Synge (10 page)

… they crowded round me and began jeering and shrieking at me because I am not married. A dozen screamed at a time, and so rapidly that I could not understand all they were saying, yet I was able to make out that they were taking advantage of the absence of their husbands to give me the full volume of their contempt. Some little boys who were listening threw themselves down, writhing with laughter among the seaweed, and the young girls grew red with embarrassment and stared down into the surf.

By now the Dutch girl and her partner had already begun to move ahead along the road, while we were still listening to the old woman and answering her provocative questions with shrugs and smiles. She asked us why we had no girlfriends and what was wrong with all the island girls walking up and down the road day and night with no crutches.

Their skirts do not come much below the knee, and show their powerful legs …

The old woman smiled. She was looking at us with a humorous idleness, leaning lazily with her elbow on the wall. We could see the ancient teeth left over in her mouth and the deep lines across her face. We could see the marks of the weather and the wind and the rain around her sunken cheeks, but underneath, she had the expression of a young Killeanny girl. Nothing could hide the mischievous optimism in her eyes as she watched us drifting away and called out a final exhortation in Irish behind us. ‘
Scaoil amach an deabhaillín
,’ she said with a wink (Let out the little divileen).

We had been misinformed by the landscape, by the wind, by the desolate features of this island. Now we began to understand why we felt the world had been turned around for us. It was not just the direction of the sunlight. It was all the things we had expected to come from London, from Europe and New York. They were here on the Aran Islands in plenty. Let out the little divileen.

… I would be right to marry a girl out of this island, for there were nice women in it, fine fat girls, who would be strong, and have plenty of children, and not be wasting my money on me.

Excerpts from
The Aran Islands
by John Millington Synge.

Illustration 4:
Photo of John Millington Synge. Reproduced by permission of the Board of Trinity College, Dublin

Chekhov stands beside a huge blue door. He waits expectantly. Fixes his tie. Clears his throat. The door slides open onto an immense black sky strippled with stars. Enter John Millington Synge, dishevelled, confused.

Chekhov:
Welcome.

Synge:
Where am I?

Chekhov:
I’ll explain that in due course. How was the journey?

Synge:
What journey? Last I remember I was lying in my hospital bed. A red-haired nurse … why are they always red-haired? … crooning in my ear. ‘It’s all right’, she whispers. ‘It’s far from all right’, I whisper back. And next thing I’m watching myself die.

Chekhov:
One of the great experiences life has to offer.

Synge:
I looked so small, like a swaddled baby arrayed for a christening. Why would anyone want to kill such a puny harmless thing? That’s what I was thinking. And then the swirling dust, the frightening cold, the chortling vacuum … and here.

Looks around.

Is that the Earth?

Chekhov:
I believe so … and there’s the moon.

Synge:
Different from the astronomy books.

Chekhov:
Yes. Very. Allow me to introduce myself. Anton Pavlovich Chekhov.

Holds out his hand.

Synge:
John Millington Synge.

Chekhov:
They sent me ahead of the welcoming party. You’re my first so excuse me if I’m a little nervous.

Synge:
Your first.

Chekhov:
Yes. The others will be here shortly. They sent me ahead as they said we’d have things in common.

Synge:
Like What?

Chekhov:
Well breathing difficulties, early death, the theatre. That sort of thing.

Synge:
You write for the theatre?

Chekhov:
Yes. I do. I did.

Synge:
Any good?

Chekhov:
The odd line here and there. Not really. No.

Synge:
Me either.

Chekhov:
But I love it. I loved it.

Synge:
The theatre. Yes. Put me in a darkened room, bright up the lights and I swear to god I’d watch anything.

Chekhov:
Well we put on a lot of plays here. Some promising young ones coming up. They’ll be sent down shortly of course.

Synge:
Sent down?

Chekhov:
Down into the world, the living steaming world. The lucky things.

Synge:
And us?

Chekhov:
We’ve had our turn. Most don’t get one. Most are passed over. At least we got a crack at it.

Synge:
I’m only thirty seven.

Chekhov:
I know. I was forty four.

Synge:
And what took you out?

Chekhov:
The lungs. The women. A woman. The writing magic flown. The time allotted gone.

Synge:
You got longer than me.

Chekhov:
It’s not a competition.

Synge:
Isn’t it. Somehow I’ve always believed that I’d be left alive as long as I observed certain laws.

Chekhov:
Very old testament.

Synge:
Yes my mother was a religious nut … but what those laws are I could never figure out.

Chekhov:
It is no shame to die young. But I know what you mean. I spent the first couple of years here apologizing to everyone for dying. They don’t care. They really don’t. If I may offer you a little advice, John. May I call you John?

Synge:
Yes.

Chekhov:
Eternity cares nothing for the private sorrows of us brave little earthlings.

Synge:
Then I care nothing for eternity.

Chekhov:
You’re in shock. Say nothing for a while, just watch and wait. Trust me. Don’t be afraid. Can I offer you a glass of champagne?

Synge:
I had champagne last evening with my nephew.

Chekhov:
All the best people have champagne on their death beds.

Synge:
Did you?

Chekhov:
I was force fed it by a German doctor and when I died the cork flew out of the bottle. My biographers have made much of this detail. Really I was just trying to get another glass to bolster me for the gallop here.

He opens the champagne and pours two glasses, hands one to Synge.

Synge:
Thank you.

Chekhov:
A ghost cigar.

Synge:
Why not.

They light them and puff out clouds of silver smoke.

Chekhov:
Smoking is a pleasure I’m re-discovering. I had to give it up when I was alive.

Synge:
Is my mother here?

Chekhov:
Your mother.

Synge:
Yes. She died last year.

Chekhov:
Then she must be around somewhere.

Synge:
They didn’t brief you on my mother..

Chekhov:
They didn’t mention her.

Synge:
No doubt she’ll be thrilled to hear I didn’t survive a year without her … so who is this advance party coming to meet me?

Chekhov:
Poets, painters, playwrights, philosophers, a few dancers and a horde of bawdy actors.

Synge:
I love actors.

Chekhov:
I prefer actresses.

Synge:
I suppose that’s what I meant. Will Shakespeare be coming?

Chekhov:
Everyone wants to be met by him.

Synge:
Have you met him?

Chekhov:
Oh yes. You’d want to see what he’s writing now. He’s going before the committee again soon.

Synge:
What committee?

Chekhov:
The selection committee … that’s what they’re called though no one has ever seen them. He wants to go back … we all do.

Synge:
And will they let him?

Chekhov:
He came close last time … too soon it was said.

Synge:
Too soon? Then what chance do I have?

Chekhov:
I ask myself the same.

Synge:
What’s he like?

Chekhov:
He has one golden wing. He fishes all the time.

Synge:
Is he any good?

Chekhov:
What do you think?

Synge:
I’d be surprised if he was a good fisherman unless he chants some witchery to draw them in. Too good a writer to be much use for anything else if you ask me. I’ve met plenty of fishermen. Like everything else it’s an art form. Fishing. Takes a lifetime to perfect.

Chekhov:
He disappears for days, years, whatever time is called here. He goes off fishing with his son. The young Hamnet.

Synge:
Is he still eleven?

Chekhov:
That child was never eleven. You’ll meet them. He goes everywhere with the boy.

Synge:
Do you … did you have children?

Chekhov:
No

Synge:
No. Me either. Does that matter in the grand scheme of things?

Chekhov:
I don’t know about the grand scheme but it matters to me.

Synge:
I thought I had abundance of time. I was just beginning to figure what it’s all about and bam, it’s over. Last night I was drinking champagne with Edward. We talked about birds. Birds. This time of year I like to be in the hills or out on the Islands but I was having surgery, I thought I’d go mad cooped up and my nephew came with champagne and he spoke to me about birds and it was ordinary, I was even a bit bored, but my God from here it was glorious. And then he left and I went to bed. And that’s it. Is this a dream? Will I wake in the morning and laugh that I took you for real?

Chekhov:
Oh I’m real. Real as only a shade can be. Another drop?

Synge:
This champagne is good. Well if this is eternity it is not as cold as I thought it would be. It’s light, it bubbles, it sparkles.

Chekhov:
It has its ethers too. Its sulphour and vapours, its whirling terrors and its night sweats but you’ll meet those soon enough.