The Playwright's Woman Read online

The Playwright’s Woman

  A short story by R. J. Creaney

  Copyright © 2012 R. J. Creaney

  Cover design by R. J. Creaney.

  ‘Aerofoil’ font created by Denise Chan. Textures by https://sirius-sdz.deviantart.com and CG Textures.

  https://rjcreaney.wordpress.com/

  * * *

  K.F. Darley

  34 Upper Cheyne Row,

  Chelsea,

  London,

  ENGLAND

  Dear Mother,

  I write this letter nomn It is with particular compunction that I write this letter. My latest play, The Innermost Chamber, has been truly ravaged in the news-papers. It pains me to see how they completely missed the subtle but biting satire and the social commentary of the piece, and I very much doubt that anyone noticed my homage to Beaumarchais! It is like Styx, Dammed all over again – I cannot tell which play of mine the critics seemed to detest more.

  The Times referred to it as a ‘three-hour long exercise in brazen affectation’. Roth from The Athenaeum thought that it was ‘decidedly lacking in freshness, and with a conspicuous over-reliance on outmoded theatrical conventions’. All of them suggested that relatively decent production values and acting were let down by a poor script. Some of the boys down at the Bishop’s Elbow had read a few more reviews, but declined to divulge me as to what they said – out of mercy, surely. Old James Grey (always a good chap) bought me an ale; I suppose because he felt sorry for me.

  Those reviewers are wind-bags, to a man. I went to terrible pains to write that play – it took me seven and a half months to pen altogether – so the least they could do is acknowledge the effort on my part.

  Apart from play matters, there is generally little to report. Workmen have been replacing many of the gas streetlamps of the district with ones that are lit by means of an electric current. I do not claim to understand it all, but it is quite fascinating stuff nonetheless; be sure to let father know.

  With much love,

  Your son,

  Kevin

  * * *

  Una Darley

  7 Lake Terrace,

  Castlerea,

  IRELAND

  My dear boy,

  I am sorry to hear about the poor reviews for your play. I would have you know that your father and I have always been proud of you no matter what the critics may think of your plays. If you should ever tire of this writing business in London, know that there is a place here waiting for you.

  Unfortunately, my letter brings some bad news. Your cousin’s husband, Oscar, passed away last month. Fell down dead while shovelling the peat, all without a fuss. Maggie was distraught all throughout the wake; she was a terrible sight to behold, all weeping and fretting. She swore that she had seen the ban-shee (the keener; one of the fairy-women, as you’d surely remember from your old grandmother’s stories) on the previous morning, and had heard her wailing as a portent of his death. Despite this, the wake for the most part was joyous, and was an adequate farewell for poor Oscar, bless his departed soul.

  There is little else of great importance to report. Your father’s back has been causing him grief, as usual, and the O’Connor boy is still courting your sister.

  You aught to find yourself a woman, Kevin. One who can look after you and make you happy. And maybe even inspire you. A good Irish girl, God willing. It will be a good sight harder to find an Irish girl in London than an English girl, although I suspect you’ll find it to be well worth the effort in the end.

  You’re my son and I’ll always love you – I’m your mother, of course. But even still, I ought not have to put up with this atrocious letter-writing of yours, and I’ll have you know that reading your cockerel-scratch is a frightful chore. It’s a wonder you earn a living off your writing – I hope very much that the drafts you give to your play-producers aren’t nearly as rough as the letters you send to your dear mother.

  All my love,

  Una Darley

  * * *

  The Diary of K. F. Darley

  February 19th, 1889

  All this day I sat at my writing-bureau, with my pen in hand and with fresh blank leaves at the ready. I know full well that I must set about with writing my next play, but the words simply will not come.

  In short, it would seem that I have a writing-block. How infuriating that I can come to my ledger and write on everything that weighs on my mind; letting it all out and committing it to paper with great storm and stress &c, but I simply cannot place pen to paper and set about the work of producing the plays which are my very livelihood. Perhaps chronicling my thoughts in this diary will help to ease my block – it is writing, after all, and any writing is better than no writing at all.

  I have the ideas, surely, but they simply will not come together: they are as pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that refuse to admit one another. At times I become frightfully perturbed, and take to pacing about my room like a madman: thinking and searching and seeking for the factor unaccounted for; the bolt-of-lightning-from-a-clear-sky ‘eureka’ notion that promptly marshals all the other ideas into order.

  The wrighting of plays can be awfully hard work when it chooses to be. I think I ought to make my way over to the Bishop’s Elbow; perhaps the factor unaccounted for will present itself at the bottom of a snifter of brandy.

  * * *

  February 23rd, 1889

  I have written a few pages of a new play, but only with great effort on my part. I felt as if I was trying to saw through a plank of wood with a knot in the way, or if I was striving to swim against a stiff river current. Moreover, I am not overly pleased with what I have written thus far, and have it in mind to destroy the pages. I do not know where I am heading. I have no idea for the end of the first act, nor the second or the third. The protagonist of the play, Hubert (may change this name at a later point) is simply not keeping my interest – in fact I find him to be altogether quite bland, and would not wish to keep his company if he were real. As I have already said in these pages, however, some writing is always better than no writing. If I press onwards the story should come to me, eventually.

  At the public house I have recently taken to drinking the wormwood spirit absinthe, and I feel I should say something about that. I am commonly a drinker of ale, or brandy - or of gin or whiskey, on occasion. But as of late I could not help but notice the tall glass bottle of jade-green spirit, sitting among the liqueur bottles on the shelves behind the serving counter. Many of the Parisian Bohemians and artists are known for partaking of the drink, and I wished to see for myself what all the fuss was about. And I thought that, if while sating my curiosity for the spirit I should come to receive a measure of that rousing vigour (that same which inspired the likes of Messrs. Verlaine and Toulouse-Lautrec across the Channel) that would not be an altogether bad thing.

  The wormwood taste of the drink is unlike anything that I’ve known before, and will take time to get accustomed to. The entire ritual, too, which is associated with preparing and drinking the spirit is quite strange – but fascinatingly so. The tall reservoir glass is presented half-filled with the stuff. A slotted spoon is set on top of the glass, and a single cube of sugar placed upon this. Water is poured over the spoon and the sugar into the glass, and the water and sugar is dispersed into the drink. This results in a cloudiness in the spirit; an opalescence and a sudden blossoming of aromas of anise and wormwood. It is a sublime experience, if I may say so. Absinthe is a majestic prince among drinks, and it captures the imagination and rouses the spirit even before it reaches the lips of the imbiber.

  * * *

  February 29th, 1889

  I find that I have grown to have a special penchant for the green drink. The state of inebriation that the healing
draught brings is distinctly different, it seems, to that brought by ale or brandy: it is unique in its qualities. The less refined beverages bring about a state of being, I believe, that can genuinely be called ‘drunkenness’ – the senses are dulled and the movements become clumsy, sluggish and &c. The feeling and manner brought about by la Fée Verte, however, is something altogether different and wondrous. I felt as if the boundaries of my mind had been expanded; my consciousness made markedly greater. Everything is clearer; all the colours are brighter and all sounds and voices are made more musical. At times when in the absinthe I feel like I am floating, like a feather on a light breeze.

  I regret to admit, however, that the whimsical drink has simply not inspired me in my creative endeavours. This current play of mine – for which I have written only twelve (admittedly middling) pages, along with only three pages of notes – continues to progress just as languidly as it did before I first took up the absinthe. Perhaps all the pages I have now are simply the kindling, and the bright inciting spark – the thing needed to finally set the piece alight; to bring it into glorious, blazing life – is yet to be found. But it may be just around the corner. We shall see.

  * * *

  March 3rd, 1889

  Progress on the play is still altogether slow – it would seem that my writing pace and productivity have not improved at all since my last journal entry. I find it difficult to believe that I am, in fact, a writer by profession. I find I am distracted by far too much – books of lore in my study; goings-on outside the widow; taking walks down to the Kensington gardens or visiting the Bishop’s Elbow to see the boys and have a glass or two of the absinthe.

  James Grey invited me to dine with his wife and young son on Saturday of last week. Mrs. Grey and the boy are quite delightful, and I enjoyed their company more than I had anticipated. The food was good, and their home is a modest town-house affair. I have more than once heard rumblings that Grey is in fact a member of the peerage; a scion of an old aristocratic house which had come upon hard times and had tumbled down into the middle-classes. I am not sure of the truth in those rumours, but Grey does have a decidedly knightly air about him.

  The day before yesterday I saw a young woman, unaccompanied, walking down the street outside the Elbow. It was late afternoon, and the street was awash with the hazy amber light of the setting sun. Her hair I could see was raven-black, and her skin was white as fine China porcelain. She was very beautiful. Blue (or green?) eyes seemed to flash my way, and her mouth approached what must have been a smile. If she should appear again, I will try my best to introduce myself and learn her name. If I never see her again, however, I know that I will at least have the benefit of this one fine memory; a recollection that can never be tarnished or taken away.

  * * *

  March 7th, 1889

  Muirenn Muirenn Muirenn Muirenn

  Her name is Muirenn.

  * * *

  March 15th, 1889

  I am glad to report that have spent much of this past week in Muirenn’s delightful company. I have not known her for long, but I am incredibly fond of her.

  She is wholly of Erin’s isle, I am pleased to say. Her ‘Irishness’, it seems to me, is on a level entirely dissimilar to my own – she looks and sounds like she trotted out of the hills of some wild green place only a week previously. That is not to say that she is in any way simple or provincial in her manners and sensibilities – I feel, after all, that she has the bearing of a noblewoman.

  Mother, I think, would be overjoyed to learn that I have met such a fine woman.

  She had never heard of me before meeting me, nor had she heard of any of my plays. This is not a cause of bother – I am not a famous writer by any means, no matter how often I might imagine myself to be such. For me to have a big head would simply not do!

  I find that she reminds me of home, quite frankly. The act of peering into her great bright eyes brings on a rush of fond memory: of misted hills and wind-swept fields of barley; hedgerows and tumbled stone fences. The rain, the clouds and the sun. Her hair smells of wildflowers, and her voice has the quality of clear water over smooth river-stones.

  In other matters, yesterday I surprised myself – and Muirenn, who was with me at the time – when I destroyed the play pages that I have been writing since last month. Almost twenty-one pages, and all of them generally unremarkable. I threw them onto the fire. I am glad to be rid of them and they will not be missed. Not a single scene or sentence sat well with me and I could not even think of a title for the wretched thing.

  * * *

  K.F. Darley

  34 Upper Cheyne Row,

  Chelsea,

  London,

  ENGLAND

  Dear Mother,

  Things have been quite grand.

  I know that you would be quite pleased to learn that I have in fact met a woman, and we have been seeing one another for the past several weeks. Her name is Muirenn and she is an utter delight. Furthermore, I am glad to inform you that she is in fact Irish – more so than you and I, surely! You would adore her, mother, were you to meet her.

  She is a true Gaielgoer Geailgeior Gaeilgeoir – she has said that until she was nineteen years old, she had not a single word of English. When she does speak English, you can hear that it is not the tongue with to which she is accustomed. She is such a rarity, and to find her in London of all places!

  I feel phenomenally fortunate to have her. I would very much like you to meet her, mother, but I do not foresee any time in the near future when I might take a vacation. Soon, I trust.

  With much love,

  Kevin

  * * *

  The Diary of K. F. Darley

  May 6th, 1889

  Muirenn is, I am quite sure, the love of my life. I cannot bear to be away from her for even a moment. She is my fair muse, my blossom of the dawn; I love every ink-black hair on her head. Quite frankly, I cannot begin to imagine the rest of my life without her.

  In terms of my writing, I find that I have written not a play, but a short story – a piece sixteen pages long – and have already submitted it for publication to the Savoy Magazine. A day after I destroyed the pages of my last play, Muirenn wrapped her arms about me and said: “Write a story, my gallant darling”. So I did just that. ‘A Gentleman of No Consequence’ is the title, and I wrote both the first and second drafts of it in only a little over one week. The words streamed right out of me; it was quite uncanny and I am still surprised with myself. Such a flurry of writing! I think I have my muse to thank for all this newfound inspiration.

  It is a fairly straightforward thing, this new story, and nothing too exceptional if I should say so. I am reasonably pleased with it, however, and will be glad if it should be accepted for publication and bring me a shilling or two. Muirenn, meanwhile, thinks it fantastic – but bless her heart, she can hardly read English!

  * * *

  The Diary of James Grey

  June 14th, 1889

  My attention to this journal has been has been relatively non-existent, but I now feel compelled to write. Ironically, I write today about the man who first taught me the value of making thoughts into words, and then committing those words to paper – my friend, Mr. Kevin Darley. I am beginning to feel quite concerned for him.

  He has had a dalliance with the spirit absinthe which, I believe, approaches addiction. I am quite worried for his physical and mental health. I myself have dabbled in absinthe in the past and I know well that certain bottlers of ill repute will mix in noisome chemicals and poisons so as to make the drink’s green hue more striking. These substances, combined with the stringent alcoholic effects of absinthe, can do frightful things to a man’s mind. Kevin does not appear at the Bishop’s Elbow these days as frequently as he has in the past, so I cannot be sure about his drinking habits. I cannot help but have an ill feeling, however.

  Moreover, his relationship with the young Irishwoman Muirenn appears to me to be quite unhealthy indeed – and it is this relation
ship of his which causes me more worry. I have tried to talk to him about her, on more than one occasion. Once I asked him to tell me the general details about her – what was her profession, if she kept one; where in Ireland she had come from; who her family was, &c. He quickly changed the subject. When I pressed him again, he became quite disconcerted, and I allowed the conversation to move to something else. A few days after that, however, I queried him once again: I simply asked him what Muirenn’s surname was. And with that, he suddenly became quite indignant. He chastised me for being so bold and presumptuous as to ask a question of that nature, and claimed that he would not under any circumstance give me my answer. This was due to the principle of the matter, he said. He then bid me a good-day and stormed off. I was quite astounded.

  I cannot deny that since the beginning of his courting of Muirenn, Kevin’s writing has changed. The quality and quantity his work is greater now than it ever has been before. He has written four short stories in the past few weeks – one has been published, and two are about to be published – and he is working on another play as I write this. I have read the short story “A Gentleman of No Consequence” a number of times, and it is subtly excellent – it echoes de Maupassant and Flaubert; Poe and Hawthorn, as well as exhibiting an essence all its own. I can however detect a dark, unsettled undercurrent in the story. Nuances suggestive not of a thoroughly troubled mind, but perhaps of a thoroughly troubled spirit.

  I am unsure of what to make of all this. But I know that I will keep a close eye on my friend, and I will maintain my healthy suspicion of this woman of his.

  * * *

  The Diary of K. F. Darley

  July 8th, 1889

  Although I have not been writing overly much in this here journal – my last entry I see was in early May – I most certainly have been writing. My output has been phenomenal, in short: all the hours that I do not spend with Muirenn I spend at my bureau.

  I have sat up late – all through the night, on more than one occasion – scratching away. I have often forsaken meals, cleanliness, and excursions outside.