9th January 1929- 89 years ago tomorrow Brian Friel was born at Knockmoyle (Cnoc Maol) near Omagh in Co. Tyrone- something I was largely unaware of until I started researching this piece. A hefty helping of Friel added to my literary education in secondary school, when our palettes had been thoroughly prepared by a proper diet of Seamus Heaney’s Blackberries from childhood. Despite this I always assumed Friel was born, and raised, and belonged completely to my hometown of Derry. This is an irritating and endearing habit we Derry ‘wans have of claiming people, particularly successful people, as our own. However, the negotiation of who is chosen and who remains an outsider and why is an endlessly complicated and political affair. Something Translations as a drama encapsulates.
A brief overview of the plot then, for those not familiar:
The play takes place in Donegal, in the fictional town of Ballybeg (or Baile Beag- a joke for the Irish speakers out there as it means ‘small town’) in 1833 on the cusp of the potato famine that would result in the halving of the Irish population and leave the Irish language teetering on the verge of eradication. English cartographers are stationed in Ballybeg and are producing a new map of Ireland, the play follows their interactions with the local population. One of the protagonists, Manus, is unsure about his future when the Irish hedge-schools are closed in favour of so-called ‘national schools’ teaching their curriculums in English. Manus’s brother Owen joins the cartographers as a (poor) translator and one of the English soldiers, Yolland, falls in love with a local girl who is also the object of Manus’s affections. At the end of the play Yolland mysteriously disappears, Manus flees, and the English captain gives orders that the entire town will be destroyed if Yolland is not found. The play ends in uncertainty.
Appropriately for a play about language, there is fairly little action in the play as a whole- even Yolland’s disappearance happens offstage. Most of the drama is created by the difficulty the character’s have interacting and communicating with each other. The play opens with Manus teaching a girl called Sarah, who is mostly mute/heavily speech impaired, to speak aloud. The inability to express oneself in language is apparent from this opening exchange. When the other characters arrive onstage their interactions are mostly comical and it is not until the arrival of the Royal Engineer’s that the audience realises that the lines that are being delivered in English are actually to be imagined as spoken Irish. The structural linguistics paradigm shifts markedly at the introduction of the English soldiers as a binary is created where it never existed before. The staging of Irish as English makes for some very powerful exchanges, where Owen is ‘translating’ the words of the captain to the people, but leaving out important information, or when Maire and Yolland begin to fall in love and speak to each other uncomprehendingly. These exchanges are all carried out in English but the communication ultimately fails, making, I think, a emphatic point about the nature of intra-language exchanges as well as inter-language exchanges.
For the audience watching originally when Translations was first performed in the Guildhall in Derry in 1980, very few would have been fluent in Irish and even fewer would have been first-language Irish speakers although the majority, given the politics of Derry’s locale, would consider themselves Irish, and staunchly so in the 1980s.
Perhaps the most arresting concept of the whole play is what Friel describes in the opening of Act Two- worth quoting at length I think:
Yolland’s official task, which Owen is now doing, is to take each of the Gaelic names—every hill, stream, rock, even every patch of ground which possessed its own distinctive Irish name—and Anglicise it, either by changing it into its approximate English sound or by translating it into English words. For example, a Gaelic name like Cnoc Ban could become Knockban or—directly translated—Fair Hill.
This is the intersection where two cultures meet through their languages and at best, a translation is effected erasing or transforming the original, but at worst nonsense ensures. Words that don’t mean anything in either language. Language reduced to its most basic collection of meaningless phonetics.
Of course, English and Irish aren’t the only two languages explored in Translations. Given that it is a relatively short play, a surprising percentage of the lines are either in Latin or Greek or feature one of the two. In fact, the schoolmaster Hugh is surprised that the Englishmen he meets speak ‘not a syllable’ of the ancient languages and adds that ‘our own [Irish] culture and the classical tongues made a happier conjugation.’ The inclusion of Latin and Greek quoted by the characters while Irish is performed in English is an added element of alienation. Friel cleverly manoeuvres his English-speaking Irish audience throughout the play until they are forced to concede their closest approximation in the play is the naïve, bumbling, but ultimately sympathetic and tragic character of Lieutenant Yolland.
Yolland: Poteen—poteen—poteen. Even if I did speak Irish I’d always be an outsider here, wouldn’t I? I may learn the password but the language of the tribe will always elude me, won’t it? The private core will always be…hermetic, won’t it?
Yolland’s realisation is poignant and perhaps unavoidably true given his fate- but Owen’s optimistic and perhaps naïve response ‘you can learn to decode us’ is maybe not unwarranted either. I think that in this exact moment when Yolland is lamenting his outsider status that I see a kind of shibboleth moment in his diction. He finishes each statement with a reaffirming question, an idiosyncrasy often associated with the Irish. I know that I myself tend to reaffirm what I’ve just said, don’t I? I often do this by asking a question or adding a tautology, so I do.
Every time I read this play I reach a similar impasse. Struck by the force of the schoolmaster’s line that ‘English…couldn’t really express us’ I reflect on my own relationship with English, on my love of words and storytelling and talking, and I wonder if it really could possibly all just be a shadow of what I could be capable of in Irish. And now with a new lens and a very English education I can look around at home, as well as away, and think like Ovid:
I am a barbarian in this place, because I am not understood by anyone.