Part 1
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TWO PLAYS FOR DANCERS
BY W. B. YEATS
THE CUALA PRESS MCMXIX
TWO PLAYS FOR DANCERS
PREFACE
In a note at the end of my last book 'The Wild Swans at Coole' (Cuala Press.) I explained why I preferred this kind of drama, and where I had found my models, and where and how my first play after this kind was performed, and when and how I would have it performed in the future. I can but refer the reader to the note or to the long introduction to 'Certain Noble Plays of Japan' (Cuala Press.)
W. B. Yeats. October 11th. 1918
P. S. That I might write 'The Dreaming of the Bones,' Mr. W. A. Henderson with great kindness wrote out for me all historical allusions to Dervorgilla.
THE DREAMING OF THE BONES
The stage is any bare place in a room close to the wall. A screen with a pattern of mountain and sky can stand against the wall, or a curtain with a like pattern hang upon it, but the pattern must only symbolize or suggest. One musician enters and then two others, the first stands singing while the others take their places. Then all three sit down against the wall by their instruments, which are already there--a drum, a zither, and a flute. Or they unfold a cloth as in 'The Hawk's Well,' while the instruments are carried in.
FIRST MUSICIAN
(or all three musicians, singing) Why does my heart beat so? Did not a shadow pass? It passed but a moment ago. Who can have trod in the grass? What rogue is night-wandering? Have not old writers said That dizzy dreams can spring From the dry bones of the dead? And many a night it seems That all the valley fills With those fantastic dreams. They overflow the hills, So passionate is a shade, Like wine that fills to the top A grey-green cup of jade, Or maybe an agate cup. (speaking) The hour before dawn and the moon covered up. The little village of Abbey is covered up; The little narrow trodden way that runs From the white road to the Abbey of Corcomroe Is covered up; and all about the hills Are like a circle of Agate or of Jade. Somewhere among great rocks on the scarce grass Birds cry, they cry their loneliness. Even the sunlight can be lonely here, Even hot noon is lonely. I hear a footfall-- A young man with a lantern comes this way. He seems an Aran fisher, for he wears The flannel bawneen and the cow-hide shoe. He stumbles wearily, and stumbling prays.
(A young man enters, praying in Irish)
Once more the birds cry in their loneliness, But now they wheel about our heads; and now They have dropped on the grey stone to the north-east.
(A man and a girl both in the costume of a past time, come in. They wear heroic masks)
YOUNG MAN
(raising his lantern) Who is there? I cannot see what you are like, Come to the light.
STRANGER
But what have you to fear?
YOUNG MAN
And why have you come creeping through the dark.
(The Girl blows out lantern)
The wind has blown my lantern out. Where are you? I saw a pair of heads against the sky And lost them after, but you are in the right I should not be afraid in County Clare; And should be or should not be have no choice, I have to put myself into your hands, Now that my candle's out.
STRANGER
You have fought in Dublin?
YOUNG MAN
I was in the Post Office, and if taken I shall be put against a wall and shot.
STRANGER
You know some place of refuge, have some plan Or friend who will come to meet you?
YOUNG MAN
I am to lie At daybreak on the mountain and keep watch Until an Aran coracle puts in At Muckanish or at the rocky shore Under Finvarra, but would break my neck If I went stumbling there alone in the dark.
STRANGER
We know the pathways that the sheep tread out, And all the hiding-places of the hills, And that they had better hiding-places once.
YOUNG MAN
You'd say they had better before English robbers Cut down the trees or set them upon fire For fear their owners might find shelter there. What is that sound?
STRANGER
An old horse gone astray He has been wandering on the road all night.
YOUNG MAN
I took him for a man and horse. Police Are out upon the roads. In the late Rising I think there was no man of us but hated To fire at soldiers who but did their duty And were not of our race, but when a man Is born in Ireland and of Irish stock When he takes part against us--
STRANGER
I will put you safe, No living man shall set his eyes upon you. I will not answer for the dead.
YOUNG MAN
The dead?
STRANGER
For certain days the stones where you must lie Have in the hour before the break of day Been haunted.
YOUNG MAN
But I was not born at midnight.
STRANGER
Many a man born in the full daylight Can see them plain, will pass them on the high-road Or in the crowded market-place of the town, And never know that they have passed.
YOUNG MAN
My Grandam Would have it they did penance everywhere Or lived through their old lives again.
STRANGER
In a dream; And some for an old scruple must hang spitted Upon the swaying tops of lofty trees; Some are consumed in fire, some withered up By hail and sleet out of the wintry North, And some but live through their old lives again.
YOUNG MAN
Well, let them dream into what shape they please And fill waste mountains with the invisible tumult Of the fantastic conscience. I have no dread; They cannot put me into jail or shoot me, And seeing that their blood has returned to fields That have grown red from drinking blood like mine They would not if they could betray.
STRANGER
This pathway Runs to the ruined Abbey of Corcomroe; The Abbey passed, we are soon among the stone And shall be at the ridge before the cocks Of Aughanish or Bailevlehan Or grey Aughtmana shake their wings and cry.
(They go round the stage once)
FIRST MUSICIAN
(speaking) They've passed the shallow well and the flat stone Fouled by the drinking cattle, the narrow lane Where mourners for five centuries have carried Noble or peasant to his burial. An owl is crying out above their heads. (singing) Why should the heart take fright What sets it beating so? The bitter sweetness of the night Has made it but a lonely thing. Red bird of March, begin to crow, Up with the neck and clap the wing, Red cock, and crow.
(They go once round the stage. The first musician speaks.)
And now they have climbed through the long grassy field And passed the ragged thorn trees and the gap In the ancient hedge; and the tomb-nested owl At the foot's level beats with a vague wing. (singing) My head is in a cloud; I'd let the whole world go. My rascal heart is proud Remembering and remembering. Red bird of March, begin to crow, Up with the neck and clap the wing Red cock and crow.
(They go round the stage. The first musician speaks.)
They are among the stones above the ash Above the briar and thorn and the scarce grass; Hidden amid the shadow far below them The cat-headed bird is crying out. (singing) The dreaming bones cry out Because the night winds blow And heaven's a cloudy blot; Calamity can have its fling. Red bird of March begin to crow, Up with the neck and clap the wing Red cock and crow.
THE STRANGER
We're almost at the summit and can rest. The road is a faint shadow there; and there The abbey lies amid its broken tombs. In the old days we should have heard a bell Calling the monks before day broke to pray; And when the day has broken on the ridge, The crowing of its cocks.
YOUNG MAN
Is there no house Famous for sanctity or architectural beauty In Clare or Kerry, or in all wide Connacht The enemy has not unroofed?
STRANGER
Close to the altar Broken by wind and frost and worn by time Donogh O'Brien has a tomb, a name in Latin. He wore fine clothes and knew the secrets of women But he rebelled against the King of Thomond And died in his youth.
YOUNG MAN
And why should he rebel? The King of Thomond was his rightful master. It was men like Donogh who made Ireland weak-- My curse on all that troop, and when I die I'll leave my body, if I have any choice, Far from his ivy tod and his owl; have those Who, if your tale is true, work out a penance Upon the mountain-top where I am to hide, Come from the Abbey graveyard?
THE GIRL
They have not that luck, But are more lonely, those that are buried there, Warred in the heat of the blood; if they were rebels Some momentary impulse made them rebels Or the comandment of some petty king Who hated Thomond. Being but common sinners, No callers in of the alien from oversea They and their enemies of Thomond's party Mix in a brief dream battle above their bones, Or make one drove or drift in amity, Or in the hurry of the heavenly round Forget their earthly names; these are alone Being accursed.
YOUNG MAN
And if what seems is true And there are more upon the other side Than on this side of death, many a ghost Must meet them face to face and pass the word Even upon this grey and desolate hill.
YOUNG GIRL
Until this hour no ghost or living man Has spoken though seven centuries have run Since they, weary of life and of men's eyes, Flung down their bones in some forgotten place Being accursed.
YOUNG MAN
I have heard that there are souls Who, having sinned after a monstrous fashion Take on them, being dead, a monstrous image To drive the living, should they meet its face, Crazy, and be a terror to the dead.
YOUNG GIRL
But these Were comely even in their middle life And carry, now that they are dead, the image Of their first youth, for it was in that youth Their sin began.
YOUNG MAN
I have heard of angry ghosts Who wander in a wilful solitude.
THE GIRL
These have no thought but love; nor joy But that upon the instant when their penance Draws to its height and when two hearts are wrung Nearest to breaking, if hearts of shadows break, His eyes can mix with hers; nor any pang That is so bitter as that double glance, Being accursed.
YOUNG MAN
But what is this strange penance-- That when their eyes have met can wring them most?
THE GIRL
Though eyes can meet, their lips can never meet.
YOUNG MAN
And yet it seems they wander side by side. But doubtless you would say that when lips meet And have not living nerves, it is no meeting.
THE GIRL
Although they have no blood or living nerves Who once lay warm and live the live-long night In one another's arms, and know their part In life, being now but of the people of dreams, Is a dreams part; although they are but shadows Hovering between a thorn tree and a stone Who have heaped up night on winged night; although No shade however harried and consumed Would change his own calamity for theirs, Their manner of life were blessed could their lips A moment meet; but when he has bent his head Close to her head or hand would slip in hand The memory of their crime flows up between And drives them apart.
YOUNG MAN
The memory of a crime-- He took her from a husband's house it may be, But does the penance for a passionate sin Last for so many centuries?
THE GIRL
No, no, The man she chose, the man she was chosen by Cared little and cares little from whose house They fled towards dawn amid the flights of arrows Or that it was a husband's and a king's; And how if that were all could she lack friends On crowded roads or on the unpeopled hill? Helen herself had opened wide the door Where night by night she dreams herself awake And gathers to her breast a dreaming man.
YOUNG MAN
What crime can stay so in the memory? What crime can keep apart the lips of lovers Wandering and alone?
THE GIRL
Her king and lover Was overthrown in battle by her husband And for her sake and for his own, being blind And bitter and bitterly in love, he brought A foreign army from across the sea.
YOUNG MAN
You speak of Dermot and of Dervorgilla Who brought the Norman in?
THE GIRL
Yes, yes I spoke Of that most miserable, most accursed pair Who sold their country into slavery, and yet They were not wholly miserable and accursed If somebody of their race at last would say: 'I have forgiven them.'
YOUNG MAN
Oh, never, never Will Dermot and Dervorgilla be forgiven.
THE GIRL
If someone of their race forgave at last Lip would be pressed on lip.
YOUNG MAN
Oh, never, never Will Dermot and Dervorgilla be forgiven. You have told your story well, so well indeed I could not help but fall into the mood And for a while believe that it was true Or half believe, but better push on now. The horizon to the East is growing bright.
(They go once round stage)
So here we're on the summit. I can see The Aran Islands, Connemara Hills, And Galway in the breaking light; there too The enemy has toppled wall and roof And torn from ancient walls to boil his pot The oaken panelling that had been dear To generations of children and old men. But for that pair for whom you would have my pardon It might be now like Bayeux or like Caen Or little Italian town amid its walls For though we have neither coal nor iron ore To make us rich and cover heaven with smoke Our country, if that crime were uncommitted Had been most beautiful. Why do you dance? Why do you gaze and with so passionate eyes One on the other and then turn away Covering your eyes and weave it in a dance, Who are you? what are you? you are not natural.
THE GIRL
Seven hundred years our lips have never met.
YOUNG MAN
Why do you look so strangely at one another, So strangely and so sweetly?
THE GIRL
Seven hundred years.
YOUNG MAN
So strangely and so sweetly. All the ruin, All, all their handiwork is blown away As though the mountain air had blown it away Because their eyes have met. They cannot hear, Being folded up and hidden in their dance. The dance is changing now. They have dropped their eyes, They have covered up their eyes as though their hearts Had suddenly been broken--never, never Shall Dermot and Dervorgilla be forgiven. They have drifted in the dance from rock to rock. They have raised their hands as though to snatch the sleep That lingers always in the abyss of the sky Though they can never reach it. A cloud floats up And covers all the mountain head in a moment. And now it lifts and they are swept away. I had almost yielded and forgiven it all-- This is indeed a place of terrible temptation.
(The Musicians begin unfolding and folding a black cloth. The First Musician comes forward to the front of the stage, at the centre. He holds the cloth before him. The other two come one on either side and unfold it. They afterwards fold it up in the same way. While it is unfolded, the Young Man leaves the stage.)
THE MUSICIANS
I
(singing) At the grey round of the hill Music of a lost kingdom Runs, runs and is suddenly still. The winds out of Clare-Galway Carry it: suddenly it is still.
I have heard in the night air A wandering airy music; And moidered in that snare A man is lost of a sudden, In that sweet wandering snare.
What finger first began Music of a lost kingdom. They dreamed that laughed in the sun. Dry bones that dream are bitter, They dream and darken our sun.
Those crazy fingers play A wandering airy music; Our luck is withered away, And wheat in the wheat-ear withered, And the wind blows it away.
II
My heart ran wild when it heard The curlew cry before dawn And the eddying cat-headed bird; But now the night is gone. I have heard from far below The strong March birds a-crow, Stretch neck and clap the wing, Red cocks, and crow.
THE ONLY JEALOUSY OF EMER
Enter Musicians, who are dressed as in the earlier play. They have the same musical instruments, which can either be already upon the stage or be brought in by the First Musician before he stands in the centre with the cloth between his hands, or by a player when the cloth is unfolded. The stage as before can be against the wall of any room.
FIRST MUSICIAN
(During the unfolding and folding of the cloth)
A woman's beauty is like a white Frail bird, like a white sea-bird alone At daybreak after stormy night Between two furrows upon the ploughed land: A sudden storm and it was thrown Between dark furrows upon the ploughed land. How many centuries spent The sedentary soul In toils of measurement Beyond eagle or mole, Beyond hearing or seeing, Or Archimedes guess, To raise into being That loveliness?
A strange unserviceable thing, A fragile, exquisite, pale shell, That the vast troubled waters bring To the loud sands before day has broken. The storm arose and suddenly fell Amid the dark before day had broken. What death? what discipline? What bonds no man could unbind Being imagined within The labyrinth of the mind? What pursuing or fleeing? What wounds, what bloody press? Dragged into being This loveliness.
(When the cloth is folded again the Musicians take their place against wall. The folding of the cloth shows on one side of the stage the curtained bed or litter on which lies a man in his grave-clothes. He wears an heroic mask. Another man with exactly similar clothes and mask crouches near the front. Emer is sitting beside the bed.)
FIRST MUSICIAN
(speaking) I call before the eyes a roof With cross-beams darkened by smoke. A fisher's net hangs from a beam, A long oar lies against the wall. I call up a poor fisher's house. A man lies dead or swooning, That amorous man, That amorous, violent man, renowned Cuchulain, Queen Emer at his side. At her own bidding all the rest have gone. But now one comes on hesitating feet, Young Eithne Inguba, Cuchulain's mistress. She stands a moment in the open door, Beyond the open door the bitter sea, The shining, bitter sea is crying out, (singing) White shell, white wing I will not choose for my friend A frail unserviceable thing That drifts and dreams, and but knows That waters are without end And that wind blows.
EMER
(speaking) Come hither, come sit down beside the bed You need not be afraid, for I myself Sent for you, Eithne Inguba.
EITHNE INGUBA
No, Madam, I have too deeply wronged you to sit there.
EMER
Of all the people in the world we two, And we alone, may watch together here, Because we have loved him best.
EITHNE INGUBA
And is he dead?
EMER
Although they have dressed him out in his grave-clothes And stretched his limbs, Cuchulain is not dead; The very heavens when that day's at hand, So that his death may not lack ceremony, Will throw out fires, and the earth grow red with blood. There shall not be a scullion but foreknows it Like the world's end.
EITHNE INGUBA
How did he come to this?
EMER
Towards noon in the assembly of the kings He met with one who seemed a while most dear. The kings stood round; some quarrel was blown up; He drove him out and killed him on the shore At Baile's tree, and he who was so killed Was his own son begot on some wild woman When he was young, or so I have heard it said; And thereupon, knowing what man he had killed, And being mad with sorrow, he ran out; And after to his middle in the foam With shield before him and with sword in hand, He fought the deathless sea. The kings looked on And not a king dared stretch an arm, or even Dared call his name, but all stood wondering In that dumb stupor like cattle in a gale, Until at last, as though he had fixed his eyes On a new enemy, he waded out Until the water had swept over him; But the waves washed his senseless image up And laid it at this door.
EITHNE INGUBA
How pale he looks!
EMER
He is not dead.
EITHNE INGUBA
You have not kissed his lips Nor laid his head upon your breast.
EMER
It may be An image has been put into his place, A sea-born log bewitched into his likeness, Or some stark horseman grown too old to ride Among the troops of Mananan, Son of the Sea, Now that his joints are stiff.
EITHNE INGUBA
Cry out his name. All that are taken from our sight, they say, Loiter amid the scenery of their lives For certain hours or days, and should he hear He might, being angry drive the changeling out.
EMER
It is hard to make them hear amid their darkness, And it is long since I could call him home; I am but his wife, but if you cry aloud With that sweet voice that is so dear to him He cannot help but listen.
EITHNE INGUBA
He loves me best, Being his newest love, but in the end Will love the woman best who loved him first And loved him through the years when love seemed lost.
EMER
I have that hope, the hope that some day and somewhere We'll sit together at the hearth again.
EITHNE INGUBA
Women like me when the violent hour is over Are flung into some corner like old nut shells. Cuchulain, listen.
EMER
No, not yet for first I'll cover up his face to hide the sea; And throw new logs upon the hearth and stir The half burnt logs until they break in flame. Old Mananan's unbridled horses come Out of the sea and on their backs his horsemen But all the enchantments of the dreaming foam Dread the hearth fire.
(She pulls the curtains of the bed so as to hide the sick man's face, that the actor may change his mask unseen. She goes to one side of platform and moves her hand as though putting logs on a fire and stirring it into a blaze. While she makes these movements the Musicians play, marking the movements with drum and flute perhaps.
Having finished she stands beside the imaginary fire at a distance from Cuchulain & Eithne Inguba.)
Call on Cuchulain now.
EITHNE INGUBA
Can you not hear my voice.
EMER
Bend over him. Call out dear secrets till you have touched his heart If he lies there; and if he is not there Till you have made him jealous.
EITHNE INGUBA
Cuchulain, listen.
EMER
You speak too timidly; to be afraid Because his wife is but three paces off When there is so great a need were but to prove The man that chose you made but a poor choice. We're but two women struggling with the sea.
EITHNE INGUBA
O my beloved pardon me, that I Have been ashamed and you in so great need. I have never sent a message or called out, Scarce had a longing for your company But you have known and come; and if indeed You are lying there stretch out your arms and speak; Open your mouth and speak for to this hour My company has made you talkative. Why do you mope, and what has closed your ears. Our passion had not chilled when we were parted On the pale shore under the breaking dawn. He will not hear me: or his ears are closed And no sound reaches him.
EMER
Then kiss that image The pressure of your mouth upon his mouth May reach him where he is.
EITHNE INGUBA
(starting back) It is no man. I felt some evil thing that dried my heart When my lips touched it.
EMER
No, his body stirs; The pressure of your mouth has called him home; He has thrown the changeling out.
EITHNE INGUBA
(going further off) Look at that arm That arm is withered to the very socket.
EMER
(going up to the bed) What do you come for and from where?
FIGURE of CUCHULAIN
I have come From Mananan's court upon a bridleless horse.
EMER
What one among the Sidhe has dared to lie Upon Cuchulain's bed and take his image?
FIGURE of CUCHULAIN
I am named Bricriu--not the man--that Bricriu, Maker of discord among gods and men, Called Bricriu of the Sidhe.
EMER
Come for what purpose?
FIGURE of CUCHULAIN