When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin?

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No traveler returns—

HAMLET I: That’s not true, I’ve returned!

All look in amazement at BURBAGE who, having cut short the monologue, is threatening to split into a dialogue.

TIMER: That’s not from the role.

BURBAGE: That’s right. It’s from the Kingdom of Roles. (He has resumed his former pose: chalk-white mask thrown arrogantly back over shroud-white cloak; eyes closed; lips curled in a harlequin’s smile.) This was three hundred years ago. Will was playing the Ghost,* and I, the Prince. It had poured rain since morning, and the stalls were awash. Even so we had a full house. At the end of Act I, as I was declaiming about the time being “out of joint,” a pickpocket was caught stealing the public’s pence. I finished the scene to the squelching of sodden feet and the muffled sound of “thief-thief-thief.” The poor devil was dragged up onstage, as was our custom, and tied to a post. During the second act he looked embarrassed and averted his face from the pointing fingers. But scene by scene, he began to feel at home and almost part of the performance; more and more brazen, he made faces and criticisms till we untied him and hurled him from the stage. (Turning abruptly to TIMER.) I don’t know what or who tied you to this play, but if you think that your paltry stolen thoughts—worth a pence apiece—can make me richer, me, for whom all these doggerels were written, then take your coppers and get out.

Flings the role in TIMER’s face. Consternation.

PHELIA: Stern, pull yourself together!

BURBAGE: My name is Richard Burbage. And I am untying you, you little thief. Out of the Kingdom of Roles!

TIMER (pale, but calm): Thank you: I shall use my untied hands to … Go on, tie him up! Can’t you see he’s out of his mind?

BURBAGE: Yes, I condescended to you, people, from what is far over all your heads—and you refuse …

“The actors fall on Burbage, trying to tie him up. In the heat of the fray, he begins screaming, you understand, screaming at them all … Now if you’ll just … I’ll …”

Mumbling inarticulate words, Rar reached into an inside pocket: something rustled under his black frockcoat. He fell suddenly silent and looked at us with wide eyes. Necks craned nervously. Chairs edged closer. Zez jumped up and motioned for the noise to stop. “Rar,” he snapped. “Did you smuggle letters in here? Hiding them from us? Give me the manuscript. Right now!”

Rar seemed to hesitate. Then, amid the silence, his hand darted out from under his frockcoat: in his fingers, which were trembling slightly, a notebook folded in four showed white. Zez grabbed it and ran his eyes over the symbols: he held the manuscript almost at arm’s length, by one corner, as though afraid to sully himself with its inky lines. Then he spun around to the fire: it was almost out, only a few coals slowly turning violet continued to blaze above the fender.

“As per Article 5 of the Regulations, this manuscript is committed to death: without spilling ink. Objections?”

No one moved.

With a quick flick, the president tossed the notebook onto the coals. As though alive, white leaves writhing in agony, it set up a soft thin hiss; the spiral of smoke turned blue; then, from underneath, a flame leapt up. Three minutes later, having reduced to ashes with staccato blows of the tongs what so recently was a play, Zez replaced the tongs, turned to Rar and muttered, “Go on.”

Rar did not immediately resume his usual expression; he was clearly struggling to control himself—even so he spoke:

“You have treated me the way my characters treated Burbage. Well—serves us both right. I’ll continue: that is, since the words that I wanted to read can no longer be read”—he glanced at the fender where the last coals were guttering and smoldering—“I’ll omit the end of the scene.