A DRAMATIS CAREER

Evening Star, Issue 19763, 13 January 1928, Page 10

A DRAMATIS CAREER

FROM STARVATION TO SUCCESS On March 5, 1925, a tali, lliiu mini, with a whimsical expression ami u brogue which betrayed bis nationality, stepped from the Irish boat on to the soil of England. It was Sean O’Casey. Ho bad loft his native land for the first time, and had crossed “ to the wrong side of the channel” in the wake of “Juno and the Raycock.” Direct from “one of the best tenements in Dublin ” to a London hotel, the austere quietness of his strange surroundings disconcerted him, and the first night he Jay awake listening for the sounds of life which had so often broken the stillness of his attic in North Circular road. A STRANGER IN LONDON. Only a fortnight before a thousand people at the Loyalty Theatre laughed and wept alternately under the spell of ‘Jpno and the Raycock.’ _ O’Casey’s name was little known outside Ireland, and circumstances necessitated pawning his best trousers for a few shillings. The play which brought him fame was thought out as—in the role of builder’s laborer—ho woikcd on the scaffolding of a new building. Despite his phenomenal success (says ‘John o’ London’s Weekly’), in the first months of his exile O’Casey yearned for Dublin, where at sunset he could “ stand on the quay and look around at the blue mountains.” London he could not understand. It was immense and inhuman. Everyone seined' in'a hurry—so different from dear old Dublin, where one time would do as well as another. With ‘ Juno and the Raycock ’ translated info Scandinavian and German and ‘Tim Plough and the Stars’ continuing his success in London O’Casey became master of his fate—in so far as finances were concerned. Of one thing he was certain. He could never make his home in London. Yet to-day he lives in Kensington and admits “ the Irish rowan tico is digging his roots into London soil and finds it good.” In September of last year Sean O’Casey married Eileen Carey, the actress. REARED IN THE SLUMS. A slum tenement may not appear a favorable rearing ground for dramatic genius, yet this welter of raw humanity, with its pulsating passions, supplied the material for O’Casey’s plays. He admits his indebtedness to those he “ worked with, went on strike with, and starved with ” before the change in his fortunes. Himself more than once “on the dole,” his heart goes out in sympathy to “the poor devils” still on it, After the death of his father Sean and his mother lived in even greater poverty. At the ago of thirteen the boy, whose only education had been picked up in the streets of Dublin, began work in a warehouse for a weekly wage of 4s. For striking a senior clerk in a flash of anger he was summarily dismissed. He then obtained employ-

ment at a news agent’s, and “was kept running from 4 a.m. to 7 p.m.” This at a time when ho nightly fought fatigue in tho endeavor to teach himself to read and write! _ The rule whereby lie' must doff his cap when entering the counting house to take his Us riled O’Casey beyond measure. He bore it for several years, “then,” said O’Casey, “ I told him what I thought of him with my hat on!” For fifteen years O’Casey worked as hodman, builder’s laborer, navvy, smith’s keeper, and railway laborer. _ His life of hardship has aged him beyond his thirty odel years, but lolt him uncmbittcrcd. A man of kindly disposition, his generosity covers all men. His sensitive month bespeaks a sympathetic nature; his searching eyes reveal intense interest in humanity; and his quiet, drawling humor softens a rugged personality. KNOWLEDGE FROM THE BARROWS.

The book barrow —that excellent institution of his beloved Dublin—ln exchange for a few pence provided O’Casey with the means of self-educa-tion. lie first mastered the printed word, then taught himself grammar. A copy of Shakespeare’s works purchased for a shilling gave him access to a new world. In his enthusiasm he committed ‘Hamlet* and several other plays to memory. 1 The idea of writing plays himself came to him when taking part in amateur dramatics at a National Chib. Convinced that ho could writs bettei plays, at the close of one of the performances he bared his head and swore: “ I’ll never play again, so help me God.” He set to work and wrote Ihe I‘rost and the Flower.’ The club turned it doivn, also the Abbey Theatre, but not without . a word of encouragement. O’Casey’s next effort, ‘ The Harvest Festival,’ shared the same fate. ‘The Crimson and the Tricolor ’ took the author one stop farther. The Abbey Theatre, retained it for twelve months; a rumor arose it was to be produced; O’Casey’s hopes ran high; finally it w T as returned. While the late of his plays hung in abeyance the author lined up in the queue to draw the dole. SUCCESS AT LAST’ Success came with ‘The Shadow of a Gunman,’ produced at the Abbey Theatre in 1923. The response was instantaneous; “since when,” said O’Casey, “ I have never had a minute’s peace from the work and the thought of the drama.” A political sketch, 1 Kathleen Listens-in,’ which followed his first success, was badly received. O’Casey w : ent home heart-broken. That same night he began work on ‘ Juno and the Raycock.’ O’Casey ow'es much to the Abbey Theatre; the Abbey Theatre owes to O’Casey its first experience of turning money away nightly. His genius is in combining comedy and tragedy. To his ow'ii countrymen he appears “the funniest man ever born.” So far he has limited himself to his environment. With wider experience, will his dramatic powers develop? O’Casey’s idea of success is to leave something permanent behind him when he dies.