by Brian Friel
YOLLAND: Except you.
OWEN: I’ve left here.
YOLLAND: You remember it.
OWEN: I’m asking you: what do we write in the Name-Book?
YOLLAND: Tobair Vree.
OWEN: Even though the well is a hundred yards from the actual crossroads – and there’s no well anyway – and what the hell does Vree mean?
YOLLAND: Tobair Vree.
OWEN: That’s what you want?
YOLLAND: Yes.
OWEN: You’re certain?
YOLLAND: Yes.
OWEN: Fine. Fine. That’s what you’ll get.
YOLLAND: That’s what you want, too, Roland.
(Pause.)
OWEN: (Explodes) George! For God’s sake! My name is not Roland!
YOLLAND: What?
OWEN: (Softly) My name is Owen.
(Pause.)
YOLLAND: Not Roland?
OWEN: Owen.
YOLLAND: You mean to say –?
OWEN: Owen.
YOLLAND: But I’ve been –
OWEN: O-w-e-n.
YOLLAND: Where did Roland come from?
OWEN: I don’t know.
YOLLAND: It was never Roland?
OWEN: Never.
YOLLAND: O my God!
(Pause. They stare at one another. Then the absurdity of the situation strikes them suddenly. They explode with laughter. OWEN pours drinks. As they roll about, their lines overlap.)
YOLLAND: Why didn’t you tell me?
OWEN: Do I look like a Roland?
YOLLAND: Spell Owen again.
OWEN: I was getting fond of Roland.
YOLLAND: O my God!
OWEN: O-w-e-n.
YOLLAND: What’ll we write –
OWEN: – in the Name-Book?!
YOLLAND: R-o-w-e-n!
OWEN: Or what about Ol-
YOLLAND: Ol- what?
OWEN: Oland!
(And again they explode. MANUS enters. He is very elated.)
MANUS: What’s the celebration?
OWEN: A christening!
YOLLAND: A baptism!
OWEN: A hundred christenings!
YOLLAND: A thousand baptisms! Welcome to Eden!
OWEN: Eden’s right! We name a thing and – bang! – it leaps into existence!
YOLLAND: Each name a perfect equation with its roots.
OWEN: A perfect congruence with its reality. (To MANUS) Take a drink.
YOLLAND: Poteen – beautiful.
OWEN: Lying Anna’s poteen.
YOLLAND: Anna na mBreag’s poteen.
OWEN: Excellent, George.
YOLLAND: I’ll decode you yet.
OWEN: (Offers drink) Manus?
MANUS: Not if that’s what it does to you.
OWEN: You’re right. Steady – steady – sober up – sober up.
YOLLAND: Sober as a judge, Owen.
(MANUS moves beside OWEN.)
MANUS: I’ve got good news! Where’s Father?
OWEN: He’s gone out. What’s the good news?
MANUS: I’ve been offered a job.
OWEN: Where? (Now aware of YOLLAND.) Come on, man – speak in English.
MANUS: For the benefit of the colonist?
OWEN: He’s a decent man.
MANUS: Aren’t they all at some level?
OWEN: Please.
(MANUS shrugs.)
He’s been offered a job.
YOLLAND: Where?
OWEN: Well – tell us!
MANUS: I’ve just had a meeting with two men from Inis Meadhon. They want me to go there and start a hedge-school. They’re giving me a free house, free turf, and free milk; a rood of standing corn; twelve drills of potatoes; and –
(He stops.)
OWEN: And what?
MANUS: A salary of £42 a year!
OWEN: Manus, that’s wonderful!
MANUS: You’re talking to a man of substance.
OWEN: I’m delighted.
YOLLAND: Where’s Inis Meadhon?
OWEN: An island south of here. And they came looking for you?
MANUS: Well, I mean to say …
(OWEN punches MANUS.)
OWEN: Aaaaagh! This calls for a real celebration.
YOLLAND: Congratulations.
MANUS: Thank you.
OWEN: Where are you, Anna?
YOLLAND: When do you start?
MANUS: Next Monday.
OWEN: We’ll stay with you when we’re there. (To YOLLAND) How long will it be before we reach Inis Meadhon?
YOLLAND: How far south is it?
MANUS: About fifty miles.
YOLLAND: Could we make it by December?
OWEN: We’ll have Christmas together. (Sings) ‘Christmas Day on Inis Meadhon …’
YOLLAND: (Toast) I hope you’re very content there, Manus.
MANUS: Thank you.
(YOLLAND holds out his hand. MANUS takes it. They shake warmly.)
OWEN: (Toast) Manus.
MANUS: (Toast) To Inis Meadhon.
(He drinks quickly and turns to leave.)
OWEN: Hold on – hold on – refills coming up.
MANUS: I’ve got to go.
OWEN: Come on, man; this is an occasion. Where are you rushing to?
MANUS: I’ve got to tell Maire.
(MAIRE enters with her can of milk.)
MAIRE: You’ve got to tell Maire what?
OWEN: He’s got a job!
MAIRE: Manus?
OWEN: He’s been invited to start a hedge-school in Inis Meadhon.
MAIRE: Where?
MANUS: Inis Meadhon – the island! They’re giving me £42 a year and …
OWEN: A house, fuel, milk, potatoes, corn, pupils, what-not!
MANUS: I start on Monday.
OWEN: You’ll take a drink. Isn’t it great?
MANUS: I want to talk to you for –
MAIRE: There’s your milk. I need the can back.
(MANUS takes the can and runs up the steps.)
MANUS: (As he goes) How will you like living on an island?
OWEN: You know George, don’t you?
MAIRE: We wave to each other across the fields.
YOLLAND: Sorry-sorry?
OWEN: She says you wave to each other across the fields.
YOLLAND: Yes, we do; oh, yes; indeed we do.
MAIRE: What’s he saying?
OWEN: He says you wave to each other across the fields.
MAIRE: That’s right. So we do.
YOLLAND: What’s she saying?
OWEN: Nothing – nothing – nothing. (To MAIRE) What’s the news?
(MAIRE moves away, touching the text books with her toe.)
MAIRE: Not a thing. You’re busy, the two of you.
OWEN: We think we are.
MAIRE: I hear the Fiddler O’Shea’s about. There’s some talk of a dance tomorrow night.
OWEN: Where will it be?
MAIRE: Maybe over the road. Maybe at Tobair Vree.
YOLLAND: Tobair Vree!
MAIRE: Yes.
YOLLAND: Tobair Vree! Tobair Vree!
MAIRE: Does he know what I’m saying?
OWEN: Not a word.
MAIRE: Tell him then.
OWEN: Tell him what?
MAIRE: About the dance.
OWEN: Maire says there may be a dance tomorrow night.
YOLLAND: (To OWEN) Yes? May I come? (To MAIRE) Would anybody object if I came?
MAIRE: (To OWEN) What’s he saying?
OWEN: (To YOLLAND) Who would object?
MAIRE: (To OWEN) Did you tell him?
YOLLAND: (To MAIRE) Sorry-sorry?
OWEN: (To MAIRE) He says may he come?
MAIRE: (To YOLLAND) That’s up to you.
YOLLAND: (To OWEN) What does she say?
OWEN: (To YOLLAND) She says –
YOLLAND: (To MAIRE) What-what?
MAIRE: (To OWEN) Well?
YOLLAND: (To OWEN) Sorry-sorry?
OWEN: (To YOLLAND) Will you go?
YOLLAND: (
To MAIRE) Yes, yes, if I may.
MAIRE: (To OWEN) What does he say?
YOLLAND: (To OWEN) What is she saying?
OWEN: Oh for God’s sake! (To MANUS who is descending with the empty can.) You take on this job, Manus.
MANUS: I’ll walk you up to the house. Is your mother at home? I want to talk to her.
MAIRE: What’s the rush? (To OWEN) Didn’t you offer me a drink?
OWEN: Will you risk Anna na mBreag?
MAIRE: Why not.
(YOLLAND is suddenly intoxicated. He leaps up on a stool, raises his glass and shouts.)
YOLLAND: Anna na mBreag! Baile Beag! Inis Meadhon! Bombay! Tobair Vree! Eden! And poteen – correct, Owen?
OWEN: Perfect.
YOLLAND: And bloody marvellous stuff it is, too. I love it! Bloody, bloody, bloody marvellous!
(Simultaneously with his final ‘bloody marvellous’ bring up very loud the introductory music of the reel. Then immediately go to black. Retain the music throughout the very brief interval.)
SCENE II
The following night.
This scene may be played in the schoolroom, but it would be preferable to lose – by lighting – as much of the schoolroom as possible, and to play the scene down front in a vaguely ‘outside’ area.
The music rises to a crescendo. Then in the distance we hear MAIRE and YOLLAND approach – laughing and running. They run on, hand-in-hand. They have just left the dance. Fade the music to distant background. Then after a time it is lost and replaced by guitar music. MAIRE and YOLLAND are now down front, still holding hands and excited by their sudden and impetuous escape from the dance.
MAIRE: O my God, that leap across the ditch nearly killed me.
YOLLAND: I could scarcely keep up with you.
MAIRE: Wait till I get my breath back.
YOLLAND: We must have looked as if we were being chased.
(They now realize they are alone and holding hands – the beginnings of embarrassment. The hands disengage. They begin to drift apart. Pause.)
MAIRE: Manus’ll wonder where I’ve got to.
YOLLAND: I wonder did anyone notice us leave.
(Pause. Slightly further apart.)
MAIRE: The grass must be wet. My feet are soaking.
YOLLAND: Your feet must be wet. The grass is soaking.
(Another pause. Another few paces apart. They are now a long distance from one another.)
YOLLAND: (Indicating himself) George.
(MAIRE nods: Yes-yes. Then: –)
MAIRE: Lieutenant George.
YOLLAND: Don’t call me that. I never think of myself as Lieutenant.
MAIRE: What-what?
YOLLAND: Sorry-sorry? (He points to himself again.) George.
(MAIRE nods: Yes-yes. Then points to herself.)
MAIRE: Maire.
YOLLAND: Yes, I know you’re Maire. Of course I know you’re Maire. I mean I’ve been watching you night and day for the past –
MAIRE: (Eagerly) What-what?
YOLLAND: (Points) Maire. (Points.) George. (Points both.) Maire and George.
(MAIRE nods: Yes-yes-yes.)
I – I – I –
MAIRE: Say anything at all. I love the sound of your speech.
YOLLAND: (Eagerly) Sorry-sorry?
(In acute frustration he looks around, hoping for some inspiration that will provide him with communicative means. Now he has a thought: he tries raising his voice and articulating in a staccato style and with equal and absurd emphasis on each word.)
Every-morning-I-see-you-feeding-brown-hens-and-giving-meal-to-black-calf – (The futility of it) – O my God.
(MAIRE smiles. She moves towards him. She will try to communicate in Latin.)
MAIRE: Tu es centurio in – in – in exercitu Britannico –
YOLLAND: Yes-yes? Go on – go on – say anything at all – I love the sound of your speech.
MAIRE: – et es in castris quae – quae – quae sunt in agro – (The futility of it) – O my God.
(YOLLAND smiles. He moves towards her. Now for her English words.) George – water.
YOLLAND: ‘Water’? Water! Oh yes – water – water – very good – water – good – good.
MAIRE: Fire.
YOLLAND: Fire – indeed – wonderful – fire, fire, fire – splendid – splendid!
MAIRE: Ah … ah …
YOLLAND: Yes? Go on.
MAIRE: Earth.
YOLLAND: ‘Earth’?
MAIRE: Earth, Earth.
(YOLLAND still does not understand. MAIRE stoops down and picks up a handful of clay. Holding it out.) Earth.
YOLLAND: Earth! Of course – earth! Earth. Earth. Good Lord, Maire, your English is perfect!
MAIRE: (Eagerly) What-what?
YOLLAND: Perfect English. English perfect.
MAIRE: George –
YOLLAND: That’s beautiful – oh, that’s really beautiful.
MAIRE: George –
YOLLAND: Say it again – say it again –
MAIRE: Shhh. (She holds her hand up for silence – she is trying to remember her one line of English. Now she remembers it and she delivers the line as if English were her language – easily, fluidly, conversationally.)
George, ‘In Norfolk we besport ourselves around the maypoll.’
YOLLAND: Good God, do you? That’s where my mother comes from – Norfolk. Norwich actually. Not exactly Norwich town but a small village called Little Walsingham close beside it. But in our own village of Winfarthing we have a maypole too and every year on the first of May – (He stops abruptly, only now realizing. He stares at her. She in turn misunderstands his excitement.)
MAIRE: (To herself) Mother of God, my Aunt Mary wouldn’t have taught me something dirty, would she?
(Pause. YOLLAND extends his hand to MAIRE. She turns away from him and moves slowly across the stage.)
YOLLAND: Maire.
(She still moves away.)
Maire Chatach.
(She still moves away.)
Bun na hAbhann? (He says the name softly, almost privately, very tentatively, as if he were searching for a sound she might respond to. He tries again.) Druim Dubh?
(MAIRE stops. She is listening. YOLLAND is encouraged.)
Poll na gCaorach. Lis Maol.
(MAIRE turns towards him.)
Lis na nGall.
MAIRE: Lis na nGradh.
(They are now facing each other and begin moving – almost imperceptibly – towards one another.)
MAIRE: Carraig an Phoill.
YOLLAND: Carraig na Ri. Loch na nEan.
MAIRE: Loch an Iubhair. Machaire Buidhe.
YOLLAND: Machaire Mor. Cnoc na Mona.
MAIRE: Cnoc na nGabhar.
YOLLAND: Mullach.
MAIRE: Port.
YOLLAND: Tor.
MAIRE: Lag.
(She holds out her hands to YOLLAND. He takes them. Each now speaks almost to himself/herself.)
YOLLAND: I wish to God you could understand me.
MAIRE: Soft hands; a gentleman’s hands.
YOLLAND: Because if you could understand me I could tell you how I spend my days either thinking of you or gazing up at your house in the hope that you’ll appear even for a second.
MAIRE: Every evening you walk by yourself along the Tra Bhan and every morning you wash yourself in front of your tent.
YOLLAND: I would tell you how beautiful you are, curly-headed Maire. I would so like to tell you how beautiful you are.
MAIRE: Your arms are long and thin and the skin on your shoulders is very white.
YOLLAND: I would tell you …
MAIRE: Don’t stop – I know what you’re saying.
YOLLAND: I would tell you how I want to be here – to live here – always – with you – always, always.
MAIRE: ‘Always’? What is that word – ‘always’?
YOLLAND: Yes-yes; always.
MAIRE: You’re trembling.
YOLLAND: Yes, I’m trembling because of you.
/> MAIRE: I’m trembling, too.
(She holds his face in her hand.)
YOLLAND: I’ve made up my mind …
MAIRE: Shhhh.
YOLLAND: I’m not going to leave here …
MAIRE: Shhh – listen to me. I want you, too, soldier.
YOLLAND: Don’t stop – I know what you’re saying.
MAIRE: I want to live with you – anywhere – anywhere at all – always – always.
YOLLAND: ‘Always’? What is that word – ‘always’?
MAIRE: Take me away with you, George.
(Pause. Suddenly they kiss. SARAH enters. She sees them. She stands shocked, staring at them. Her mouth works. Then almost to herself.)
SARAH: Manus … Manus!
(SARAH runs off. Music to crescendo.)
ACT THREE
The following evening. It is raining.
SARAH and OWEN alone in the schoolroom. SARAH, more waiflike than ever, is sitting very still on a stool, an open book across her knee. She is pretending to read but her eyes keep going up to the room upstairs. OWEN is working on the floor as before, surrounded by his reference books, map, Name-Book, etc. But he has neither concentration nor interest; and like SARAH he glances up at the upstairs room.
After a few seconds MANUS emerges and descends, carrying a large paper bag which already contains his clothes. His movements are determined and urgent. He moves around the classroom, picking up books, examining each title carefully, and choosing about six of them which he puts into his bag. As he selects these books: –
OWEN: You know that old limekiln beyond Con Connie Tim’s pub, the place we call The Murren? – do you know why it’s called The Murren?
(MANUS does not answer.)
I’ve only just discovered: it’s a corruption of Saint Muranus. It seems Saint Muranus had a monastery somewhere about there at the beginning of the seventh century. And over the years the name became shortened to the Murren. Very unattractive name, isn’t it? I think we should go back to the original – Saint Muranus. What do you think? The original’s Saint Muranus. Don’t you think we should go back to that?
(No response. OWEN begins writing the name into the Name-Book. MANUS is now rooting about among the forgotten implements for a piece of rope. He finds a piece. He begins to tie the mouth of the flimsy, overloaded bag – and it bursts, the contents spilling out on the floor.)
