Brian Friel Plays 1

by Brian Friel

  EAMON: Doctor! Call the doctor! For Christ’s sake, will someone call the doctor!

  Black-out

  ACT THREE

  Early afternoon two days later.

  The seats and deck-chairs as before.

  EAMON is sitting on the step. tom is changing the film in his camera. CASIMIR, his hands behind his back, is restlessly pacing round the perimeter of the tennis-court.

  All three are dressed in lounge suits – they have recently returned from Father’s funeral.

  We can hear CLAIRE playing the piano – Sonata No. 2 in B flat minor‚ Op. 35, middle section of Third Movement (i.e. portion between ‘Dead March’ statements – omit ‘Dead March’). It will be necessary to repeat this music which runs up to the entrance of ALICE and JUDITH.

  CASIMIR: (Pacing) He was by no means a skilful tennis player, Father, but oh my goodness he was very consistent and very determined. (Halts.) Alice and I would be over there and he would be here. And before he served he always went through a long ritual of placing his toe precisely on the edge of the line (He demonstrates), moving it and adjusting it for maybe twenty seconds until he had it exactly where he wanted it – as if the whole game depended on the exact placing of his toe. (Paces again.) And of course this always sent Alice and me into fits of secret giggling, so that when he finally did serve, we were never able to return the ball and so he thought he was a much better player than he really was! Yes. Wonderful, wasn’t it? (Halts.) Oh but God help you if he caught you laughing – oh-ho-ho-ho. (Paces again.) Just about this time we should all have been sitting down at the wedding reception – (Looks at watch.) – yes‚ just about now. Funny, isn’t it? The B flat minor Sonata – that was Grandfather O’Donnell’s favourite. Probably because he actually heard Chopin play it.

  TOM: Who heard Chopin?

  CASIMIR: Grandfather. Haven’t I told you that story?

  TOM: No.

  (CASIMIR comes down stage.)

  CASIMIR: Oh, yes. At a party in Vienna – a birthday party for Balzac. Everybody was there: Liszt and George Sand and Turgenev and Mendelssohn and the young Wagner and Berlioz and Delacroix and Verdi – and of course Balzac. Everybody. It went on for days. God knows why Grandfather was there – probably gate-crashed. Anyhow that’s what Chopin played.

  TOM: Your grandfather, Casimir?

  CASIMIR: Grandfather O’Donnell; a great traveller; Europe every year.

  TOM: But he wouldn’t have been a contemporary of these people, would he?

  CASIMIR: Would he not?

  TOM: You must mean your great-grandfather, don’t you?

  CASIMIR: Do I? Great-grandfather O’Donnell then. Yes, you’re right: he lived in Europe for six months one time to escape the fever that followed the famine here. A party in Vienna. The expression became part of the family language: anything great and romantic and exciting that had happened in the past or might happen in the future, we called it ‘a party in Vienna’ – yes. Very beautiful, isn’t it? And there was another detail about that party: Chopin was playing that sonata and Balzac began to sing it and Grandfather told Balzac to shut up and Chopin said, ‘Bravo, Irishman! Bravo!’ Grandfather, of course, was thrilled. Isn’t it beautiful, Eamon?

  EAMON: Yes.

  CASIMIR: (Pacing again) Chopin died in Paris, you know, and when they were burying him they sprinkled Polish soil on his grave. (Pause.) Because he was Polish. Did you notice how she went straight to the piano the moment we came back? Like a homing instinct; yes. I often wonder how far she might have gone if father hadn’t thwarted her. Oh, I’m afraid he was more than naughty about that; oh, yes. Oh, I’m afraid he was adept at stifling things. I’m grateful to you for staying over, Tom.

  TOM: Not at all.

  CASIMIR: I appreciate it very much.

  TOM: The least I could do.

  CASIMIR: Is your father dead?

  TOM: Yeah.

  (CASIMIR goes to him and very formally shakes his hand.)

  CASIMIR: I’m very, very sorry.

  TOM: Thank you.

  CASIMIR: It is a great loss.

  TOM: Indeed.

  CASIMIR: When did he die?

  TOM: When I was three months old.

  CASIMIR: Good Lord.

  (He begins pacing again.)

  TOM: A few details, Casimir; perhaps you could help me with them?

  CASIMIR: Yes?

  TOM: You mentioned that your mother played the piano – (Producing notebook) – where are we? – yeah – you talked about her playing a waltz at bedtime.

  CASIMIR: The A flat major – oh, yes, that’s my favourite; that’s easily my favourite.

  TOM: You’re sure about that?

  CASIMIR: That The Bedtime’s the A flat major? Oh, I’m –

  TOM: No, no; that your mother did play the piano.

  (CASIMIR halts.)

  TOM: Just that I inferred from something Judith said in passing that your mother did not in fact play.

  CASIMIR: Judith said that?

  TOM: What I understood was –

  CASIMIR: You must have taken her up wrong, Tom. Oh, yes, Mother was a splendid pianist. By no means as talented as little Claire; but very competent. And a lovely singer. Oh, yes. Her favourite piece was a song called Sweet Alice. And Father hated it – hated it. ‘Rubbish’ he called it. ‘Vulgar rubbish’. So that she never sang it when he was around. Oh, yes, she had lots of songs like that from her childhood. Do you know that song, Eamon?

  EAMON: (Sings) ‘Do you remember –’

  (CASIMIR joins him.)

  ‘… Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?

  Sweet Alice with hair so brown?’

  CASIMIR: That’s it – that’s it! It’s not insensitive of us to sing just after Father’s funeral, is it? Ha-ha. Anyway. I remember when she’d sing Sweet Alice she seemed to become very, very young again and very, very beautiful, as if the song restored to her something she had lost, something that had withered in her … Oh, yes, she was a very talented pianist.

  TOM: I’m sure I misunderstood Judith. It’s of no importance. I’ll check it again. And the other query was –

  (He consults his notebook again; hesitates; decides not to pursue the enquiry; closes the book and puts it in his pocket.)

  TOM: Yeah; that’s okay; that can wait, too. No more problems.

  CASIMIR: What was the other query?

  TOM: Question mark after Yeats; that’s all.

  CASIMIR: What about him?

  TOM: Just that you said you remember him sitting in –

  CASIMIR: Oh my goodness yes; oh, he was just tremendous, Yeats, with those cold, cold eyes of his. Oh, yes, I remember Yeats vividly.

  TOM: Sure.

  CASIMIR: What’s the question mark for?

  TOM: It’s of no significance. I think I got myself a little confused here, too. Doesn’t matter.

  CASIMIR: What’s the confusion?

  (The music stops. TOM produces his notebook again.)

  TOM: Well‚ you were born on 1st April, 1939.

  CASIMIR: Good heavens – don’t I know! All Fools Day! Yes?

  TOM: And Yeats died the same year. Two months earlier. I’ve double checked it. (He looks up from his notes. CASIMIR is staring at him. Pause.) I make little mistakes like that all the time myself. My mother worked for the Bell Telephone Company and until I went to high school I thought she worked for a Mr Bell who was my uncle for God’s sake … It’s a natural misunderstanding, that’s all … I mean a man like Yeats is a visitor to your home, a friend of the family, you hear a lot of talk about him, and naturally after a time, naturally you come to think you actually … I’ve some correspondence to catch up with. Forgive me.

  (He goes into the study and off. CASIMIR grimaces at EAMON.)

  CASIMIR: Ha-ha. It was very kind of Tom to stay over. I appreciate that very much. (Begins pacing again.) Father would have been so pleased by that funeral today – no, not pleased – gratified. The packed chapel; the music; that young curate’s fine, generous panegyric and h
e didn’t know Father at all, Judith says. Then down through the village street – his village, his Ballybeg – that’s how he thought of it, you know, and in a sense it was his village. Did you know that it used to be called O’Donnellstown? Yes, years and years ago. How simple it all was this time, wasn’t it? You remember Mother’s funeral, don’t you? – all that furtiveness, all that whispering, all those half-truths. We didn’t know until the very last minute would they allow her a Christian burial at all because of the circumstances – remember? But today it was – today was almost … festive by comparison, wasn’t it? Every shop shut and every blind drawn; and men kneeling on their caps as the hearse passed; and Nanny sobbing her heart out when the coffin was being lowered – did you see her? – of course you did – you were beside her. All that happened, didn’t it, Eamon? All that happened? Oh, yes, he would have been so gratified.

  EAMON: There are certain things, certain truths, Casimir, that are beyond Tom’s kind of scrutiny.

  (The same sonata music begins again.)

  CASIMIR: Oh, there are. Oh, yes, there are – aren’t there? Yes – yes. I discovered a great truth when I was nine. No, not a great truth; but I made a great discovery when I was nine – not even a great discovery but an important, a very important discovery for me. I suddenly realized I was different from other boys. When I say I was different I don’t mean – you know – good Lord, I don’t for a second mean I was – you know – as they say nowadays ‘homo-sexual’ – good heavens I must admit, if anything, Eamon, if anything I’m – (Looks around.) – I’m vigorously hetero-sexual ha-ha. But of course I don’t mean that either. No, no. But anyway. What I discovered was that for some reason people found me … peculiar. Of course I sensed it first from the boys at boarding-school. But it was Father with his usual – his usual directness and honesty who made me face it. I remember the day he said to me: ‘Had you been born down there’ – we were in the library and he pointed down to Ballybeg – ‘Had you been born down there, you’d have become the village idiot. Fortunately for you, you were born here and we can absorb you.’ Ha-ha. So at nine years of age I knew certain things: that certain kinds of people laughed at me; that the easy relationships that other men enjoy would always elude me; that – that – that I would never succeed in life, whatever – you know – whatever ‘succeed’ means –

  EAMON: Casimir –

  CASIMIR: No, no, please. That was a very important and a very difficult discovery for me, as you can imagine. But it brought certain recognitions, certain compensatory recognitions. Because once I recognized – once I acknowledged that the larger areas were not accessible to me, I discovered – I had to discover smaller, much smaller areas that were. Yes, indeed. And I discovered that if I conduct myself with some circumspection, I find that I can live within these smaller, perhaps very confined territories without exposure to too much hurt. Indeed I find that I can experience some happiness and perhaps give a measure of happiness, too. My great discovery. Isn’t it so beautiful? (Music.) Somehow the hall doesn’t exist without him. (He begins pacing again.) We must have a talk some time, Eamon.

  EAMON: Yes.

  CASIMIR: I don’t think we ever had a talk, you and I, had we?

  EAMON: I don’t think so.

  CASIMIR: I’d really like to talk to you because I think you – I think you understand … (He gestures towards the house) … what it has done to all of us.

  EAMON: I don’t know about that.

  CASIMIR: Oh, yes, you do. I know you do. And you would tell me about your work and about London and I would tell you about my boys and about Hamburg. Will you, Eamon, please?

  EAMON: Of course.

  CASIMIR: Good. Great. Next time we meet. We even have our agenda all ready, haven’t we? When I went up to see him the evening I arrived – was it only two days ago? – I stood looking down at him and I remembered a poem called My Father Dying, and the last lines go:

  ‘But on any one

  of these nights soon

  for you, the dark will not crack with dawn

  And then I will begin

  with you that hesitant conversation

  going on and on and on.’

  Something disquieting about that line ‘going on and on and on’, isn’t there? Ha-ha.

  (JUDITH and ALICE enter. CASIMIR resumes pacing. JUDITH in a dark dress and carrying Alice’s case. ALICE with coat and handbag. They deposit these things in the study.)

  ALICE: Thanks. Just leave it there.

  JUDITH: When’s your bus?

  ALICE: We’ve another fifteen or twenty minutes yet.

  JUDITH: Willie’ll be here. He said he’ll run you down.

  ALICE: That’d be handy.

  (They both come out to the lawn.)

  ALICE: There’s tea in there if you want it.

  EAMON: None for me.

  ALICE: Casimir?

  CASIMIR: Not at the moment, thank you.

  JUDITH: Did you get your flight fixed up?

  CASIMIR: Mrs Moore did all the phoning‚ made all the arrangements. She was wonderful.

  JUDITH: Does Helga know?

  CASIMIR: I sent her a telegram. I should be home at midnight.

  (EAMON touches ALICE’s cheek with his index finger.)

  EAMON: It’s healed.

  ALICE: Is it?

  EAMON: Almost.

  ALICE: I heal quickly.

  EAMON: Sorry.

  ALICE: I’ve packed your things.

  EAMON: Thanks.

  ALICE: Have you the tickets?

  (He taps his jacket packet.)

  ALICE: I’ll be glad to be home, if it’s only to get a sleep. (Aloud) Tom hasn’t left yet, has he?

  JUDITH: He’s in the library; some dates he wants to check again.

  EAMON: ‘Check’‚ ‘recheck’, double-check’, ‘cross-check’.

  JUDITH: He’s talking about waiting over until the morning.

  EAMON: Wasn’t he lucky to be here for Father’s death? I suppose he’ll interpret that as ‘the end of an epoch’.

  JUDITH: Isn’t it?

  EAMON: Is it?

  CASIMIR: He’s from Chicago, he tells me. And I suspect he may be a very wealthy man: his uncle owns the Bell Telephone Company.

  EAMON: He should never have been let set foot here.

  JUDITH: He asked my permission.

  EAMON: To pry?

  JUDITH: To chronicle.

  EAMON: Ah.

  JUDITH: To record the truth.

  EAMON: Better still. And you said, ‘Go ahead, stranger’.

  JUDITH: Is there something to hide?

  (EAMON spreads his hands.)

  JUDITH: Besides – it’s my home.

  (Brief pause. Then quickly.)

  ALICE: It wasn’t exactly the biggest funeral ever seen in Ballybeg, was it?

  CASIMIR: Did you notice – the whole village closed down.

  ALICE: For the minute it took the hearse to pass through. And as Sister Thérèse would say: ‘The multitude in the church was a little empty, too.’

  CASIMIR: I thought the requiem mass very moving.

  ALICE: Until Miss Quirk cut loose. For God’s sake did nobody tell her it wasn’t the wedding?

  JUDITH: She would have played anyway.

  ALICE: But maybe not This Is My Lovely Day. Or is that one of the two pieces?

  JUDITH: You might have got Bless This House.

  ALICE: Father would not have been amused. Casimir, will you please stop prowling around?

  CASIMIR: Oh. Sorry – sorry.

  (He sits – as if he were about to take off again.)

  ALICE: Who was the man standing just behind Willie at the graveside? – glasses, pasty-looking, plump, bald. I noticed him in the chapel, too; in the front pew on the men’s side.

  EAMON: Jerry.

  ALICE: Who?

  EAMON: Jerry McLaughlin.

  ALICE: Who’s Jerry Mc –? Not –!

  (EAMON nods.)

  ALICE: For God’s sake! But that man
could be her father, Judith!

  JUDITH: Easy.

  (The music stops suddenly. Silence.)

  ALICE: She couldn’t have heard me, could she?

  CLAIRE: Casimir!

  CASIMIR: Hello-hello.

  CLAIRE: What’s the name of this?

  ALICE: (Relieved) God.

  (CASIMIR leaps up.)

  CASIMIR: A test! She’s testing me again! (Shouts.) Go ahead! I’m ready! I’m waiting!

  (He moves upstage and stands poised, waiting. His eyes are shut tight, etc. etc. as before. The music is the Ballade in A flat major, Op. 47.)

  ALICE: You never told me he was like that.

  JUDITH: Like what?

  ALICE: That’s an elderly man. (To EAMON) Did you know he was like that?

  CASIMIR: Good Lord – good Lord – good Lord – good Lord –

  ALICE: She’s only – what? – twenty-seven? – twenty-eight?

  CASIMIR: I know it – I know it so well – but what is it? – what is it? –

  ALICE: Thank God the wedding’s postponed for three months. Maybe she’ll come to her senses in the meantime. How could the poor child marry a man like that, for God’s sake?

  JUDITH: I’ve no idea. (Rises.) There are some things we’ve got to get settled before you all leave. (Shouts.) Claire, could you come out for a few minutes?

  ALICE: So that’s Jerry McLaughlin.

  EAMON: He looks older than he is.

  JUDITH: Claire!

  ALICE: O dear, dear, dear, dear, dear.

  (The music stops. CASIMIR comes downstage.)

  CASIMIR: (To EAMON) It’s a sonata – a sonata – I know that – either 58 or 59 – but which? – which?

  EAMON: Don’t ask me.

  ALICE: (To EAMON) What age is he?

  CASIMIR: Oh, Lord, I should know. Alice?

  ALICE: What?

  CASIMIR: 58 or 59?

  ALICE: Is he serious?

  CASIMIR: 59 – that’s my guess.

  ALICE: He’s right.

  CASIMIR: Am I?

  ALICE: He must be that. Oh, the poor baby!

  (CLAIRE enters – she is not wearing mourning clothes. ALICE studies her face with anxious compassion.)

  CLAIRE: (To CASIMIR) Well?

  CASIMIR: It’s a sonata.

  CLAIRE: Is it?