Nancy Huston - Black Dance

“I’ll give you the proof.”

“That will be all, Neil.”

“I’ll give you the proof!” says Neil in a slightly louder voice.

Ignoring him, Judge Kerrigan sits down at his desk and violently opens a ledger.

CUT to Neil dragging a box of old papers from under his bed and rummaging through it. Finding his old manuscript of poems. Slipping it into a black folder.

CUT to County Galway: a cab deposits Neil in front of Thoor Ballylee. Black folder under left arm, he walks toward the tower. Close-up on his face. His expression is part awe, part amazement at his own audacity. Weeds and wildflowers grow rampant at the tower’s base; no glass graces its windows. .

(Think we can do this, Milo? Think we can get permission to shoot inside Yeats’ Tower itself? Wouldn’t that be fantastic? With. . uh, say, Lambert Wilson in the role of Willie Yeats? Yeah. . Fantastic.)

Neil is let into the tower by a portly, gray-haired maid, complete with white cap and apron. After leading him up a winding flight of rickety stairs, she ushers him into the poet’s drawing room. The place being as yet unfurnished, the echoes of their footsteps ricochet on stone walls. . Yeats seems in a bit of a dither. Spectacles askew, gray jersey misbuttoned, he paces up and down the room and runs his hands through his hair.

“So you’re the young poet who wrote to me last week.”

“I am, sir.”

“Did you see the wild swans?”

“The. .”

“Did you see them, the wild swans, as you were brought here?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice them, sir. Was it today they flew south, then?”

“How. . how. . how are they the same swans every year? The same uplifting passion, the same fierce beating of wings against the sky? Flinging themselves multitudinously southward in the same breathtaking flight, while we humans. . age, change, hesitate, lose our certainties and our teeth. .”

“Uh. . that’s true, sir.”

“Why have you come to me?”

“I need help, sir.”

Yeats glances discreetly at the envelope on his desk.

“Your letter said as much, Mr. . ah. . Kerrigan, but why have you come to me ?”

“Only because. . er. . I once tried to help you , sir.”

“Kindly explain yourself. I’m certain I never set eyes on you before today.”

“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.”