We have claimed for our writers the freedom to find in their own land
every expression of good and evil necessary to their art, for Irish
life contains, like all vigorous life, the seeds of all good and evil,
and a writer must be free here as elsewhere to watch where weed or
flower ripen. No one who knows the work of our Theatre as a whole can
say we have neglected the flower; but the moment a writer is forbidden
to take pleasure in the weed, his art loses energy and abundance. In
the great days of English dramatic art the greatest English writer of
comedy was free to create _The Alchemist_ and _Volpone_, but a demand
born of Puritan conviction and shop-keeping timidity and insincerity,
for what many second-rate intellects thought to be noble and elevating
events and characters, had already at the outset of the eighteenth
century ended the English drama as a complete and serious art.
Sheridan and Goldsmith, when they restored comedy after an epoch of
sentimentalities, had to apologise for their satiric genius by scenes
of conventional love-making and sentimental domesticity that have set
them outside the company of all, whether their genius be great or
little, whose work is pure and whole. The quarrel of our Theatre to-day
is the quarrel of the Theatre in many lands; for the old Puritanism,
the old dislike of power and reality have not changed, even when they
are called by some Gaelic name.
[On the second performance of _The Playboy of the
Western World_ about forty men who sat in the middle
of the pit succeeded in making the play entirely
inaudible. Some of them brought tin-trumpets, and the
noise began immediately on the rise of the curtain. For
days articles in the Press called for the withdrawal
of the play, but we played for the seven nights we
had announced; and before the week’s end opinion had
turned in our favour. There were, however, nightly
disturbances and a good deal of rioting in the
surrounding streets. On the last night of the play
there were, I believe, five hundred police keeping
order in the theatre and in its neighbourhood. Some
days later our enemies, though beaten so far as the
play was concerned, crowded into the cheaper seats for
a debate on the freedom of the stage. They were very
excited, and kept up the discussion until near twelve.
The last paragraphs of my opening statement ran as
follows.]
_From Mr. Yeats’ opening Speech in the Debate on February 4, 1907, at
the Abbey Theatre._
The struggle of the last week has been long a necessity; various
paragraphs in newspapers describing Irish attacks on Theatres had made
many worthy young men come to think that the silencing of a stage at
their own pleasure, even if hundreds desired that it should not be
silenced, might win them a little fame, and, perhaps, serve their
country. Some of these attacks have been made on plays which are in
themselves indefensible, vulgar and old-fashioned farces and comedies.
But the attack, being an annihilation of civil rights, was never
anything but an increase of Irish disorder. The last I heard of was in
Liverpool, and there a stage was rushed, and a priest, who had set a
play upon it, withdrew his play and apologised to the audience. We have
not such pliant bones, and did not learn in the houses that bred us a
so suppliant knee. But behind the excitement of example there is a
more fundamental movement of opinion. Some seven or eight years ago the
National movement was democratised and passed from the hands of a few
leaders into those of large numbers of young men organised in clubs and
societies. These young men made the mistake of the newly-enfranchised
everywhere; they fought for causes worthy in themselves with the
unworthy instruments of tyranny and violence. Comic songs of a certain
kind were to be driven from the stage, everyone was to wear Irish
cloth, everyone was to learn Irish, everyone was to hold certain
opinions, and these ends were sought by personal attacks, by virulent
caricature and violent derision. It needs eloquence to persuade and
knowledge to expound; but the coarser means come ready to every man’s
hand, as ready as a stone or a stick, and where these coarse means are
all, there is nothing but mob, and the commonest idea most prospers and
is most sought for.
Gentlemen of the little clubs and societies, do not mistake the meaning
of our victory; it means something for us, but more for you. When the
curtain of _The Playboy_ fell on Saturday night in the midst of what
_The Sunday Independent_—no friendly witness—described as ‘thunders
of applause,’ I am confident that I saw the rise in this country of
a new thought, a new opinion, that we had long needed. It was not
all approval of Mr. Synge’s play that sent the receipts of the Abbey
Theatre this last week to twice the height they had ever touched
before. The generation of young men and girls who are now leaving
schools or colleges are weary of the tyranny of clubs and leagues. They
wish again for individual sincerity, the eternal quest of truth, all
that has been given up for so long that all might crouch upon the one
roost and quack or cry in the one flock. We are beginning once again
to ask what a man is, and to be content to wait a little before we go
on to that further question: What is a good Irishman? There are some
who have not yet their degrees that will say to friend or neighbour,
‘You have voted with the English, and that is bad’; or ‘You have sent
away your Irish servants, or thrown away your Irish clothes, or blacked
your face for your singing. I despise what you have done, I keep you
still my friend; but if you are terrorised out of doing any of these
things, evil things though I know them to be, I will not have you for
my friend any more.’ Manhood is all, and the root of manhood is courage
and courtesy.
1907
ON TAKING _THE PLAYBOY_ TO LONDON.
The failure of the audience to understand this powerful and strange
work (_The Playboy of the Western World_) has been the one serious
failure of our movement, and it could not have happened but that the
greater number of those who came to shout down the play were no regular
part of our audience at all, but members of parties and societies whose
main interests are political. We have been denounced with even greater
violence than on the first production of the play for announcing that
we should carry it to London. We cannot see that an attack, which
we believe to have been founded on a misunderstanding of the nature
of literature, should prevent us from selecting, as our custom is,
whatever of our best comes within the compass of our players at the
time, to show in some English theatres. Nearly all strong and strange
writing is attacked on its appearance, and those who press it upon the
world may not cease from pressing it, for their justification is its
ultimate acceptance. Ireland is passing through a crisis in the life
of the mind greater than any she has known since the rise of the Young
Ireland party, and based upon a principle which sets many in opposition
to the habits of thought and feeling come down from that party, for the
seasons change, and need and occupation with them. Many are beginning
to recognise the right of the individual mind to see the world in its
own way, to cherish the thoughts which separate men from one another,
and that are the creators of distinguished life, instead of those
thoughts that had made one man like another if they could, and have but
succeeded in setting hysteria and insincerity in place of confidence
and self-possession. To the Young Ireland writers, who have the ear
of Ireland, though not its distracted mind, truth was historical and
external and not a self-consistent personal vision, and it is but
according to ancient custom that the new truth should force its way
amid riot and great anger.
FOOTNOTES:
[I] Mr. Boyle has since left us as a protest against the performance of
Mr. Synge’s _Playboy of the Western World_.—W.B.Y., _March, 1908._
[J] This essay was written immediately after the opening of the Abbey
Theatre, though it was not printed, through an accident, until the art
of the Abbey has become an art of peasant comedy. It tells of things
we have never had the time to begin. We still dream of them.—W.B.Y.,
_March, 1908_.
[K] I have heard musicians excuse themselves by claiming that they put
the words there for the sake of the singer; but if that be so, why
should not the singer sing something she may wish to have by rote?
Nobody will hear the words; and the local time-table, or, so much suet
and so many raisins, and so much spice and so much sugar, and whether
it is to be put in a quick or a slow oven, would run very nicely with a
little management.
[L] _The Arrow_, a briefer chronicle than _Samhain_, was distributed
with the programme for a few months.
APPENDIX I
_THE HOUR-GLASS._
This play is founded upon the following story, recorded by Lady Wilde
in _Ancient Legends of Ireland_, 1887, vol. i., pp. 60-67:—
THE PRIEST’S SOUL.
IN former days there were great schools in Ireland where every sort
of learning was taught to the people, and even the poorest had more
knowledge at that time than many a gentleman has now. But as to the
priests, their learning was above all, so that the fame of Ireland went
over the whole world, and many kings from foreign lands used to send
their sons all the way to Ireland to be brought up in the Irish schools.
Now, at this time there was a little boy learning at one of them
who was a wonder to every one for his cleverness. His parents were
only labouring people, and of course very poor; but young as he was,
and poor as he was, no king’s or lord’s son could come up to him in
learning. Even the masters were put to shame; for when they were trying
to teach him he would tell them something they had never heard of
before, and show them their ignorance. One of his great triumphs was
in argument, and he would go on till he proved to you that black was
white, and then when you gave in, for no one could beat him in talk,
he would turn round and show you that white was black, or may be that
there was no colour at all in the world. When he grew up his poor
father and mother were so proud of him that they resolved to make him a
priest, which they did at last, though they nearly starved themselves
to get the money. Well, such another learned man was not in Ireland,
and he was as great in argument as ever, so that no one could stand
before him. Even the Bishops tried to talk to him, but he showed them
at once they knew nothing at all.
Now, there were no schoolmasters in those times, but it was the priests
taught the people; and as this man was the cleverest in Ireland all the
foreign kings sent their sons to him as long as he had house-room to
give them. So he grew very proud, and began to forget how low he had
been, and, worst of all, even to forget God, who had made him what he
was. And the pride of arguing got hold of him, so that from one thing
to another he went on to prove that there was no Purgatory, and then no
Hell, and then no Heaven, and then no God; and at last that men had no
souls, but were no more than a dog or a cow, and when they died there
was an end of them. ‘Who ever saw a soul?’ he would say. ‘If you can
show me one, I will believe.’ No one could make any answer to this;
and at last they all came to believe that as there was no other world,
every one might do what they liked in this, the priest setting the
example, for he took a beautiful young girl to wife. But as no priest
or bishop in the whole land could be got to marry them, he was obliged
to read the service over for himself. It was a great scandal, yet no
one dared to say a word, for all the kings’ sons were on his side,
and would have slaughtered any one who tried to prevent his wicked
goings-on. Poor boys! they all believed in him, and thought every word
he said was the truth. In this way his notions began to spread about,
and the whole world was going to the bad, when one night an angel came
down from Heaven, and told the priest he had but twenty-four hours to
live. He began to tremble, and asked for a little more time.
But the angel was stiff, and told him that could not be.
‘What do you want time for, you sinner?’ he asked.
‘Oh, sir, have pity on my poor soul!’ urged the priest.
‘Oh, ho! You have a soul, then?’ said the angel. ‘Pray how did you find
that out?’
‘It has been fluttering in me ever since you appeared,’ answered the
priest. ‘What a fool I was not to think of it before!’
‘A fool, indeed,’ said the angel. ‘What good was all your learning,
when it could not tell you that you had a soul?’
‘Ah, my lord,’ said the priest, ‘if I am to die, tell me how soon I may
be in heaven.’
‘Never,’ replied the angel. ‘You denied there was a Heaven.’
‘Then, my lord, may I go to Purgatory?’
‘You denied Purgatory also; you must go straight to Hell,’ said the
angel.
‘But, my lord, I denied Hell also,’ answered the priest, ‘so you can’t
send me there either.’
The angel was a little puzzled.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘I’ll tell you what I can do for you. You may either
live now on earth for a hundred years enjoying every pleasure, and then
be cast into Hell for ever; or you may die in twenty-four hours in the
most horrible torments, and pass through Purgatory, there to remain
till the Day of Judgment, if only you can find some one person that
believes, and through his belief mercy will be vouchsafed to you and
your soul will be saved.’
The priest did not take five minutes to make up his mind.
‘I will have death in the twenty-four hours,’ he said, ‘so that my soul
may be saved at last.’
On this the angel gave him directions as to what he was to do, and left
him.
Then, immediately, the priest entered the large room where all his
scholars and the kings’ sons were seated, and called out to them—
‘Now, tell me the truth, and let none fear to contradict me. Tell me
what is your belief. Have men souls?’
‘Master,’ they answered, ‘once we believed that men had souls; but,
thanks to your teaching, we believe so no longer. There is no Hell, and
no Heaven, and no God. This is our belief, for it is thus you taught
us.’
Then the priest grew pale with fear, and cried out: ‘Listen! I taught
you a lie. There is a God, and man has an immortal soul. I believe now
all I denied before.’
But the shouts of laughter that rose up drowned the priest’s voice, for
they thought he was only trying them for argument.
‘Prove it, master,’ they cried, ‘prove it! Who has ever seen God? Who
has ever seen the soul?’
And the room was stirred with their laughter.
The priest stood up to answer them, but no word could he utter; all his
eloquence, all his powers of argument, had gone from him, and he could
do nothing but wring his hands and cry out—
‘There is a God! there is a God! Lord, have mercy on my soul!’
And they all began to mock him, and repeat his own words that he had
taught them—
‘Show him to us; show us your God.’
And he fled from them groaning with agony, for he saw that none
believed, and how then could his soul be saved?
But he thought next of his wife.
‘She will believe,’ he said to himself. ‘Women never give up God.’
And he went to her; but she told him that she believed only what he
taught her, and that a good wife should believe in her husband first,
and before and above all things in heaven or earth.
Then despair came on him, and he rushed from the house and began to ask
every one he met if they believed. But the same answer came from one
and all: ‘We believe only what you have taught us,’ for his doctrines
had spread far and wide through the county.
Then he grew half mad with fear, for the hours were passing. And he
flung himself down on the ground in a lonesome spot, and wept and
groaned in terror, for the time was coming fast when he must die.
Just then a little child came by.
‘God save you kindly,’ said the child to him.
The priest started up.
‘Child, do you believe in God?’ he asked.
‘I have come from a far country to learn about Him,’ said the child.
‘Will your honour direct me to the best school that they have in these
parts?’
‘The best school and the best teacher is close by,’ said the priest,
and he named himself.
‘Oh, not to that man,’ answered the child, ‘for I am told he denies God
and Heaven and Hell, and even that man has a soul, because we can’t see
it; but I would soon put him down.’
The priest looked at him earnestly. ‘How?’ he inquired.
‘Why,’ said the child, ‘I would ask him if he believed he had life to
show me his life.’
‘But he could not do that, my child,’ said the priest. ‘Life cannot be
seen; we have it, but it is invisible.’
‘Then, if we have life, though we cannot see it, we may also have a
soul, though it is invisible,’ answered the child.
When the priest heard him speak these words he fell down on his knees
before him, weeping for joy, for now he knew his soul was safe; he had
met at last one that believed. And he told the child his whole story:
all his wickedness, and pride, and blasphemy against the great God; and
how the angel had come to him and told him of the only way in which he
could be saved, through the faith and prayers of some one that believed.
‘Now, then,’ he said to the child, ‘take this penknife and strike it
into my breast, and go on stabbing the flesh until you see the paleness
of death on my face. Then watch—for a living thing will soar up from
my body as I die, and you will then know that my soul has ascended to
the presence of God. And when you see this thing, make haste and run
to my school and call on all my scholars to come and see that the soul
of their master has left the body, and that all he taught them was a
lie, for that there is a God who punishes sin, and a Heaven and a Hell,
and that man has an immortal soul, destined for eternal happiness or
misery.’
‘I will pray,’ said the child, ‘to have courage to do this work.’
And he kneeled down and prayed. Then when he rose up he took the
penknife and struck it into the priest’s heart, and struck and
struck again till all the flesh was lacerated; but still the priest
lived, though the agony was horrible, for he could not die until the
twenty-four hours had expired. At last the agony seemed to cease, and
the stillness of death settled on his face. Then the child, who was
watching, saw a beautiful living creature, with four snow-white wings,
mount from the dead man’s body into the air and go fluttering round his
head.
So he ran to bring the scholars; and when they saw it they all knew
it was the soul of their master, and they watched with wonder and awe
until it passed from sight into the clouds.
And this was the first butterfly that was ever seen in Ireland; and now
all men know that the butterflies are the souls of the dead waiting for
the moment when they may enter Purgatory, and so pass through torture
to purification and peace.
But the schools of Ireland were quite deserted after that time, for
people said, What is the use of going so far to learn when the wisest
man in all Ireland did not know if he had a soul till he was near
losing it; and was only saved at last through the simple belief of a
little child?
* * * * *
_The Hour-Glass_ was first played in The Molesworth Hall, Dublin, with
the following cast:—Wise Man, Mr. T. Dudley Digges; His Wife, Miss M.
T. Quinn; The Fool, Mr. F. J. Fay; Pupils, P. J. Kelly, P. Columb, C.
Caufield.
We always play it in front of an olive-green curtain, and dress the
Wise Man and his Pupils in various shades of purple. Because in
all these decorative schemes one needs, as I think, a third colour
subordinate to the other two, we have partly dressed the Fool in
red-brown, which is repeated in the furniture. There is some green in
his dress and in that of the Wife of the Wise Man who is dressed mainly
in purple.
One sometimes has need of more lines of the little song, and I have put
into English rhyme three of the many verses of a Gaelic ballad:
I was going the road one day
(O the brown and the yellow beer!)
And I met with a man that was no right man
(O my dear, my dear).
‘Give me your wife,’ said he,
(O the brown and the yellow beer!)
‘Till the sun goes down and an hour of the clock’
(O my dear, my dear).
‘Good-bye, good-bye, my husband,’
(O the brown and the yellow beer!)
‘For a year and a day by the clock of the sun’
(O my dear, my dear).
APPENDIX II
_CATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN._
MY DEAR LADY GREGORY,—
When I was a boy I used to wander about at Rosses Point and Ballisodare
listening to old songs and stories. I wrote down what I heard and made
poems out of the stories or put them into the little chapters of the
first edition of _The Celtic Twilight_, and that is how I began to
write in the Irish way.
Then I went to London to make my living, and though I spent a part of
every year in Ireland and tried to keep the old life in my memory by
reading every country tale I could find in books or old newspapers, I
began to forget the true countenance of country life. The old tales
were still alive for me indeed, but with a new, strange, half-unreal
life, as if in a wizard’s glass, until at last, when I had finished
_The Secret Rose_, and was half-way through _The Wind Among the Reeds_,
a wise woman in her trance told me that my inspiration was from the
moon, and that I should always live close to water, for my work was
getting too full of those little jewelled thoughts that come from the
sun and have no nation. I had no need to turn to my books of astrology
to know that the common people are under the moon, or to Porphyry to
remember the image-making power of the waters. Nor did I doubt the
entire truth of what she said to me, for my head was full of fables
that I had no longer the knowledge and emotion to write. Then you
brought me with you to see your friends in the cottages, and to talk
to old wise men on Slieve Echtge, and we gathered together, or you
gathered for me, a great number of stories and traditional beliefs. You
taught me to understand again, and much more perfectly than before, the
true countenance of country life.
One night I had a dream almost as distinct as a vision, of a cottage
where there was well-being and firelight and talk of a marriage, and
into the midst of that cottage there came an old woman in a long cloak.
She was Ireland herself, that Cathleen ni Houlihan for whom so many
songs have been sung and about whom so many stories have been told and
for whose sake so many have gone to their death. I thought if I could
write this out as a little play I could make others see my dream as
I had seen it, but I could not get down out of that high window of
dramatic verse, and in spite of all you had done for me I had not the
country speech. One has to live among the people, like you, of whom
an old man said in my hearing, ‘She has been a serving-maid among
us,’ before one can think the thoughts of the people and speak with
their tongue. We turned my dream into the little play, _Cathleen ni
Houlihan_, and when we gave it to the little theatre in Dublin and
found that the working-people liked it, you helped me to put my other
dramatic fables into speech. Some of these have already been acted, but
some may not be acted for a long time, but all seem to me, though they
were but a part of a summer’s work, to have more of that countenance of
country life than anything I have done since I was a boy.
W. B. YEATS.
_Feb., 1903._
This play was first played on April 2, 1902, in St. Teresa’s Hall,
Dublin, with the following cast:—Cathleen, Miss Maude Gonne; Delia
Cahel, Miss Maire nic Sheublagh; Bridget Gillan, Miss M. T. Quinn;
Patrick Gillan, Mr. C. Caufield; Michael Gillan, Mr. T. Dudley Digges;
Peter Gillan, Mr. W. G. Fay.