Brian Friel Plays 1 (48 page)

ALICE:
Hello, Anna.

ANNA:
This is Anna speaking to you all the way from St Joseph’s mission in Kuala in Zambia. I hope you are all together when this is being played because I am imagining you all sitting before a big log fire in the drawing-room – Daddy spread out and enjoying his well-earned relaxation after his strenuous day in court and the rest of you sitting on the rug or around the Christmas tree in the north window.

(
ALICE
has
been
trying
to
attract
Claire
’
s
attention – she
wants
her
glass
refilled.
But
CLAIRE
does
not
notice
her
.
Finally
she
has
to
whisper
:
–)

ALICE:
Claire.

CASIMIR:
Shhh.

ALICE:
Just a drop.

(
CLAIRE
fills
the
glass.
)

ANNA:
How are you all? May I wish each and every one of you – and you, too, dear Nanny – are you there, Nanny?

ALICE:
Sorry, sister.

ANNA:
– may I wish you all a holy and a happy Christmas and all of God’s peace and content for the New Year.

ALICE:
Amen.

ANNA:
Later in the tape Reverend Mother who is here beside me will say a few words to you and after that you will hear
my school choir singing some Irish songs that I have taught them –

ALICE:
God!

ANNA:
– and some African songs they have taught me.

ALICE:
Good God!

ANNA:
I hope you will enjoy them. But first I wish to speak to my own dear Daddy. How are you‚ Daddy? I ought to be cross with you for never writing to me but I know how busy you always are providing for us, and Judith tells me in her letters that you are in very good health. So thank God for that.

(
FATHER
enters
the
study.
An
emaciated
man
;
eyes
distraught
;
one
arm
limp
;
his
mouth
pulled
down
at one
corner
.
A
grotesque
and
frightening
figure.
He
is
dressed
only
in
pyjamas.
The
tops
are
buttoned
wrongly
and
hang
off
his
shoulders;
the
bottoms
about
to
slip
off
his
waist.
He
moves
very
slowly – one
step
at
a
time – through
the
study.
He
is
trying
to
locate
where
Anna
’
s
voice
is
coming
from – his
distraught
eyes
are
rolling
round
the
room.
When
he
speaks
his
voice
is
barely
audible.
)

FATHER:
Anna?

ANNA:
But before I go any further, I’m going to play the violin for you – a little piece you always liked me to play for you: The Gartan Mother’s Lullaby. Do you remember it?

FATHER:
(
Slightly
louder
)
Anna?

ANNA:
So this is my Christmas present to you, my dear Daddy. I hope you like it.

(
She
plays
a
few
bars
of
the
music – the
playing
of
a
child.
Now
FATHER
is
almost
at
the
study
door.
He
raises
his
head
and
emits
an
almost-animal
roar
.)

FATHER:
Annaaaaaaaaaaa!

(
The
listeners
outside
do
not
react
for
a
second.
Then
they
panic.
ALICE
grabs
the
cassette
to
switch
it
off – and
instead
turns
the
volume
up
so
that
the
tape
’
s
scream
and
FATHER
’
s
roar
overlap
for
a
few
seconds.
They
all
leap
to
their
feet – chairs
are
overturned – but
seem
to
be
incapable
of
action.
CASIMIR
is
on
his
knees
,
transfixed
,
immobile.
CLAIRE
is
on
the
point
of
hysteria.
FATHER
’s
roar
stops.
Saliva
is
dribbling
from
his
mouth.
He
begins
to
sink
to
the
ground.
EAMON
,
who
is
furthest 
away
from
him
‚
is
the
first
to
move.
He
runs
to
FATHER
and
catches
him
as
he
collapses
so
that
they
both
sink
to
the
ground
together.
Now
the
tape
is
silenced.
EAMON
screams
at
the
others – screams
as
if
his
own
life
depended
on
it
.)

EAMON:
Doctor! Call the doctor! For Christ’s sake, will someone call the doctor!

Black-out

CASIMIR:
(
Pacing
)
He was by no means a skilful tennis player, Father, but oh my goodness he was very consistent and very determined. (
Halts
.)
Alice and I would be over there and he would be here. And before he served he always went through a long ritual of placing his toe precisely on the edge of the line (
He
demonstrates
),
moving it and adjusting it for maybe twenty seconds until he had it exactly where he wanted it – as if the whole game depended on the exact placing of his toe. (
Paces
again
.)
And of course this always sent Alice and me into fits of secret giggling, so that when he finally did serve, we were never able to return the ball and so he thought he was a much
better player than he really was! Yes. Wonderful, wasn’t it? (
Halts
.)
Oh but God help you if he caught you laughing – oh-ho-ho-ho. (
Paces
again
.)
Just about this time we should all have been sitting down at the wedding reception – (
Looks
at
watch
.) – yes‚ just about now. Funny, isn’t it? The B flat minor Sonata – that was Grandfather O’Donnell’s favourite. Probably because he actually heard Chopin play it.

TOM:
Who heard Chopin?

CASIMIR:
Grandfather. Haven’t I told you that story?

TOM:
No.

(
CASIMIR
comes
down
stage.
)

CASIMIR:
Oh, yes. At a party in Vienna – a birthday party for Balzac. Everybody was there: Liszt and George Sand and Turgenev and Mendelssohn and the young Wagner and Berlioz and Delacroix and Verdi – and of course Balzac. Everybody. It went on for days. God knows why Grandfather was there – probably gate-crashed. Anyhow that’s what Chopin played.

TOM:
Your grandfather, Casimir?

CASIMIR:
Grandfather O’Donnell; a great traveller; Europe every year.

TOM:
But he wouldn’t have been a contemporary of these people, would he?

CASIMIR:
Would he not?

TOM:
You must mean your great-grandfather, don’t you?

CASIMIR:
Do I? Great-grandfather O’Donnell then. Yes, you’re right: he lived in Europe for six months one time to escape the fever that followed the famine here. A party in Vienna. The expression became part of the family language: anything great and romantic and exciting that had happened in the past or might happen in the future, we called it ‘a party in Vienna’ – yes. Very beautiful, isn’t it? And there was another detail about that party: Chopin was playing that sonata and Balzac began to sing it and Grandfather told Balzac to shut up and Chopin said, ‘Bravo, Irishman! Bravo!’ Grandfather, of course, was thrilled. Isn’t it beautiful, Eamon?

EAMON:
Yes.

CASIMIR:
(
Pacing
again
)
Chopin died in Paris, you know, and when they were burying him they sprinkled Polish soil on his grave. (
Pause
.)
Because he was Polish. Did you notice how she went straight to the piano the moment we came back? Like a homing instinct; yes. I often wonder how far she might have gone if father hadn’t thwarted her. Oh, I’m afraid he was more than naughty about that; oh, yes. Oh, I’m afraid he was adept at stifling things. I’m grateful to you for staying over, Tom.

TOM:
Not at all.

CASIMIR:
I appreciate it very much.

TOM:
The least I could do.

CASIMIR:
Is your father dead?

TOM:
Yeah.

(
CASIMIR
goes
to
him
and
very
formally
shakes
his
hand
.)

CASIMIR:
I’m very, very sorry.

TOM:
Thank you.

CASIMIR:
It is a great loss.

TOM:
Indeed.

CASIMIR:
When did he die?

TOM:
When I was three months old.

CASIMIR:
Good Lord.

(
He
begins
pacing
again
.)

TOM:
A few details, Casimir; perhaps you could help me with them?

CASIMIR:
Yes?

TOM:
You mentioned that your mother played the piano – (
Producing
notebook
) – where are we? – yeah – you talked about her playing a waltz at bedtime.

CASIMIR:
The A flat major – oh, yes, that’s
my
favourite; that’s easily my favourite.

TOM:
You’re sure about that?

CASIMIR:
That The Bedtime’s the A flat major? Oh, I’m –

TOM:
No, no; that your mother did play the piano.

(
CASIMIR
halts
.)

TOM:
Just that I inferred from something Judith said in passing that your mother did not in fact play.

CASIMIR:
Judith said that?

TOM:
What I understood was –

CASIMIR:
You must have taken her up wrong, Tom. Oh, yes, Mother was a splendid pianist. By no means as talented as little Claire; but very competent. And a lovely singer. Oh, yes. Her favourite piece was a song called
Sweet
Alice.
And Father hated it – hated it. ‘Rubbish’ he called it. ‘Vulgar rubbish’. So that she never sang it when he was around. Oh, yes, she had lots of songs like that from her childhood. Do you know that song, Eamon?

EAMON:
(
Sings
) ‘Do you remember –’

(
CASIMIR
joins
him
.)

CASIMIR:
That’s it – that’s it! It’s not insensitive of us to sing just after Father’s funeral, is it? Ha-ha. Anyway. I remember when she’d sing
Sweet
Alice
she seemed to become very, very young again and very, very beautiful, as if the song restored to her something she had lost, something that had withered in her … Oh, yes, she was a very talented pianist.

TOM:
I’m sure I misunderstood Judith. It’s of no importance. I’ll check it again. And the other query was –

(
He
consults
his
notebook
again
;
hesitates
;
decides
not
to
pursue
the
enquiry
;
closes
the
book
and
puts
it
in
his
pocket
.)

TOM:
Yeah; that’s okay; that can wait, too. No more problems.

CASIMIR:
What was the other query?

TOM:
Question mark after Yeats; that’s all.

CASIMIR:
What about him?

TOM:
Just that you said you remember him sitting in –

CASIMIR:
Oh my goodness yes; oh, he was just tremendous, Yeats, with those cold, cold eyes of his. Oh, yes, I remember Yeats vividly.

TOM:
Sure.

CASIMIR:
What’s the question mark for?

TOM:
It’s of no significance. I think I got myself a little confused here, too. Doesn’t matter.

CASIMIR:
What’s the confusion?

(
The
music
stops.
TOM
produces
his
notebook
again
.)

TOM:
Well‚ you were born on 1st April, 1939.

CASIMIR:
Good heavens – don’t I know! All Fools Day! Yes?

TOM:
And Yeats died the same year. Two months earlier. I’ve double checked it. (
He
looks
up
from
his
notes.
CASIMIR
is
staring
at
him.
Pause
.)
I make little mistakes like that all the time myself. My mother worked for the Bell Telephone Company and until I went to high school I thought she worked for a Mr Bell who was my uncle for God’s sake … It’s a natural misunderstanding, that’s all … I mean a man like Yeats is a visitor to your home, a friend of the family, you hear a lot of talk about him, and naturally after a time, naturally you come to think you actually … I’ve some correspondence to catch up with. Forgive me.

(
He
goes
into
the
study
and
off
.
CASIMIR
grimaces
at
EAMON
.)

CASIMIR:
Ha-ha. It was very kind of Tom to stay over. I appreciate that very much. (
Begins
pacing
again.
)
Father would have been so pleased by that funeral today – no, not pleased – gratified. The packed chapel; the music; that young curate’s fine, generous panegyric and he didn’t know Father at all, Judith says. Then down through the village street – his village, his Ballybeg – that’s how he thought of it, you know, and in a sense it was his village. Did you know that it used to be called O’Donnellstown? Yes, years and years ago. How simple it all was this time, wasn’t it? You remember Mother’s funeral, don’t you? – all that furtiveness, all that whispering, all those half-truths. We didn’t know until the very last minute would they allow her a Christian burial at all because of the circumstances – remember? But today it was – today was almost … festive by comparison, wasn’t it? Every shop shut and every blind drawn; and men kneeling on their caps as the hearse passed; and Nanny sobbing her heart out when the coffin was being lowered – did you see her? – of course you did – you were beside her. All that happened, didn’t it, Eamon? All that happened? Oh, yes, he would have been so gratified.

EAMON:
There are certain things, certain truths, Casimir, that
are beyond Tom’s kind of scrutiny.

(
The
same
sonata
music
begins
again
.)

CASIMIR:
Oh, there are. Oh, yes, there are – aren’t there? Yes – yes. I discovered a great truth when I was nine. No, not a great truth; but I made a great discovery when I was nine – not even a great discovery but an important, a very important discovery for me. I suddenly realized I was different from other boys. When I say I was different I don’t mean – you know – good Lord, I don’t for a second mean I was – you know – as they say nowadays ‘homo-sexual’ – good heavens I must admit, if anything, Eamon, if anything I’m
– (
Looks
around
.) – I’m
vigorously hetero-sexual ha-ha. But of course I don’t mean that either. No, no. But anyway. What I discovered was that for some reason people found me … peculiar. Of course I sensed it first from the boys at boarding-school. But it was Father with his usual – his usual directness and honesty who made me face it. I remember the day he said to me: ‘Had you been born down there’ – we were in the library and he pointed down to Ballybeg – ‘Had you been born down there, you’d have become the village idiot. Fortunately for you, you were born here and we can absorb you.’ Ha-ha. So at nine years of age I knew certain things: that certain kinds of people laughed at me; that the easy relationships that other men enjoy would always elude me; that – that – that I would never succeed in life, whatever – you know – whatever ‘succeed’ means –

EAMON:
Casimir –

CASIMIR:
No, no, please. That was a very important and a very difficult discovery for me, as you can imagine. But it brought certain recognitions, certain compensatory recognitions. Because once I recognized – once I acknowledged that the larger areas were not accessible to me, I discovered – I had to discover smaller, much smaller areas that were. Yes, indeed. And I discovered that if I conduct myself with some circumspection, I find that I can live within these smaller, perhaps very confined territories without exposure to too much hurt. Indeed I find that I can
experience some happiness and perhaps give a measure of happiness, too. My great discovery. Isn’t it so beautiful? (
Music
.)
Somehow the hall doesn’t exist without him. (
He
begins
pacing
again.
)
We must have a talk some time, Eamon.

EAMON:
Yes.

CASIMIR:
I don’t think we ever had a talk, you and I, had we?

EAMON:
I don’t think so.

CASIMIR:
I’d really like to talk to you because I think you – I think you understand … (
He
gestures
towards
the
house
)
… what it has done to all of us.

EAMON:
I don’t know about that.

CASIMIR:
Oh, yes, you do. I know you do. And you would tell me about your work and about London and I would tell you about my boys and about Hamburg. Will you, Eamon, please?

EAMON:
Of course.

CASIMIR:
Good. Great. Next time we meet. We even have our agenda all ready, haven’t we? When I went up to see him the evening I arrived – was it only two days ago? – I stood looking down at him and I remembered a poem called
My
Father
Dying
,
and the last lines go: