ABSTRACT
At one point in Volunteers (1975), there is a particularly bravura piece of invention, during which a fantastic yarn is woven about the skeleton that dominates the archaeological site where the action is set. The volunteer who tells the story admits it is all pure improvisation and, as he breathlessly concludes, tells his audience (those on stage, those in the theatre) that he ‘didn’t know how that was going to end’. The tale he tells tempts us to allegorize: it is a tale of exile, hanging, sacrifice; a tale which is all too Irish. As Keeney interjects, during the unfolding of the story: ‘Ah, shure I can shmell dishaster comin.’ But when the tale concludes, Keeney, tired and worldly-wise, alive to the vices of allegory and the dreariness of the predictable message, says to Pyne, the narrator:
Not bad, Pyne. Fairly trite melody but an interesting subtheme. Not bad at all.2
