Read Brian Friel Plays 2 Online
Authors: Brian Friel
Brian Friel Plays 2 (3 page)
Because
Molly
Sweeney
is narrated it is a complex memory play. The three narrators, who share only the space provided by the stage in what must be Friel’s least
realized location in all of his plays, each recount in turn the story of the fatal operation, before and after. Their lack of interaction suggests that they do not see each other, do not exist for each other, and that only the audience is privy to this tri-partite memory. The form is thus far more experimental than
Dancing
at
Lughnasa,
controlled by a single memory. It is, of course, the playwright who, like Sir in
Living
Quarters,
summons up these three dispersed figures and allows their discrete stories to form a continuous discourse. So abstract is this idea that the setting must remain unspecified.
In Act II Rice’s patterned language, ‘And I’ll remember Ballybeg’, refers to ‘the core, the very heart of the memory’, what he calls his own ‘performance’. Once again, the Frielian idea is presented that memory is something constructed through which the individual establishes continuity of identity and thereby a consoling sense of wholeness. Memory, in short, is redemptive. Rice, as artist, finds renovation in the achievement of Molly’s brief sightedness: his own ‘darkness’ is momentarily lifted. The way Rice projects memory forward (‘I’ll remember Ballybeg’) has a strange effect of collapsing time itself. Molly herself is likewise collapsed, sacrificed like Grace in
Faith
Healer
or even Mabel in
Making
History
to male ambition. Frank provides a parody of Rice’s more authentic ambition. Molly’s own memories in the hospital (was she always narrating from the hospital?) reinstate the ‘Fathers and Daughters’ motif. Rice and her father become the same person; her mother is herself. Memory and the present coincide. Molly has reached a plateau where she has won the freedom to let illusion and actuality intermingle. Yet we are told she is dying. Is Friel not finally agreeing with Synge that the price of this kind of freedom, the artist’s freedom, is exclusion, is exile? Though about to die Molly is mistress of her own world and can admit and exclude those she will. In that way,
although not just in that way, the play is stunningly theatrical.
Further studies of women as at once victims of male power and pregnant with autonomy appear in
Give
Me
Your
Answer,
Do!,
directed at the Abbey by Friel himself. Here, too, a father and daughter relationship is bound up with mental disturbance. Here, too, the artist is enmeshed in the paradox of symbiotic mastery and destruction. The novelist Tom Connolly in this play has suffered writer’s block ever since his daughter’s descent into schizophrenia several years before the play opens, and he finds release at last only through denial of the obvious though meretricious solution. The search begun in
Wonderful
Tennessee
for answers in a world now cut off from spiritual authority perhaps reaches its true end here, in the clarity of loyalty and the paradox of winning through losing. These are old Frielian ironies, reminted in a new and assured style.
Give
Me
Your
Answer,
Do!
closes the circle first described when Friel, after years of silence, felt enabled to write
Fathers
and
Sons
and so entered upon a fresh and exciting period of artistic activity. Its successful new production at the Hampstead Theatre in the spring of 1998 argues that, like
Wonderful
Tennessee,
there is considerably more to this play than may first meet the eye. Like good music, to which Friel’s art always aspires, these plays must be heard (in the mind and in the theatre) more than once before their true power strikes home. Once they are allowed to make their proper impact they haunt the imagination for ever.
Christopher Murray
August 1998
In
memory
of
those
five
brave
Glenties
women
Michael
,
young man, narrator
Kate
,
forty, schoolteacher
Maggie
,
thirty-eight, housekeeper
Agnes
,
thirty-five, knitter
Rose
,
thirty-two, knitter
Chris
,
twenty-six, Michael’s mother
Gerry
,
thirty-three, Michael’s father
Jack
,
fifty-three, missionary priest
Michael,
who
narrates
the
story,
also
speaks
the
lines
of
the
boy,
i.e.
himself
when
he
was
seven.
Act
One:
A
warm
day
in
early
August
1936.
Act
Two:
Three
weeks
later.
The
home
of
the
Mundy
family,
two
miles
outside
the
village
of
Bally
beg,
County
Donegal,
Ireland.
Set:
Slightly
more
than
half
the
area
of
the
stage
is
taken
up
by
the
kitchen
on
the
right
(left
and
right
from
the
point
of
view
of
the
audience).
The
rest
of
the
stage
–
i.e.
the
remaining
area
stage
left
–
is
the
garden
adjoining
the
house.
The
garden
is
neat
but
not
cultivated.
Upstage
centre
is
a
garden
seat.
The
(unseen)
boy
has
been
making
two
kites
in
the
garden
and
pieces
of
wood,
paper,
cord,
etc.,
are
lying
on
the
ground
close
to
the
garden
seat.
One
kite
is
almost
complete.
There
are
two
doors
leading
out
of
the
kitchen.
The
front
door
leads
to
the
garden
and
the
front
of
the
house.
The
second
in
the
top
right-hand
corner
leads
to
the
bedrooms
and
to
the
area
behind
the
house.
One
kitchen
window
looks
out
front.
A
second
window
looks
on
to
the
garden.
There
is
a
sycamore
tree
off
right.
One
of
its
branches
reaches
over
part
of
the
house.
The
room
has
the
furnishings
of
the
usual
country
kitchen
of
the
thirties:
a
large
iron
range,
large
turf
box
beside
it,
table
and
chairs,
dresser,
oil
lamp,
buckets
with
water
at
the
back
door,
etc.,
etc.
But
because
this
is
the
home
of
five
women
the
austerity
of
the
furnishings
is
relieved
by
some
gracious
touches
–
flowers,
pretty
curtains,
an
attractive
dresser
arrangement,
etc.
Dress:
Kate,
the
teacher,
is
the
only
wage-earner.
Agnes
and
Rose
make
a
little
money
knitting
gloves
at
home.
Chris
and
Maggie
have
no
income.
So
the
clothes
of
all
the
sisters
reflect
their
lean
circumstances.
Rose
wears
wellingtons
even
though
the
day
is
warm.
Maggie
wears
large
boots
with
long,
untied
laces.
Rose,
Maggie
and
Agnes
all
wear
the
drab,
wrap-around
overalls/aprons
of
the
time.
In
the
opening
tableau
Father
Jack
is
wearing
the
uniform
of
a
British
army
officer
chaplain
–
a
magnificent
and
immaculate
uniform
of
dazzling
white;
gold
epaulettes
and
gold
buttons,
tropical
hat,
clerical
collar,
military
cane.
He
stands
stiffly
to
attention.
As
the
text
says,
he
is
‘resplendent
’
,
‘magnificent’.
So
resplendent
that
he
looks
almost
comic
opera.
In
this
tableau,
too,
Gerry
is
wearing
a
spotless
white
tricorn
hat
with
splendid
white
plumage.
(Soiled
and
shabby
versions
of
Jack’s
uniform
and
Gerry’s
ceremonial
hat
are
worn
at
the
end
of
the
play,
i.e.
in
the
final
tableau.)
Rose
is
‘simple’.
All
her
sisters
are
kind
to
her
and
protective
of
her.
But
Agnes
has
taken
on
the
role
of
special
protector.
Dancing at Lughnasa
was first performed at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, on 24 April 1990. The cast was as follows:
Kate
Frances Tomelty
Maggie
Anita Reeves
Rose
Bríd Ní Neachtain
Agnes
Bríd Brennan
Chris
Catherine Byrne
Michael
Gerard McSorley
Gerry
Paul Herzberg
Jack
Barry McGovern
Directed
by
Patrick Mason
Designed
by
Joe Vanek
Lighting
by
Trevor Dawson
This production transferred to the National Theatre in October 1990, with the following changes of cast:
Kate
Rosaleen Linehan
Gerry
Stephen Dillane
Jack
Alec McCowen
When
the
play
opens
Michael
is
standing
downstage
left
in
a
pool
of
light.
The
rest
of
the
stage
is
in
darkness.
Immediately
Michael
begins
speaking,
slowly
bring
up
the
lights
on
the
rest
of
the
stage.
Around the stage and at a distance from Michael the other characters stand motionless in formal tableau. Maggie is at the kitchen window (right). Chris is at the front door. Kate at extreme stage right. Rose and Gerry sit on the garden seat. Jack stands beside Rose. Agnes is upstage left. They hold these positions while Michael talks to the audience.
Michael
When I cast my mind back to that summer of 1936 different kinds of memories offer themselves to me. We got our first wireless set that summer – well, a sort of a set; and it obsessed us. And because it arrived as August was about to begin, my Aunt Maggie – she was the joker of the family – she suggested we give it a name. She wanted to call it Lugh
*
after the old Celtic God of the Harvest. Because in the old days August the First was
Lá
Lughnasa,
the feast day of the pagan god, Lugh; and the days and weeks of harvesting that followed were called the Festival of Lughnasa. But Aunt Kate – she was a national schoolteacher and a very proper woman – she said it would be sinful to christen an inanimate object with any kind of name, not to talk of a pagan god. So we just called it Marconi because that was the name emblazoned on the set.
And about three weeks before we got that wireless, my mother’s brother, my Uncle Jack, came home from Africa for the first time ever. For twenty-five years he had worked in a leper colony there, in a remote village called Ryanga in Uganda. The only time he ever left that village was for about six months during World War One when he was chaplain to the British army in East Africa. Then back to that grim hospice where he worked without a break for a further eighteen years. And now in his early fifties and in bad health he had come home to Ballybeg – as it turned out – to die.
And when I cast my mind back to that summer of 1936, these two memories – of our first wireless and of Father Jack’s return – are always linked. So that when I recall my first shock at Jack’s appearance, shrunken and jaundiced with malaria, at the same time I remember my first delight, indeed my awe, at the sheer magic of that radio. And when I remember the kitchen throbbing with the beat of Irish dance music beamed to us all the way from Athlone, and my mother and her sisters suddenly catching hands and dancing a spontaneous step-dance and laughing – screaming! – like excited schoolgirls, at the same time I see that forlorn figure of Father Jack shuffling from room to room as if he were searching for something but couldn’t remember what. And even though I was only a child of seven at the time I know I had a sense of unease, some awareness of a widening breach between what seemed to be and what was, of things changing too quickly before my eyes, of becoming what they ought not to be. That may have been because Uncle Jack hadn’t turned out at all like the resplendent figure in my head. Or maybe because I had witnessed Marconi’s voodoo derange those kind, sensible women and transform them into shrieking strangers. Or maybe it was because during those Lughnasa weeks of 1936 we were visited on two occasions by my father, Gerry Evans, and for the first time in my life I had a chance to observe him.
The
lighting
changes.
The
kitchen
and
garden
are
now
lit
as
for
a
warm
summer
afternoon.
Michael,
Kate,
Gerry
and
Father
Jack
go
off.
The
others
busy
themselves
with
their
tasks.
Maggie
makes
a
mash
for
hens.
Agnes
knits
gloves.
Rose
carries
a
basket
of
turf
into
the
kitchen
and
empties
it
into
the
large
box
beside
the
range.
Chris
irons
at
the
kitchen
table.
They
all
work
in
silence.
Then
Chris
stops
ironing,
goes
to
the
tiny
mirror
on
the
wall
and
scrutinizes
her
face.
Chris
When are we going to get a decent mirror to see ourselves in?
Maggie
You can see enough to do you.
Chris
I’m going to throw this aul cracked thing out.
Maggie
Indeed you’re not, Chrissie. I’m the one that broke it and the only way to avoid seven years’ bad luck is to keep on using it.
Chris
You can see nothing in it.
Agnes
Except more and more wrinkles.
Chris
D’you know what I think I might do? I think I just might start wearing lipstick.
Agnes
Do you hear this, Maggie?
Maggie
Steady on, girl. Today it’s lipstick; tomorrow it’s the gin bottle.
Chris
I think I just might.
Agnes
As long as Kate’s not around. ‘Do you want to make a pagan of yourself?’
Chris
puts
her
face
up
close
to
the
mirror
and
feels
it.
Chris
Far too pale. And the aul mousey hair. Needs a bit of colour.
Agnes
What for?
Chris
What indeed. (
She
shrugs
and
goes
back
to
her
ironing.
She
holds
up
a
surplice.
)
Make a nice dress that, wouldn’t it? … God forgive me …
Work
continues.
Nobody
speaks.
Then
suddenly
and
unexpectedly
Rose
bursts
into
raucous
song:
Rose
‘Will you come to Abyssinia, will you come?
Bring your own cup and saucer and a bun …’
As
she
sings
the
next
two
lines
she
dances
–
a
gauche,
graceless
shuffle
that
defies
the
rhythm
of
the
song.
‘Mussolini will be there with his airplanes in the air,
Will you come to Abyssinia, will you come?’
Not bad, Maggie – eh?
Maggie
is
trying
to
light
a
very
short
cigarette
butt.
Maggie
You should be on the stage, Rose.
Rose
continues
to
shuffle
and
now
holds
up
her
apron
skirt.
Rose
And not a bad bit of leg, Maggie – eh?
Maggie
Rose Mundy! Where’s your modesty! (
Maggie
now
hitches
her
own
skirt
even
higher
than
Rose’s
and
does
a
similar
shuffle.
)
Is that not more like it?
Rose
Good, Maggie – good – good! Look, Agnes, look!
Agnes
A right pair of pagans, the two of you.
Rose
Turn on Marconi, Chrissie.
Chris
I’ve told you a dozen times: the battery’s dead.
Rose
It is not. It went for me a while ago. (
She
goes
to
the
set
and
switches
it
on.
There
is
a
sudden,
loud
three-
second
blast
of ‘The
British
Grenadiers’.
)
You see! Takes
aul Rosie! (
She
is
about
to
launch
into
a
dance
–
and
the
music
suddenly
dies.
)
Chris
Told you.
Rose
That aul set’s useless.
Agnes
Kate’ll have a new battery back with her.
Chris
If it’s the battery that’s wrong.
Rose
Is Abyssinia in Africa, Aggie?
Agnes
Yes.
Rose
Is there a war there?
Agnes
Yes. I’ve told you that.
Rose
But that’s not where Father Jack was, is it?
Agnes
(
patiently
)
Jack was in Uganda, Rosie. That’s a different part of Africa. You know that.
Rose
(
unhappily
)
Yes, I do … I do … I know that …
Maggie
catches
her
hand
and
sings
softly
into
her
ear
to
the
same
melody
as
the
‘Abyssinia
’
song:
Maggie
‘Will you vote for De Valera, will you vote?
If you don’t, we’ll be like Gandhi with his goat.’
Rose
and
Maggie
now
sing
the
next
two
lines
together:
‘Uncle Bill from Baltinglass has a wireless up his –
They
dance
as
they
sing
the
final
line
of
the
song:
Will you vote for De Valera, will you vote?’
Maggie
I’ll tell you something, Rosie: the pair of us should be on the stage.
Rose
The pair of us should be on the stage, Aggie!
They
return
to
their
tasks.
Agnes
goes
to
the
cupboard
for
wool.
On
her
way
hack
to
her
seat
she
looks
out
the
window
that
looks
on
to
the
garden.
Agnes
What’s that son of yours at out there?
Chris
God knows. As long as he’s quiet.
Agnes
He’s making something. Looks like a kite. (
She
taps
on
the
window,
calls
‘Michael!
’
and
blows
a
kiss
to
the
imaginary
child.
)
Oh, that was the wrong thing to do! He’s going to have your hair, Chris.
Chris
Mine’s like a whin-bush. Will you wash it for me tonight, Maggie?
Maggie
Are we all for a big dance somewhere?
Chris
After I’ve put Michael to bed. What about then?
Maggie
I’m your man.
Agnes
(
at
window
)
Pity there aren’t some boys about to play with.
Maggie
Now you’re talking. Couldn’t we all do with that?
Agnes
(
leaving
window
)
Maggie!
Maggie
Wouldn’t it be just great if we had a – (
Breaks
off
.)
Shhh.
Chris
What is it?
Maggie
Thought I heard Father Jack at the back door. I hope Kate remembers his quinine.
Agnes
She’ll remember. Kate forgets nothing.
Pause.
Rose
There’s going to be pictures in the hall next Saturday, Aggie. I think maybe I’ll go.
Agnes
(
guarded
)
Yes?
Rose
I might be meeting somebody there.
Agnes
Who’s that?
Rose
I’m not saying.
Chris
Do we know him?
Rose
I’m not saying.
Agnes
You’ll enjoy that, Rosie. You loved the last picture we saw.
Rose
And he wants to bring me up to the back hills next Sunday – up to Lough Anna. His father has a boat there. And I’m thinking maybe I’ll bring a bottle of milk with me. And I’ve enough money saved to buy a packet of chocolate biscuits.
Chris
Danny Bradley is a scut, Rose.
Rose
I never said it was Danny Bradley!
Chris
He’s a married man with three young children.
Rose
And that’s just where you’re wrong, missy – so there! (
to
Agnes
)
She left him six months ago, Aggie, and went to England.
Maggie
Rose, love, we just want –