“Well, sir. . though myself the son of a Dublin magistrate, in 1914 I became involved with the Irish Volunteer movement. . and. . um. . er. . being aware of the. . ah, unfortunate impediments in the way of. . er. . Mrs. MacBride’s obtaining a divorce, I. .”
Suddenly attentive, Yeats turns to him.
CUT to half an hour later. Yeats is serving them each a brandy and laughing uproariously.
“I don’t believe it. . You denounced Major John MacBride! You!”
“I did, sir.”
“And now, in return for this favor you did me, unsolicited and indeed unbeknownst to me, you wish for me to do you a favor and help you find a publisher! Oh it’s a marvelous tale, Neil Kerrigan! A marvelous tale indeed. Unfortunately, your hopes will be dashed. At twenty-five, it’s time you learned that one’s fondest hopes and dreams in life are generally dashed. D’you see this thoor?”
“I do, sir.”
“I purchased it six months ago, in March. . Here is the deed. I own it now. Well. What do you say to that?”
“It is. . ah. . very. . spacious, sir.”
“Too spacious for a man who lives on his own, is that what you mean?”
“Perhaps, sir.”
Yeats downs a second glass of brandy.
“More fitting for a family man. . am I correct, Kerrigan? I should bring a wife here, is that what you mean? But what wife? Ay, that’s where the shoe pinches! What wife? You’re right: since 1889, my body has cried out with the need to love Maud Gonne, and my poetic imagination has depended on her! A decade ago, after torturing me with her elegance and eloquence for fifteen long years, she finally deigned to open her robe and her thighs to me. . but doused my passion by praying daily that we be released from earthly desire.”
“I understand your. . frustration, sir.”
“The woman has a terror and a horror of physical love, Kerrigan. Is it not a crying shame, given her spectacular shape, skin and allure? How are you fixed in this area, by the by?”
“Well, sir, though I’ve made a few forays into Talbot Street like everyone else, I mostly please myself.”
“And confess it afterward?”
“Oh, no, sir. I’ve not set foot in a church since the Easter Rising. The priests’ unconscionable behavior during the events cured me of my faith for good. . So if I understand correctly, Mr. Yeats. . er. . despite the fact that Major MacBride has now gone on to a better world, Maud Gonne MacBride has once again declined to be your wife?”
Willie tips back his head and sips.
“Once again, this time, was once too often. Having once again gone down to Normandy last summer, having once again found her surrounded by a squawking growling twittering menagerie, I once again threw myself on my knees before Maud, pressed her hand to my lips and begged her to be mine. (Singing)
Oh my lovely, be thou not hard
Look thou kindly upon me
Wilt thou not come with an aging bard
All the way to Ballylee?
“. . Though she spoke warmly to me and played tarot with me and assisted me in interpreting my dreams, she scoffed at my advances. No, Mr. Kerrigan, Mrs. Gonne MacBride will never have me, and at last I have understood why: she is married to her dead father, and to the cause of Ireland he espoused. But did you know that in addition to her young son sired by the rustic major, Mrs. MacBride has an older, illegitimate daughter by a French journalist?”
“Yes, I have heard as much.”
“A girl by the name of Iseult, now twenty-two. As heartbreakingly beautiful as her mother at that age. I’ve known and loved Iseult since she was born.”
“I see.”
“So last month, with Maud’s I must say insultingly skeptical permission, I threw myself on my knees before Iseult, pressed her hand to my lips, and begged her to be mine.” (Singing)
Oh my lovely, be thou not hard
Look thou kindly upon me
Wilt thou not come with an aging bard
All the way to Ballylee?
“And she?”
“Said no.”
Yeats falls into a prolonged silence.
“And so?” Neil prods him gently after a while, seeing that the daylight is waning in the sky.
“Well, I recently made the acquaintance of another young woman, a certain Georgina Hyde-Lees, also three decades my junior. . So last week I threw myself on my knees before sweet Georgie, pressed her hand to my lips, and begged her to be mine. (Singing)
Oh my lovely, be thou not hard
Look thou kindly upon me
Wilt thou not come with an aging bard
All the way to Ballylee?
“And she?”
“Said yes. The banns were published yesterday and our wedding is scheduled for a fortnight from today. Children must play at the foot of my thoor, do you understand?”
Not knowing what to answer, Neil remains silent.
“But let us come back to you, Neil Kerrigan. You want to write, so?”
“I do.”
“Then leave Ireland.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No one can write here. Go away. Your father’s advice is excellent. He’s doing you a favor by kicking you out. Desert his home.”
“But surely not for the British army?”
“No. For literature.”
“He says I’ve besmirched the family name.”
“Change names. Change countries. Change selves.”
Yeats leafs rapidly through Neil’s manuscript of poems.
“Forget these. They were written before the Rising, by a bright young lad all puffed up with ambition but empty of wisdom. Then the British savaged our city and shot our sixteen leaders; your cousin Thom was killed before your eyes; Dublin’s finest buildings burned to the ground; the poor came wailing out of their houses. . and
all changed, changed utterly.
A terrible beauty was born.
. . I believe you now have an inkling of what wisdom might be, or at least where to look for it. Am I correct?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Then go. Go to England. Or, better still, to the Americas.”
“But our cause? The national cause of Ireland and Irish freedom, for which Thom and so many others gave their lives?”
“Don’t worry. Events will follow their course. You won’t forget the cause. May I read you a few lines from one of my recent poems? I have it in manuscript only; it may be years before Ireland is ready to read it. It’s called ‘The Leaders of the Crowd.’”
(Jaysus, I don’t know, Milo. Are you sure? The whole feckin’ poem, as the Irish would say? That’s the schmaltzy side of your personality, nice in real life, but disastrous in art. . Whoa, okay, don’t have a conniption fit. . you’ve got your poem! As Lambert Wilson reads it out loud, we can go wafting out the open window and hurtle through the sky of County Galway with the wild swans. .)
They must to keep their certainty accuse
All that are different of a base intent;
Pull down established honour; hawk for news
Whatever their loose phantasy invent
And murmur it with bated breath, as though
The abounding gutter had been Helicon
Or calumny a song. How can they know
Truth flourishes where the student’s lamp has shone,