Translations

“It’s easier to stamp out learning than to recall it.”

This phrase is a quote from Book Three of the Agricola (as identified by Jimmy). The Agricola is a book by the Roman historian Tacitus; the text covers the geography and ethnography of ancient Britain, describing the empire’s corruption of native traditions and beliefs (essentially mirroring the present-day tyranny of the British army in Ireland). The quote itself not only gestures to the British tyranny of “stamp[ing] out learning,” but the ethereal nature of memory, and the difficulty of recalling one’s own native legacy. The phrase is both ironically and aptly assigned by Manus for writing practice, meaning his students repeat it over and over again, drilling it into their memories. The play slyly suggests the grating futility of this task—with all its noble intentions—as Bridget writes the phrase on a very old slate with chalk that makes a scraping sound. 

“The old language is a barrier to modern progress.”

Here, Maire references the words of Daniel O’Connell—the “Irish Liberator”—to justify her need to learn English. She explains that she wants to immigrate to America after the harvest, suggesting that America is the site of the world’s progress. Hugh, however, is initially skeptical and dismissive of Maire’s ideas, writing off Daniel O’Connell as “that little Kerry politician” and ironically telling the class “We have been diverted…” (from their recitation of “the old language”) by Maire’s reflection. The viewer is led to appreciate the merits and shortcomings of both Maire and Hugh’s differing perspectives toward Irish “progress.”

“I understand the Lanceys perfectly but people like you puzzle me.”

Manus subtly expresses his suspicion toward Yolland’s appreciation of Irish culture, insinuating that Yolland must have some agenda even if his agenda is different from Lancey’s. Manus affirms this suspicion when Yolland expresses his gratitude for Owen’s help, mistakenly referring to Owen as “Roland.” Manus replies, “There are always the Rolands, aren’t there,” demonstrating that he notices Yolland’s mistake. With these lines, Manus suggests that all three of these men are particular types working toward their own individual ends. 

“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 feels humbled after mispronouncing an Irish word immediately following his romantic hopes of settling in the village. He reflects that his background as an outsider, let alone a British colonist, will prevent him from ever fully accessing “the private core of Irish culture.

“You can learn to decode us.”

Owen gently suggests that “the private core” Yolland speaks of is neither as mysterious nor elusive as he suggests. As someone who speaks both Irish and English, Owen thinks of language as a simple code or tool that can be used to obtain what one needs. In Owen’s case, he is financially profiting from his dual knowledge of English and Irish (by translating the maps). Thus, to some degree, this phrase can be read as Owen’s justification for his involvement with British colonization.

“English succeeds in making it sound…plebeian.”

When Hugh attempts to translate a line of his own poetry into English (upon Yolland’s request), he reflects that the English translation “succeeds in making it sound plebeian.” As a great aficionado of Roman history, Hugh would know that the plebs were a lower caste of Roman society who may have organized as a limited opposition to the more elite patricians. Thus, Hugh’s use of the word “succeeds” is deliberately pointed, suggesting that the English language is designed to minimize the thoughts of natives such as himself, confining him to a “plebeian” position. Of course, the word “plebeian” resonates with dual meaning in this instance, translating both as “a lower-class commoner” and a more subversive group that stands in defiance against patrician/British values. 

“Wordsworth?…No, I’m afraid we’re not familiar with your literature, Lieutenant. We feel closer to the warm Mediterranean. We tend to overlook your island.”

With these lines, Hugh reaffirms his dismissal of Yolland’s attempts to connect to him through their shared love of poetry, pointing to the inherent difference between the poetry of subjugated groups (with whom Hugh identifies) and the work of British poets (whom Hugh aligns with oppression). This statement feels a bit strained and performative, however, as the highly-educated Hugh obviously knows who Wordsworth is (and would not be so critical if he truly didn’t know). Friel leads the viewer to feel that perhaps Hugh’s true feelings toward the English language—and, by extension, Yolland’s attempts toward friendly connection—are in fact more complicated than he expresses.

“A rich language. A rich literature. You’ll find, sir, that certain cultures expend on their vocabularies and syntax acquisitive energies and ostentations entirely lacking in their material lives.”

When speaking to Yolland—who praises Irish language and literature—Hugh illuminates the source of his defensiveness toward Irish and Latin. In a sense, he must hold tightly to these languages and literary works because they are all he has.

“Something is being eroded.”

Here, Yolland expresses his guilt about his role in making the maps, recognizing that they are both a symbol and direct extension of British imperialism. As someone who has come to admire Irish language and culture, he hates to see the namesake of places being erased with their anglicization. 

“…Tobair means a well. But what does Vree mean? It’s a corruption of Brian—(Gaelic pronounciation) Brian—and erosion of Tobair Bhriain. Because a hundred-and-fifty years ago there used to be a well there, not at the crossroads, mind you—that would be too simple—but in a field close to the crossroads. And an old man called Brian…was found drowned in that well. And ever since that crossroads is known as Tobair Vree—even though that well has long since dried up. But ask Doalty—or Maire—or Bridget—even my father—ask Manus—why it’s called Tobair Vree; and do you think they’ll know? I know they don’t know. So the question I put to you, Lieutenant, is this: what do we do with a name like that? Do we scrap Tobair Vree altogether and call it—what?—The Cross? Crossroads? Or do we keep piety with a man long dead, long forgotten, his name ‘eroded’ beyond recognition, whose trivial little story nobody in the parish remembers?”

Owen responds to Yolland’s anxieties about linguistic “erosion” by explaining just how complicated the names of these places really are. Locations such as Tobair Vree have such a long-buried and linguistically-corrupted legacy that most villagers don’t even remember the stories of their namesakes. As a former villager who carries this lost knowledge around with him but also profits from his role as translator, Owen feels conflicted loyalties. Thus, Owen’s question of whether they should simply “scrap” the forgotten bits of history or “keep piety” with the Irish names feels both real and urgent to him. This question poignantly echoes back to Hugh’s earlier lesson from the Agricola: “It’s easier to stamp out learning than to recall it.”

“He says you wave to each other across the fields.”

In this moment, Owen attempts to serve as translator between English-speaking Yolland and Irish-speaking Maire, who demonstrate their obvious attraction to one another. This reference to the gesture of “wav[ing] to each other across the fields” bespeaks the intimacy of non-verbal language—and the possibility that communication might transcend spoken language—just as it suggests the cultural distance Maire and Yolland feel between each other.

“Say anything at all. I love the sound of your speech.”

In this moment, Maire and Yolland romantically connect after the dance at Tobair Vree. They repeat the same phrase—“Say anything at all. I love the sound of your speech”—in their separate languages of Irish and English, suggesting that on some level, the words are just sounds, and their true meaning is already known to both of them. 

“You know the old limekiln beyond Con Connie Tim’s place, the place we call The Murren?...I’ve only just discovered: it’s a corruption of Saint Muranus…Very unattractive name, isn’t it? I think we should go back to the original—Saint Muranus.”

These lines are spoken by Owen to Manus at the beginning of Act III. Seeing Manus’s distress over Yolland’s connection with Maire, and perhaps hoping he will convince Manus to stay in Baile Beag, Owen demonstrates a shift in his linguistic loyalties. He acknowledges the importance of preserving their Irish history and in so doing offers a kind of implied apology for his protection of Lieutenant Yolland. 

“But when I saw him standing there at the side of the road—smiling—and her face buried in his shoulder—I couldn’t even get close to them. I just shouted something stupid—something like, ‘You’re a bastard, Yolland.’ If I’d even said it in English…‘cos he kept saying ‘Sorry-sorry?’ The wrong gesture in the wrong language.”

Here, Manus explains to Owen why he decided he couldn’t respond with violence when he saw Yolland and Marie together. Manus seems to understand that Yolland and Maire share a kind of communication that is barred to him, that he can’t “event get close to.” Manus’s verbal insult of Yolland—apparently shouted in Irish and therefore misunderstood—further demonstrates his inability to close the gaps of language and intimacy. 

“Very good, Sarah Johnny Sally. There’s nothing to stop you now—nothing in the whole world. (Pause. He looks down at her.) It’s all right—it’s all right—you did no harm—you did no harm at all.”

In a repetition from the play’s first scene, Manus asks Sarah to speak her name. This time, however, he responds without the hopeful emotion of the original scene. His words—“There’s nothing to stop you now—nothing in the whole world”—while still empathetic toward Sarah, are delivered with a kind of cold irony, as Manus clearly no longer believes in the power of spoken language. His pardoning of Sarah can be read many ways, but ultimately suggests that her ability to speak—and thus alert him to the coupling of Maire and Yolland—may have caused both of them harm. This perspective is sadly confirmed later on in Act III, when Lancey threatens the villagers. When Lancey asks Sarah’s name, she finds herself unable (and possibly unwilling) to pronounce it, and Manus is forced to pronounce her name on her behalf.

“Strange sounds, aren’t they? But nice sounds; like Jimmy Jack reciting his Homer.”

Maire describes a moment where, upon reciting the only English phrase she knew—“In Norfolk we besport ourselves around the maypoll”—Yolland brought out a map of England and showed her the names of places he knew well. This map symbolically parallels the map Owen and Yolland made of Baile Beag. Maire remarks that just as the names of Irish locations sounded strange and lovely to Yolland’s ear, the names of English places sound strange “but nice” to Maire. She compares the sounds of English to the sound of Jimmy Jack reciting Homer, suggesting the same ethereal connection Jimmy Jack feels to Homer: texts full of mythological figures he’ll never really know, names of places he can never really go to. 

“It didn’t last long, did it?”

Here, Maire refers to the death of an infant whom Hugh christened—and whose name was notably in question—during the first act. Though her words speak to the short life of the child, they also gesture toward the brevity of her love affair with Yolland, and the disappointing sensation that nothing good or transcendent “last[s] long.”

“When my grandfather was a boy they did the same thing. (Simply, altogether without irony) And after all the trouble you went to, mapping the place and thinking up new names for it.”

When Owen hopefully suggests that perhaps they might find Yolland and prevent the British army from razing the village, Doalty explains his belief that they will burn the village regardless. He tells Owen that the British burned his grandfather’s village when he was a boy and that this is just an example of history repeating itself. He unironically reflects that this conflict will result in the destruction of all efforts toward communication between the British and the Irish, including Owen’s maps.

“‘Bararus his ego sum quit non intelligor ulli…I am a barbarian in this place because I am not understood by anyone!’”

Here, Jimmy drunkenly quotes Ovid’s Tristia Ex Ponto from thefour-book Epistulare ex Ponto, or,“Letter from the Black Sea.” Much like the aforementioned Agricola, this literary text is largely responsible for modern geographic understanding of a region (in this case, the Scythia Minor) and exemplifies the importance of naming/mapping documents such as Owen and Yolland’s Name Book. The Tristia describes the rigors of Ovid’s exile, pleading for leniency from the Romans. Coming from Jimmy, these lines can be read as a similar plea to the British, the outcry of a linguistic outsider (who is considered an outsider only because his language and experience is “not understood by anyone”).

“But what I’m really looking for, Hugh—what I really want—companionship, Hugh—at my time of life, companionship, company, someone to talk to. Away up in Beann na Gaoithe—you’ve no idea how lonely it is. Companionship—correct, Hugh? Correct?”

After half-jokingly declaring that he is getting married to Athene, Jimmy bemoans his loneliness. For him, myths have become as real as life, but he knows he is drawn to myth by the necessity of his loneliness (just as Hugh suggests in Act II, Scene One when he speaks the lines: “A rich language. A rich literature. You’ll find, sir, that certain cultures expend on their vocabularies and syntax acquisitive energies and ostentations entirely lacking in their material lives”).

“We must learn those new names.”

Toward the end of the play’s final scene, Hugh and Owen appear to have reversed their perspectives from the beginning of the play. As Owen leaves (presumably to join the resistance), Hugh gestures to the Name Book, declaring they “must learn those new names,” thereby echoing Maire’s earlier reflections on language and progress. He explains that these new names—this new correspondence between English and Irish—will show them “where they live,” reflecting their political and cultural landscape as it currently operates. Owen, however, replies that he “knows where he lives,” suggesting a firm commitment to defending the old Irish ways (and, by extension, his homeland, which is now under threat). 

“Take care, Owen. To remember everything is a form of madness.”

Here, Hugh cautions Owen against cleaving to language—like the story of Tobair Vree—whose origins have vanished. Hugh recognizes that clinging to such knowledge makes it impossible to communicate with those who do not share it. In the words of Ovid: to be misunderstood is to be rendered “a barbarian.”

“When he comes back, this is where he’ll come to. He told me this is where he was happiest.”

Maire returns to the schoolhouse after declaring she “set out for somewhere” but “couldn’t remember where.” She expresses her hope that Yolland will do the same, echoing their repetitions of each other from Act II, Scene Two. She follows this reflection by requesting that Hugh teach her English. Specifically, she wants to know the meaning of the word “always,” echoing Yolland’s earlier promise to be with her always.