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In the back room Esson could feel the elbows of his neighbours easing againsthim with their breathing. At his feet he could feel, on his ankle, the hot breath ofa large dog. He moved his foot and the dog snarled."Is there anyone here boy?" asked the policeman."No sir," said the boy in a voice he'd used for his first confession."You have a lot of lamps shining for nothing.""We were just cleaning up, sir. My sister and me.""And where are your parents?""Out sir.""So there's only you and your sister?""Yes sir.""Alright lad," he said, looking around the room. "If anyone comes by, tell themyou're closed.""Yes sir.""Good night boy.""Good night sir."And the policeman left. The kid waited until he heard the last of his boots inthe street then, picking up a lamp, he walked to the back room and flung openthe door."Come on now! Out you come the lot of you," he shouted."First orders!"The next night Esson was back in Dublin and looking for the Abbey Theatre,which was difficult to find. When he finally asked someone in the street, Essondiscovered that he too was going to the theatre so they went together. At the boxoffice, Esson saw that his new companion could afford only the cheapest seat. Hefelt a kind of companionable loyalty to his guide and so bought a cheap seat too.He left a card with the door keeper to tell Yeats that he was in the house so when,half way through the play, he saw a tall silhouette raking the front stalls, his attentionto the play faltered and he longed to cry out: "I'm up here, sir. Up here!"The play was The King's Threshold which had been first performed a couple ofyears earlier in a hall normally given over to Protestant missionary fund raising byday, and badminton by night.In spite of being sought by the author throughout the production, Esson enjoyedThe King's Threshold, which was like a series of dramatic slides where a court poetgoes on a fast when the king banishes both poet and poetry from the royal table.The thing that struck Esson was the style of acting. Actors did not speak when theymoved; no one moved while someone else was speaking. It went against the fluidcharm of the London stage where the eye was drawn into the action like a windamong leaves. Here it was static; also curiously compelling.Soldier, courtier and priest all urged the poet to eat, all in vain:You have rightly named me.I lie rolled up under the ragged thornsThat are upon the edge of those great watersWhere all things vanish away, and I have heardMurmurs that are the ending of all sound.I am out of life; I am rolled up, and yet,Hedgehog although I am, I'll not untilFor you, King's dog!44WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989