Barrens

Federico García Lorca

Artwork by Simone Rein

CHARACTERS:

MISSY:  The nameless one, “barren”
JOHN:  From Juan, or “a John”
VICTOR:  The victorious one
MOTHER
MAIDEN
CRONE


FIRST ACT
SECOND SCENE

(The field. MISSY enters. She brings a basket. The CRONE enters.)
 
MISSY:  Good day.

CRONE:  Good days to you, pretty girl. Where’re you going?

MISSY:  I’m here to bring food to my husband who works the vineyard.

CRONE:  You’ve been married long?

MISSY:  Three years.

CRONE:  You have children?
 
MISSY:  No.
 
CRONE:  Bah! You will have!
                       
MISSY (anxiously):  You think so?
 
CRONE:  Why not? (She sits.) I also bring food to my husband. He’s old. Always working. I have nine children like nine suns, but since none of them are female, here you have me going from one side to another.
                       
MISSY:  You live on the other side of the river.
 
CRONE:  Yes. In the mills. What family are you from?

MISSY:  I’m the daughter of Eric the shepherd.
                       
CRONE: Oh! Eric the shepherd. I knew him. Good people. Upright. Sweating, eating some bread, then dying. No more fun, no more nothing. Cheap breaks are for other people. Creatures of silence. I could’ve married an uncle of yours. But nonsense! I’ve been a woman with skirts in the air, I’ve shot arrows at apples, been at the party, the sugary cake. Many times I’ve stuck myself at dawn at the door believing I heard the music of guitars coming, then going, but it was the wind. (Laughing.) You’re going to laugh at me. I’ve had two husbands, fourteen children, five died, and, however, I’m not sad, and I want to live much more. That’s what I say to you. The pear trees, how long-lived! The houses, how long-lived! And only us, the bedeviled women, we make ourselves into powder over whatever thing.

MISSY:  I want to ask you a question.
 
CRONE:  Let’s see? (She looks.) Now, I know what you’re going to say. Of these things you can’t say a word. (She gets up.)
 
MISSY (detaining her):  Why not? You’ve given me confidence to hear you speak of it. For a while I’ve desired a conversation with an old woman. Because I want to be informed. You. You will tell me . . .
 
CRONE:  What?
 
MISSY (lowering her voice):  That which you know. Why am I dry? Have I been left in the fullness of life to take care of birds or put little ironed curtains in my little window? No. You have to tell me what I have to do, I’ll do whatever it is, even if you make me hammer needles into the weakest parts of my eyes.
 
CRONE:  Me? I don’t know anything. I was on my back and had begun to sing. Children come like water. Oh! Who can say this body you have isn’t beautiful? You step, and at the bottom of the street, the horse neighs. Leave me, girl, don’t make me talk. I think many things I don’t want to say.                                                                                                 
MISSY:  Why? With my husband, I talk of nothing else!

CRONE:  I hear you. And you like your husband?

MISSY:  What?
 
CRONE:  What, do you like him? Do you desire to be with him . . .?
 
MISSY:  I don’t know.
 
CRONE:  You don’t tremble when he’s near you? He doesn’t make you dreamy when you’re near his lips? Tell me.
 
MISSY:  No. I’ve felt nothing for him.
 
CRONE:  Nothing? Not when you’ve danced?
 
MISSY (remembering):  Perhaps . . . One time . . . Victor . . .
 
CRONE:  Follow it.
 
MISSY:  He took me by the waist and I couldn’t say anything because I couldn’t speak. Another time, the same Victor, I was fourteen (he was strapping), he took me in his arms to jump an irrigation ditch, and a trembling entered me that made my teeth sound. But that’s why I was shy.
                       
CRONE:  And with your husband . . .

MISSY:  My husband is another thing. My father offered me and I accepted. With happiness. This is the pure truth. Well, the first day I was made a bride with him I thought . . . on the children . . . and I saw myself in his eyes. Yes, but it was to see me very girlish, very manageable, as if I were also my child.
 
CRONE:  All the contrary for me. Perhaps because of that you don’t earn birthing right now. Men have to feel, girl. They have to undo our braids and give us water to drink in the same mouth. This is how the world runs.
 
MISSY:  Yours, but not mine. I think many things, many, and I am sure that the things I think will come to be in my child. I submitted myself to my husband for him, and I will continue submitting to see if he comes, but never to entertain myself.
 
CRONE:  And the result is that you’re empty!
 
MISSY:  No, empty, no, because I am full of hate. Tell me: Have I the fault? Is it just to look for the man within the man and nothing more? Then what do you think when he leaves you in bed with sad eyes looking at the ceiling, and he turns away, and he sleeps? Has he left me thinking on him and on what could bring shining from my breast? I don’t know, but tell it to me, for charity’s sake! (She pleads.)
 
CRONE:  Oh, what an open flower! What a beautiful creature you are. Leave me. Don’t make me speak more. They’re issues of honor and I don’t want to burn anyone’s honor. You’ll understand. Of all things you should do, be less innocent.
 
MISSY (sad):  The girls bred in the countryside like me, they’ve closed all the doors. All the others give back are middling words, gestures, because these things they say they cannot know. And you too, you also shut yourself up and you go with the air of a doctor, you understand it all, but deny it to she who is dying of thirst.
 
CRONE:  To another woman, calm, I would speak. To you, no. I am old, and I know what I said.
 
MISSY:  Then, that God protects me.
 
CRONE:  God, no. I’ve never liked any God. When will you all realize it doesn’t exist? It’s men that have to protect you.
 
MISSY:  But why do you tell me that, why?
 
CRONE (going):  Maybe there should be a God, maybe a little one, to send down shit bolts of lightning against the men with spoiled seed who waterlog the happiness of the plains.
 
MISSY:  I don’t know what it is you want to say.
 
CRONE:  Good, I understand myself. Don’t be sad. Hope firmly. You’re very young still. What do you want me to do?
 
(She goes. MOTHER and MAIDEN appear.)
 
MOTHER:  We’ve seen people everywhere.
 
MISSY:  With all the labor, the men are in the vineyard, and we bring them food to eat. No more than the oldest are left in the houses.
 
MAIDEN:  You’re going back to the village?

MISSY:  I’m going toward there.
 
MOTHER:  I’m in a hurry. I left the baby sleeping and there’s no one in the house.
 
MISSY:  Well godspeed, woman. Children can’t be left alone. Are there pigs in your house?
 
MOTHER:  No. But you’re right. I’m going quickly.
 
MISSY:  Go. That’s how things happen. Surely you’ve left it locked up.
 
MOTHER:  Naturally.
                       
MISSY:  Yes, but it’s that you don’t understand what a little boy is. The cause that appears least problematic to us could end him. A shoelace, a sip of water.
 
MOTHER:  You’re right. I’m going running. I just don’t think of these things.

MISSY:  Go.
 
(The MOTHER leaves.)
 
MAIDEN:  If you had four or five you wouldn’t talk this way.
 
MISSY:  Why? I would if I had forty.
 
MAIDEN:  Out of all ways, you and I live most calmly without having them.
 
MISSY:  Not me.
 
MAIDEN:  I do. What’s the hurry! My mother, on the other hand, won’t stop giving me nasty herbs so I have them, and in October we’re going to the Saint they say can give children to women who ask yearningly. My mother will ask. Not me.
 
MISSY:  Why’re you married?
 
MAIDEN:  Because they made me married. All of them marry. If we keep on this way, we’re not going to have anyone single other than the children. Great, and after . . . in reality, one’s married far before going to the church. But the old ladies pawn themselves away for all these things. I’m nineteen and I don’t like to cook or wash. Great, so all day I have to be doing what I don’t like. And for what? What need has my husband to be my husband? Because now we do it all the same as when we were dating. Old people’s nonsense.
 
MISSY:  Shut up, don’t say those things.
 
MAIDEN:  You’re going to say I’m crazy, too—crazy girl, crazy girl! (Laughing.) I could say the only thing I’ve learned in life; all people are stuck inside their houses doing what they don’t like. How much better for one who’s in the middle of the street. Now I go to the stream, now climbing to ring the bells, now to take a drink of rye.
 
MISSY:  You’re a little girl.
 
MAIDEN:  Of course, but I’m not crazy. (Laughing.)
 
MISSY:  Your mother lives in the highest door of the village?
 
MAIDEN:  Yes.
 
MISSY:  In the last house?

MAIDEN:  Yes.
 
MISSY:  What’s her name?
 
MAIDEN:  Dolores. Why do you ask?
 
MISSY:  No reason.
 
MAIDEN:  You asked for something.
 
MISSY:  I don’t know . . . it’s just talk . . .
 
MAIDEN:  There you are . . . Look, I’m going to give my husband his food. (Laughing.) It’s him I have to see. What a shame I can’t call him my boyfriend, right? (Laughing.) Here goes the crazy lady! (She goes laughing happily.) Goodbye!
 
VOICE OF VICTOR (singing):  

WHY DO YOU SLEEP ALONE, SHEPHERD?
WHY DO YOU SLEEP ALONE, SHEPHERD?
ON MY WOOLEN BEDSPREAD
YOU WOULD SLEEP BETTER.
WHY DO YOU SLEEP ALONE, SHEPHERD?

(MISSY listens.)
 
VOICE OF VICTOR (singing):  

WHY DO YOU SLEEP ALONE, SHEPHERD?
ON MY WOOLEN BEDSPREAD
YOU WOULD SLEEP BETTER.
YOUR DARK STONE BEDSPREAD, SHEPHERD,
AND YOUR FROSTY SHIRT, SHEPHERD,
GRAY RUSHES OF WINTER
IN THE NIGHT OF YOUR BED,
RIVETS FEEL LIKE NEEDLES, SHEPHERD,
UNDERNEATH YOUR PILLOW, SHEPHERD,
AND IF YOU HEARD THE VOICE OF WOMAN,
IT’S ONLY THE BROKEN VOICE OF WATER,
SHEPHERD, SHEPHERD.
WHAT DOES THE MOUNTAIN WANT OF YOU, SHEPHERD?
MOUNTAIN OF BITTER HERBS,
WHAT CHILD IS KILLING YOU?
THE BOTTLEBRUSH SPINE!
 
(MISSY goes to leave and stumbles as VICTOR enters.)
 
VICTOR (happy):  Where does the pretty one go?
 
MISSY:  You sang?
 
VICTOR:  Me.
 
MISSY:  How well! I’ve never heard you.
 
VICTOR:  No?
 
MISSY:  And that voice, so booming. It seemed like a stream of water that filled all your mouth.

VICTOR:  I’m always happy.
 
MISSY:  It’s true.
 
VICTOR:  As you are sad.

MISSY:  I’m not sad; it’s that I have reasons to be sad.
 
VICTOR:  And your husband’s sadder than you.
 
MISSY:  Yes he is. He’s of a dry character.
 
VICTOR:  Always was so. (Pause. MISSY sits down on the ground.) Were you going to bring food?
 
MISSY:  Yes. (She looks. Pause.) What do you have here? (She indicates his face.)
                       
VICTOR:  Where?
 
MISSY (she gets up and comes near VICTOR):  Here . . . on your cheek; like a burn.
 
VICTOR:  No, it’s nothing.

MISSY:  But it seemed. (Pause.)
 
VICTOR:  Must be the sun.

MISSY:  Maybe . . . (Pause. The silence is accented and, without the smallest gesture, a fight begins between MISSY and VICTOR.)

MISSY (trembling):  Do you hear?
 
VICTOR:  What?
 
MISSY:  You don’t hear crying?
 
VICTOR (listening):  No.
 
MISSY:  It seemed to me the crying of a boy.
 
VICTOR:  Yes?
                       
MISSY:  Very near. And crying like he’s drowning.
 
VICTOR:  There are many little boys here who come to steal fruit.
 
MISSY:  No. It’s the voice of a very small boy.
                                                                                               
(Pause.)
 
VICTOR:  I’m not hearing anything.
 
MISSY:  Must be illusions of mine.

(She looks intently and VICTOR looks at her also, then diverts his look slowly, with fear. JOHN enters.)
 
JOHN:  You’re still here!
 
MISSY:  Talking.
 
VICTOR:  Farewell.
                       
(He goes.)
 
JOHN:  You should be at home.
 
MISSY:  I was entertaining myself.

JOHN:  I don’t understand what you were entertaining.
 
MISSY:  I heard the singing of birds.
 
JOHN:  It’s fine. But you’ll make the people talk.

MISSY (fiercely):  John, what’re you thinking?
 
JOHN:  I didn’t say it was you, I said it was the people.

MISSY:  Stab them, give it to the people!

JOHN:  Don’t speak ill. It’s ugly in a woman.
 
MISSY:  I wish that I were a woman.
 
JOHN:  We will leave this conversation. Go to the house.
 
(Pause.)

MISSY:  It’s fine. Should I wait for you?
 
JOHN:  No. I’ll be watering all night. A little water comes, it’s mine until sunup, and I have to watch for thieves. Go to bed and sleep.
 
MISSY (vividly):  I’ll sleep!

(They go.)

translated from the Spanish by Robert Eric Shoemaker

The word “yerma” in Spanish is a seldom used adjective meaning “barren” or “fallow;” it is not a name, although it is gendered appropriately for the character in the play. Because of the scarcity of vocal mentions of the name onstage, it seemed to me vital that the word be translated (and not left in Spanish, as a placeholder-name) for an English-speaking audience, and that the word chosen to represent “yerma” be an adjective of sorts, so that when it is spoken, it is not dismissible as a name, but has some shock value. Thus I selected “Missy” for the character, and iterations of the word “miss” for intonations of the word. The setting of Lorca’s Yerma is not an actual physical place that one can put a finger to on a map; the play operates on a symbolic level, which is not to say it isn’t “realistic,” but rather it cannot be approached with traditional “realism” staging. It would be a mistake to create heavily tangible scenery in production.

I found it useful to imagine a setting parallel to depictions of other rural villages. Though Yerma is not set on the East Coast, ideas of the rural, preindustrial East Coast were helpful because of these components:

  • Proximity of mountains and hills, with attendant herding agriculture
  • Heavily Christian religiosity
  • Demonization of sex or the “sexual woman” as a witch, with the fine line between non-Christian spirituality and Paganism in tow

A potential location would be the rural American plains. A small town—definitely not a city, but a collection of residences, a farming community.

As with the location, indications as to the year or era of the setting should be loose. One suggestion may be that it is the decade just prior to the Great Depression.

I’ve done my best to keep the setting vague enough, and suggest productions do the same.

Federico García Lorca is one of the greatest poet-playwrights of his generation. His love for the rural country of Andalucía, as well as his marginalization as a homosexual and a left-winger, is showcased in his three great plays dubbed the The Rural Trilogy, which include La casa de Bernarda Alba, Yerma, and Bodas de sangre, and in his poetry, most particularly Poet in New York, which sings both the jazz and flamenco of those on the margins. His work transcends boundaries of genre and is influenced by the surrealists as much as by the puppet plays of old Spain, lending itself to longevity in Europe, the United States, and abroad. Lorca’s “Theory and Play of the Duende” has fascinated artists the world over. Since Lorca first theorized about his Spanish brand of “earth-and-blood magic,” artists and poets have taken up Lorca’s mantle in countless iterative works. Lorca was assassinated in 1936 by Franco's fascist regime taking over his home country, which he protested through his art and his life.

Robert Eric Shoemaker is a poet-playwright, translator, and theatre artist. Shoemaker holds an M.F.A. in creative writing and poetics from the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University and is a student in the Ph.D. program in comparative humanities at the University of Louisville. Shoemaker’s work focuses on magic in poetry, hybrid forms, gender and sexuality in literature, and community poetics.

Shoemaker has published two books, We Knew No Mortality (2018) and 30 Days Dry (2015). An artist’s book of hybrid writing on Venice and climate change, Ca’Venezia, is on the way from Partial Press. Shoemaker has published scholarly work in Signs and Society and Jacket2; translations in Asymptote, Exchanges, The Adirondack Review, and Columbia Journal; stage plays in Plath Profiles; poetry in Bombay Gin, The Gordian Review, Barely South Review, Verde Qué Te Quiero Verde, Kairos, and other journals; and essays in Mount Analogue, Roar; and other journals.

Shoemaker’s translation of Federico García Lorca’s Yerma won the inaugural Orinda Award for Best New Translated Play from the Literary Managers and Dramaturgs of America. Shoemaker is also the author of the duet musical PLATH/HUGHES, which was awarded the 2014 Olga and Paul Menn Foundation Prize for Best Play. You can follow his work here.