The Dance of Death

Conor McPherson

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781780013251
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Drama
• Index: Literature

A visceral new version of Strindberg's compelling, bitingly funny battle of wills.

On an isolated island, military captain Edgar and his wife Alice live a bitter life, their marriage soured by hatred. When the possibility of redemption and escape arrives for Alice in the shape of their former comrade Kurt, it seems that Edgar is prepared to use his very last breath to make their lives a living hell.

Conor McPherson's version of The Dance of Death premiered at Trafalgar Studios, London in December 2012.

'it's impossible to look away' Time Out

'a grotesque comedy that anticipates the work of theatrical absurdists such as Beckett and Ionesco... a profoundly seminal work' Guardian

'shockingly funny... its raw savagery is thrilling and its bleak existential despair almost Beckettian' The Times

ACT ONE

The interior of a round fortress tower built of granite.

Upstage are a large pair of doors with glass windowpanes, through which can be seen the sky at dusk and a distant shoreline with some lights. To the side of each door is a window.

There is a dresser with some framed pictures and books; a piano; a table with some chairs; an armchair; a mounted mercurial barometer and a desk with a telegraph machine. There is also a kind of ‘bar’ –a high table against one wall – with glasses and bottles of liquor with a mirror above it. There are a few rugs, but the walls are bare granite and nothing can take away a feeling of foreboding – this building used to be a jailhouse. On one wall hangs a portrait of ALICE in costume on stage in a production twenty-five years ago.

There is a lamp suspended from the ceiling. A heavy door, stage right, leads to steps going down to the kitchen, and beside this is a large free-standing hat stand on which hang coats, pieces of military equipment: gloves, helmets and swords.

It is a mild autumn evening. The doors are open. The sea is dark and still.

ALICE, an attractive woman in her forties, sits at the table listlessly staring into space.

The CAPTAIN, a well-built but tired-looking man in his sixties, is sitting in the armchair, fingering an unlit cigar. He is dressed in a worn dress uniform with riding boots and spurs. A discarded newspaper lies on his lap. In the distance they can hear snatches of a military band drifting in on the wind.

CAPTAIN. Play something?

ALICE. Play what?

CAPTAIN. Whatever you like.

ALICE. You never like what I play.

CAPTAIN. Well, you never like what I play.

ALICE. Edgar, you can’t play. Do you want the doors left open?

CAPTAIN. I don’t mind.

ALICE. Well, are you going to smoke that cigar?

CAPTAIN. You know, I’m not sure strong tobacco agrees with me any more.

ALICE. You should take up a pipe.

CAPTAIN. A pipe?!

ALICE. Why not? Why deny yourself your ‘only pleasure’, as you call it.

CAPTAIN. Pleasure? Hmph, I’ve forgotten what that is!

ALICE. Well, don’t ask me to describe it for you! Have a glass of whiskey.

CAPTAIN (shudders at the idea). Better not. What’s for dinner?

ALICE. How would I know? Go down and ask Christine.

CAPTAIN. Isn’t this the time of year for mackerel? Autumn?

ALICE. I suppose so.

CAPTAIN. Yes, it’s autumn – outside and in. You see, what you do is, you take a mackerel, grill it, drizzle a little lemon on it, serve it up with a huge glass of white Zinfandel – and one doesn’t feel quite like blowing one’s brains out any more, does one?

ALICE. You’re asking the wrong person.

CAPTAIN (smacking his lips). Have we any of that Zinfandel left, chilling away down there in the wine cellar?

ALICE. We don’t have a wine cellar.

CAPTAIN. What happened to our wine cellar?

ALICE. You mean the laundry room?

CAPTAIN. I mean the wine cellar, where we keep the wine.

ALICE. There is no wine.

CAPTAIN. Well, this is not good enough. We have to stock up for our silver wedding celebrations.

ALICE. You really want to celebrate that?

CAPTAIN. Well, of course I do. Don’t you?

ALICE. I thought we might show more decorum by keeping our long miserable mistake to ourselves.

CAPTAIN. Oh come, Alice! We’ve had fun. (Beat.) Now and then. And soon it will be all over. We’ll be dead, and all that’s left is your rotten carcass. And all it’s good for is to fertilise the cabbages.

ALICE. So we go through all of this just for the sake of the cabbages?

CAPTAIN (picking his paper up). Listen, I don’t make the rules.

ALICE. Well, it seems like a stupid waste if you ask me. Was there any post?

CAPTAIN (affirmatively, while he reads). Mm-hm.

ALICE. The butcher’s bill?

CAPTAIN. Mm-hm.

ALICE. And?

CAPTAIN (still reading, he takes the bill from his pocket and holds it out to her). I can’t read his writing.

ALICE (coming to take it). That’s old age, you know.

CAPTAIN. What?

ALICE. Your eyes.

CAPTAIN. Rubbish!

ALICE. Well, I can read it.

CAPTAIN. Your scrawl is worse than his.

ALICE (reading). Oh my God! Can we pay this?

CAPTAIN. Of course we can. Just not at the moment.

ALICE. Then when? In a year’s time when your miniscule pension kicks in? Which won’t even be enough for the doctor’s bills when you’re sick.

CAPTAIN. Sick? How dare you? I’ve never been sick. Not one day in forty-four years of military service!

ALICE. That’s not what the doctor says.

CAPTAIN (dismissively). ‘The doctor’… What does he know?

ALICE. Well, who else would know?

CAPTAIN. Now, you listen to me. There’s nothing wrong with me and there never has been. Real soldiers don’t get sick. They just drop dead where they stand, in their boots. Bang! Just like that. And I have twenty good years left in me, you know…

ALICE (simultaneously with him). ‘Twenty good years left in me…’ Yes, well you’re half-deaf already. You probably can’t hear that music is coming from the doctor’s house. You do know he’s throwing a party for the entire command this evening.

CAPTAIN. Yes, I do know actually, and do you want to know why I wasn’t invited? Shall I tell you? Because I refuse to mix with that scum – and because they all know I’m not afraid to speak my mind, that’s why.

ALICE. You think everyone is scum.

CAPTAIN. They are scum!

ALICE. Except you.

CAPTAIN. Hey, I have always behaved in a decent, civilised manner, no matter what life has ever thrown in my path. You know I am not scum! (Beat.) Alice.

Pause.

ALICE. Do you want a game of cards?

CAPTAIN. Not if you’re going to cheat, I don’t.

ALICE. I won’t!

ALICE gets the cards and starts dealing.

Yes, well, apparently it’s the first time the regimental band has ever been given permission to perform at a private party.

CAPTAIN. Well, if I spent the bulk of my working life creeping round the garrison, sucking up to the Colonel all day, I could have the regimental band in here while I ate my bloody breakfast if I wanted! But I don’t. (Takes up his cards.) That doctor was always a little dirtbag.

ALICE. There was a time I used to be quite friendly with Gerda. Until I found out she was backbiting me.

CAPTAIN. They’re all backbiters! What’s trumps?

ALICE. Where are your glasses?

CAPTAIN. They don’t work. They’ve never worked, just tell me.

ALICE. Spades.

CAPTAIN. Spade...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Characters and Setting
• Act One
• Act Two
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information