Brian Friel Plays 1 (64 page)

MAIRE:
O my God, that leap across the ditch nearly killed me.

YOLLAND:
I could scarcely keep up with you.

MAIRE:
Wait till I get my breath back.

YOLLAND:
We must have looked as if we were being chased.

(
They
now
realize
they
are
alone
and
holding
hands
– the
beginnings
of
embarrassment.
The
hands
disengage.
They
begin
to
drift
apart.
Pause.
)

MAIRE:
Manus’ll wonder where I’ve got to.

YOLLAND:
I wonder did anyone notice us leave.

(
Pause.
Slightly
further
apart
.)

MAIRE:
The grass must be wet. My feet are soaking.

YOLLAND:
Your feet must be wet. The grass is soaking.

(
Another
pause.
Another
few
paces
apart.
They
are
now
a
long
distance
from
one
another.
)

YOLLAND:
(
Indicating
himself
)
George.

(
MAIRE
nods:
Yes-yes.
Then
: –)

MAIRE:
Lieutenant George.

YOLLAND:
Don’t call me that. I never think of myself as Lieutenant.

MAIRE:
What-what?

YOLLAND:
Sorry-sorry? (
He
points
to
himself
again.
)
George.

(
MAIRE
nods:
Yes-yes.
Then
points
to
herself.
)

MAIRE:
Maire.

YOLLAND:
Yes, I know you’re Maire. Of course I know you’re Maire. I mean I’ve been watching you night and day for the past –

MAIRE:
(
Eagerly
)
What-what?

YOLLAND:
(
Points
)
Maire. (
Points.
)
George. (
Points
both.
)
Maire and George.

(
MAIRE
nods:
Yes-yes-yes.
)

I – I – I –

MAIRE:
Say anything at all. I love the sound of your speech.

YOLLAND:
(
Eagerly
)
Sorry-sorry?

(
In
acute
frustration
he
looks
around,
hoping
for
some
inspiration
that
will
provide
him
with
communicative
means.
Now
he
has
a
thought:
he
tries
raising
his
voice
and
articulating
in
a
staccato
style
and
with
equal
and
absurd
emphasis
on
each
word.
)

Every-morning-I-see-you-feeding-brown-hens-and-
giving-meal
-to-black-calf – (
The
futility
of it
)
–
O
my God.

(
MAIRE
smiles.
She
moves
towards
him.
She
will
try
to
communicate
in
Latin
.)

MAIRE:
Tu es centurio in – in – in exercitu Britannico –

YOLLAND:
Yes-yes? Go on – go on – say anything at all – I love the sound of your speech.

MAIRE:
– et
es
in
castris
quae
– quae
– quae
sunt
in
agro
– (
The
futility
of
it
) – O my God.

(
YOLLAND
smiles.
He
moves
towards
her.
Now
for
her
English
words.)
George – water.

YOLLAND:
‘Water’? Water! Oh yes – water – water – very good – water – good – good.

MAIRE:
Fire.

YOLLAND:
Fire – indeed – wonderful – fire, fire, fire – splendid – splendid!

MAIRE:
Ah … ah …

YOLLAND:
Yes? Go on.

MAIRE:
Earth.

YOLLAND:
‘Earth’?

MAIRE:
Earth, Earth.

(
YOLLAND
still
does
not
understand.
MAIRE
stoops
down
and
picks
up
a
handful
of
clay.
Holding
it
out.
)
Earth.

YOLLAND:
Earth! Of course – earth! Earth. Earth. Good Lord, Maire, your English is perfect!

MAIRE:
(
Eagerly
)
What-what?

YOLLAND:
Perfect English. English perfect.

MAIRE:
George –

YOLLAND:
That’s beautiful – oh, that’s really beautiful.

MAIRE:
George –

YOLLAND:
Say it again – say it again –

MAIRE:
Shhh. (
She
holds
her
hand
up
for
silence
– she
is
trying
to
remember
her
one
line
of
English.
Now
she
remembers
it
and
she
delivers
the
line
as
if
English
were
her
language
– easily,
fluidly,
conversationally.
)

George, ‘In Norfolk we besport ourselves around the maypoll.’

YOLLAND:
Good God, do you? That’s where my mother comes from – Norfolk. Norwich actually. Not exactly Norwich town but a small village called Little Walsingham close beside it. But in our own village of Winfarthing we have a maypole too and every year on the first of May – (
He
stops
abruptly,
only
now
realizing.
He
stares
at
her.
She
in
turn
misunderstands
his
excitement.
)

MAIRE:
(
To
herself
)
Mother of God, my Aunt Mary wouldn’t have taught me something dirty, would she?

(
Pause.
YOLLAND
extends
his
hand
to
MAIRE
.
She
turns
away
from
him
and
moves
slowly
across
the
stage.
)

YOLLAND:
Maire.

(
She
still
moves
away.
)

Maire Chatach.

(
She
still
moves
away.
)

Bun na hAbhann? (
He
says
the
name
softly,
almost
privately,
very
tentatively,
as
if
he
were
searching
for
a
sound
she
might
respond
to.
He
tries
again.
)
Druim Dubh?

(
MAIRE
stops.
She
is
listening.
YOLLAND
is
encouraged.
)

Poll na gCaorach. Lis Maol.

(
MAIRE
turns
towards
him.
)

Lis na nGall.

MAIRE:
Lis na nGradh.

(
They
are
now
facing
each
other
and
begin
moving
– almost
imperceptibly
– towards
one
another.
)

MAIRE:
Carraig an Phoill.

YOLLAND:
Carraig na Ri. Loch na nEan.

MAIRE:
Loch an Iubhair. Machaire Buidhe.

YOLLAND:
Machaire Mor. Cnoc na Mona.

MAIRE:
Cnoc na nGabhar.

YOLLAND:
Mullach.

MAIRE:
Port.

YOLLAND:
Tor.

MAIRE:
Lag.

(
She
holds
out
her
hands
to
YOLLAND
.
He
takes
them.
Each
now
speaks
almost
to
himself/herself.
)

YOLLAND:
I wish to God you could understand me.

MAIRE:
Soft hands; a gentleman’s hands.

YOLLAND:
Because if you could understand me I could tell you how I spend my days either thinking of you or gazing up at your house in the hope that you’ll appear even for a second.

MAIRE:
Every evening you walk by yourself along the Tra Bhan and every morning you wash yourself in front of your tent.

YOLLAND:
I would tell you how beautiful you are, curly-headed Maire. I would so like to tell you how beautiful you are.

MAIRE:
Your arms are long and thin and the skin on your shoulders is very white.

YOLLAND:
I would tell you …

MAIRE:
Don’t stop – I know what you’re saying.

YOLLAND:
I would tell you how I want to be here – to live here – always – with you – always, always.

MAIRE:
‘Always’? What is that word – ‘always’?

YOLLAND:
Yes-yes; always.

MAIRE:
You’re trembling.

YOLLAND:
Yes, I’m trembling because of you.

MAIRE:
I’m trembling, too.

(
She
holds
his
face
in
her
hand.
)

YOLLAND:
I’ve made up my mind …

MAIRE:
Shhhh.

YOLLAND:
I’m not going to leave here …

MAIRE:
Shhh – listen to me. I want you, too, soldier.

YOLLAND:
Don’t stop – I know what you’re saying.

MAIRE:
I want to live with you – anywhere – anywhere at all – always – always.

YOLLAND:
‘Always’? What is that word – ‘always’?

MAIRE:
Take me away with you, George.

(
Pause.
Suddenly
they
kiss.
SARAH
enters.
She
sees
them.
She
stands
shocked,
staring
at
them.
Her
mouth
works.
Then
almost
to
herself.
)

SARAH:
Manus … Manus!

(
SARAH
runs off. Music to crescendo.
)