AS I WALKED
DOWN THROUGH DUBLIN
CITY
By UNA MONTGOMERY
Published in
the Irish Times 29th August
1966
RAMBLING Dublin
on a cloudy, rain-scudding morning three summers ago, I walked onto to the set
of “Young Cassidy”. The ghosts of days before
my time had taken over Henrietta
Street and were playing tricks with the day-to-day
life of its residents. Hustled behind
closed doors and veiled windows at every threat of sun-break, they watched the
beginning of this so revolutionary century reassert its old order. Once more the street, dominated by the Union
Jack and sentried by redcoats, echoed with the
clip-clop of horses' hooves and the shrill singing of bygone children playing
Ring o' Roses. At the edge of the
deserted pavement a woman in ankle-length skirts stood in conversation with a
man whose suit was not bought on hire-purchase as we know it. Only the
camera-men and their equipment confirmed that the 1960s were not an illusion.
THE SUN
was unco-operative.
As I wandered away I could not help thinking of the first time I walked
the streets of Dublin. In the autumn of 1929 they bore a
battle-scarred look that was not illusory.
The ruined walls in O'Connell
Street were splotched with damp and rust stains
that looked like old blood. New walls were rising fast. The “terrible beauty” was coming to tangible
birth in the unlikely shapes of business houses and cinemas. “The Blue Angel” of Marlene Dietrich was soon
to dominate a bright and busy thoroughfare that seemed to have no room or hiding
place for the shadowy beauty of Dark Rosaleen. So O'Connell Street was
reborn as it has since developed, multiferating in a
blaze of restless neon, busy shops, cinemas and ice-cream heavens to delight
the hearts of tourists. Only
Nelson has shifted his uneasy stance to allow the G.P.O. to take several proud
paces forward, a reminder that something unique and significant happened since
the days of “Young Cassidy”.
When
I first knew Dublin
the Abbey Theatre had begun to die on its feet. It died slowly and had to wait
a long time for cremation. Now a phoenix
arisen, it challenges more possibilities than probabilities, though the miracle
of miracles is that they do happen. The dream
that inspired its first founders may have changed in perspective, but it is not
dead. It takes courage and determination
to make a dream live. There are plenty
of active pens in Ireland
yet, though, for the moment, they may lack impetus. A phoenix without fire is just any ordinary
bird and there is too much ordinariness in the world already. It engenders hate and violence and a desire
to destroy for “kicks”.
IN MY first years in Dublin I saw a miracle and did not recognise
it for one — the rise of the Gate Theatre.
I was young and ignorant and I used to walk past the shut facades of
both Abbey and Gate not realising how great a fire had blazed and was dying on
one hearth and how great also that which was crackling to kindle, if briefly,
on the other. I had too little money and
freedom to become closely acquainted with either. I learnt about Yeats at school, and about
Lady Gregory and Synge and O'Casey;
but too little and too late to appreciate fully their impact on the Irish
theatre. I learnt for myself about MacLiammoir and Edwards; too little too, but enough to be
unforgettable. I used to go to the Gate
when I could afford it and they drove me into the kind of ecstasy that only pop
singers can evoke from teenagers today, or perhaps it was different.
But I was young and foolish and I took MacLiammoir and Edwards for granted, thinking that all
theatre was, and would be like that, always.
I had dreamt theatre from childhood among the hills and bogs of
Monaghan, reading about West End star
performances in magazines sent from England. I used to spend my days acting out melodramas
of my own imagining in the old orchard alongside the house. I had never actually seen a play performed,
excepting the odd kitchen comedy hammed in a country hall. The Gate, in its upsurge, was the first
theatre I ever knew and I have judged every stage by that criterion since, and
God help me, it's many the time I have wondered where all the magic went.
But not always. That
magic died, but not its influence. It
fanned out and has been spreading all over the place, probably all over the
world, ever since. Not a word of
acknowledgement for its origin either.
The theatre has taken so much from Ireland, in plays, in players, in
style and never a “Devil thank you” itself. Not that Ireland has been over-appreciative
of her own genius, far from it.
WHILE THE reminders of war and civil strife
fluttered about the streets of Dublin like old rags after a flitting, these
were still stray filaments of the trailing clouds of glory that was the Irish
literary renaissance, caught in the gleam of an eye that had seen the dawn of
the Abbey and in the thrill of a voice that had spoken with Yeats. Not that the great ones had altogether
disappeared from the streets of Dublin. Rarely and with luck one might meet one of
them. That is how I met Yeats in Kildare
Street.
There were two of us together, schoolgirls
ambling along busy with our own chatter and seeing nothing as we walked and
talked. We became aware of the tall
figure striding towards us. “Yeats!” we
whispered together and held our breath till he passed. Our awed stare must have distracted him
momentarily. He lowered his eyes from
the grey Dublin sky and looked straight at us, and moved on, contemplating the
grey sky again. When I tried recently to
explain the strange shudder of delight his passing shadow evoked in me, my
schoolgirl audience asked scornfully why I didn't stop and speak to him. Stop Yeats?
No more than I'd have stopped the Archangel Gabriel. I never saw AE or James Stephens; if I had I
wouldn't have stopped them either. Maud Gonne haunted the streets of Dublin in my youth. I stood elbow-to-elbow with her at a counter
in Woolworth's once. That is the nearest
contact I ever made with any poet. I have
shaken hands with royalty, but one does not shake hands with poets.
MacLIAMMOIR and Edwards must have walked the streets then,
but it never occurred to me that they did.
“All for Hecuba” has made it abundantly and
painfully clear to me how very human they were and how harshly real their
struggle in those days when the Gate was to me a magic box whose treasures were
inexhaustible. It gives the Dublin of
then a link with the Dublin of today that they are still part and parcel of the
changing scene and that the voices are by no means silent or out of touch.
Behan, the Quare Fellow, has gone.
The rich, melodious voice of Frank O'Connor is silent. The courteous, kindly, encouraging Francis
McManus no longer reads so painstakingly the most indifferent manuscripts and
takes the trouble to answer with advice and encouragement. I never met any of them and I mourned them
all. Some of the great ones are still
with us, O’Faolain, who knows his Dublin; Patrick Kavanagh,
intimate with the clay of Monaghan.
When I was a child playing out fantasies in
the old orchard I could look away to the blue hump of Slieve
Gullion on the north-eastern horizon. It was remote and mysterious and the end of
my perspective. I didn't know then there
was a cub working the lean fields nearer to that mountain, drawing the
substance of the books I would be buying in Dublin bookshops in years to come,
books that were the poetry of the old clay I used to live with so
familiarly. I didn't know either that I would meet the young James Mason playing Brutus at
the Gate in a book called “The Fretful Midge” and realise that it did
happen.
SOMETIMES I sit at a top-floor window in Merrion Square
in the dark, maybe, or the wee small hours.
Nothing much moves except the lights of passing cars, but the square is
full of moving shadows. When the wind
blows strongly the top floor sways and the trees caper and cavort and bow to
each other, taking on the shapes of all that “is past or passing or to
come.” To come; for
the full light of morning brings out the young hopes of the future. Only time will tell what they make of this city,
only the seagulls riding the wind, seeing everything and telling nothing,
surely the same seagulls I used to know.
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