Where There is Nothing. William Butler Yeats
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illiam Butler
Where There is Nothing / Being Volume I of Plays for an Irish Theatre
My dear Lady Gregory, I dedicate to you two volumes of plays that are in part your own.
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 Hoolihan 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 Hoolihan," 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.
ACT I
Scene: A lawn with croquet hoops, garden chairs and tables. Door into house at left. Gate through hedge at back. The hedge is clipped into shapes of farmyard fowl. Paul Ruttledgeis clipping at the hedge in front. A table with toys on it.
Thomas Ruttledge. [Coming out on steps.] Paul, are you coming in to lunch?
Paul Ruttledge. No; you can entertain these people very well. They are your friends: you understand them.
Thomas Ruttledge. You might as well come in. You have been clipping at that old hedge long enough.
Paul Ruttledge. You needn't worry about me. I should be bored if I went in, and I don't want to be bored more than is necessary.
Thomas Ruttledge. What is that creature you are clipping at now? I can't make it out.
Paul Ruttledge. Oh, it is a Cochin China fowl, an image of some of our neighbours, like the others.
Thomas Ruttledge. I don't see any likeness to anyone.
Paul Ruttledge. Oh, yes there is, if you could see their minds instead of their bodies. That comb now —
Mrs. Ruttledge. [Coming out on steps.] Thomas, are you coming in?
Thomas Ruttledge. Yes, I'm coming; but Paul won't come.
[Thomas Ruttledgegoes out.
Mrs. Ruttledge. Oh! this is nonsense, Paul; you must come. All these men will think it so strange if you don't. It is nonsense to think you will be bored. Mr. Green is talking in the most interesting way.
Paul Ruttledge. Oh! I know Green's conversation very well.
Mrs. Ruttledge. And Mr. Joyce, your old guardian. Thomas says he was always so welcome in your father's time, he will think it so queer.
Paul Ruttledge. Oh! I know all their virtues. There's Dowler, who puts away thousands a year in Consols, and Algie, who tells everybody all about it. Have I forgotten anybody? Oh, yes! Colonel Lawley, who used to lift me up by the ears, when I was a child, to see Africa. No, Georgina, I know all their virtues, but I'm not coming in.
Mrs. Ruttledge. I can't imagine why you won't come in and be sociable.
Paul Ruttledge. You see I can't. I have something to do here. I have to finish this comb. You see it is a beautiful comb; but the wings are very short. The poor creature can't fly.
Mrs. Ruttledge. But can't you finish that after lunch?
Paul Ruttledge. No, I have sworn.
Mrs. Ruttledge. Well, I am sorry. You are always doing uncomfortable things. I must go in to the others. I wish you would have come. [She goes in.
Jerome. [Who has come to gate as she disappears.] Paul, you there! that is lucky. I was just going to ask for you.
Paul Ruttledge. [Flinging clipper away, and jumping up.] Oh, Father Jerome, I am delighted to see you. I haven't seen you for ever so long. Come and have a talk; or will you have some lunch?
Jerome. No, thank you; I will stay a minute, but I won't go in.
Paul Ruttledge. That is just as well, for you would be bored to death. There has been a meeting of magistrates in the village, and my brother has brought them all in to lunch.
Jerome. I am collecting for the Monastery, and my donkey has gone lame; I have had to put it up in the village. I thought you might be able to lend me one to go on with.
Paul Ruttledge. Of course, I'm delighted to lend you that or anything else. I'll go round to the yard with you and order it. But sit down here first. What have you been doing all this time?
Jerome. Oh, we have been very busy. You know we are going to put up new buildings.
Paul Ruttledge. [Absent-mindedly.] No, I didn't know that.
Jerome. Yes, our school is increasing so much we are getting a grant for technical instruction. Some of the Fathers are learning handicrafts. Father Aloysius is going to study industries in France; but we are all busy. We are changing with the times, we are beginning to do useful things.
Paul Ruttledge. Useful things. I wonder what you have begun to call useful things. Do you see those marks over there on the grass?
Jerome. What marks?
Paul Ruttledge. Those marks over there, those little marks of scratching.
Jerome. [Going over to the place Paul Ruttledgehas pointed out.] I don't see anything.
Paul Ruttledge. You are getting blind, Jerome. Can't you see that the poultry have been scratching there?
Jerome. No, the grass is perfectly smooth.
Paul Ruttledge. Well, the marks are there, whether you see them or not; for Mr. Green and Mr. Dowler and Mr. Algie and the rest of them run out of their houses when