by Unknown
She says that, had The portrait of the Artist been frank only for frankness’ sake, she would have asked shy I had given it to her to read. O you would, would you? A lady of letters.
She stands black-robed at the telephone. Little timid laughs, little cries, timid runs of speech suddenly broken.... Parlerò colla mamma.... Come! choock, choock! come! The black pullet is frightened: little runs suddenly broken, little timid cries: it is crying for its mamma, the portly hen.
Loggione. The sodden walls ooze a steamy damp. A symphony of smells fuses the mass of huddled human forms: sour reek of armpits, nozzled oranges, melting breast ointments, mastick water, the breath of suppers of sulphurous garlic, foul phosphorescent farts, opoponax, the frank sweat of marriageable and married womankind, the soapy stink of men...... All night I have watched her, all night I shall see her: braided and pinnacled hair and olive oval face and calm soft eyes. A green fillet upon her hair and about her body a green-broidered gown: the hue of the illusion of the vegetable glass of nature and of lush grass, the hair of graves.
My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire.
Those quiet cold fingers have touched the pages, foul and fair, on which my shame shall glow for ever. Quiet and cold and pure fingers, have they never erred?
Her body has no smell: an odourless flower.
On the stairs. A cold frail hand: shyness, silence: dark langour-flooded eyes: weariness.
Whirling wreaths of grey vapour upon the heath. Her face, how grey and grave! Dank matted hair. Her lips press softly, her sighing breath comes through. Kissed.
My voice, dying in the echoes of its words, dies like the wisdom-wearied voice of the Eternal calling on Abraham through echoing hills. She leans back against the pillowed wall: odalisque-featured in the luxurious obscurity. Her eyes have drunk my thoughts: and into the moist warm yielding welcoming darkness of her womanhood my soul, itself disssolving, has streamed and poured and flooded a liquid and abundant seed...... Take her now who will!....
As I come out of Ralli’s house I come upon her suddenly as we both are giving alms to a blind beggar. She answers my sudden greeting by turning and averting her black basilisk eyes. E col suo vedere attosca l’uomo quando lo vede. I thank you for the word, messer brunetto.
They spread under my feet carpets for the son of man. They await my passing. She stands in the yellow shadow of the hall, a plaid cloak shielding from chills her sinking shoulders: and as I halt in wonder and look about me she greets me wintrily and passes up the staircase darting at me for an instant out of her sluggish sidelong eyes a jet of liquorish venom.
A soft crumpled peagreen cover drapes the lounge. A narrow Parisian room. The hairdresser lay here but now. I kissed her stocking and the hem of her rustblack dusty skirt. It is the other. She. Gogarty came yesterday to be introduced. Ulysses is the reason. Symbol of the intellectual conscience.... Ireland then? And the husband? Pacing the corridor in list shoes or playing chess against himself. Why are we left here? The hairdresser lay here but now, clutching my head between her knobby knees.... Intellectual symbol of my race. Listen? The plunging gloom has fallen. Listen!
- I am not convinced that such activities of the mind or body can be called unhealthy -
She speaks. A weak voice from beyond the cold stars. Voice of wisdom. Say on! O, say again, making me wise! This voice I never heard.
She coils towards me along the crumpled lounge. I cannot move or speak. Coiling approach of starborn flesh. Adultery of wisdom. No. I will go. I will.
- Jim, love! -
Soft sucking lips kiss my left armpit: a coiling kiss on myriad veins. I burn! I crumple like a burning leaf! From my right armpit a fang of flame leaps out. A starry snake has kissed me: a cold nightsnake. I am lost!
- Nora! -
Jan Pieters Sweelink. The quaint name of the old Dutch musician makes all beauty seem quaint and far. I hear his variations for the clavichord on an old air: Youth has an end. In the vague mist of old sounds a faint point of light appears: the speech of the soul is about to be heard. Youth has an end: the end is here. It will never be. You know that well. What then? Write it, damn you, write it! What else are you good for?
‘Why?’
‘Because otherwise I could not see you.’
Sliding-space-ages-foliage of stars-and waning heaven-stilness-and stilness deeper-stilness of annihilation-and her voice.
Non hunc sed Barabbam!
Unreadiness. A bare apartment. Torbid daylight. A long black piano: coffin of music. Poised on its edge a woman’s hat, red-flowered, and umbrella, furled. Her arms: casque, gules, and blunt spear on a field, sable.
Envoy: Love me, love my umbrella.
The Play
Joyce in Dublin, 1904
EXILES
This 1918 play draws on the Dubliners short story The Dead. The play was rejected by W. B. Yeats for production at the Abbey Theatre and it was not until 1970 when Harold Pinter directed its first major performance in London.
Joyce and Nora on their wedding day, 1931
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
First Act
Second Act
Third Act
CHARACTERS
RICHARD ROWAN, a writer.
BERTHA.
ARCHIE, their son, aged eight years.
ROBERT HAND, journalist.
BEATRICE JUSTICE, his cousin, music teacher.
BRIGID, an old servant of the Rowan family.
A FISHWOMAN.
At Merrion and Ranelagh, suburbs of Dublin.
Summer of the year 1912.
Zurich, 1938
First Act
(The drawingroom in Richard Rowan’s house at Merrion, a suburb of Dublin. On the right, forward, a fireplace, before which stands a low screen. Over the mantelpiece a giltframed glass. Further back in the right wall, folding doors leading to the parlour and kitchen. In the wall at the back to the right a small door leading to a study. Left of this a sideboard. On the wall above the sideboard a framed crayon drawing of a young man. More to the left double doors with glass panels leading out to the garden. In the wall at the left a window looking out on the road. Forward in the same wall a door leading to the hall and the upper part of the house. Between the window and door a lady’s davenport stands against the wall. Near it a wicker chair. In the centre of the room a round table. Chairs, upholstered in faded green plush, stand round the table. To the right, forward, a smaller table with a smoking service on it. Near it an easychair and a lounge. Cocoanut mats lie before the fireplace, beside the lounge and before the doors. The floor is of stained planking. The double doors at the back and the folding doors at the right have lace curtains, which are drawn halfway. The lower sash of the window is lifted and the window is hung with heavy green plush curtains. The blind is pulled down to the edge of the lifted lower sash. It is a warm afternoon in June and the room is filled with soft sunlight which is waning.)
530
(Brigid and Beatrice Justice come in by the door on the left. Brigid is an elderly woman, lowsized, with irongrey hair. Beatrice Justice is a slender dark young woman of 27 years. She wears a wellmade navyblue costume and an elegant simply trimmed black straw hat, and carries a small portfolioshaped handbag.)
BRIGID
The mistress and Master Archie is at the bath. They never expected you. Did you send word you were back, Miss Justice?
BEATRICE
No. I arrived just now.
BRIGID
(Points to the easychair.) Sit down and I’ll tell the master you are here. Were you long in the train?
BEATRICE
(Sitting down.) Since morning.
BRIGID
Master Archie got your postcard with the views of Youghal. You’re tired out, I’m sure.
BEATRICE
O, no. (She coughs rather nervously.) Did he practise the piano while I was away?
BRIGID
(Laughs heartily.) Practice, how are you! Is it Mast
er Archie? He is mad after the milkman’s horse now. Had you nice weather down there, Miss Justice?
BEATRICE
Rather wet, I think.
531
BRIGID
(Sympathetically.) Look at that now. And there is rain overhead too. (Moving towards the study.) I’ll tell him you are here.
BEATRICE
Is Mr Rowan in?
BRIGID
(Points.) He is in his study. He is wearing himself out about something he is writing. Up half the night he does be. (Going.) I’ll call him.
BEATRICE
Don’t disturb him, Brigid. I can wait here till they come back if they are not long.
BRIGID
And I saw something in the letterbox when I was letting you in. (She crosses to the study door, opens it slightly and calls.) Master Richard, Miss Justice is here for Master Archie’s lesson.
(Richard Rowan comes in from the study and advances towards Beatrice, holding out his hand. He is a tall athletic young man of a rather lazy carriage. He has light brown hair and a moustache and wears glasses. He is dressed in loose lightgrey tweed.)
RICHARD
Welcome.
BEATRICE
(Rises and shakes hands, blushing slightly.) Good afternoon, Mr Rowan. I did not want Brigid to disturb you.
RICHARD
Disturb me? My goodness!
BRIGID
There is something in the letterbox, sir.
RICHARD
(Takes a small bunch of keys from his pocket and hands them to her.) Here.
(Brigid goes out by the door at the left and is heard opening and closing the box. A short pause. She enters with two newspapers in her hands.)
RICHARD
Letters?
BRIGID
No, sir. Only them Italian newspapers.
RICHARD
Leave them on my desk, will you?
(Brigid hands him back the keys, leaves the newspapers in the study, comes out again and goes out by the folding doors on the right.)
532
RICHARD
Please, sit down. Bertha will be back in a moment.
(Beatrice sits down again in the easychair. Richard sits beside the table.)
RICHARD
I had begun to think you would never come back. It is twelve days since you were here.
BEATRICE
I thought of that too. But I have come.
RICHARD
Have you thought over what I told you when you were here last?
BEATRICE
Very much.
RICHARD
You must have known it before. Did you? (She does not answer.) Do you blame me?
BEATRICE
No.
RICHARD
Do you think I have acted towards you — badly? No? Or towards anyone?
BEATRICE
(Looks at him with a sad puzzled expression.) I have asked myself that question.
RICHARD
And the answer?
BEATRICE
I could not answer it.
RICHARD
If I were a painter and told you I had a book of sketches of you you would not think it so strange, would you?
BEATRICE
It is not quite the same case, is it?
RICHARD
(Smiles slightly.) Not quite. I told you also that I would not show you what I had written unless you asked to see it. Well?
BEATRICE
I will not ask you.
RICHARD
(Leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands joined.) Would you like to see it?
BEATRICE
Very much.
RICHARD
Because it is about yourself?
BEATRICE
Yes. But not only that.
RICHARD
Because it is written by me? Yes? Even if what you would find there is sometimes cruel?
BEATRICE
(Shyly.) That is part of your mind, too.
533
RICHARD
Then it is my mind that attracts you? Is that it?
BEATRICE
(Hesitating, glances at him for an instant.) Why do you think I come here?
RICHARD
Why? Many reasons. To give Archie lessons. We have known one another so many years, from childhood, Robert, you and I — haven’t we? You have always been interested in me, before I went away and while I was away. Then our letters to each other about my book. Now it is published. I am here again. Perhaps you feel that some new thing is gathering in my brain; perhaps you feel that you should know it. Is that the reason?
BEATRICE
No.
RICHARD
Why, then?
BEATRICE
Otherwise I could not see you.
(She looks at him for a moment and then turns aside quickly.)
RICHARD
(After a pause repeats uncertainly.) Otherwise you could not see me?
BEATRICE
(Suddenly confused.) I had better go. They are not coming back. (Rising.) Mr Rowan, I must go.
RICHARD
(Extending his arms.) But you are running away. Remain. Tell me what your words mean. Are you afraid of me?
BEATRICE
(Sinks back again.) Afraid? No.
RICHARD
Have you confidence in me? Do you feel that you know me?
BEATRICE
(Again shyly.) It is hard to know anyone but oneself.
RICHARD
Hard to know me? I sent you from Rome the chapters of my book as I wrote them; and letters for nine long years. Well, eight years.
BEATRICE
Yes, it was nearly a year before your first letter came.
534
RICHARD
It was answered at once by you. And from that on you have watched me in my struggle. (Joins his hands earnestly.) Tell me, Miss Justice, did you feel that what you read was written for your eyes? Or that you inspired me?
BEATRICE
(Shakes her head.) I need not answer that question.
RICHARD
What then?
BEATRICE
(Is silent for a moment.) I cannot say it. You yourself must ask me, Mr Rowan.
RICHARD
(With some vehemence.) Then that I expressed in those chapters and letters, and in my character and life as well, something in your soul which you could not — pride or scorn?
BEATRICE
Could not?
RICHARD
(Leans towards her.) Could not because you dared not. Is that why?
BEATRICE
(Bends her head.) Yes.
RICHARD
On account of others or for want of courage — which?
BEATRICE
(Softly.) Courage.
RICHARD
(Slowly.) And so you have followed me with pride and scorn also in your heart?
BEATRICE
And loneliness.
(She leans her head on her hand, averting her face. Richard rises and walks slowly to the window on the left. He looks out for some moments and then returns towards her, crosses to the lounge and sits down near her.)
RICHARD
Do you love him still?
BEATRICE
I do not even know.
RICHARD
It was that that made me so reserved with you — then — even though I felt your interest in me, even though I felt that I too was something in your life.
BEATRICE
You were.
535
RICHARD
Yet that separated me from you. I was a third person I felt. Your names were always spoken together, Robert and Beatrice, as long as I can remember. It seemed to me, to everyone...
BEATRICE
We are first cousins. It is not strange that we were often together.
RICHARD
He told me of your secret engagement with him. He had no secrets from me; I suppose you know that.
BEATRICE
(Uneasily.) What happened — between us — is so long ago. I was a child.
RICHARD
(Smiles maliciously.) A child? Are you sure? It was in the garden of his mother’s house. No? (He points towards the garden.) Over there. You plighted your troth, as they say, with a kiss. And you gave him your garter. Is it allowed to mention that?
BEATRICE
(With some reserve.) If you think it worthy of mention.
RICHARD
I think you have not forgotten it. (Clasping his hands quietly.) I do not understand it. I thought, too, that after I had gone... Did my going make you suffer?
BEATRICE
I always knew you would go some day. I did not suffer; only I was changed.
RICHARD
Towards him?
BEATRICE
Everything was changed. His life, his mind, even, seemed to change after that.
RICHARD
(Musing.) Yes. I saw that you had changed when I received your first letter after a year; after your illness, too. You even said so in your letter.
BEATRICE
It brought me near to death. It made me see things differently.
RICHARD
And so a coldness began between you, little by little. Is that it?
BEATRICE
(Half closing her eyes.) No. Not at once. I saw in him a pale reflection of you: then that too faded. Of what good is it to talk now?
536
RICHARD
(With a repressed energy.) But what is this that seems to hang over you? It cannot be so tragic.
BEATRICE
(Calmly.) O, not in the least tragic. I shall become gradually better, they tell me, as I grow older. As I did not die then they tell me I shall probably live. I am given life and health again — when I cannot use them. (Calmly and bitterly.) I am convalescent.
RICHARD