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"When we started our little theatre, they all ignored us. And when Synge gavethem one masterpiece after another, great and small, they heaped abuse upon him.""But not now," Esson insisted. "Today his place is secure.""Today is too late. Synge is long dead.""I met him you know," said Esson."Did you?" asked Mrs Yeats, "When?""He was at Masefield's flat the night I met you, sir, and Lady Gregory," repliedEsson, "I met him later on in Dublin too. He showed me some of Sir Hugh Lane'scollection of paintings. The Manets I remember."Yeats looked up."Do you like paintings Esson?""I do indeed sir. Paintings and painters. My uncle belonged to a group of pleinair artists who lived in the bush outside Melbourne. Condor was one of them.""Condor - in the bush!" laughed Georgiana Yeats, "Like learning that OscarWilde was a knife-thrower in a circus.""Well wasn't he?" asked Yeats. "Myoid father's still painting you know Esson."Yeats didn't believe in coincidence. Esson was a playwright and a Scots Celt. Nowhe discovered that Esson had a painter in his family too. Yeats wondered if he mightput Esson to the test without embarrassing him. Of course Georgiana had enteredinto the spirit of things and discovered that she had remarkable powers. But nowthat her pregnancy had become advanced, it was unwise to engage those powers.Besides, she was tired tonight and had bid them both goodnight and gone to bed.The great Christ Church bell, and all the lesser bells, were tolling midnight."It's late," said Esson. "You musn't let me keep you up.""No, no, no," protested his host. "Let's go to the sitting room upstairs. Georgewill have lit the fire I laid earlier." They got up from the table. "I read those playsyou sent me. The dialogue is excellent and the atmosphere in each one is marvellouslyrealised.""Thank you very much sir. Mind you, the plots leave something to be desired.I'm not much good on plots.""On the contrary. I think all four are perfect.""The audiences wouldn't agree with you, the few that came."They were at the bottom of the stairs. Yeats stopped and turned to him."It's better to get fifty genuine enthusiasts rather than five hundred sheep." Andhe began to climb the stairs. At the top Yeats went into a room lit only by the flowfrom the fireplace."Come in. Find a seat."Yeats went over to the table and lit the candles which were standing in long brasscandlesticks."I think it's a mistake to concern yourself about being popular.""Those plays I wrote sir were given in rather fitful seasons. Should we includenew plays from overseas so that we can build up a repertoire?""When we set out Esson, someone suggested we do plays from Europe. I washalf-convinced. We needed contact with France and Germany, particularly after allthe years of stuff we were getting from England. People were wanting to be Ibsenof course. Martyn was breaking his neck to do Ibsen. Well I was half-convincedbut Synge was adamant. A theatre like that he said never creates anything."Esson could now, by the yellow candle light see the portraits by Yeats's fatherhanging on the walls, and his brother's paintings too of Irish village life."The plays you give should all be national Esson."Yeats took out of his coat pocket some long dead blossoms he had put there monthsago. He placed the fragile remains in an empty ash tray. If these dry fragmentsreleased an aroma, then he would draw Esson into his plan.46 WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989