun coins!
ROS Oh no—we’ve been spinning coins for as long as I remember.
GUIL How long is that?
ROS I forget. Mind you—eighty-five times!
GUIL Yes?
ROS It’ll take some beating, I imagine.
GUIL Is that what you imagine? Is that it? No fear?
ROS Fear?
GUIL (in fury—flings a coin on the ground) Fear! The crack that might flood your brain with light!
ROS Heads. . . . (He puts it in his bag.)
Guil sits despondently. He takes a coin, spins it, lets it fall between his feet. He looks at it, picks it up, throws it to Ros, who puts it in his bag.
Guil takes another coin, spins it, catches it, turns it over on to his other hand, looks at it, and throws it to Ros, who puts it in his bag.
Guil takes a third coin, spins it, catches it in his right hand, turns it over onto his left wrist, lobs it in the air, catches it with his left hand, raises his left leg, throws the coin up under it, catches it and turns it over on the top of his head, where it sits. Ros comes, looks at it, puts it in his bag.
ROS I’m afraid—
GUIL So am I.
ROS I’m afraid it isn’t your day.
GUIL I’m afraid it is.
Small pause.
ROS Eighty-nine.
GUIL It must be indicative of something, besides the redistribution of wealth. (He muses.) List of possible explanations. One: I’m willing it. Inside where nothing shows, I am the essence of a man spinning double-headed coins, and betting against himself in private atonement for an unremembered past. (He spins a coin at Ros.)
ROS Heads.