Two plays for dancers

William Butler Yeats

PREFACE

In a note at the end of my last book 'The Wild Swans at Coole' (Cuala Press.) I explained why I preferred this kind of drama, and where I had found my models, and where and how my first play after this kind was performed, and when and how I would have it performed in the future. I can but refer the reader to the note or to the long introduction to 'Certain Noble Plays of Japan' (Cuala Press.)

W. B. Yeats. October 11th. 1918

P. S. That I might write 'The Dreaming of the Bones,' Mr. W. A. Henderson with great kindness wrote out for me all historical allusions to Dervorgilla.

THE DREAMING OF THE BONES

The stage is any bare place in a room close to the wall. A screen with a pattern of mountain and sky can stand against the wall, or a curtain with a like pattern hang upon it, but the pattern must only symbolize or suggest. One musician enters and then two others, the first stands singing while the others take their places. Then all three sit down against the wall by their instruments, which are already there – a drum, a zither, and a flute. Or they unfold a cloth as in 'The Hawk's Well,' while the instruments are carried in.

FIRST MUSICIAN(or all three musicians, singing)Why does my heart beat so?Did not a shadow pass?It passed but a moment ago.Who can have trod in the grass?What rogue is night-wandering?Have not old writers saidThat dizzy dreams can springFrom the dry bones of the dead?And many a night it seemsThat all the valley fillsWith those fantastic dreams.They overflow the hills,So passionate is a shade,Like wine that fills to the topA grey-green cup of jade,Or maybe an agate cup.(speaking) The hour before dawn and the moon covered up.The little village of Abbey is covered up;The little narrow trodden way that runsFrom the white road to the Abbey of CorcomroeIs covered up; and all about the hillsAre like a circle of Agate or of Jade.Somewhere among great rocks on the scarce grassBirds cry, they cry their loneliness.Even the sunlight can be lonely here,Even hot noon is lonely. I hear a footfall —A young man with a lantern comes this way.He seems an Aran fisher, for he wearsThe flannel bawneen and the cow-hide shoe.He stumbles wearily, and stumbling prays.(A young man enters, praying in Irish)Once more the birds cry in their loneliness,But now they wheel about our heads; and nowThey have dropped on the grey stone to the north-east.(A man and a girl both in the costume of a past time, come in. They wear heroic masks)YOUNG MAN(raising his lantern)Who is there? I cannot see what you are like,Come to the light.STRANGERBut what have you to fear?YOUNG MANAnd why have you come creeping through the dark.(The Girl blows out lantern)The wind has blown my lantern out. Where are you?I saw a pair of heads against the skyAnd lost them after, but you are in the rightI should not be afraid in County Clare;And should be or should not be have no choice,I have to put myself into your hands,Now that my candle's out.STRANGERYou have fought in Dublin?YOUNG MANI was in the Post Office, and if takenI shall be put against a wall and shot.STRANGERYou know some place of refuge, have some planOr friend who will come to meet you?YOUNG MANI am to lieAt daybreak on the mountain and keep watchUntil an Aran coracle puts inAt Muckanish or at the rocky shoreUnder Finvarra, but would break my neckIf I went stumbling there alone in the dark.STRANGERWe know the pathways that the sheep tread out,And all the hiding-places of the hills,And that they had better hiding-places once.YOUNG MANYou'd say they had better before English robbersCut down the trees or set them upon fireFor fear their owners might find shelter there.What is that sound?STRANGERAn old horse gone astrayHe has been wandering on the road all night.YOUNG MANI took him for a man and horse. PoliceAre out upon the roads. In the late RisingI think there was no man of us but hatedTo fire at soldiers who but did their dutyAnd were not of our race, but when a manIs born in Ireland and of Irish stockWhen he takes part against us —STRANGERI will put you safe,No living man shall set his eyes upon you.I will not answer for the dead.YOUNG MANThe dead?STRANGERFor certain days the stones where you must lieHave in the hour before the break of dayBeen haunted.YOUNG MANBut I was not born at midnight.STRANGERMany a man born in the full daylightCan see them plain, will pass them on the high-roadOr in the crowded market-place of the town,And never know that they have passed.YOUNG MANMy GrandamWould have it they did penance everywhereOr lived through their old lives again.STRANGERIn a dream;And some for an old scruple must hang spittedUpon the swaying tops of lofty trees;Some are consumed in fire, some withered upBy hail and sleet out of the wintry North,And some but live through their old lives again.YOUNG MANWell, let them dream into what shape they pleaseAnd fill waste mountains with the invisible tumultOf the fantastic conscience. I have no dread;They cannot put me into jail or shoot me,And seeing that their blood has returned to fieldsThat have grown red from drinking blood like mineThey would not if they could betray.STRANGERThis pathwayRuns to the ruined Abbey of Corcomroe;The Abbey passed, we are soon among the stoneAnd shall be at the ridge before the cocksOf Aughanish or BailevlehanOr grey Aughtmana shake their wings and cry.(They go round the stage once)FIRST MUSICIAN(speaking) They've passed the shallow well and the flat stoneFouled by the drinking cattle, the narrow laneWhere mourners for five centuries have carriedNoble or peasant to his burial.An owl is crying out above their heads.(singing) Why should the heart take frightWhat sets it beating so?The bitter sweetness of the nightHas made it but a lonely thing.Red bird of March, begin to crow,Up with the neck and clap the wing,Red cock, and crow.(They go once round the stage. The first musician speaks.)And now they have climbed through the long grassy fieldAnd passed the ragged thorn trees and the gapIn the ancient hedge; and the tomb-nested owlAt the foot's level beats with a vague wing.(singing) My head is in a cloud;I'd let the whole world go.My rascal heart is proudRemembering and remembering.Red bird of March, begin to crow,Up with the neck and clap the wingRed cock and crow.(They go round the stage. The first musician speaks.)They are among the stones above the ashAbove the briar and thorn and the scarce grass;Hidden amid the shadow far below themThe cat-headed bird is crying out.(singing) The dreaming bones cry outBecause the night winds blowAnd heaven's a cloudy blot;Calamity can have its fling.Red bird of March begin to crow,Up with the neck and clap the wingRed cock and crow.THE STRANGERWe're almost at the summit and can rest.The road is a faint shadow there; and thereThe abbey lies amid its broken tombs.In the old days we should have heard a bellCalling the monks before day broke to pray;And when the day has broken on the ridge,The crowing of its cocks.YOUNG MANIs there no houseFamous for sanctity or architectural beautyIn Clare or Kerry, or in all wide ConnachtThe enemy has not unroofed?STRANGERClose to the altarBroken by wind and frost and worn by timeDonogh O'Brien has a tomb, a name in Latin.He wore fine clothes and knew the secrets of womenBut he rebelled against the King of ThomondAnd died in his youth.YOUNG MANAnd why should he rebel?The King of Thomond was his rightful master.It was men like Donogh who made Ireland weak —My curse on all that troop, and when I dieI'll leave my body, if I have any choice,Far from his ivy tod and his owl; have thoseWho, if your tale is true, work out a penanceUpon the mountain-top where I am to hide,Come from the Abbey graveyard?THE GIRLThey have not that luck,But are more lonely, those that are buried there,Warred in the heat of the blood; if they were rebelsSome momentary impulse made them rebelsOr the comandment of some petty kingWho hated Thomond. Being but common sinners,No callers in of the alien from overseaThey and their enemies of Thomond's partyMix in a brief dream battle above their bones,Or make one drove or drift in amity,Or in the hurry of the heavenly roundForget their earthly names; these are aloneBeing accursed.YOUNG MANAnd if what seems is trueAnd there are more upon the other sideThan on this side of death, many a ghostMust meet them face to face and pass the wordEven upon this grey and desolate hill.YOUNG GIRLUntil this hour no ghost or living manHas spoken though seven centuries have runSince they, weary of life and of men's eyes,Flung down their bones in some forgotten placeBeing accursed.YOUNG MANI have heard that there are soulsWho, having sinned after a monstrous fashionTake on them, being dead, a monstrous image

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