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Title: Samhain, issue 3, October 1903
        an occasional review

Editor: W. B. Yeats

Contributor: Lady Gregory
        Douglas Hyde
        J. M. Synge


        
Release date: October 12, 2026 [eBook #79770]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Frank Cass and Company Limited, 1901

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Credits: Chris Hapka and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAMHAIN, ISSUE 3, OCTOBER 1903 ***




                                SAMHAIN

                        (_An Occasional Review_)

                     Edited by W. B. Yeats
                     and containing a Play in
                     Irish by Douglas Hyde with
                     English translation by Lady
                     Gregory and a Play in English
                     by J. M. Synge and
                     Notes by the Editor. Published
                     in October 1903 by
                     Sealy Bryers and Walker in
                     Dublin and by T. Fisher
                     Unwin in London and sold
                     for Sixpence.


------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         PLAYS BY W. B. YEATS.


                        WHERE THERE IS NOTHING:

 Being Vol. I. of Plays for an Irish Theatre. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. _net._

“The prose of the play is first-rate--never metrical, but rich in
trailing and rippling melodies, genuine harmonies of prose,
and delightfully suggestive of the sound of Irish country
speech.”--_Manchester Guardian._

“One of the most notable accessions to the drama that we have
had.”--_Pall Mall Gazette._

“We have read nothing for a long time so redolent of the green earth and
of what Jasper Petulengro called ‘the wind on the heath,
brother.’”--_Times._

                    THE HOUR-GLASS AND OTHER PLAYS:

 Being Vol. II. of Plays for an Irish Theatre. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. _net._

                                                          [IN THE PRESS.

                          THE KING’S THRESHOLD
                                  AND
                           ON BAILE’S STRAND:

    Being Vol. III. of Plays for an Irish Theatre. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d.
                                 _net._

                                                          [IN THE PRESS.


_Other Books by W. B. Yeats_:--


                  THE CELTIC TWILIGHT. Crown 8vo. 6s.

“Mr. Yeats’ book is well described by its title. It is a book of
twilight thoughts and fancies, dreams, imaginations and chimeras,
gathered in the fields and woods and villages of Ireland. We
find it fascinating, full of suggestion and very pleasant
reading.”--_Spectator._

                 IDEAS OF GOOD AND EVIL. Crown 8vo. 6s.

“There is hardly an idol of the mob or of the market-place from which it
does not seek to turn worshippers aside; yet with how insidious a
courtesy.”--_Athenæum._

“Good literature, and much of it true, penetrating and essential
criticism.”--_St. James’ Gazette._

                 THE SECRET ROSE. Crown 8vo. 6s. _net._


                             A. H. BULLEN,
                    47 Great Russell Street, London.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 [Frontispiece: A portrait of a man in a suit sitting in a chair, signed
            “J. B. Yeats 1903” and captioned “WILLIAM FAY.”]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                     Samhain: An occasional
                     review edited by W. B. Yeats.


                      Published in September 1903
                      by Sealy Bryers & Walker
                      and by T. Fisher Unwin.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               PRINTED BY
                       SEALY, BRYERS AND WALKER,
                          MIDDLE ABBEY STREET,
                                DUBLIN.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                 Notes.


I cannot describe the various dramatic adventures of the year with as
much detail as I did last year, mainly because the movement has got
beyond me. The most important event of the Gaelic Theatre has been the
two series of plays produced in the Round Room of the Rotunda by the
Gaelic League--Father Dineen’s _Tobar Draoidheachta_, and Dr. Hyde’s _An
Posadh_, and a chronicle play about Hugh O’Neill, and, I think, some
other plays, were seen by immense audiences. I was not in Ireland for
these plays, but a friend tells me that he could only get standing room
one night, and the Round Room must hold about 3,000 people. A
performance of _Tobar Draoidheachta_, I saw there some months before,
was bad, but I believe there was great improvement, and that the players
who came up from somewhere in County Cork to play it at this second
series of plays were admirable. The players, too, that brought Dr.
Hyde’s _An Posadh_ from Ballaghadereen, in County Mayo, where they had
been showing it to their neighbours, were also, I am told, careful and
natural. The play-writing, always good in dialogue, is still very poor
in construction, and I still hear of plays in many scenes, with no scene
lasting longer than four or six minutes, and few intervals shorter than
nine or ten minutes which have to be filled up with songs. The Rotunda
chronicle play seems to have been rather of this sort, and I suspect
that when I get Father Peter O’Leary’s _Meadhbh_, a play in five acts
produced at Cork, I shall find the masterful old man, in spite of his
hatred of English thought, sticking to the Elizabethan form. I wish I
could have seen it played last week, for the spread of the Gaelic
Theatre in the country is more important than its spread in Dublin, and
of all the performances of Gaelic plays in the country during the year I
have seen but one--Dr. Hyde’s new play, _Cleamhnas_, at Galway Feis. I
got there a day late for a play by the Master of Galway Workhouse, but
heard that it was well played, and that his dialogue was as good as his
construction was bad. There is no question, however, about the
performance of _Cleamhnas_ being the worst I ever saw. I do not blame
the acting, which was pleasant and natural, in spite of insufficient
rehearsal, but the stage management. The subject of the play was a
match-making. The terms were in debate between two old men in an inner
room. An old woman, according to the stage directions, should have
listened at the door and reported what she heard to her daughter’s
suitor, who is outside the window, and to her daughter. There was no
window on the stage, and the young man stood close enough to the door to
have listened for himself. The door, where she listened, opened now on
the inner room, and now on the street, according to the necessities of
the play, and the young men, who acted the fathers of grown-up children,
when they came through the door were seen to have done nothing to
disguise their twenty-five or twenty-six summers. There had been only
two rehearsals, and the little boy who should have come in laughing at
the end came in shouting, “Ho ho, ha ha,” evidently believing that these
were Gaelic words he had never heard before. Playwrights will have to be
careful who they permit to play their work if it is to be played after
only two rehearsals, and without enough attention to the arrangement of
the stage, to make the action plausible.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The only Gaelic performances I have seen during the year have been ill
done, but I have seen them sufficiently well done in other years, to
believe my friends when they tell me that there have been good
performances. _Inghinidhe na h-Eireann_ is always thorough, and one
cannot doubt that the performance of Dr. Hyde’s _An Naom ar Iarraid_, by
the children from its classes, was at least careful. A powerful little
play in English against enlisting, by Mr. Colum, was played with it, and
afterwards revived, and played with a play about the Royal Visit, also
in English. I have no doubt that we shall see a good many of these
political plays during the next two or three years, and it may be even
the rise of a more or less permanent company of political players, for
the revolutionary clubs will begin to think plays as necessary as the
Gaelic League is already thinking them. Nobody can find the same
patriotic songs and recitations sung and spoken by the same people, year
in year out, anything but mouldy bread. It is possible that the players
who are to produce plays in October, for the Samhain festival of _Cumann
na nGaedheal_, may grow into such a company.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Though one welcomes every kind of vigorous life, I am, myself, most
interested in “The Irish National Theatre Society,” which has no
propaganda but that of good art. The little Camden Street Hall it had
taken has been useful for rehearsal alone, for it proved to be too far
away, and too lacking in dressing rooms for our short plays, which
involve so many changes. Successful performances were given, however, at
Rathmines, and in one or two country places.

                  *       *       *       *       *

_Deirdre_, by A. E., _The Racing Lug_, by Mr. Cousins, _The
Foundations_, by Mr. Ryan, and my _Pot of Broth_, and _Cathleen ni
Houlihan_, were repeated, but no new plays were produced until March
14th, when Lady Gregory’s _Twenty Five_, and my _Hour Glass_, drew a
good audience. On May the 2nd the _Hour Glass_, _Twenty Five_, _Cathleen
ni Houlihan_, _Pot of Broth_, and _Foundations_ were performed before
the Irish Literary Society in London, at the Queen’s Gate Hall, and
plays and players were generously commended by the Press. I do not think
I need apologise for reprinting some quotations from the article written
by the _Times_ critic. It is natural that we should be pleased with this
praise, and that we should wish others to know of it, for is it not a
chief pleasure of the artist to be commended in subtle and eloquent
words? The critic of the _Times_ has seen so many theatres that he is,
perhaps, a little weary of them, but even in Ireland there are one or
two critics, who are so much in love, or pretend to be so much in love
with the theatre as it is that they complain when we perform on a stage
two feet wider than Moliere’s, that it is scarce possible to be
interested in anything that is played on so little a stage. We are to
them foolish sectaries who have revolted against that orthodoxy of the
commercial theatre, which is so much less pliant than the orthodoxy of
the church, for there is nothing so passionate as a vested interest
disguised as an intellectual conviction. If you enquire into its truth
it becomes as angry as a begging letter writer, when you find some hole
in that beautiful story about the five children and the broken mangle.
In Ireland wherever the enthusiasts are shaping life, the critic who
does the will of the commercial theatre can but stand against his lonely
pillar defending his articles of belief among a wild people, and
thinking mournfully of distant cities, where nobody puts a raw potato
into his pocket when he is going to hear a musical comedy.

                  *       *       *       *       *

_The Irish Literary Society_ of New York, which has been founded this
year, produced _The Land of Heart’s Desire_, _The Pot of Broth_, and
_Cathleen ni Houlihan_, on June 3rd and 4th very successfully, and
propose to give Dr. Hyde’s Nativity Play, _Drama Breithe Chriosta_, and
his _Casadh an t-Sugain_, ‘_Posadh_’ and _Naom ar Iarraid_ next year, at
the same time of year, playing them both in Irish and English. I heard
too that his Nativity Play will be performed in New York this winter,
but I know no particulars except that it will be done in connection with
some religious societies. _The National Theatre Society_ will, I hope,
produce some new plays of his this winter, as well as new plays by Mr.
Synge, Mr. Colum, Lady Gregory, myself, and others. They have taken the
Molesworth Hall for three days in every month, beginning with the 8th,
9th, and 10th of October, when they will perform Mr. Synge’s _Shadow of
the Glen_, a little country comedy, full of a humour that is at once
harsh and beautiful; _Cathleen ni Houlihan_, and a longish one act play
in verse of my own, called _The King’s Threshold_. This play is founded
on the old story of Seanchan the poet, and King Guare of Gort, but I
have seen the story from the poet’s point of view, and not like the old
storytellers, from the King’s. Our repertory of plays is increasing
steadily, and when the winter’s work is finished, a play Mr. Bernard
Shaw has promised us may be ready to open the summer session. His play
will, I imagine, unlike the plays we write for ourselves, be long enough
to fill an evening, and it will, I know, deal with Irish public life and
character. Mr. Shaw, more than anybody else, has the love of mischief
that is so near the core of Irish intellect, and should have an immense
popularity among us. I have seen a crowd of many thousands in possession
of his spirit, and keeping the possession to the small hours.

                  *       *       *       *       *

This movement should be important even to those who are not especially
interested in the Theatre, for it may be a morning cock-crow to that
impartial meditation about character and destiny, we call the artistic
life in a country where everybody, if we leave out the peasant who has
his folk songs and his music, has thought the arts useless unless they
have helped some kind of political action, and has, therefore, lacked
the pure joy that only comes out of things that have never been
indentured to any cause. The play which is mere propaganda shows its
leanness more obviously than a propagandist poem or essay, for dramatic
writing is so full of the stuff of daily life that a little falsehood,
put in that the moral may come right in the end, contradicts our
experience. If Father Dineen or Dr. Hyde were asked why they write their
plays they would say they write them to help their propaganda; and yet
when they begin to write the form constrains them, and they become
artists--one of them a very considerable artist, indeed. Dr. Hyde’s
early poems have even in translation a naivete and wildness that sets
them, as I think, among the finest poetry of our time; but he had ceased
to write any verses but those Oireactas odes, that are but ingenious
rhetoric. It is hard to write without the sympathy of one’s friends, and
though the country people sang his verses the readers of Irish read them
but little, partly it may be because he had broken with that elaborate
structure of later Irish poetry which seemed a necessary part of their
propaganda. They read plenty of pamphlets and grammars, but they
disliked--as do other people in Ireland--serious reading, reading that
is an end and not a means, that gives us nothing but a beauty
indifferent to our profuse purposes. But now Dr. Hyde with his cursing
Hanrahan, his old saint at his prayers, is a poet again; and the
Leaguers go to his plays in thousands--and applaud in the right places,
too--and the League puts many sixpences into its pocket.

                  *       *       *       *       *

We who write in English have a more difficult work, for English has been
the language in which the Irish cause has been debated; and we have to
struggle with traditional phrases, and traditional points of view. Many
would give us limitless freedom as to the choice of subject,
understanding that it is precisely those subjects on which people feel
most passionately, and, therefore, most dramatically, we would be
forbidden to handle if we made any compromise with powers. But fewer
know that we must encourage every writer to see life afresh, even though
he sees it with strange eyes. Our National Theatre must be so tolerant,
and, if this is not too wild a hope, find an audience so tolerant that
the half dozen minds, who are likely to be the dramatic imagination of
Ireland for this generation, may put their own thoughts and their own
characters into their work; and for that reason no one who loves the
arts, whether among Unionists or among the Patriotic Societies, should
take offence if we refuse all but every kind of patronage. I do not say
every kind, for if a mad king, a king so mad that he loved the arts and
their freedom, should offer us unconditioned millions, I, at any rate,
would give my voice for accepting them.

                  *       *       *       *       *

We will be able to find conscientious playwrights and players, for our
young men have a power of work, when they are interested in their work,
one does not look for outside a Latin nation, and if one were certain of
being granted this freedom one would be certain that the work would grow
to great importance. It is a supreme moment in the life of a nation when
it is able to turn now and again from its pre-occupations, to delight in
the capricious power of the artist as one delights in the movement of
some wild animal, but nobody can tell with certainty when that moment is
at hand.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The two plays in this year’s SAMHAIN represent the two sides of the
movement very well, and are both written out of a deep knowledge of the
life of the people. It should be unnecessary to praise Dr. Hyde’s
comedy, that comes up out of the foundation of human life, but Mr. Synge
is a new writer and a creation of our movement. He has gone every summer
for some years past to the Arran Islands, and lived there in the houses
of the fishers, speaking their language and living their lives, and his
play seems to me the finest piece of tragic work done in Ireland of late
years. One finds in it, from first to last, the presence of the sea, and
a sorrow that has majesty as in the work of some ancient poet.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A part of the essay which follows was printed in the _United Irishman_
last spring. It is a summary, as far as I can remember, of a lecture I
gave after the performance of _The Hour Glass_. It repeats a good deal
that has been said before in SAMHAIN or _Beltaine_, but only things that
one must repeat over and over, not perhaps to convince those who do not
believe us, but, as Blake said, to protect those who do.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I think that there must be some who will be glad of Mr. W. Fay’s
Portrait. We owe our National Theatre Society to him and his brother,
and we have always owed to his playing our chief successes.


                                                            W. B. YEATS.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       The Reform of the Theatre.


I think the theatre must be reformed in its plays, its speaking, its
acting, and its scenery. That is to say, I think there is nothing good
about it at present.

1st. We have to write or find plays that will make the theatre a place
of intellectual excitement--a place where the mind goes to be liberated
as it was liberated by the theatres of Greece and England and France at
certain great moments of their history, and as it is liberated in
Scandinavia to-day. If we are to do this we must learn that beauty and
truth are always justified of themselves, and that their creation is a
greater service to our country than writing that compromises either in
the seeming service of a cause. We will, doubtless, come more easily to
truth and beauty because we love some cause with all but all our heart;
but we must remember when truth and beauty open their mouths to speak,
that all other mouths should be as silent as Finn bade the Son of
Lugaidh be in the houses of the great. Truth and beauty judge and are
above judgment. They justify and have no need of justification.

Such plays will require, both in writers and audiences, a stronger
feeling for beautiful and appropriate language than one finds in the
ordinary theatre. St. Beuve has said that there is nothing immortal in
literature except style, and it is precisely this sense of style, once
common among us, that is hardest for us to recover. I do not mean by
style words with an air of literature about them, what is ordinarily
called eloquent writing. The speeches of Falstaff are as perfect in
their style as the soliloquies of Hamlet. One must be able to make a
king of faery or an old countryman or a modern lover speak that language
which is his and nobody else’s, and speak it with so much of emotional
subtlety that the hearer may find it hard to know whether it is the
thought or the word that has moved him, or whether these could be
separated at all.

If one does not know how to construct, if one cannot arrange much
complicated life into a single action, one’s work will not hold the
attention or linger in the memory, but if one is not in love with words
it will lack the delicate moment of living speech that is the chief
garment of life; and because of this lack the great realists seem to the
lovers of beautiful art to be wise in this generation, and for the next
generation, perhaps, but not for all generations that are to come.

2nd. But if we are to restore words to their sovereignty we must make
speech even more important than gesture upon the stage.

I have been told that I desire a monotonous chant, but that is not true,
for though a monotonous chant may be a safer beginning for an actor than
the broken and prosaic speech of ordinary recitation, it puts one to
sleep none the less. The sing-song in which a child says a verse is a
right beginning, though the child grows out of it. An actor should
understand how to so discriminate cadence from cadence, and to so
cherish the musical lineaments of verse or prose that he delights the
ear with a continually varied music. Certain passages of lyrical
feeling, or where one wishes, as in the Angel’s part in _The Hour
Glass_, to make a voice sound like the voice of an immortal, may be
spoken upon pure notes which are carefully recorded and learned as if
they were the notes of a song. Whatever method one adopts one must
always be certain that the work of art, as a whole, is masculine and
intellectual, in its sound as in its form.

3rd. We must simplify acting, especially in poetical drama, and in prose
drama that is remote from real life like my _Hour Glass_. We must get
rid of everything that is restless, everything that draws the attention
away from the sound of the voice, or from the few moments of intense
expression, whether that expression is through the voice or through the
hands; we must from time to time substitute for the movements that the
eye sees the nobler movements that the heart sees, the rhythmical
movements that seem to flow up into the imagination from some deeper
life than that of the individual soul.

4th. Just as it is necessary to simplify gesture that it may accompany
speech without being its rival, it is necessary to simplify both the
form and colour of scenery and costume. As a rule the background should
be but a single colour, so that the persons in the play wherever they
stand, may harmonize with it, and preoccupy our attention. In other
words it should be thought out not as one thinks out a landscape, but as
if it were the background of a portrait, and this is especially
necessary on a small stage where the moment the stage is filled the
painted forms of the background are broken up and lost. Even when one
has to represent trees or hills they should be treated in most cases
decoratively, they should be little more than an unobtrusive pattern.
There must be nothing unnecessary, nothing that will distract the
attention from speech and movement. An art is always at its greatest
when it is most human. Greek acting was great because it did everything
with the voice, and modern acting may be great when it does everything
with voice and movement. But an art which smothers these things with bad
painting, with innumerable garish colours, with continual restless
mimicries of the surface of life, is an art of fading humanity, a
decaying art.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A writer in _The Leader_ has said that I told my audience after the
performance of _The Hour Glass_ that I did not care whether a play was
moral or immoral. He said this without discourtesy, and as I have
noticed that people are generally discourteous when they write about
morals, I think that I owe him upon my part the courtesy of an
explanation. I did not say that I did not care whether a play was moral
or immoral, for I have always been of Verhaeren’s opinion that a
masterpiece is a portion of the conscience of mankind. My objection was
to the rough and ready conscience of the newspaper and the pulpit in a
matter so delicate and so difficult as literature. Every generation of
men of letters has been called immoral by the pulpit or the newspaper,
and it has been precisely when that generation has been illuminating
some obscure corner of the conscience that the cry against it has been
more confident.

The plays of Shakespeare had to be performed on the south side of the
Thames because the Corporation of London considered them immoral. Goethe
was thought dangerous to faith and morals for two or three generations.
Every educated man knows how great a portion of the conscience of
mankind is in Flaubert and Balzac, and yet their books have been
proscribed in the courts of law, and I found some time ago that our own
National Library, though it had two books on the genius of Flaubert, had
refused on moral grounds to have any books written by him. With these
stupidities in one’s memory how can one, as many would have us, arouse
the mob, and in this matter the pulpit and the newspaper are but voices
of the mob, against the English theatre in Ireland upon moral grounds?
If that theatre became conscientious as men of letters understand the
conscience, many that now cry against it would think it even less moral,
for it would be more daring, more logical, more freespoken. The English
Theatre is demoralizing, not because it delights in the husband, the
wife and the lover, a subject which has inspired great literature in
most ages of the world, but because the illogical thinking and insincere
feeling we call bad writing, make the mind timid, and the heart
effeminate. I saw an English play in Dublin a few months ago called
_Mice and Men_. It had run for five hundred nights in London, and been
called by all the newspapers “a pure and innocent play,” “a welcome
relief,” and so on. In it occurred this incident: The typical scapegrace
hero of the stage, a young soldier, who is in love with the wife of
another, goes away for a couple of years, and when he returns finds that
he is in love with a marriageable girl. His mistress, who has awaited
his return with what is represented as faithful love, sends him a letter
of welcome, and because he has grown virtuous of a sudden he returns it
unopened, and with so careless a scorn that the husband intercepts it;
and the dramatist approves this manner of crying off with an old love,
and rings down the curtain on his marriage bells. Men who would turn
such a man out of a club bring their wives and daughters to look at him
with admiration upon the stage, so demoralizing is a drama that has no
intellectual tradition behind it. I could not endure it and went out
into the street and waited there, until the end of the play, when I came
in again to find the friends I had brought to hear it, but had I been
accustomed to the commercial theatre I would not even have known that
anything strange had happened upon the stage. If a man of intellect had
written of such an incident he would have made his audience feel for the
mistress that sympathy one feels for all that have suffered insult, and
for that young man an ironical emotion that might have marred the
marriage bells, and who knows what the cheesemonger and the curate would
have said of him. Even Ireland would have cried out; Catholic Ireland
that should remember the gracious tolerance of the Church when all
nations were its children, and how Wolfram of Eisenbach sang from castle
to castle of the courtesy of Parzival, the good husband, and of Gawain,
the light lover, in that very Thuringia, where a generation later the
lap of St. Elizabeth was filled with roses. A Connaught Bishop told his
people a while since that they “should never read stories about the
degrading passion of love,” and one can only suppose that being ignorant
of a chief glory of his Church, he has never understood that this new
puritanism is but an English cuckoo.


                                                            W. B. YEATS.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           TEACH NA m-BOCHT.


                          (Leis AN CRAOIBHÍN.)


                                AMHARC.

    _Teach na mBocht. Dá leabaidh ar an urlár, cúig slata no mar sin ó
      chéile. Sean fhear ins gach aon leabaidh aca. Tá leapthacha eile
      ar gach taoibh; ní fheicthear iad, acht cloistear anois agus arís
      guthanna na ndaoine atá ionnta._


    [_Tagann Máighistreas Tighe na mBocht asteach; cromann sí os
        cionn leapthan aca._]

    MÁIGHISTREAS--Bhfuil tú níos fearr indiú, a Pháidín? Ar mhaith leat
aon rud?

    PÁIDÍN--Tá mé níos fearr ’ná bhí mé indé, go raibh maith agad-sa.

    MÁIGHISTREAS--Bhfuil aon rud a’ teastál uait?

    PÁIDÍN--Dheamhan pioc. Tá mé buidheach díot.

    (Téidheann an Máighistreas go dtí an leabaidh eile.)

    MÁIGHISTREAS--Agus bhfuil tusa níos fearr, a Choluim?

    COLUM--Ní’l caill ar bith orm, a Mháighistreas, go raibh maith agad,
acht an chasacht do bheith leanamhaint dam i gcómhnuidhe, agus tá sórt
tochais ar mo chroidhe. Feicthear dham dá mbeith sé bainte amach, agus
sgiúrtha, agus curtha ar ais, go mbeith socaracht agam.

    MÁIGHISTREAS--A Choluim, tá faitchios orm nach bhfuil aon dochtúir i
mB’l’áth-Cliath féin do déanfadh an cleas sin duit. Bhfuil aon rud ag
teastál uait?

    COLUM--Ní’l, acht soitheach bainne no uisge do bheith le m’ais;
bíonn an tart ag gabháil dam i gcómhnuidhe. Ní fhéadaim a shásughadh.

    MÁIGHISTREAS--An dtug an dochtúir cead duit an bainne do bheith
agad.

    COLUM--Níor dhubhairt sé na aghaidh.

    DOIRSEÓIR [_ag teacht asteach_]--Tá bean shíos ann sin ag iarraidh
cúpla focal do rádh leat. Tháinig sí le sean-fhear do thabhairt léi as
an teach so, má fhághann sí cead uait-se.

    MÁIGHISTREAS--Déanfaidh sin; rachaidh mé síos chuici, ⁊ a Choluim,
béidh mé ar ais i gceann leath-uaire ⁊ cuirfidh mé soitheach bainne ag
ceann do leapthan duit.

    PÁDRAIG--Ná tabhair an bainne uile do’n fhear sin. Tabhair cuid dé
damh-sa.

    MÁIGHISTREAS--Bhéarfad, nuair thiucfas mé. [_Imthigheann sí, ⁊ an
doirseóir léi._]

    COLUM--Óra nach tú an diabhal do bheith ag iarraidh bainne ar an
Máighistreas, agus gan é a’ teastál uait.

    PÁDRAIG--Agus cad chuige nach mbeith sé ag teastál uaim-se, chomh
maith leat féin?

    COLUM--Ní’l aon tart ort-sa acht oiread a’s tá ar cholbha mo
leapthan acht ag éad a’s ag iomad liom-sa tá tu, mar bhí tú riamh le trí
fichid bliadhan agus mar bhéidheas tú choidhche.

    PÁDRAIG [_ag tógbháil a ghotha_]--Ag éad ’s ag iomad leat-sa, ha,
ha, ha! Óra nach deas an sean-sgéiméiridhe do bheithinn ag éad ’s ag
iomad leis. Sean-chorp na loirgne breac atá ionnat.

    GUTH [_as leabaidh ar thaoibh Phádraig_]--O murder! Sin an péire ag
tosughadh arís.

    GUTH EILE--Éist do bhéal, ⁊ béidh an spórt againn.

    COLUM--Sean-chorp na loirgne breac, adeir sé. Óra a Thighearna, dá
bhféadfainn éirighe as an leabaidh seo, is gearr go mbeith fhios aige
cia an sórt coirp mé.

    GUTH--Lean dó, a Choluim.

    GUTH EILE--Ná leig le Colum é, a Phádraig.

    PÁDRAIG--Ní leigfead, ⁊ níor chóir a leigean, mar tá fhios aige a
lár a chroidhe féin nach bhfuil aon sean sprealaire i n-Éirinn do
chuirfeá i gcomórtus leis, ar comh bréagach, bradach brúideamhail
bog-cheannach brútach a’s tá sé.

    COLUM--Maiseadh tá ’s agam cia h-é atá bradach bréagach ó’n nádúir,
nach raibh acht braidigheacht in a chroidhe agus bréaga in a bhéal ó
cuireadh amach as an gcliabhán é. An bhaint’reach bhocht nach raibh aici
de stór ná de chostas an tsaoghail acht na trí lachain amháin, cia ghoid
uaithi iad? Freagair sin dam. Chonnaic mise é dh’á dhéanamh! Nois!

    PÁDRAIG--Má rinne mé an cleas sin féin ⁊ mé mo ghasún, ní chuig
sgoil na _Soupers_ do bhidhinn ag dul ag fághail mo chuid fóghluim mar
thusa. Nois!

    COLUM--Go sgoil na _Soupers_! O éistidh leis sin! An fear budh
mheasamhla i n-Éirinn do mhúin mo chuid léighin damh-sa. Níor mhúin sé
dham dul ag cúl-chaint ar dhaoinibh eile, ag innsint bréag in a dtaoibh,
ag súil go bhfuighfinn a n-áit dam féin, mar rinne tusa le Seumas O
Conchubhair.

    PÁDRAIG--Agus cia dhóigh sgioból Sheághain Bháin? Innis dam sin.

    GUTH--Sin é, a Phádraig!

    GUTH EILE--Nois a Choluim. Tabhair dhó é.

    COLUM--Má chuir mé teine le sgioból Sheághain Bháin ní liom féin do
bhí mé, acht bhí mé i n-einfeacht leis na daoinibh is cneasda ⁊ is
geanamhla insan bparráiste, nach ndéanfadh acht an rud budh chóir ⁊ budh
cheart. Cuideachta nach raibh tusa riamh in a leithéid, óir ní
ghlacfaidhe ann thú!

    GUTH--Saoghal fad agad, a Choluim.

    GUTH EILE--Nois a Phádraig, tabhair prioc dó.

    PÁDRAIG--Is fíor dhuit sin; níor chleacht mise riamh beith imeasg
sgriosadóiridhe ⁊ gaduidheadh ⁊ rapairidhe an domhain mar thusa. Ní
raibh aon táithidhe agam orra. Ní ag dóghadh sgioból ná ag slad daoine
do bhidhinn-se, acht ag tabhairt aire dom’ ghnótha féin.

    COLUM--Tá ’s agam do ghnótha-sa go ri-mhaith. Cia dheasuigh suas an
dá bhullán a raibh an galar orra? Dhíol tusa iad ⁊ fuair siad bás an lá
ar na mhárach. Chuaidh tusa i mbannaidhe orra go raibh siad slán, ⁊
shéan tú é ’na dhiaigh sin.

    PÁDRAIG--Cia thiomáin roimhe asal Shéamais Ruaidh nuair fuair sé ar
an mbóthar é, ⁊ dubhairt gur leis féin é?

    COLUM--Agus cia chroch amach a shean-léine ar an bhfuinneóg nuair
tháinig an Rígh? Ag iarraidh le bheith ’na Iúistís do bhí sé! [_Gáire
mór ó na leapthachaibh ar gach taoibh._] Agus tusa gan lúth do chos.

    PÁDRAIG--Bhí lúth mo chos agam aon uair amháin, rud nach raibh
agad-sa ariamh. Nár dhubhairt Nóra ní Bhriain, fad ó, go mbfearr an
damhsa do dhéanfá, do chosa d’fhágbháil san mbaile ⁊ damhsa ar do
cheann.

    COLUM--Acht, creud dubhairt Nóra nuair connairc sí thusa do d’
thochas agus do d’ sgríobadh féin ag an aifrionn, dubhairt sí nach raibh
cailín ins na seacht bparráistibh nach sgannróchá.

    PÁDRAIG--Nach breágh nár sgannruigh mé Sorcha Ruadh, nuair shaoil tú
go raibh sí agad féin.

    COLUM--Agus an creatúir! budh bheag de shólás an tsaoghail do bhí
aici ’na dhiaigh sin.

    PÁDRAIG [_ag éirighe in a leabaidh_]--Níor luidh mise riamh trí
uaire de’n chlog ar lár na sráide lá aonaigh, ⁊ mé ar dearg-mheisge, gur
thóg na _Peelers_ leó go dtí an barracs mé.

    COLUM--Is fíor dhuit sin. Ní h-é an meisge, ná aon rud leath chomh
geanamhail leis, do thug thusa chum na barracs, acht ag brath ⁊ ag
spídeóracht agus ag innsint bréaga ar na chómharsannaibh.

    PÁDRAIG [_agus gioscán fiacal air_]--Is deas rúsgfainn do chnámha
anois dá bhféadfainn éirighe, acht cuimhnigh a bheitheamhnaigh an
léasadh breágh do thug mé dhuit deich mbliadhna fichid ó shoin ag aonach
Dhúinmóir, d’fhág do chaincín sróna brúighthe briste ó shoin.

    COLUM--Nach breágh ar fad an chuimhne atá agad! acht ná dearmad an
lá do chaith mé thusa anuas de bhárr an dhroichid insan abhainn mhóir.
Báithfidhe an uair sin go cinnte thú, acht gur i gcoinne do chrochta do
rugadh tú.

    PÁDRAIG--Go dtachtar thú. [_Tógann sé an pilliúir ⁊ caitheann sé
leis an bhfear eile é._]

    COLUM--Marbhfáisg ort, a shean-sprealaire. [_Caitheann sé a
philliúir féin._]

    GUTH--Sin é anois. Buail é, a Phádraig.

    GUTH EILE--Tabhair dhó é, a Choluim.

    GUTH EILE--Tá an bheirt sin ag troid le chéile ó’n lá rugadh iad,
mar dhá choileán, ⁊ tá siad dul i sgornachaibh a chéile fós, ⁊ iad na
sean madaidh’ bacacha.

    PÁDRAIG [_ag éirighe ar a uilinn agus ag caitheamh a phíopa leis an
bhfear eile; bristear an píopa_]--Och gan lúth mo dhá chois agam, ⁊
gheobhfá uaim é.

    COLUM [_ag caitheamh a leabhair urnuighthe le Pádraig_]--O! A
Thighearna, nach bhféadaim éirighe!

    PÁDRAIG [_ag caitheamh a mhuigin stáin_]--Dá bhféadfainn an tsúil
cham sin do bhaint amach asad ar fad, b’fearr liom é ’na amharc ar an
bhflaitheas.

    COLUM [_ag caithead a chinn féin_]--Chlis sé ort, mar chlis sé ort i
gcómhnuidhe, seo chugad mo chainín.

    GUTH--Chugad an Púca.

    GUTH EILE--Socair, socair.

    GUTH EILE--Leig ’e do chuid gleó; ta’ an Mháighistreas ag teacht.

    MÓRÁN GUTH--Éist, tá sí teacht.

    PÁDRAIG [_ag socrughadh pilliúir Choluim go deifireach fa na cheann
féin ⁊ ag luidhe síos_]--Mo leun gan druim an domhain mhóir idir mé féin
⁊ thú féin a rógaire an mhi-ádh.

    COLUM [_ag déanamh an ruid chéadna_]--Is cruaidh an cás thusa do
bheith i n-aice liom ann so, le dhá mhi anois; b’fearr liom an
Sean-Bhuachaill féin in do leabaidh ’ná thú.

    [_Tagann an Mháighistreas asteach arís, ⁊ bean as an dúthaigh
        leí, atá gléasta go compórtamhail slachtmhar._]

    AN MHÁIGHISTREAS--A Choluim, seo chugad do dheirbhshiúr.

    BEAN [_ag cromadh agus ag pógadh Coluim_]--Ara! a Choluim a
chroidhe, nach bocht an áit a bhfeicim thú. Ara! go dé an chaoi bhfuil
tú, no bhfuil tú beó chor ar bith?

    COLUM--A Cháit, níor chuir tú mo thuairisg le cúig bliadhana, ⁊
créud tá ort anois go bhfuil tú teacht chugam.

    BEAN--Nár chualaidh tú a Choluim? Fuair m’fhear bocht bás ⁊ tá mé i
m’ aonraic liom féin anois, ⁊ gan acht mé féin ann. Bhí mé chomh
h-uaigneach sin nár fhéad mé a sheasamh. Dubhairt mé liom féin go
rachainn ar do thóir ⁊ go dtiubhrainn amach as an áit seo thú.

    COLUM--O! beannacht Dé ort! a Cháit.

    BEAN--Béidh tú níos fearr liom-sa ’ná tá tú ann so.

    COLUM--Agus cad é ’n tslighe-bheatha atá agad anois, a Cháit? Bhfuil
tú go reusúnta do shuidhe?

    BEAN--Tá teach maith agam, ⁊ tá trí uain agam le tabhairt chum an
aonaigh i nDúnmór athrughadh amárach.

    COLUM--Agus béarfaidh tú leat mé indiú?

    BEAN--Sé r’d do bhí mé ’rádh liom féin go mbainfeadh sé cuid de’n
uaigneas díom thusa do bheith liom. D’fheudfá suidhe insan gcúinne agus
aire thabhairt do’n phota ⁊ do’n teine, ⁊ gráinín beag mine chaitheamh
do na sicínibh ’fhad ’s bheithinn féin amuigh insna paírceannaibh.

    COLUM--O! Bail ó Dhia ’rt, a Cháit.

    BEAN--Tá cómharsa agam amuigh ann sin, ⁊ tá cárt aige, agus gheall
sé dam do thabhairt abhaile leis go dtí mo theach-sa má thagann tú
anois. Fuair mé cead ó’n Mháighistreas tú do thabhairt liom.

    COLUM--Is mise thuicfas, go gcúitighidh Dia thu a Cháit, a stóir.

    PÁDRAIG [_ag suidhe suas in a leabaidh_]--Ochón! ochón!
[_tosaigheann sé ag osnaoil ⁊ ag éagcaoine._] An ag imtheacht uaim atá
tú anois a Choluim, ⁊ ’g m’ fhágbháil ann so do dhiaigh. Mise do bhí
anaice leat riamh ó rugadh thú. Tá tú do mo thréigeadh ameasg
strainséirí anois, ochón! ochón! [_tosaigheann sé ar chaoineachán._]

    PÁDRAIG--A Cháit a mhuirnín.

    BEAN--Ceurd é?

    PÁDRAIG--Ni chuirfidh mé fearg ort má iarraim ruidín beag ort.

    BEAN--Ni chuirfidh tú.

    PÁDRAIG--Maiseadh! bail ó Dhia ort, ⁊ tabhair an bheirt againn leat.

    BEAN--An as do chéill atá tú a Choluim? Cad chuige bhéarfainn an
fear sin liom.

    COLUM--Mar tá mise d’á iarraidh ort.

    BEAN--Go deimhin ni thiubhrad, dheamhan cos, fanadh sé san áit a
bhfuil sé, ⁊ is maith go leór dhó é.

    COLUM--A Cháit.

    BEAN--Ceurd é anois?

    COLUM--Sé r’d do bhí mé ceapadh nach bhfuil an áit seo go ró dona ar
fad--comh dona atá ’s agad ⁊ deir siad.

    BEAN--B’ éidir go mbfearr leat í ’ná bheith in mo theach-sa.

    COLUM--Ni h-eadh, ni h-eadh, acht, sé r’d do bhí mé smuaíneadh liom
féin nach raibh mé cinnte, cinnte, mar déarfá [_tosuigheann sé ag
balbhánacht_].

    BEAN--Abair leat.

    COLUM--Nach raibh mé cinnte, tá ’s agad, go dé an chaoi bheithinn
leat-sa.

    BEAN--O! má’s fearr leat bheith ann so ----.

    COLUM--Ni h-eadh, ni h-eadh! acht a Cháit an dtógfá an fear so leat
i n-éinfheacht liom-sa.

    BEAN--Feicim anois go bhfuil tú as do chéill ar fad.

    COLUM--Ni h-eadh a Cháit, acht----.

    BEAN--O! má’s feárr leat an áit seo, is cuma liom. Má’s uaigneach
atá mé ni bhéidh mé a bhfad liom féin; dá mbudh mhaith liom fear, ni
bheith a bhfad agam le dul le n-a fhághail, agus an tslighe
chompórtamhail maireachtáil atá agam, ⁊ mo thri uain ag dul chum an
aonaigh, athrughadh amárach.

    COLUM--A Cháit a stóir, tabhair an bheirt againn leat.

    BEAN--Dheamhan baoghal orm. Tá do rogha agad anois, tar liom-sa, no
fan mar a bhfuil tú.

    COLUM--A Cháit, tá mé ceapadh go bhfanfaidh mé.

    BEAN [_go feargach ag tabhairt a cúil dó_]--Déanfaidh sin, thug mé
do rogha féin duit. Tá mé ag imtheacht.

    GUTH [_caol tana briste ó shean-duine i leabaidh eile_]--A
        Mháighistreas, feuch, a Mháighistreas.

    BEAN [_ag leat-iompódh_]--Cad é sin?

    GUTH--Má tá tú uaigneach is mise do dhéanfadh an fear cóir cineálta
dhuit.

    BEAN--Psuit!

    AN GUTH--Tá mé réidh le dul leat. Tóg mé ⁊ déunfaidh mé an fear cóir
leapthan duit. [_Gáire ó na leapthacaibh eile._]

    BEAN [_ag iompódh chuig Coluim_]--Ni thiucfaidh tú liom mar sin.

    COLUM--Fanfaidh mé a Cháit, fanfaidh mé, muna dtugann tú an fear so
leat.

    BEAN--Maiseadh, ná raibh maith agad. Beannacht leat. [_Imthigheann
sí._]

    AN GUTH CÉADNA--Is mise do dhéanfadh an fear cóir leapthan dí.
[_Gáire._]

    COLUM--Tá sí imthighthe.

    GUTH--Cad chuige nach ndeachaidh tú léi!

    COLUM--Bheith an sean-bheitheamhnach sin uaigneach gan duine do
bheith ag troid leis.

    PÁDRAIG--Thug tu h-éitheach.

    COLUM--Caithfidh sé bheith ’troid i gcómhnuidhe le duine éigin.
Bheith sé uaigneach gan mise ag cur na aghaidh.

    PÁDRAIG--Tá tú ag tosughadh ar do chuid bréag arís!

    COLUM--Ni bréag é sin, a shean-ghliogaire.

    PÁDRAIG--Sean-ghliogaire. O! fan go fóil! [_Tógann sé a philliúr ⁊
bagrann sé ar an bhfear eile._]

    COLUM--A rógaire ghránna [_tógann sé a philliúr féin._]

    GUTHANNA--O! go bhfóiridh Dia orrainn. Feuch iad ag an tsean-obair
arís. [_Bagrann siad ar a chéile le n-a bpilliúraibh._]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             The Poorhouse.


              By DOUGLAS HYDE, Translated by LADY GREGORY.

    PERSONS:--
      COLUM.
      PAUDEEN.
      A COUNTRY WOMAN.
      THE MATRON.
      THE DOORKEEPER.

    SCENE.--_A Poorhouse Ward. Two beds with a little space between
      them. An old man in each bed of them. There are other beds at the
      side, they are not seen but one hears now and again voices of the
      men that are in them._

    MATRON (_comes in and stoops over one of the beds_).--Are you better
to-day, Paudeen? Would you like anything?

    PAUDEEN.--I am better than I was yesterday, may good be with you.

    MATRON.--Is there anything you are wanting?

    PAUDEEN.--Not a ha’porth, I am thankful to you. (_The Matron goes to
the other bed_).

    MATRON.--And are you better, Colum?

    COLUM.--No loss at all on me, ma’am, thank you, but the cough that
is sticking to me always, and the sort of itching on my heart. It seems
to me that if it could be pulled out and scoured, and put back again I
would have some ease.

    MATRON.--Ah, Colum, I am afraid there is no doctor in Dublin itself
could do that feat for you. Is there anything you are wanting?

    COLUM.--There is not, but a vessel of water or of milk to be beside
me; the thirst is attacking me always. I cannot satisfy it.

    MATRON.--Did the doctor give you leave to have milk?

    COLUM.--He did not say against it.

    DOORKEEPER (_coming in, to Matron_).--There is a woman below asking
to say a couple of words to you. She came to take some old man with her
out of this house, if she got leave from you.

    MATRON.--That’ll do. I will come down with you. And Colum, I will be
back at the end of a half hour, and I will put a vessel of milk at the
head of your bed.

    PAUDEEN.--Don’t give the whole of the milk to that man; give a share
of it to me.

    MATRON.--I will when I come back. (_She and the Doorkeeper go out_).

    COLUM.--Aurah, arn’t you the devil to be asking milk of the mistress
and you not wanting it?

    PAUDEEN.--And why would I not be wanting it the same as yourself?

    COLUM.--There is no thirst on you no more than on the posts of my
bed, but envying me and jealous of me you are, the way you always were
for three score years, and as you will be for ever.

    PAUDEEN (_raising his voice_).--Envying you and jealous of you. Ha!
ha! ha! Aurah, isn’t it a pretty old schemer I’d be jealous of! An old
corpse of speckled shins that is in you.

    A VOICE (_on Paudeen’s side of the ward_).--Oh murder! There is the
pair of them beginning again.

    ANOTHER VOICE.--Shut your mouth, and we’ll have the sport.

    COLUM.--Old corpse of speckled shins does he say? Aurah! O Lord, if
I could rise out of this bed it is short till he would know what sort of
a corpse I am.

    A VOICE.--Stick to him, Colum.

    ANOTHER VOICE.--Don’t leave it with Colum, Paudeen.

    PAUDEEN (_rising on his elbow_).--I will not leave it, and it is not
right to leave it, when he knows, in the middle of his heart, there is
no old _sprealaire_ in Ireland could be put beside him for lying, for
knavery, for softheadedness, and for brutishness.

    COLUM (_rising on his elbow_).--_Maiseadh_, it’s I who knows who is
quarrelsome and lying from nature, that had not but knavery in his heart
and lies in his mouth since he was put out of the cradle. The poor widow
that had nothing of the store and cost of the world but the three ducks
only, who stole them from her? Answer me that! I saw him doing it. Now!

    PAUDEEN.--If I did that trick itself and I a boy, it wasn’t to the
Souper school I used to be going to get my share of learning like
yourself. Now!

    COLUM.--To the Souper school! O, listen to that! The most
respectable man in Ireland it was that taught me my share of learning.
He did not teach me to go backbiting other people and telling lies about
them, to get the place for myself, the way you did about Seumas O’Conor.

    PAUDEEN.--And who burned Seaghan Ban’s barn? Answer me that.

    A VOICE.--That’s it, Paudeen.

    ANOTHER VOICE.--Now, Colum, give it to him.

    COLUM.--And if I set fire to Seaghan’s barn it wasn’t by myself I
was, but I was along with the honestest and the most respectable people
in the parish, that would do nothing but the thing would be honest and
right. A company that you were never in the like of, for you would not
be let into it!

    A VOICE.--Long life to you, Colum.

    ANOTHER VOICE.--Now, Paudeen, give him a prick.

    PAUDEEN.--It’s true for you. I never practised to be among the
thieves and the destroyers and the rapparees of the world like yourself.
I had no acquaintance with them. It’s not burning barns or robbing
people I used to be, but giving heed to my own work.

    COLUM.--I know well what your own work was. Who was it put a good
appearance on the two bullocks that had the disease on them, and sold
them, and they died on the morrow? You went bail for them that they were
sound, and you denied it after.

    PAUDEEN.--Who drove Seumas Ruadh’s ass before him when he found it
on the road, and said that it was his own?

    COLUM.--And who hung his old shirt out of the window the time the
King came? Seeking to be made a magistrate he was!--(_Great laughter
from the beds on each side._)--And you without the use of your feet.

    PAUDEEN.--I had once the use of my feet and it’s a thing you never
had. Didn’t Nora O’Brien say of your dancing long ago it was a better
dance you’d make to leave your legs at home, and to be dancing on your
head?

    COLUM.--But what did Nora say when she saw you scratching and
scraping yourself at the Mass? She said there wasn’t a girl in the seven
parishes that you wouldn’t scare.

    PAUDEEN.--How well I didn’t scare Red Sarah when you thought you had
her yourself.

    COLUM.--And the creature! It’s little of the pleasure of the world
she had after that.

    PAUDEEN (_sitting up_).--I never lay for three hours of the clock in
the middle of the street a fair day, and I red drunk, till the peelers
brought me with them to the barracks.

    COLUM (_sitting up_).--That’s true for you. It was never drunkenness
or anything half as respectable brought you to the barracks, but
betraying and spying and telling lies on the neighbours.

    PAUDEEN (_gnashing his teeth at him_).--It’s finely I’d leather your
bones now if I could rise up, but remember, you vagabone, the fine
welting I gave you thirty years ago at the fair of Dunmore, that left
your stump of an nose crushed and broken from that out.

    COLUM.--Isn’t it fine memory entirely you have! but don’t forget the
day I threw you down from the top of the bridge in the big river. You
were drowned that time surely, but that it was your hanging you were
born for.

    PAUDEEN.--You be choked! (_Takes up his pillow and throws it at the
other man._)

    COLUM.--The binding of death on you, you old _sprealaire_. (_He
throws his own pillow._)

    A VOICE.--That’s it, now! Hit him Paudeen!

    ANOTHER VOICE.--Give it to him, Colum.

    ANOTHER VOICE.--That pair are fighting one another since the day
they were born, like two whelps, and they’re going at one another’s
throats yet, and they two lame old dogs.

    PAUDEEN (_throwing his pipe at the other man that it breaks_).--Och,
if I had but the use of my two feet you’d catch it from me!

    COLUM (_throwing his prayerbook at Paudeen_).--O Lord! I not to be
able to rise.

    PAUDEEN (_throwing his tin mug_).--If I was able to knock that
crooked eye out of you altogether it would be better to me than a sight
of heaven.

    COLUM (_throwing his own can_).--It failed you as it always failed
you. Here’s at you with the can.

    A VOICE.--The Pooka’ll take you.

    ANOTHER VOICE.--Quiet, quiet!

    ANOTHER VOICE.--Quit your noise! The mistress is coming.

    MANY VOICES.--Whist, she’s coming.

    PAUDEEN (_settling Colum’s pillow hastily under his own head and
lying down_).--My grief, the ridge of the whole world not to be between
myself and yourself, you rogue of ill luck!

    COLUM (_doing the same thing_.)--It is a hard case you to be beside
me here through the length of two months now; it would be better to me
the Old Boy himself to be in your bed than you.

    (_The Matron comes in again and a woman from the country with
        her, comely and comfortably dressed._)

    THE MATRON.--Colum, here is your sister.

    WOMAN (_stooping down and kissing Colum_).--Aurah, Colum, achree!
Isn’t it a poor place that I see you. Aurah, what way are you, or are
you living at all?

    COLUM.--Well Kate, you never asked after me this five years, and
what is on you now to be coming to me?

    WOMAN.--Didn’t you hear, Colum? My poor man died, and I am alone
with myself now, with none but me in it. I was that lonely I could not
stand it. I said to myself that I would come seeking you, and that I
would bring you out of this place.

    COLUM.--Oh! The blessing of God on you, Kate!

    WOMAN.--You will be better with me than you are here.

    COLUM.--And what way of living have you now, Kate, are you middling
well off?

    WOMAN.--I have a good house, and I have three lambs to send to the
fair of Dunmore after to-morrow.

    COLUM.--And you will bring me with you to-day?

    WOMAN.--It is what I was saying to myself, it would take a share of
the loneliness from me you to be with me. You could be sitting in the
corner, and minding the pot, and the fire; and throwing a little grain
of meal to the chickens while I would be out in the fields.

    COLUM.--Oh! The blessing of God on you, Kate.

    WOMAN.--There is a neighbour of my own without, and a cart with him,
and he promised me to bring you home with him as far as my house, if you
come now. I got leave from the Mistress to bring you with me.

    COLUM.--It’s I that will come. May God reward you, Kate, astore!

    PAUDEEN (_sits up and begins to sigh and to groan_).--Ochone!
ochone! Is it going away from me you are now, Colum, and leaving me here
after you! I that was near you ever since you were born. You are leaving
me among strangers now. Ochone! Ochone! (_he begins to cry_).

    COLUM.--Kate, avourneen----

    WOMAN.--What is it?

    COLUM.--I won’t anger you if I ask a little thing of you?

    WOMAN.--You will not.

    COLUM.--_Maiseadh_, God bless you, and bring the two of us with you.

    WOMAN.--Is it out of your senses you are Colum? Why would I bring
that man with me?

    COLUM.--Because it’s I am asking you.

    WOMAN.--Indeed, I will not, sorra foot. Let him stop in the place
where he is, and it’s good enough for him.

    COLUM.--Kate.

    WOMAN.--What is it now?

    COLUM.--It is what I am considering, this place is not too bad
entirely, not as bad you know as they say.

    WOMAN.--Maybe you’d sooner be in it than in my house.

    COLUM.--That’s not so, that’s not so; but it is what I was thinking
to myself, I am not certain, certain as you might say, how ... (_he
begins stammering_).

    WOMAN.--Speak out.

    COLUM.--I wasn’t certain you know, what way I would be with you....

    WOMAN.--O, if you would sooner be here....

    COLUM.--That’s not it, that’s not it; but Kate, will you bring this
man along with me?

    WOMAN.--I see now that you are out of your senses altogether.

    COLUM.--That’s not so, Kate, but....

    WOMAN.--Oh! if you would sooner be here, it’s the same to me. If
it’s lonesome I am, I won’t be long by myself. If I wanted a husband I
wouldn’t have far to go to get him, and the comfortable way of living I
have, and my three lambs going to the fair after to-morrow.

    COLUM.--O, Kate, astore, bring the both of us with you.

    WOMAN.--No fear of me. You have your choice now, come with me, or
stop where you are.

    COLUM.--Kate, I am thinking I will stop.

    WOMAN (_angrily turning her back to him_).--That will do, I gave you
your own choice. I am going.

    A THIN, WEAK, BROKEN LITTLE VOICE (_from an old man in another
bed_).--Oh, ma’am, look ma’am....

    WOMAN (_half turning_).--What is that?

    THE VOICE.--If you are lonesome, it is I myself would make the kind,
fitting husband to you.

    WOMAN.--P’suit!

    THE VOICE.--I am ready to go with you; take me, and I will make the
kind husband, day and night, to you. (_Laughter from the other beds_).

    WOMAN (_turning to Colum_).--You will not come with me, so?

    COLUM.--I will stop, Kate; I will stop, unless you will bring this
other man with you.

    WOMAN.--_Maiseadh_, that there may be no luck to you. Good bye to
you. (_She goes away_).

    THE SAME VOICE.--It is I would have made the good, kind husband to
her. (_Laughter._)

    COLUM.--She is gone.

    A VOICE.--Why didn’t you go with her?

    COLUM.--That old vagabone would be lonesome without some person to
be fighting him.

    PAUDEEN.--You lie.

    COLUM.--He must always be quarrelling with some person. He would be
lonesome without me to go against him.

    PAUDEEN.--You are beginning on your share of lies again.

    COLUM.--That is no lie, you old glugger, you.

    PAUDEEN.--Old glugger! O, wait awhile! (_He takes his pillow and
threatens the other man_).

    COLUM.--You ugly _Rogaire_! (_He takes up his own pillow_).

    VOICES.--Oh, God, save us! Look at them at the old work again!
(_They threaten one another with their pillows_).

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         Riders to the Sea.[1]


                            BY J. M. SYNGE.

    PERSONS:--
      MAURYA.
      BARTLEY (_her son_).
      CATHLEEN. } (_her two daughters_).
      NORA.     }
      MEN AND WOMEN.

    SCENE.--_Island off the West of Ireland. Cottage kitchen, with nets,
      oil-skins, spinning wheel, some new boards standing by the wall,
      etc. Cathleen, a girl of about twenty, finishes kneading cake, and
      puts it down in the pot-oven by the fire; then wipes her hands,
      and begins to spin at the wheel. Nora, a young girl, puts her head
      in at the door._


    NORA (_in a low voice_).--Where is she?

    CATHLEEN.--She’s lying down; God help her, and maybe sleeping, if
she’s able.

    _Nora comes in softly, and takes a bundle from under her shawl._

    CATHLEEN (_spinning the wheel rapidly_).--What is it you have?

    NORA.--The young priest is after bringing them. It’s a shirt and a
plain stocking were got off a drowned man in Donegal.

    (_Cathleen stops her wheel with a sudden movement, and leans out
        to listen_).

    NORA.--We’re to find out if it’s Michael’s they are, some time
herself will be down looking by the sea.

    CATHLEEN.--How would they be Michael’s, Nora. How would he go the
length of that way to the far north?

    NORA.--The young priest says he’s known the like of it.... “If it’s
Michael’s they are,” says he, “you can tell herself he’s got a clean
burial by the grace of God, and if they’re not his let no one say a word
about them, for she’ll be getting her death,” says he, “with crying and
lamenting.” (_The door which Nora half closed behind her is blown open
by a gust of wind._)

    CATHLEEN (_looking out anxiously_).--Did you ask him would he stop
Bartley going this day to Connemara?

    NORA.--“I won’t stop him,” says he, “but let you not be afraid.
Herself does be saying prayers half through the night, and the Almighty
God won’t leave her destitute,” says he, “with no son living.”

    CATHLEEN.--Is the sea bad by the white rocks, Nora?

    NORA.--Middling bad, God help us. There’s a great roaring in the
west, and it’s worse it’ll be getting when the tide’s turned to the
wind. (_She goes over to the table with the bundle_)--Shall I open it
now?

    CATHLEEN.--Maybe she’d wake up on us, and come in before we’d done.
(_Coming to the table_)--It’s a long time we’ll be, and the two of us
crying.

    NORA (_Goes to the inner door and listens_).--She’s moving about on
the bed. She’ll be coming in a minute.

    CATHLEEN.--Give me the ladder, and I’ll put them up in the
turf-loft, the way she won’t know of them at all, and maybe when the
tide turns she’ll be going down to see would he be floating from the
east.

    (_They put the ladder against the gable of the chimney, and
        Cathleen goes up under the thatch with the bundle in her
        hand. Maurya, the old woman, comes from the inner room_).

    MAURYA (_looking up at Cathleen and speaking querulously_).--Isn’t
it turf enough you have for this day and evening?

    CATHLEEN.--There’s a cake baking at the fire for a short space
(_throwing down turf_), and Bartley will want it when the tide turns if
he goes to Connemara.

    (_Nora picks up the turf and puts it round the pot-oven_).

    MAURYA (_sitting down on a stool at the fire_).--He won’t go this
day with the wind rising from the south and west. He won’t go this day,
for the young priest will stop him surely.

    NORA.--He’ll not stop him, mother, and I heard Eamon Simon and
Stephen Pheety and Colum Shawn saying he would go.

    MAURYA.--Where is he itself?

    NORA.--He went down to see would there be another boat sailing in
the week, and I’m thinking it won’t be long till he’s here now, for the
tide’s turning at the green head, and the hooker’s tacking from the
east.

    CATHLEEN.--I hear someone passing the big stones.

    NORA (_looking out_).--He’s coming now, and he is in a hurry.

    BARTLEY (_comes in and looks round the room. Speaking sadly and
quietly_)--Where is the bit of new rope, Cathleen, was bought in
Connemara?

    CATHLEEN (_coming down_).--Give it to him, Nora; it’s on a nail by
the white boards. I hung it up this morning, for the pig with the black
feet was eating it.

    NORA (_giving him a rope._)--Is that it, Bartley?

    MAURYA.--You’ld do right to leave that rope, Bartley, hanging by the
boards.--(_Bartley takes the rope._)--It will be wanting in this place,
I’m telling you, if Michael is washed up to-morrow morning, or the next
morning, or any morning in the week, for it’s a deep grave we’ll make
him by the grace of God.

    BARTLEY (_beginning to work with the rope._)--I’ve no halter the way
I can ride down on the mare, and I must go now quickly. This is the one
boat going for two weeks or beyond it, and the fair will be a good fair
I heard them saying below.

    MAURYA.--It’s a hard thing they’ll be saying below if the body is
washed up and there’s no man in it to make the coffin, and I after
giving a big price for the finest white boards you’ld find in Connemara.

    (_She looks round at the boards_).

    BARTLEY.--How would it be washed up, and we after looking each day
for nine days, and a strong wind blowing a while back from the west and
south?

    MAURYA.--If it isn’t found itself, that wind is raising the sea, and
there was a star up against the moon, and it rising in the night. If it
was a hundred horses, or a thousand horses you had itself, what is the
price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?

    BARTLEY (_working at the halter, to Cathleen_).--Let you go down
each day, and see the sheep aren’t jumping in on the rye, and if the
jobber comes you can sell the pig with the black feet if there is a good
price going.

    MAURYA.--How would the like of her get a good price for a pig?

    BARTLEY (_to Cathleen_).--If the west wind holds with the last bit
of the moon let you and Nora get up weed enough for another cock for the
kelp.... It’s hard set we’ll be from this day with no one in it but one
man to work.

    MAURYA.--It’s hard set we’ll be surely the day you’re drown’d with
the rest. What way will I live and the girls with me, and I an old woman
looking for the grave?

    (_Bartley lays down the halter; takes off his old coat, and puts
        on a newer one of the same flannel_).

    BARTLEY (_to Nora_).--Is she coming to the pier?

    NORA (_looking out_).--She’s passing the green head and letting fall
her sails.

    BARTLEY (_getting his purse and tobacco_).--I’ll have half an hour
to go down, and you’ll see me coming again in two days, or in three
days, or maybe in four days if the wind is bad....

    MAURYA (_turning round to the fire, and putting her shawl over her
head_).--Isn’t it a hard and cruel man won’t hear a word from an old
woman, and she holding him from the sea?

    CATHLEEN.--It’s the life of a young man to be going on the sea, and
who would listen to an old woman with one thing and she saying it over?

    BARTLEY (_taking the halter_).--I must go now quickly. I’ll ride
down on the red mare, and the gray pony’ll run behind me.... The
blessing of God on you.--(_He goes out._)

    MAURYA (_crying out as he is in the door_).--He’s gone now, God
spare us, and we’ll not see him again. He’s gone now and when the black
night is falling I’ll have no son left me in the world.

    CATHLEEN.--Why wouldn’t you give him your blessing and he looking
round in the door? Isn’t it sorrow enough is on everyone in this house
without your sending him out with an unlucky word behind him, and a hard
word in his ear?

    (_Maurya takes up the tongs and begins raking the fire aimlessly
        without looking round._)

    NORA (_turning towards her_).--You’re taking away the turf from the
cake.

    CATHLEEN (_crying out_).--The Son of God forgive us, Nora, we’re
after forgetting his bit of bread. (_She comes over to the fire._)

    NORA.--And it’s destroyed he’ll be going till dark night, and he
after eating nothing since the sun went up.

    CATHLEEN (_turning the cake out of the oven_).--It’s destroyed he’ll
be, surely.... There’s no sense left on any person in a house where an
old woman will be talking forever.

    (_Maurya sways herself on her stool._)

    CATHLEEN (_cuts off some of the bread and rolls it in a cloth; to
Maurya_).--Let you go down now to the spring well and give him this and
he passing. You’ll see him then and the dark word will be broken, and
you can say “God speed you,” the way he’ll be easy in his mind.

    MAURYA (_taking the bread_).--Will I be in it as soon as himself?

    CATHLEEN.--If you go now quickly.

    MAURYA (_standing up unsteadily_).--It’s hard set I am to walk.

    CATHLEEN (_looking at her anxiously_).--Give her the stick, Nora, or
maybe she’ll slip on the big stones.

    NORA.--What stick?

    CATHLEEN.--The stick Michael brought from Connemara.

    MAURYA (_taking a stick Nora gives her_).--In the big world the old
people do be leaving things after them for their sons and children, but
in this place it is the young men do be leaving things behind for them
that do be old. (_She goes out slowly._)

    (_Nora goes over to the ladder._)

    CATHLEEN.--Wait, Nora, maybe she’d turn back quickly. She’s that
sorry, God help her, you wouldn’t know the thing she’d do.

    NORA.--Is she gone round by the bush?

    CATHLEEN (_looking out_).--She’s gone now. Throw it down quickly,
for the Lord knows when she’ll be out of it again.

    NORA (_getting the bundle from the loft_).--The young priest said
he’d be passing to-morrow, and we might go down and speak to him below
if it’s Michael’s they are surely.

    CATHLEEN (_taking the bundle_).--Did he say what way they were
found?

    NORA (_coming down_).--“There were two men,” says he, “and they
rowing round with poteen before the cocks crowed, and the oar of one of
them caught the body and they passing the black cliffs of the north.”

    CATHLEEN (_trying to open the bundle_).--Give me a knife, Nora, the
string’s perished with the salt water, and there’s a black knot on it
you wouldn’t loosen in a week.

    NORA (_giving her a knife_).--I’ve heard tell it was a long way to
Donegal.

    CATHLEEN (_cutting the string_).--It is surely. There was a man in
here a while ago--the man sold us that knife--and he said if you set off
walking from the rocks beyond it would be in seven days you’d be in
Donegal.

    NORA.--And what time would a man take and he floating?

    (_Cathleen opens the bundle and takes out a bit of a shirt and a
        stocking. They look at them eagerly_).

    CATHLEEN (_in a low voice_).--The Lord spares us, Nora; isn’t it a
queer hard thing to say if it’s his they are surely?

    NORA.--I’ll get his shirt off the hook the way we can put the one
flannel on the other. (_She looks through some clothes hanging in the
corner_). It’s not with them, Cathleen, and where will it be?

    CATHLEEN.--I’m thinking Bartley put it on him in the morning, for
his own shirt was heavy with the salt in it (_pointing to the corner_).
There’s a bit of a sleeve was of the same stuff. Give me that and it
will do.

    (_Nora brings it to her and they compare the flannel_).

    CATHLEEN.--It’s the same stuff, Nora; but if it is itself, aren’t
there great rolls of it in the shops of Galway, and isn’t it many
another man may have a shirt of it as well as Michael himself?

    NORA (_who has taken up the stocking and counted the stitches,
crying out_).--It’s Michael, Cathleen, it’s Michael; God spare his soul,
and what will herself say when she hears this story and Bartley on the
sea?

    CATHLEEN (_taking the stocking_).--It’s a plain stocking.

    NORA.--It’s the second one of the third pair I knitted, and I put up
threescore stitches, and I dropped four of them.

    CATHLEEN (_counts the stitches_).--It’s that number is in it.
(_Crying out_) Ah, Nora, isn’t it a bitter thing to think of him
floating that way to the far north, and no one to keen him but the black
hags that do be flying on the sea?

    NORA (_swinging herself half round, and throwing out her arm on the
clothes_).--And isn’t it a pitiful thing when there is nothing left of a
man who was a great rower and fisher, but a bit of an old shirt and a
plain stocking?

    CATHLEEN (_after an instant_).--Tell me is herself coming, Nora. I
hear a little sound on the path.

    NORA (_looking out_).--She is, Cathleen. She’s coming up to the
door.

    CATHLEEN.--Put these things away before she’ll come in. Maybe it’s
easier she’ll be after giving her blessing to Bartley, and we won’t let
on we’ve heard anything the time he’s on the sea.

    NORA (_helping Cathleen to close the bundle_).--We’ll put them here
in the corner (_they put them into a hole in the chimney corner.
Cathleen goes back to the spinning-wheel_).

    NORA.--Will she see it was crying I was?

    CATHLEEN.--Keep your back to the door the way the light’ll not be on
you.

    [_Nora sits down at the chimney corner, with her back to the
        door. Maurya comes in very slowly, without looking at the
        girls, and goes over to her stool at the other side of the
        fire. The cloth with the bread is still in her hand. The
        girls look at each other, and Nora points to the bundle of
        bread._]

    CATHLEEN (_after spinning for a moment_).--You didn’t give him his
bit of bread?

    [_Maurya begins to keen softly, without turning round._]

    CATHLEEN.--Did you see him riding down?

    [_Maurya goes on keening._]

    CATHLEEN (_a little impatiently_).--God forgive you; isn’t it a
better thing to raise your voice and tell what you’ve seen, than to be
making lamentation for a thing that’s done? Did you see Bartley, I’m
saying to you.

    MAURYA (_with a weak voice_).--My heart’s broken from this day.

    CATHLEEN (_as before_).--Did you see Bartley?

    MAURYA.--I seen the fearfulest thing.

    CATHLEEN (_leaves her wheel, and looks out_).--God forgive you; he’s
riding the mare now over the green head, and the gray pony behind him.

    MAURYA (_starts, so that her shawl falls back from her head and
shows her white tossed hair. With a frightened voice_).--The gray pony
behind him....

    CATHLEEN (_coming to the fire_).--What is it ails you, at all?

    MAURYA (_speaking very slowly_).--I’ve seen the fearfulest thing any
person has seen, since the day Bride Dara saw the dead man with the
child in his arms.

    CATHLEEN and NORA.--Uah.

    [_They crouch down in front of the old woman at the fire._]

    NORA.--Tell us what it is you seen.

    MAURYA.--I went down to the spring well, and I stood there saying a
prayer to myself. Then Bartley came along, and he riding on the red mare
with the gray pony behind him (_she puts up her hands, as if to hide
something from her eyes_). The Son of God spare us, Nora.

    CATHLEEN.--What is it you seen?

    MAURYA.--I seen Michael himself.

    CATHLEEN (_speaking softly_).--You did not, mother; it wasn’t
Michael you seen, for his body is after being found in the far north,
and he’s got a clean burial by the grace of God.

    MAURYA (_a little defiantly_).--I’m after seeing him this day, and
he riding and galloping. Bartley came first on the red mare; and I tried
to say “God speed you,” but something choked the words in my throat. He
went by quickly; and “the blessing of God on you,” says he, and I could
say nothing. I looked up then, and I crying, at the gray pony, and there
was Michael upon it--with fine clothes on him, and new shoes on his
feet.

    CATHLEEN (_begins to keen_).--It’s destroyed we are from this day.
It’s destroyed, surely.

    NORA.--Didn’t the young priest say the Almighty God won’t leave her
destitute with no son living?

    MAURYA (_in a low voice but clearly_).--It’s little the like of him
knows of the sea.... Bartley will be lost now, and let you call in Eamon
and make me a good coffin out of the white boards, for I won’t live
after them. I’ve had a husband, and a husband’s father, and six sons in
this house--six fine men, though it was a hard birth I had with every
one of them and they coming to the world--and there were some of them
were found and some of them were not found, but they’re gone now the lot
of them.... There were Stephen, and Shawn, were lost in the great wind,
and found after in the Bay of Gregory of the Golden Mouth, and carried
up the two of them on one plank, and in by that door.

    (_She pauses for a moment, the girls start as if they heard
        something through the door that is half open behind them._)

    NORA (_in a whisper_).--Did you hear that, Cathleen? Did you hear a
noise in the North-East?

    CATHLEEN (_in a whisper_).--There’s some one after crying out by the
seashore.

    MAURYA (_continues without hearing anything_).--There was Sheamus
and his father, and his own father again, were lost in a dark night, and
not a stick or sign was seen of them when the sun went up.... There was
Patch after was drowned out of a curagh that turned over. I was sitting
here with Bartley, and he a baby, lying on my two knees, and I saw two
women, and three women, and four women coming in, and they crossing
themselves, and not saying a word.... I looked out then, and there were
men coming after them, and they holding a thing in the half of a red
sail, and water dripping out of it--it was a dry day, Nora--and leaving
a track to the door. (_She pauses again with her hand stretched out
towards the door. It opens softly and old women begin to come in,
crossing themselves on the threshold, and kneeling down in front of the
stage with their backs to the people, and the white waist-bands of the
red petticoats they wear over their heads just seen from behind_).

    MAURYA (_half in a dream, to Cathleen_).--Is it Patch, or Michael,
or what is it at all?

    CATHLEEN.--Michael is after being found in the far north, and when
he is found there how could he be here in this place?

    MAURYA.--There does be a power of young men floating round in the
sea, and what way would they know if it was Michael they had, or another
man like him, for when a man is nine days in the sea, and a wind
blowing, it’s hard set his own mother would be to say what man was in
it.

    CATHLEEN.--It’s Michael, God spare him, for they’re after sending us
a bit of his clothes from the far north. (_She reaches out and hands
Maurya the clothes that belonged to Michael. Maurya stands up slowly,
and takes them in her hands.... Nora looks out._)

    NORA.--They’re carrying a thing among them and there’s water
dripping out of it and leaving a track by the big stones.

    CATHLEEN (_in a whisper to the women who have come in_.)--It is
Bartley it is?

    ONE OF THE WOMEN.--It is surely, God rest his soul.

    (_Two younger women come in and pull out the table. Then men
        carry in the body of Bartley, laid on a plank, with a bit of
        a sail over it, and lay it on the table._)

    CATHLEEN (_to the women, as they are doing so_.)--What way was he
drowned?

    ONE OF THE WOMEN.--The grey pony knocked him over into the sea, and
he was washed out where there is a great surf on the white rocks.

    (_Maurya has gone over and knelt down at the head of the table.
        The women are keening softly and swaying themselves with a
        slow movement. Cathleen and Nora kneel at the other end of
        the table. The men kneel near the door._)

    MAURYA (_raising her head and speaking as if she did not see the
people round her)._--They’re all gone now, and there isn’t anything more
the sea can do to me.... I’ll have no call now to be up crying and
praying when the wind breaks from the south, and you can hear the surf
is in the east, and the surf is in the west, making a great stir with
the two noises, and they hitting one on the other. I’ll have no call now
to be going down and getting Holy Water in the dark nights after
Samhain, and I won’t care what way the sea is when the other women will
be keening....

    (_To Nora._)--Give me the Holy Water, Nora, there’s a small sup
still on the dresser. (_Nora gives it to her._)

    MAURYA (_drops Michael’s clothes across Bartley’s feet, and
sprinkles the Holy Water over him_).--It isn’t that I haven’t prayed for
you, Bartley, to the Almighty God. It isn’t that I haven’t said prayers
in the dark night till you wouldn’t know what I’ld be saying; but it’s a
great rest I’ll have now, and it’s time surely.... It’s a great rest
I’ll have now, and great sleeping in the long nights after Samhain, if
it’s only a bit of wet flour we do have to eat, and maybe a fish that
would be stinking. (_She kneels down again, crossing herself, and saying
prayers under her breath_).

    CATHLEEN (_to one of the men_).--Maybe yourself and Eamon would make
a coffin when the sun rises. We have fine white boards herself bought,
God help her, thinking Michael would be found, and I have a new cake you
can eat while you’ll be working.

    THE MAN (_looking at the boards_).--Are there nails with them?

    CATHLEEN.--There are not, Colum; we didn’t think of the nails.

    ANOTHER MAN.--It’s a great wonder she wouldn’t think of the nails,
and all the coffins she’s seen made already.

    CATHLEEN.--It’s getting old she is and broken.

    _MAURYA stands up again very slowly and spreads out the pieces
        of Michael’s clothes beside the body, sprinkling them with
        the last of the Holy Water._

NORA (_in a whisper to Cathleen_).--She’s quiet now and easy; but the
day Michael was drowned you could hear her crying out from this to the
spring well. It’s fonder she was of Michael, and would anyone have
thought that?

CATHLEEN (_slowly and clearly_).--An old woman will be soon tired with
anything she will do, and isn’t it nine days herself is after crying,
and keening, and making great sorrow in the house?

MAURYA (_puts the empty cup mouth downwards on the table, and lays her
hands together on Bartley’s feet_).--They’re all together this time, and
the end is come. May the Almighty God have mercy on Bartley’s soul, and
on Michael’s soul, and on the souls of Sheamus, and Patch, and Stephen,
and Shawn (_bending her head_); and may He have mercy on my soul, Nora,
and on the soul of everyone is left living in the world (_she pauses,
and the keen rises a little more loudly from the women, then sinks
away_).

MAURYA (_continuing_).--Michael has a clean burial in the far north, by
the grace of the Almighty God. Bartley will have a fine coffin out of
the white boards, and a deep grave surely. What more can we want than
that? No man at all can be living for ever, and we must be satisfied.
(_She kneels down again and the curtain falls slowly_).

-----

Footnote 1:

  Dramatic and all other rights reserved by the Author.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      The Irish National Theatre.


Stendhal said that the greatest pleasure he had ever got from the
theatre was given him by the performance of some poor Italian strollers
in a barn. The Queen’s Gate Hall, if not exactly a barn, can boast none
of the glories of the ordinary playhouse; and it was here that, only a
day or two ago, a little band of Irishmen and women, strangers to London
and to Londoners, gave some of us, who for our sins are constant
frequenters of the regular playhouses, a few moments of calm delight
quite outside the range of anything which those houses have to offer.
They were members of the Irish National Theatre Society, which consists,
we understand, of amateurs, all engaged in daily work, who can devote
only their leisure time to the stage. That was the case, it will be
remembered, with the enthusiasts who helped Antoine to found his Théâtre
Libre; but there is this difference, that, while the French enterprise
was an artistic adventure and nothing else, the Irish Theatre is that
and something more. It is part of a national movement, it is designed to
express the spirit of the race, the “virtue” of it, in the medium of
acted drama. That is an excellent design. If the peculiarities of Irish
thought and feeling can be brought home to us through drama we shall all
be the better for the knowledge; and the art of drama, too, cannot but
gain by a change of air, a new outlook, a fresh current of ideas. But
with these larger aspects of the matter we are not now concerned. Our
present business is to record the keen pleasure which an afternoon with
the Irish National Theatre has afforded us, and to do our best to
analyse that pleasure.

First and foremost, there is the pleasure of the ear. This, of course,
is an accidental pleasure; we mean that it has nothing to do with the
æsthetic aims of the Society, nothing to do with the dramatic theories
or poetic gifts of its President, Mr. W. B. Yeats, nothing to do with
art at all; it results from the nature of things, from the simple fact
that Irish speakers are addressing English listeners. It is none the
less a very exquisite pleasure. We had never realized the musical
possibilities of our language until we had heard these Irish people
speak it. Most Englishmen, we fancy, get their notions of Irish
pronunciation from Thackeray, and though, no doubt, Thackeray’s version
was always good-natured enough, yet the talk of Costigan and the
Mulligan and the O’Dowd tends to burlesque the truth. The association is
always one of drollery, whereas the English of these Irish players gives
us an impression, not of drollery at all, but of elegance. “Fool” is
pronounced “fule,” (with the thin French “u”), “philosophy” is
“philosoph_ee_,” “argument” is “argumént,” and the words look funny when
so written; but they do not sound funny, they sound charming. The
unexpected emphasis on the minor syllables has an air of not ungraceful
pedantry or, better still, of an old-world courtliness. We are listening
to English spoken with watchful care and slightly timorous hesitation,
as though it were a learned language. That at once ennobles our
mother-tongue, brings it into relief, gives it a daintiness and
distinction of which, in our rough workaday use of it, we had never
dreamed. But the charm does not stop there. The Irish people _sing_ our
language--and always in a minor key. It becomes in very fact “most
musical, most melancholy.” Rarely, very rarely, the chant degenerates
into a whine. But for the most part, the English ear is mildly surprised
and entirely charmed. Talk of _lingua Toscana in bocca Romana_! The
English tongue on Irish lips is every whit as melodious.

The next pleasure is for the eye. These Irish gentlemen and ladies are
good to look at; the men are lithe, graceful, bright-eyed, and one at
least of the maidens, with the stage name of Maire Nic Shiubhlaigh, is
of a strange, wan, “disquieting” beauty: But we are not thinking so much
of what Elia’s Scotch friend would call their “pairsonal pretensions” as
of their postures and movements. As a rule they stand stock-still. The
speaker of the moment is the only one who is allowed a little
gesture--just as in the familiar convention of the Italian marionette
theatre the figure supposed to be speaking is distinguished from the
others by a slight vibration. The listeners do not distract one’s
attention by fussy “stage business,” they just stay where they are and
listen. When they do move it is without premeditation, at haphazard,
even with a little natural clumsiness, as of people who are not
conscious of being stared at in public. Hence a delightful effect of
spontaneity. And in their demeanour generally they have the artless
impulsiveness of children--the very thing which one found so enjoyable
in another exotic affair, the performance of Sada Yacco and her Japanese
company. Add that the scenery is of Elizabethan simplicity--sometimes no
more than a mere backcloth--and you will begin to see why this
performance is a sight good for sore eyes--eyes made sore by the
perpetual movement and glitter of the ordinary stage.

But it is time to say something of the vital part of our pleasure, the
pleasure of mind and mood. That, too, is largely a pleasure of rest--and
resignation. The mind is steeped in seriousness; the mood is uniformly
sad. For anything of the same kind one would have to go to some of
Maeterlinck’s earlier plays or to that _Grainquebille_ of Anatole France
which they are now playing at the Renaissance. But these are imperfect
comparisons; the Irish theatre is really of its own kind and of none
other. Its sustained note of subdued gravity, with here and there faint
harmonies of weird elfish freakishness (“harps in the air,” Hilda Wangel
would have called them) is entirely Irish and entirely delightful. Take
Mr. Yeats’ “morality,” _The Hour Glass_. An angel gives a man a few
moments wherein to try and find means of salvation before he dies with
the last running out of the sand. Imagine how the ordinary dramatist
would treat this, how largely the hour-glass would bulk in the
foreground, how the man would writhe and shriek in the frenzied horror
of imminent death. Indeed, you need not imagine it; you have only to go
to Drury Lane, where by an odd coincidence this very situation fills the
final act of Sardou’s _Dante_. Tick, tick! goes the pendulum clock. Lo!
the pendulum is the figure of death with his scythe. (Oh, symbolism! oh,
Sardou!) Remark the practical actor conscientiously emptying out under
the limelight the whole contents of the theatrical bag of tricks
labelled “Death Scenes.” Then turn for a refreshing contrast to the
behaviour of Mr. Yeats’ “Wise Man.” He is agitated, to be sure, but
quietly agitated. He hardly so much as glances at the hour-glass. What
you are asked to contemplate is the inner route of his mind.... The
whole tone of the thing, as we have said, is grave and subdued, its
whole texture such stuff as dreams are made of. A little thing, it may
be, but it haunts the mind for days afterwards. We can still see the
virginal face of the angel, who has stepped out of some Irish Book of
Hours, and still hear the wheedling chant of Teigue the Fool--“Give me a
pen-nee! Give me some pen-nees!”

Another play by Mr. Yeats, _Kathleen Ni Houlihan_, gives us a whiff--or
rather a sigh--of ’98.... In this beautiful little piece we have the
same dream-feeling as in the other; in this as in the other, the people
move about silently, as fearing to break the dream, and speak with bated
breath.

Yes, they are all from the outset to the end playing _pianissimo_, all
hushed as in some sick-room, all grave and, as it were, careworn. No
doubt there is a touch of affectation in their methods; they have
something of the self-importance of children surpliced for service at
the altar, or “dressed-up” for a grand domestic occasion. A style
“deliberately adopted” is the harmless little boast of their prospectus.
Well, that is a matter of course. All new movements in art are
self-conscious, abound in little exaggerations and affectations. Is
there not an Irish precept, “Be aisy; and if ye can’t be aisy, be as
aisy as ye can”? We may commend that to the Irish National Theatre
Society. And for ourselves we are quite “aisy”; for the “deliberate”
methods of these enthusiasts will surely lose their stiffness in due
course of time. Meanwhile we are sincerely grateful to them for an hour
or two of real refreshment, a train of curious suggestions, a series of
new “thrills.”--From the _Times_ of May 8, 1903.

------------------------------------------------------------------------


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                          Transcriber’s Notes


The play _Teach na m-Bocht_ was originally printed in Cló Gaelach (Irish
script), with lenition indicated by a dot over the affected consonant.
This edition replaces the lenition dots with the letter “h,” as is
standard in modern written Irish. The Irish text uses the Tironian et
(⁊) rather than the Roman ampersand (&) to indicate “agus.”

As all plays are now set in Roman type, the formatting of each has been
somewhat standardised, with, for example, stage directions in the Irish
play set in italics.

This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. Flourishes and
decorations in advertising copy have not been included in this plain
text version.

The following changes and corrections have been made:

 • Advertisements: Added period after “Spectator” in advertisement.
 • p. 4: Replaced “Playrights” with “Playwrights” in phrase “Playwrights
   will have to be careful who they permit to play their work.”
 • p. 4: Replaced “Cumann na n Gaedheal” with “Cumann na nGaedheal.”
 • p. 5: Replaced “scare” with “scarce” in phrase “it is scarce possible
   to be interested.”
 • p. 10: Replaced “necesary” with “necessary” in phrase “Just as it is
   necessary to simplify gesture.”
 • p. 11: Replaced “Verhaeren” with “Verhaeren’s” in phrase “I have
   always been of Verhaeren’s opinion.”
 • p. 11: Added period after “_Mice and Men_.”
 • p. 13: Replaced “go dti” with “go dtí” in phrase “Téidheann an
   Máighistreas go dtí an leabaidh eile.”
 • p. 13: Replaced “N’íl” with “Ní’l” in phrase “Ní’l, acht soitheach
   bainne no uisge do bheith le m’ais.”
 • p. 15: Replaced parenthesis with square bracket after “caitheann sé
   leis an bhfear eile é.”
 • p. 16: Replaced “go dti” with “go dtí” in phrase “gheall sé dam do
   thabhairt abhaile leis go dtí mo theach-sa.”
 • p. 17: Replaced “raib” with “raibh” in phrase “Nach raibh mé cinnte,
   tá ’s agad.”
 • p. 17: Replaced “acth” with “acht” in phrase “acht a Cháit an dtógfá
   an fear so leat i n-éinfheacht liom-sa.”
 • p. 25: Added parenthesis before “The door which Nora half closed
   behind her is blown open.”
 • p. 27: Replaced “It” with “It’s” in phrase “It’s a hard thing they’ll
   be saying below.”
 • p. 28: Added parentheses around stage direction “_cuts off some of
   the bread and rolls it in a cloth; to Maurya_.”
 • p. 29: Replaced “is” with “it” in phrase “isn’t it a queer hard
   thing.”
 • p. 31: Replaced “everyone” with “every one” in phrase “though it was
   a hard birth I had with every one of them.”
 • p. 32: Added closing parenthesis after “as if she did not see the
   people round her.”
 • p. 34: Added comma after “a little band of Irishmen and women.”
 • p. 35 Replaced “is” with “it” in phrase “But it is time to say
   something of the vital part of our pleasure.”
 • Advertisements: Added period after “in actual converse with poets and
   dreamers.”

In addition, small adjustments have been made to character names in
plays for consistency, such as adding small caps and adding or removing
periods, accents and dashes. In _Riders to the Sea_, in several places
“wont” has been replaced with “won’t.”



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAMHAIN, ISSUE 3, OCTOBER 1903 ***


    

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