We did this portrait of Maeve Binchy (1939-2012) years ago for Verbal Magazine, in our series ‘A Bluffer’s Guide To Irish Writers’ – something we’d love to pick up again!
Maeve Binchy has described her childhood in the rustic town of Dalkey as unsuitable for an Irish writer: it was a happy childhood. Books were read, stories were told, and nobody possessed the gift of blarney as wee Maeve did.
Had not her pupils pooled their pocket money to send her to Israel, hopefully out of gratitude, she might well have remained a school teacher. But her father sent her holiday letters to the Irish Independent, where they saw print, and an author was born.
She specialized in slice-of-life columns and settled into a cottage a mere stone’s throw from where she was raised. She and her husband wrote side by side, their happiness only marred by abject poverty. Luckily, the novel she’d written on the side turned out an instant hit and the wolf was kept from the cottage door for good.
She knows that hers is not an audience of scholars, but people who mark their page in a book by folding the corner. At heart, every American is Oirish, and whenTara Road was chosen for Oprah Winfrey’s book club by that Queen of Daytime Television, they clasped Maeve to their collective bosom.
She may be a world famous author, winner of numerous awards and be the Godmother of Irish chick lit, but Maeve remains unspoilt by her success. Doing the cottage up a bit has been her only authorly extravagance to date; for Maeve Binchy, there’s no place like home.
We’ve recently been rewatching Babylon 5, and came across the feature-length episode with the Soul Hunters. Soul Hunters, in J. Michael Straczynski’s universe, well-meaningly capture the souls of the dying for posterity – and in so doing, drive those souls mad. Something about that story was familiar, but tracing its path would take us from the vastness of the universe to the bottom of the sea. And in every form the story takes, one question nags: what do we owe the people around us?
“There is an old British folktale about the souls of the dead being kept under the sea in the lobster cages of a creature who is half man, half fish. Anyone who dares try to free the souls of the dead must go under the sea himself and drink with the creature. If he drinks him under the table, the souls will go free. If, on the other hand, the creature prevails, the challenger will be imprisoned forever in the cages at the bottom of the sea. You need a strong stomach to treat with this creature.” – Sting, Lyrics by Sting (2007)
On this day in 1991, Sting released The Soul Cages – a meditation on bereavement, family and birthplace, with salt in its veins and religion and folklore in its imagery. The album was a personal exorcism that followed three years of writer’s block, and a response to the death of his father. It’s scaffolded on the waning of the Newcastle shipbuilding industry, and the image of a ship recurs, representing both the hope of going out into the world to adventure, and a sealed coffin. The fourth single, the title song, directly references a folk tale that Sting was familiar with.
The boy child is locked in the fisherman’s yard There’s a bloodless moon where the oceans die A shoal of night stars hang fire in the nets And the chaos of cages where the crayfish lie
I’ve loved this album since I was eighteen. It gave me an imaginative route to dealing with my feelings about own late father and my waning faith. Also, the gloom of a declining shipyard is familiar to anyone who grew up around Belfast Lough, with the great cranes of Harland and Wolff as part of our mental landscape. In his 2013 musical The Last Ship, Sting would return to that theme with a focus on the impact on a community of its shipyard closing, but The Soul Cages is mostly about the intuitive, inner response to loss, and that last single dramatises it as a conflict with evil beneath the sea.
He’s the king of the ninth world The twisted son of the fog bells’ toll In each and every lobster cage, a tortured human soul
In the song, a boy seeks to reclaim his father’s soul from the sea bed, where men’s souls are the captives of “the Fisherman,” a fiend who functions more like the Devil than an old sea dog. The boy offers the Fisherman a wager, bringing him a cask of magical wine, which he says is wrung from the blood of those sailors. He challenges the Fisherman – in effect challenging the sea itself – to match him drink for drink: “If the drink leaves me standing, a soul shall go free.” But if the Fisherman is the last one standing, the boy will be caged with him forever.
A body lies open in the fisherman’s yard like The side of a ship where the iceberg rips One less soul in the soul cages One last curse on the fisherman’s lips
The boy prevails and the monster is defeated, yet the prize seems so slight: one less soul in the soul cages? Why not bargain for all the dead? Why not open the rest of the cages and let the souls go? Of course, the reasons are making the lyrics fit and the rhyme scheme, and thematically the story is really about just one soul, one dead father. The last verse repeats the bridge and coda of album opener “Island of Souls”, which is the inverse of “The Soul Cages.” In its modern industrial landscape, the boy’s father is simply injured working at the shipyard. The imagery is prosaic compared to that of “The Soul Cages”:
They brought Billy’s father back home in an ambulance Brass watch, a cheque, maybe three weeks to live
Billy dreads his life inevitably taking the same tack: miserable job, wages drunk away rather than saved, health destroyed. But in the chorus, he dreams of the ship going out into the world, of himself and his father leaving the town behind forever, to sail to the Island of Souls. Sting would also knit that idea into The Last Ship decades later. But while “The Soul Cages” is more heavily folkloric than Sting’s later project, the bridge hints at modern life in a north that, at the time he was writing it, had long been hammered by Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative government:
These are the souls of the broken factories Subject slaves of the broken crown The dead accounting of old guilty promises These are the souls of the broken town
So, “The Soul Cages” and “Island of Souls” are the same story told from realistic and fantastical perspectives. Only in his dreams can Billy win his father’s soul back and save himself from a grim life. In reality, Sting left the city, and he finally transcended his own grief by writing about it, even though the north would eventually pull him back to write about its people and its industry in more direct terms.
I had wondered for years about the folk tale “The Soul Cages” was based on, and finally researched it when Remco and I were writing our own story about the sea and the dead. The northern Dutch history that inspires us is also riven with maritime tragedies, and we’d woven together the fishing disaster of Moddergat with the local belief in divination. Inevitably, I listened to The Soul Cages a lot while working on it, and decided it was finally time to trace the song’s folkloric roots. What emerged was a strange history, with unexpected layers.
“The Soul Cages” was first published in volume 2 of T. Crofton Croker’s Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland (1825 – 28). In Croker’s collection, “The Soul Cages” is the story of Jack Dogherty, a fisherman and beachcomber living on the coast of Co. Clare on Ireland’s Atlantic coast. Jack had always wished to see a Merrow – a creature that (as in Sting’s memory of the story) is somewhat like a man, and somewhat like a fish:
“One tremendous blustering day, before he got to the point whence he had a view of the Merrow’s rock, the storm came on so furiously that Jack was obliged to take shelter in one of the caves which are so numerous along the coast; and there, to his astonishment, he saw sitting before him a thing with green hair, long green teeth, a red nose, and pig’s eyes. It had a fish’s tail, legs with scales on them, and short arms like fins. It wore no clothes, but had the cocked hat under its arm, and seemed engaged thinking very seriously about something.”
The Merrow, whose name is Coomara, turns out to be a very friendly sort of fellow, and because this is Ireland and someone always knows one of your relations, Jack learns that the Merrow and his grandfather were old friends. Coomara invites Jack to his home under the sea for a slap-up meal, lending him a hat which lets him breathe underwater. Jack is perturbed about entering the briny depths, but finds Coomara’s home perfectly civilised, if a little rustic. Overall, the feeling of the story up to this point is that a Merrow is just another kind of person – odd-looking, but somehow still ‘one of us’.
After a long, elaborate dinner and an impressive amount of alcohol (they’re both in the habit of rescuing bottles from shipwrecks, and the cool under the sea prevents it going to their heads), the Merrow shows Jack around, inviting him to admire his various treasures, and that’s when a cultural gap emerges. Coomara has a collection of lobster pots which he proudly introduces as the Soul Cages:
“Arrah! what souls, sir?” said Jack, in amazement; “sure the fish have no souls in them?” “Oh! no,” replied Coo, quite coolly, “that they have not; but these are the souls of drowned sailors.” “The Lord preserve us from all harm!” muttered Jack, “how in the world did you get them?” “Easily enough: I’ve only, when I see a good storm coming on, to set a couple of dozen of these, and then, when the sailors are drowned and the souls get out of them under the water, the poor things are almost perished to death, not being used to the cold; so they make into my pots for shelter, and then I have them snug, and fetch them home, and is it not well for them, poor souls, to get into such good quarters?”
Jack is “thunderstruck” (though not enough to spurn his host’s excellent brandy), and after Coomara sends him home, he devises a plan to release the sailors’ souls. Sending his unknowing wife off on a trip to a holy well for the sake of their own souls, he invites Coomara to dinner and attempts to get him drunk. Adding tension to the story, his first try leaves the Merrow perfectly clear-headed, but luckily Jack’s wife’s journey is a multi-day affair, and Coomara doesn’t question two dinner invitations so close together.
Jack’s secret weapon is poitín – an illicit and very strong drink distilled from potatoes. Apparently his grandfather never introduced the Merrow to that one! While Coomara is insensible, Jack borrows his hat and makes his way back to the Merrow’s home on the seabed. To Jack, the souls are invisible, so as he lifts one lobster pot after another to release them, he has to content himself with “a sort of little whistle or chirp” as each soul leaves its cage. There’s a brief worry over whether he’ll be able to return to the surface without Coomara’s tail to hold onto, which is how he managed it before, but a big fish comes by and all is solved.
Here the story veers into broad comedy. Jack’s wife returns to find the Merrow passed out on her kitchen floor, and assumes her husband has “made a beast of himself with drink” until she runs into Jack outside. Her anger abates when she hears of his saving of the souls, and, rather anticlimactically, we are told that Coomara “never missed” them. Jack’s acquaintance with the Merrow continues for several years, and as Coomara continues collecting souls, every so often Jack repeats the whole procedure, until Coomara is seen no more, and Jack assumes he has died or left that part of the country. So that’s it: this creature, who has behaved monstrously without ever thinking of it that way, is a good pal until he dies or moves house.
Croker collected the stories he anthologised from a number of contacts in Ireland. He also larded them with a literary style, humour and stereotypes, which may be unfortunate given that the collection was to increase the profile of Irish folklore in the wider world. Most significantly, Croker had lost his original manuscript, and the published version is what he could reconstruct with the help of other writers, including Thomas Keightley, a pioneer in the study of folklore. However, when the second volume was published, containing “The Soul Cages”, it bore only Croker’s name. This brought criticism, as on folklore blog Writing in Margins, which calls it a ‘Fake Folktale‘.
Keightley republished “Soul Cages” in The Fairy Mythology (1828), and in a later edition would admit that it was not a piece of folklore collected in the field, but a story of his own devising, based on the German tale “Der Wassermann und der Bauer” (“The Waterman and the Peasant“), no. 52 in the Deutsche Sagen published by the Brothers Grimm. The story’s provenance has been viewed as Keightley hoaxing the other folklorists, but in an 1829 letter to Wilhelm Grimm, Keightley claimed that it had been Croker’s idea to cobble the story together, and that Croker made changes after it left Keightley’s hands.
Keightly’s confession is further complicated by his claim to have afterwards found sources in Ireland, in Cork and Wicklow, who knew the story as Keightley himself had written it, except that the souls were in upturned flowerpots, rather than lobster pots. It’s also possible that in the intervening years, book distribution and people’s memories of the story being read to them in childhood, by way of Grimm even, could have reintroduced it to the oral tradition.
And what of its cultural afterlife? The literary critic Richard Pine has argued that it’s the basis for Oscar Wilde’s fairy tale “The Fisherman and his Soul,” which involves a fisherman, a mermaid, and a detached and wandering soul, though to my mind the resemblance is slight when looking at the story as a whole. Going back to Newcastle, by 1851, the North East of England had the fourth largest Irish population in England and Wales combined, so if the story was being told by Irish people, it might eventually have found its way to Sting through their descendants. Given the Deutsche Sagen route of dissemination, a version of “The Soul Cages” must appear in any number of books.
Whatever the truth of its origins, reading it now, we might ask: what’s the moral of this story? Should we keep inviting our own Watermen and Merrows to our tables, and simply accept that it’s our responsibility, every now and then, to go and release the souls that they just keep on capturing? Or should we tell the Watermen to stop their activities once and for all, and leave other souls at peace?
We wrote this a decade a go for Northern Ireland’s much-missed Verbal Magazine, when Twilight was all the rage.
Wuthering Heights is back in the book shops! Clad in the black, red and white of supernatural teen novels like Twilight, with a sticker proclaiming it “Bella and Edward’s favourite book”. Perhaps not altogether coincidentally, a new film adaptation is in the making of what has been hailed as the greatest love story ever told. It’s been filmed before, most notably in 1939 with Laurence Olivier and in 1992 with Ralph Fiennes and Juliette Binoche.
The latter version opens with Emily Brontë striding over the moors. She’s got the requisite period bonnet and voluminous dress, but as played by Irish dilettante pop artist Sinead O’Connor, we can imagine a pair of Doc Martins underneath. She is everything we expect, all wild eyed and in a world of her own, haunted by the spectres she sees amongst the standing stones. And if we hear a faint trace of the Irish in the prologue narrative, well… the Irish accent of the Brontë sisters has been commented upon!
Their father, Patrick Brontë, didn’t always go by that name, but was born as Patrick Branty (or Prunty; spelling was fast and loose) in Rathriland, County Down. When he moved to Cambridge to study theology in 1802 he Anglicised his name and added an extra flourish, the umlaut on the ‘e’, to make sure people would pronounce it with two syllables. This schoolmaster’s precision stayed with him through life; before escorting his daughters to Brussels he compiled a notebook of “conversational terms, suitable for a traveler” which, he admonished himself, “must be fully mastered”.
Patrick married and became a parson, moving his family to Haworth in 1820. When he lost his wife to cancer, he was faced with not only tending to his flock but also to his 6 small children. He thought to have the perfect solution in a recently opened boarding school for poor clergy children, but living conditions turned out to be poor and when his eldest daughters died there of tuberculosis Patrick decided to tutor the surviving children himself. And, being the peculiar man that he was, he had his own ideas about this.
Unusually, he taught them to think for themselves and he instilled in them a love for literature. Where other girls embroidered and learnt to become good wives, the Brontë sisters, with their brother Branwell, read Wordsworth, Byron and Scott. Their unusual education, lack of family roots in Yorkshire and their social position as parson’s children resulted in them growing up with a sense of themselves as strangers. Charlotte sought social acceptance and instigated the publication of first their poems and later their books, but Emily was happy enough to be on her own and keep her poetry to herself.
Ironically, when the name of Brontë is mentioned, what springs to mind first is not Anne’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, not even Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, but Emily’s Wuthering Heights. And it is the most powerful of the books, dealing with the obsessive bond between the spoilt Cathy Earnshaw and the unkempt Heathcliff, broken when Cathy rejects him for a genteel marriage. Heathcliff then embarks on a generation-spanning campaign for Cathy and for the house of Wuthering Heights itself; beating, kidnapping, manipulating and disinheriting all who stand between him and his desires. This is a story of revenge, not love.
Critics were impressed by the novel’s power, its morals and structure merely raising some eyebrows, though some female writers of a certain standing found it “too odious and abominably pagan”. Emily didn’t care. She had not sought publication, did not depend on the opinion of others, and in any case, she died soon afterwards. Charlotte however wanted to be one of the ‘worthy women’ and believed that her society would never accept a female author calculatedly producing a character as wild and coarse as Heathcliff. It reflected badly on her sister, and by association on herself.
Her introduction to the second edition of Wuthering Heights reads like pre-emptive damage control and emphasizes its flaws. She attributed the book to “fate or inspiration”, with Emily as the “Mystic of the Moors”, a sort of literary shaman who had unconsciously channeled the primal energies of that bleak landscape and its inhabitants onto the page. After Charlotte’s death, her friend and biographer Elizabeth Gaskell went one further, launching the image of Emily as a savage, beating her dog to a pulp and communicating in grunts.
This view was probably inspired by Heathcliff’s brutality, and though much of his character was rooted in hers, Emily kept the parsonage going, and tended to her almost blind father, the elderly servant and her wastrel brother who slowly drank himself into his grave. Wuthering Heights exposes her buried urges, the needs that are rejected by circumstance and society. Emily’s displaced identity is in Heathcliff too; it has been theorised that he was an Irish Traveller, and the unknown language he spoke could have been a homage to the accent that marked Patrick Brontë and his children as outsiders in Haworth.
The crude, uneducated Heathcliff also represents a more personal rejection, and it doesn’t take much to find in the dark halls of Wuthering Heights the unhappy, uncultured life that the former Patrick Branty escaped. Oddly, the dialect spoken by the zealous servant Joseph isn’t quite Yorkshire but owes more to Ulster vowels, and it seems that for this pious character Emily has reached back for the words of her father’s boyhood.
By 1855, Patrick had outlived all his children. He’d always been active on behalf of the community, instigating the building of a Sunday School and fighting against laws that would replace local charity with the dreaded workhouse. The health of his children had been undermined when the adjoining graveyard poisoned their well, and their death now sparked off a new crusade; thanks to his efforts the people of Haworth finally had clean water in 1856. He died at the parsonage 6 years later at the age of 84, to the intense grief of his parishioners.
Patrick was born in a hovel and grew up as a peasant without shoes. He got a rudimentary education but had a passion for poetry, and knew Paradise Lost by heart as a boy. He had a variety of odd-jobs, until his intelligence earned him an appointment as schoolmaster, and when Patrick was asked to go to Cambridge, he jumped at the chance. If his 1811 Cottage Poems romanticized the rough cottages and hand-to-mouth existence of his childhood, it was in the manner of one who enjoys a peek but would not choose to live like that. Patrick himself only returned to Ulster once, upon his ordination, and only briefly at that.
Heathcliff’s brutality in Wuthering Heights may disturb us, but we do admire his infiltration of a class-bound world, his rise from a pauper background to a man of standing. The same admiration we owe this shoeless County Down peasant who became a pillar of Yorkshire society. The 7th of June this year will mark the 150th anniversary of Patrick’s death – perhaps the perfect opportunity to embrace this prodigal son again and visit the Brontë Homeland in County Down.
More information on the Brontë Interpretative Center and the Brontë Homeland trail can be found here.