I'm comin', boys! Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap.

(With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the woodpile.)

Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge! Jine in, jine in!

(Swinging the flag)

Hooray!—Hooray!—Hooray!

(Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old men and children sing martially to the brass music.

With his final cheer, LINK stumbles down from the mound, brandishes in one hand his hat, in the other the little flag, and stumps off toward the approaching procession into the sunlight, joining his old cracked voice, jubilant, with the singers:)

"—ry hallelujah, Glory, glory hallelujah, His truth is marchin" on!"

[CURTAIN]



LONESOME-LIKE[1]

Harold Brighouse

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the author and of the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, of Glasgow.]

CHARACTERS

SAKAH ORMEHOD, An old woman EMMA BRIERLEY, A young woman THE REV. FRANK ALLEYNE, A curate SAM HORROCKS, A young man

THE SCENE represents the interior of a cottage in a Lancashire village. Through the window at the back the gray row of cottages opposite is just visible. The outside door is next to the window. Door left. As regards furniture the room is very bare. The suggestion is not of an empty room, but a stripped room. For example, there are several square patches where the distemper of the walls is of a darker shade than the rest, indicating the places once occupied by pictures. There is an uncovered deal the left wall is a dresser and a plate-rack above it containing a few pots. The dresser has also one or two utensils upon it. A blackened kettle rests on the top of the cooking-range, but the room contains only the barest necessities. The floor is uncarpeted. There are no window curtains, but a yard of cheap muslin is fastened across the window, not coming, however, high enough to prevent a passer-by from looking in, should he wish to do so. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered black tin trunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the door left is a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned beaded bonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain rises the room is empty. Immediately, however, the door left opens and SARAH ORMEROD, an old woman, enters, carrying clumsily in her arms a couple of pink flannelette nightdresses, folded neatly. Her black stuff dress is well worn, and her wedding-ring is her only ornament. She wears elastic-sided boots, and her rather short skirt shows a pair of gray worsted stockings. A small plaid shawl covers her shoulders. SARAH crosses and puts the nightdresses on the table, surveying the trunk ruefully. There is a knock at the outside door and she looks up.

SARAH. Who's theer?

EMMA (without). It's me, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma Brierley.

SARAH. Eh, coom in, Emma, lass.

(Enter EMMA BRIERLEY. She is a young weaver, and, having just left her work, she wears a dark skirt, a blouse of some indeterminate blue-gray shade made of cotton, and a large shawl over her head and shoulders in place of a jacket and hat. A colored cotton apron covers her skirt below the waist, and the short skirt displays stout stockings similar to Sarah's. She wears clogs, and the clothes—except the shawl—are covered with ends of cotton and cotton-wool fluff. Even her hair has not escaped. A pair of scissors hangs by a cord from her waist.)

SARAH. Tha's kindly welcoom. It's good o' thee to think o' coomin' to see an ould woman like me.

EMMA (by door). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod. Th' mill's just loosed and A thowt A'd step in as A were passin' and see 'ow tha was feeling like.

SARAH (crossing to box). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee. It's only my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a weaver's no manner o' good to nobody without th' use o' 'er'ands. A'm all reeght in masel'. That's worst of it.

EMMA. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought as A can do for thee?

SARAH. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma.

EMMA (taking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on a peg in the door). Well, A knaws better. What wert doin' when A coom in? Packin' yon box?

SARAH. Aye. Tha sees theer's a two three things as A canna bear thowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw if they'll let me tak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna have 'em sold wi' rest of stuff.

EMMA (crosses below SARAH to box, going on her knees). Let me help yo'.

SARAH. Tha's a good lass, Emma. A'd tak' it kindly of thee.

EMMA. They'd do wi' packin' a bit closer. A dunno as they'd carry safe that road.

SARAH. A know. It's my 'ands, tha sees, as mak's it difficult for me.

(Sits on chair.)

EMMA. Aye. A'll soon settle 'em a bit tighter.

(Lifts all out, buries her arms in the box, and rearranges its contents.)

SARAH. But what's 'appened to thy looms, lass? They'll not weave by 'emselves while thee's 'ere, tha knows.

EMMA (looking round). Eh, looms is all reeght. Factory's stopped. It's Saturday afternoon.

SARAH. So 't is. A'd clean forgot. A do forget time o' th' week sittin' 'ere day arter day wi' nought to do.

EMMA. So that's all reeght. Tha's no need to worry about me. Tha's got trouble enough of thy own.

(Resuming at the box)

SARAH. Aye, th' art reeght theer, lass. Theer's none on us likes to think o' goin' to workus when we're ould.

EMMA. 'Appen it'll be all reeght after all. Parson's coomin' to see thee.

SARAH. Aye, A knaw 'e is. A dunno, but A'm in 'opes 'e'll do summat for me. Tha can't never tell what them folks can do.

EMMA (kneeling up). Tha keep thy pecker oop, Mrs. Ormerod. That's what my moother says to me when A tould 'er A were coomin' in to thee. Keep 'er pecker oop, she says. It's not as if she'd been lazy or a wastrel, she says; Sal Ormerod's bin a 'ard worker in 'er day, she says. It's not as if it were thy fault. Tha can't 'elp tha 'ands goin' paralytic.

(She continues rummaging in the trunk while speaking.)

SARAH. Naw. It's not my fault. God knaws A'm game enough for work, ould as A am. A allays knawed as A'd 'ave to work for my living all th' days o' my life. A never was a savin' sort.

EMMA. Theer's nowt against thee for that. Theer's soom as can be careful o' theer brass an' soom as can't. It's not a virtue, it's a gift. That's what my moother allays says.

(Resumes packing.)

SARAH. She's reeght an' all. We never 'ad the gift o' savin', my man and me. An' when Tom Ormerod took an' died, the club money as A drew all went on 'is funeral an' 'is gravestone. A warn't goin' to 'ave it said as 'e warn't buried proper.

EMMA. It were a beautiful funeral, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. Aye.

EMMA. A will say that, beautiful it were. A never seen a better, an' A goes to all as A can. (Rises.) A dotes on buryin's. Are these the next?

(Crosses before table for nightdresses, takes the nightdresses and resumes packing.)

SARAH. Aye

(Emma puts them in and rests on her knees listening to Sarah's next speech.)

SARAH (pause). A've been a 'ouseproud woman all my life, Emma, an' A've took pride in 'avin' my bits o' sticks as good as another's. Even th' manager's missus oop to factory 'ouse theer, she never 'ad a better show o' furniture nor me, though A says it as shouldn't. An' it tak's brass to keep a decent 'ouse over your yead. An' we allays 'ad our full week's 'ollydayin' at Blackpool reg'lar at Wakes time. Us didn't 'ave no childer o' our own to spend it on, an' us spent it on ourselves. A allays 'ad a plenty o' good food in th' 'ouse an' never stinted nobody, an' Tom 'e liked 'is beer an' 'is baccy. 'E were a pigeon-fancier, too, in 'is day, were my Tom, an' pigeon-fancying runs away wi' a mint o' money. No. Soom'ow theer never was no brass to put in th' bank. We was allays spent oop coom wages neeght.

EMMA. A knaw, Mrs. Ormerod. May be A'm young, but A knaw 'ow 't is. We works cruel 'ard in th' mill, an' when us plays, us plays as 'ard too (pause), an' small blame to us either. It's our own we're spendin'.

SARAH. Aye. It's a 'ard life, the factory 'and's. A can mind me many an' many's the time when th' warnin' bell went on th' factory lodge at ha'f past five of a winter's mornin' as A've craved for another ha'f hour in my bed, but Tom 'e got me oop an' we was never after six passin' through factory gates all th' years we were wed. There's not many as can say they were never late. "Work or clem," that were what Tom allays tould me th' ould bell were sayin'. An' 'e were reeght, Emma. "Work or clem" is God's truth. (EMMA'S head in box.) An' now th' time's coom when A can't work no more. But Parson's a good man, 'e'll mak' it all reeght. (EMMA'S head appears.) Eh, it were good o' thee to coom in, lass. A bit o' coompany do mak' a world o' difference. A'm twice as cheerful as A were.

EMMA. A'm glad to 'ear tha say so, Mrs. Ormerod. (Rises from the box.) Is theer owt else?

SARAH. A were thinkin' A'd like to tak' my black silk as A've worn o' Sundays this many a year, but A canna think it's reeght thing for workus.

EMMA. Oh, thee tak' it, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. A'd dearly love to. Tha sees A'm noan in debt, nobbut what chairs an table 'ull payfor, and A doan't like thowt o' leaving owt as A'm greatly fond of.

EMMA. Yo doan't, Mrs. Ormerod. Thee tak' it. Wheer is it? A'll put un in. Theer's lots o'room on top. A'll see un's noan crushed.

SARAH. It's hanging theer behind door. (EMMA crosses back to door, gets clothes.) A got un out to show Parson. A thowt A'd ask un if it were proper to tak' it if A've to go. My best bonnet's with it, an' all.

(EMMA goes below table, takes the frock and bonnet, folds it on the table, and packs it.)

EMMA. A'll put un in.

SARAH. A'm being a lot o' trouble to thee, lass.

EMMA. That's nowt; neighbors mun be neighborly.

(Gets bonnet from table and packs it.)

SARAH (after a pause, looking round). Place doan't look much, an' that's a fact. Th' furniture's bin goin' bit by bit, and theer ain't much left to part wi' now.

EMMA. Never mind; it 'ull be all reeght now Parson's takken thee oop.

SARAH. A'm hopin' so. A am hopin' so. A never could abide th' thowt o' th' workus—me as 'as bin an 'ard-workin' woman. A couldn't fancy sleepin' in a strange bed wi' strange folk round me, an' when th' Matron said, "Do that," A'd 'ave to do it, an' when she said, "Go theer," A'd 'ave to a' gone wheer she tould me—me as 'as allays 'eld my yead 'igh an' gone the way A pleased masel'. Eh, it's a terrible thowt, the workus.

EMMA (rising). Now tha's sure that's all?

SARAH (after a pause, considers). Eh, if A havna forgot my neeghtcaps. (Rises, moves centre and stops.) A suppose they'll let me wear un in yonder. A doan't reeghtly think as A'd get my rest proper wi'out my neeghtcaps.

EMMA. Oh, they'll let thee wear un all reeght.

SARAH (as she goes). A'll go an' get un. (Exit right, returning presently with the white nightcaps.) That's all now.

(Gives them to EMMA who meets her at centre.)

EMMA (putting them in). Yo' never 'ad no childer, did yo', Mrs. Ormerod?

SARAH. No, Emma, no—maybe that's as broad as's long. (Sits above fire.) Yo' never knaw 'ow they go. Soom on 'em turn again yo' when they're growed, or they get wed themselves an' forget all as yo' 've done for 'em, like a many A could name, and they're allays a worrit to yo' when they're young.

EMMA. A'm gettin' wed masel' soon, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. Are yo', now, Emma? Well, tha art not one o' them graceless good-for-nowts. Tha'll never forget thy moother, A knaw, nor what she's done for thee. Who's tha keepin' coompany with?

EMMA. It's Joe Hindle as goes wi' me, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. 'Indle, 'Indle? What, not son to Robert 'Indle, 'im as used to be overlooker in th' factory till 'e went to foreign parts to learn them Roossians 'ow to weave?

EMMA. Aye, that's 'im.

SARAH. Well, A dunno aught about th' lad. 'Is faither were a fine man. A minds 'im well. But A'll tell thee this, Emma, an' A'll tell it thee to thy faice, 'e's doin' well for 'isself, is young Joe 'Indle.

EMMA. Thankee, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. Gettin' wed! Think o' that. Why, it seems as 't were only t'other day as tha was runnin' about in short frocks, an' now tha's growed up and gettin' thasel' wed! Time do run on. Sithee, Emma, tha's a good lass, A've gotten an ould teapot in yonder (indicating her bedroom) as my moother give me when A was wed. A weren't for packing it in box because o' risk o' breaking it. A were going to carry it in my 'and. A'd a mind to keep it till A died, but A reckon A'll 'ave no use for it in workus.

EMMA. Tha's not gone theer yet.

SARAH. Never mind that. (Slowly rises.) A'm going to give it thee, lass, for a weddin' gift. Tha'll tak' care of it, A knaw, and when thy eye catches it, 'appen tha'll spare me a thowt.

EMMA. Oh, no, Mrs. Ormerod, A couldn't think o' takkin' it.

SARAH. Art too proud to tak' a gift from me?

EMMA. No. Tha knaws A'm not.

SARAH. Then hold thy hush. A'll be back in a minute. Happen A'd best tidy masel' up too against Parson cooms.

EMMA. Can A help thee, Mrs. Ormerod?

SARAH. No, lass, no. A can do a bit for masel'. My 'ands isn't that bad; A canna weave wi' 'em, but A can do all as A need do.

EMMA. Well, A'll do box up.

(Crosses to table right and gets cord.)

SARAH. Aye.

EMMA. All reeght.

(Exit SARAH. A man's face appears outside at the window. He surveys the room, and then the face vanishes as he knocks at the door.)

Who's theer?

SAM (without). It's me, Sam Horrocks. (EMMA crosses left and opens door.) May A coom in?

EMMA. What dost want?

SAM (on the doorstep). A want a word wi' thee, Emma Brierley. A followed thee oop from factory and A've bin waitin' out theer till A'm tired o' waitin'.

EMMA. Well, tha'd better coom in. A 'aven't time to talk wi' thee at door.

(EMMA lets him in, closes door, and, leaving him standing in the middle of the room, resumes work on her knees at the box. SAM HORROCKS is a hulking young man of a rather vacant expression. He is dressed in mechanic's blue dungarees. His face is oily and his clothes stained. He wears boots, not clogs. He mechanically takes a ball of oily black cotton-waste from his right pocket when in conversational difficulties and wipes his hands upon it. He has a red muffler round his neck without collar, and his shock affair hair is surmounted by a greasy black cap, which covers perhaps one tenth of it.)

SAM (after watching EMMA's back for a moment). Wheer's Mrs. Ormerod?

EMMA (without looking up). What's that to do wi' thee?

SAM (apologetically). A were only askin'. Tha needn't be short wi' a chap.

EMMA. She's in scullery washin' 'er, if tha wants to knaw.

SAM. Oh!

EMMA (looking at him over her shoulder after a slight pause). Doan't tha tak' thy cap off in 'ouse, Sam Horrocks?

SAM. Naw.

EMMA. Well, tha can tak' it off in this 'ouse or get t' t'other side o' door.

SAM. (Takes off his cap and stuffs it in his left pocket after trying his right and finding the ball of waste in it.) Yes, Emma.

(EMMA resumes work with her back towards him and waits for him to speak. But he is not ready yet.)

EMMA. Well, what dost want?

SAM. Nought.—Eh, but tha art a gradely wench.

EMMA. What's that to do wi' thee?

SAM. Nought.

EMMA. Then just tha mind thy own business, an' doan't pass compliments behind folks' backs.

SAM. A didn't mean no 'arm.

EMMA. Well?

SAM. It's a fine day, isn't it? For th' time o' th' year?

EMMA. Aye.

SAM. A very fine day.

EMMA. Aye.

SAM (desperately). It's a damned fine day.

EMMA. Aye.

SAM (after a moment). Dost know my 'ouse, Emma?

EMMA. Aye.

SAM. Wert ever in it?

EMMA. Not sin' tha moother died.

SAM. Naw. A suppose not. Not sin' ma moother died. She were a fine woman, ma moother, for all she were bed-ridden.

EMMA. She were better than 'er son, though that's not saying much neither.

SAM. Naw, but tha does mind ma 'ouse, Emma, as it were when she were alive?

EMMA. Aye.

SAM. A 've done a bit at it sin' them days. Got a new quilt on bed from Co-op. Red un, it is, wi' blue stripes down 'er.

EMMA. Aye.

SAM. Well, Emma?

EMMA (over her shoulder). Well, what? What's thy 'ouse an' thy quilt to do wi' me?

SAM. Oh, nought.—Tha doesn't 'elp a feller much, neither.

EMMA. (Rises and faces him. SAM is behind corner table and backs a little before her.) What's tha gettin' at, Sam Horrocks? Tha's got a tongue in thy faice, hasn't tha?

SAM. A suppose so. A doan't use it much though.

EMMA. No. Tha's not much better than a tongue-tied idiot, Sam Horrocks, allays mooning about in th' engine-house in daytime an' sulkin' at 'ome neeghttime.

SAM. Aye, A'm lonely sin' ma moother died. She did 'ave a way wi' 'er, ma moother. Th' 'ould plaice 'as not bin t' same to me sin' she went. Daytime, tha knaws, A'm all reeght. Tha sees, them engines, them an' me's pals. They talks to me an' A understands their ways. A doan't some'ow seem to understand th' ways o' folks like as A does th' ways o' them engines.

EMMA. Tha doesn't try. T' other lads goes rattin' or dog-feeghtin' on a Sunday or to a football match of a Saturday afternoon. Tha stays moonin' about th' 'ouse. Tha's not likely to understand folks. Tha's not sociable.

SAM. Naw. That's reeght enough. A nobbut get laughed at when A tries to be sociable an' stand my corner down at th' pub wi' th' rest o' th' lads. It's no use ma tryin' to soop ale; A can't carry th' drink like t' others. A knaws A've ways o' ma own.

EMMA. Tha has that.

SAM. A'm terrible lonesome, Emma. That theer 'ouse o' mine, it do want a wench about th' plaice. Th' engines is all reeght for days, but th' neeghts is that lonesome-like tha wouldn't believe.

EMMA. Tha's only thasel' to blame. It's nought to do wi' me, choosehow.

SAM. Naw? A'd—A'd 'oped as 'ow it might 'ave, Emma.

EMMA (approaching threateningly). Sam Horrocks, if tha doan't tell me proper what tha means A 'll give tha such a slap in th' mouth.

SAM (backing before her). Tha does fluster a feller, Emma. Just like ma moother.

EMMA. A wish A 'ad bin. A'd 'ave knocked some sense into thy silly yead.

SAM (suddenly and clumsily kneels above chair left of table). Wilt tha 'ave me, Emma? A mak' good money in th'engine-house.

EMMA. Get oop, tha great fool. If tha didn't keep thasel' so close wi' tha moonin' about in th' engine-'ouse an' never speakin' a word to nobody, tha'd knaw A were keepin' coompany wi' Joe Hindle.

SAM (scrambling up). Is that a fact, Emma?

EMMA. Of course it's a fact. Banns 'ull be oop come Sunday fortneeght. We've not 'idden it neither. It's just like the great blind idiot that tha art not to 'a' seen it long enough sin'.

SAM. A wer'n't aware. By gum, A 'ad so 'oped as tha'd 'ave me, Emma.

EMMA (a little more softly). A'm sorry if A've 'urt thee, Sam.

SAM. Aye. It were ma fault. Eh, well, A think mebbe A'd best be goin'.

EMMA (lifts box to left). Aye. Parson's coomin' to see Mrs. Ormerod in a minute.

SAM (with pride). A knaw all about that, anyhow.

EMMA. She'm in a bad way. A dunno masel' as Parson can do much for 'er.

SAM. It's 'ard lines on an ould un. Well, yo' 'll not want me'ere. A 'll be movin' on. (Getting his cap out) No offense, Emma, A 'ope. A'd 'ave asked thee first if A'd knawn as 'e were after thee. A've bin tryin' for long enough.

EMMA. No. Theer's no offense, Sam. Tha's a good lad if tha art a fool, an' mebbe tha's not to blame for that. Good-bye.

SAM. Good-bye, Emma. An'—An' A 'ope 'e'll mak' thee 'appy. A'd dearly like to coom to th' weddin' an' shake 'is 'and.

(MRS. ORMEROD heard off right.)

EMMA. A'll see tha's asked. Theer's Mrs. Ormerod stirrin'. Tha'd best be gettin'.

SAM. All reeght. Good-bye, Emma.

EMMA. Good-bye, Sam.

(Exit SAM left centre. MRS. ORMEROD comes from the inside door. She has a small blue teapot in her hand.)

SARAH. Was anybody 'ere, Emma? A thowt A yeard someun talkin', only my yearin' isn't what it used to be, an' A warn't sure.

EMMA. It were Sam Horrocks, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. Yon lad of ould Sal Horrocks as died last year? 'Im as isn't reeght in 'is yead?

EMMA. Aye. 'E's bin askin' me to wed 'im.

SARAH (incensed). In my 'ouse? Theer's imperence for thee, an' tha promised to another lad, an' all. A'd 'ave set about 'im wi' a stick, Emma.

EMMA. 'E didn't knaw about Joe. It made me feel cruel like to 'ave to tell 'im.

SARAH. 'E'll get ower it. Soom lass 'll tak' 'im.

EMMA. A suppose so.

SARAH (coming down, putting the teapot in EMMA'S hands). Well, theer's teapot.

EMMA (meets SARAH right centre, examining teapot). It's beautiful. Beautiful, it is, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. Aye, it's a bit o' real china is that. Tha'll tak' care on't, lass, won't thee?

EMMA. A will an' all.

SARAH. Aye. A knaw it's safe wi' thee. Mebbe safer than it would be in workus. A can't think well on yon plaice. A goa cold all ower at thowt of it.

(A knock at the door.)

EMMA. That'll be Parson.

SARAH (crosses left, smoothing her hair). Goa an' look through window first, an' see who 't is.

EMMA (puts teapot on table; looking through window). It is not th' ould Parson. It's one o' them young curate chaps.

SARAH. Well, coom away from window an' sit thee down. It won't do to seem too eager. Let un knock again if it's not th' ould Parson.

(EMMA leaves the window and goes to right of table. The knock is repeated.)

SARAH (raising her voice). Coom in so who tha art. Door's on latch.

(Enter the REV. FRANK ALLEYNE. He is a young curate, a Londoner and an Oxford man, by association, training, and taste totally unfitted for a Lancashire curacy, in which he is, unfortunately, no exception.)

ALLEYNE. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. Good day to thee.

ALLEYNE. I'm sorry to say Mr. Blundell has had to go to a missionary meeting, but he asked me to come and see you in his stead.

SARAH. Tha's welcoom, lad. Sit thee doon.

(EMMA comes below table left. Dusts a chair, which doesn't need it, with her apron. ALLEYNE raises a deprecatory hand. SARAH'S familiarity, as it seems to him, offends him. He looks sourly at EMMA and markedly ignores her.)

ALLEYNE. Thank you; no, I won't sit; I cannot stay long.

SARAH. Just as tha likes. It's all same to me.

(EMMA stays by right of table.)

ALLEYNE. How is it with you, Mrs. Ormerod?

SARAH. It might be worse. A've lost th' use o' my 'ands, and they're takin' me to workus, but A'm not dead yet, and that's summat to be thankul for.

ALLEYNE. Oh, yes, yes, Mrs. Ormerod. The—er—message I am to deliver is, I fear, not quite what Mr. Blundell led you to hope for. His efforts on your behalf have—er—- unfortunately failed. He finds himself obliged to give up all hope of aiding you to a livelihood. In fact—er—I understand that the arrangements made for your removal to the workhouse this afternoon must be carried out. It seems there is no alternative. I am grieved to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I am sure you will find a comfortable home awaiting you, Mrs.—er—Ormerod.

SARAH. 'Appen A shall an' 'appen A shan't. Theer's no tellin' 'ow you'll favor a thing till you've tried it.

ALLEYNE. You must resign yourself to the will of Providence. The consolations of religion are always with us. Shall I pray with you?

SARAH. A never were much at prayin' when A were well off, an' A doubt the Lord ud tak' it kind o' selfish o' me if A coom cryin' to 'im now A'm 'urt.

ALLEYNE. He will understand. Can I do nothing for you?

SARAH. A dunno as tha can, thankin' thee all same.

ALLEYNE. I am privileged with Mr. Blundell's permission to bring a little gift to you, Mrs. Ormerod. (Feeling in his coattails and bringing out a Testament.) Allow me to present you with this Testament, and may it help you to bear your Cross with resignation. (He hands her the Testament. SARAH does not raise her hands, and it drops on her lap. ALLEYNE takes it again and puts it on the table.) Ah, yes, of course—your poor hands—I understand.

SARAH. Thankee kindly. Readin' don't coom easy to me, an' my eyes aren't what they were, but A'll mak' most of it.

ALLEYNE. You will never read that in vain. And now, dear sister, I must go. I will pray for strength for you. All will be well. Good day.

SARAH. Good day to thee.

(Exit ALLEYNE.)

EMMA. Tha doesn't look so pleased wi' tha gift, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. It's not square thing of th' ould Parson, Emma. 'E should 'a' coom an' tould me 'isself. Looks like 'e were feart to do it. A never could abide them curate lads. We doan't want no grand Lunnon gentlemen down 'ere. 'E doan't understand us no more than we understand 'im. 'E means all reeght, poor lad. Sithee, Emma, A've bin a church-goin' woman all my days. A was browt oop to church, an' many's th' bit o' brass they've 'ad out o' me in my time. An' in th' end they send me a fine curate with a tuppenny Testament. That's all th' good yo' get out o' they folks.

EMMA. We'm chapel to our 'ouse, an' 'e didn't forget to let me see 'e knaw'd it, but A doan't say as it's ony different wi' chapels, neither. They get what they can outer yo', but yo' mustn't look for nothin' back, when th' pinch cooms. (Clock outside strikes three.) Sakes alive, theer's clock goin' three. My dinner 'ull be nice an' cold.

SARAH. Eh, what's that, lass? Dost mean to tell me tha's bin clemmin' all this time?

EMMA. A coom 'ere straight from factory.

SARAH. Then tha doesn't move till tha's 'ad summat to eat.

EMMA. My dinner's ready for me at whoam, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. Then just look sharp an' get it, tha silly lass. Tha 's no reeght to go wi'out thy baggin'.

EMMA (putting her shawl on). All reeght. A'm off.

(Picks up teapot.)

SARAH. Tha's bin a world o' coomfort to me, Emma. It'll be 'arder to bear when tha's gone. Th' thowt's too much for me. Eh, lass, A'm feart o' yon great gaunt building wi' th' drear windows.

EMMA. 'Appen ma moother 'ull coom in. Tha'll do wi' a bit o' coompany. A 'll ask her to coom an' fetch thee a coop o' tea bye-an'-bye.

(A knock at the door.)

SARAH. Who's theer?

SAM (without). It's only me, Mrs. Ormerod.

EMMA. A do declare it's that Sam Horrocks again.

SARAH. Sam Horrocks! What can th'lad be after now? (Calling) Hast tha wiped thy boots on scraper?

SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. Coom in then. (EMMA in left corner. Enter SAM.) Tak' thy cap off.

SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod.

SARAH. What dost want?

SAM. A've soom business 'ere. A thowt A'd find thee by thysel'. A'll coom again (bolting nervously for the door).

SARAH. Let that door be. Dost say tha's got business 'ere?

SAM. Aye, wi' thee. A'd like a word wi' thee private.

(EMMA moves to open door.)

SARAH. All reeght. Emma's just goin' to 'er dinner.

EMMA (speaking through door). A'll ask my moother to step hi later on, Mrs. Ormerod, and thank thee very much for th' teapot.

SARAH. A'll be thankful if she'll coom. (Exit EMMA with teapot.) Now, Sam Horrocks, what's the matter wi' thee?

SAM (dropping the cotton-waste he is fumbling with and picking it up). It's a fine day for th' time o' th' year.

SARAH. Didst want to see me private to tell me that, lad?

SAM. Naw, not exactly.

SARAH. Well, what is it then? Coom, lad, A'm waitin' on thee. Art tongue-tied? Can't tha quit mawlin' yon bit o' waste an' tell me what 'tis tha wants?

SAM (desperately). Mebbe it'll not be so fine in th' mornin'.

SARAH. A'll tell thee what A'd do to thee if A 'ad the use o' my 'ands, my lad. A'd coom aside thee and A'd box thy ears. If tha's got business wi' me, tha'd best state it sharp or A 'll be showin' thee the shape o' my door.

SAM. Tha do fluster a feller so as A doan't knaw wheer A am. A've not been nagged like that theer sin' my ould moother died.

SARAH. A've 'eerd folk say Sal Horrocks were a slick un wi' 'er tongue.

SAM (admiringly). She were that. Rare talker she were. She'd lie theer in 'er bed all day as it might be in yon corner, an' call me all th' names she could put her tongue to, till A couldn't tell ma reeght 'and from ma left. (Still reminiscent.) Wonnerful sperrit, she 'ad, considerin' she were bed-ridden so long. She were only a little un an' cripple an' all, but by gum, she could sling it at a feller if 'er tea weren't brewed to 'er taste. Talk! She'd talk a donkey's yead off, she would.

SARAH (on her mettle). An' A'll talk thy silly yead off an' all if tha doan't get sharp to tellin' me what tha wants after in my 'ouse, tha great mazed idiot.

SAM. Eh, but she were a rare un.

SARAH. The lad's daft aboot his moother.

SAM (detachedly, looking at window; pause). Wunnerful breeght the sky is, to-day.

SARAH. Tha great 'ulkin' fool. A'd tak' a broomstick to thee if—if A'd the use o' my 'ands.

SAM. Now, if that isn't just what ma moother used to say.

SARAH. Dang thy moother. An' A doan't mean no disrepect to 'er neither. She's bin in 'er grave this year an' more, poor woman.

SAM. A canna 'elp thinkin' to 'er all same. Eh, but she were wunnerful.

SARAH. An' A'd be wunnerful too. A'd talk to thee. A'd call thee if A were thy moother an' A'd to live aside o' thee neeght an' day.

SAM (eagerly). Eh, by gum, but A wish tha would.

SARAH. Would what?

SAM. Would coom an' live along wi' me.

SARAH. Tha great fool, what does mean? Art askin' me to wed thee?

SAM. A didn't mean to offend thee, Mrs. Ormerod. A'm sorry A spoke. A allays do wrong thing. But A did so 'ope as tha might coom. Tha sees A got used to moother. A got used to 'earin' 'er cuss me. A got used to doin' for 'er an' A've nought to do in th' evenings now. It's terrible lonesome in th' neeghttime. An' when notion coom to me, A thowt as A'd mention un to thee casual.

SARAH. Dost mean it, Sam Horrocks? Dost tha know what tha's sayin', or is tha foolin' me?

SAM. O' course A mean it. Tha sees A'm not a marryin' sort. Th' lasses won't look at me. A'm silly Sam to them, A knaws it. A've a slate loose; A shan't never get wed. A thowt A'd mebbe a chance wi' yon lass as were 'ere wi' thee, but hoo towld me A were too late. A allays were slow. A left askin' too long an' A 've missed 'er. A gets good money, Mrs. Ormerod, but A canna talk to a young wench. They mak's me go 'ot and cowld all over. An' when curate towld me as tha was to go to workus, A thowt A'd a chance wi' thee. A knaw'd it weren't a big chance, because my plaice ain't much cop after what tha's bin used to 'ere. A've got no fine fixin's nor big chairs an' things like as tha used to 'ave. Eh, but A would 'ave loved to do for thee as A used to do for ma moother, an' when A yeerd thee talkin' now an' callin' me a fool an' th' rest, by gum, A just yearned to 'ave thee for allays. Tha'd fill 'er plaice wunnerful well. A'd just a' loved to adopt thee.

SARAH. To adopt me?

SAM. Ay, for a moother. A'm sorry tha can't see thy way to let me. A didn't mean no offence (turning to the door).

SARAH. 'Ere, lad, tha tell me this. If A'd said tha might tak' me for thy moother, what wouldst ha' done?

SAM. Why, kissed thee, an' takken thee oop in ma arms whoam to thy bed. It's standin' ready in yonder wi' clean sheets an' all, an' a new quilt from Co-op. A 'opes you'll pardon th' liberty o' mentioning it.

SARAH. A new quilt, Sam? What's color?

SAM. Red, wi' blue stripes down 'er.

SARAH. A'm not a light weight, tha knows.

SAM. A'd carry thee easy—"Strong in th' arm and weak in th' yead." It's an ould sayin', but it's a good un, an' it fits.

SARAH. Wilt tha try, Sam Horrocks? God bless thee, wilt tha try, lad?

SAM. Dost mean it, Mrs. Ormerod? Dost mean tha'll coom? Tha's not coddin' a feller, art tha?

SARAH. No, A'm not coddin'. Kiss me, Sam, my son.

(He kisses her and lifts her in his arms.)

SAM. By gum, but that were good. A'll coom back fur thy box.

SABAH. Carry me careful, tha great luny. A'm not a sack o' flour.

SAM. Eh, but A likes to year thee talk. Yon was real mootherly, it were.

(Exit through door, carrying her.)

[CURTAIN at clink of latch]



RIDERS TO THE SEA[1]

J.M. Synge

[Footnote 1: Included by permission of Messrs. John W. Luce and Company.]

CHARACTERS

MAURYA, an old woman BARTLEY, her son CATHLEEN, her daughter NORA, a younger daughter MEN AND WOMEN

SCENE: An island off the West of Ireland. Cottage kitchen, with nets, oilskins, 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?

NOBA. 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 is blown open by a gust of wind.)

CATHLEEN (looking out anxiously). Did you ask him would he stop Bartley going this day with the horses to the Galway fair?

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; CATHLEEN goes up a few steps and hides the bundle in the turf-loft. MAURYA 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 the 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 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'd 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 for horses, 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'd 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 wasn'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 drownd'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 for ever.

(MAURYA sways herself on her stool.)

CATHLEEN (cutting off some of the bread and rolling 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 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 stocking. They look at them eagerly.)

CATHLEEN (in a low voice). The Lord spare 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 three score 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 round, and throwing out her arms 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 (offer 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 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 seen 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 wouldn't leave her destitute with no son living?

MAUKYA (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 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 the 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 northeast?

CATHLEEN (in a whisper). There's someone 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 seen 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 red petticoats over their heads.)

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 the wind blowing, it's hard set his own mother would be to say what man was 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). Is it 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 gray pony knocked him 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 around 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'd 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 an old man). 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 OLD 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).



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE[1]

William Butler Yeats

[Footnote 1: Reprinted by arrangement with Mr. Yeats and the Macmillan Company, New York, publishers of Mr. Yeats's Collected Works (1912).]

CHARACTERS

MAURTEEN BRUIN BRIDGET BRUIN, his wife SHAWN BRUIN, their son MAIRE BRUIN, wife of Shawn FATHER HART A FAERY CHILD

SCENE: In the Barony of Kilmacowan, in the county of Sligo, at a remote time.

SETTING: a room with a hearth on the floor in the middle of a deep alcove on the right. There are benches in the alcove, and a table; a crucifix on the wall. The alcove is full of a glow of light from the fire. There is an open door facing the audience, to the left, and to the left of this a bench. Through the door one can see the forest. It is night, but the moon or a late sunset glimmers through the trees, and carries the eye far off into a vague, mysterious world. MAURTEEN BRUIN, SHAWN BRUIN, and BRIDGET BRUIN sit in the alcove at the table, or about the fire. They are dressed in the costume of some remote time, and near them sits an old priest, FATHER HART, in the garb of a friar. There is food and drink upon the table. MAIRE BRUIN stands by the door, reading a yellow manuscript. If she looks up, she can see through the door into the wood.

BRIDGET BRUIN Because I bade her go and feed the calves, She took that old book down out of the thatch And has been doubled over it all day. We should be deafened by her groans and moans Had she to work as some do, Father Hart, Get up at dawn like me, and mend and scour; Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you, The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.

SHAWN BRUIN You are too cross.

BRIDGET BRUIN The young side with the young.

MAURTEEN BRUIN She quarrels with my wife a bit at times, And is too deep just now in the old book! But do not blame her greatly; she will grow As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree When but the moons of marriage dawn and die For half a score of times.

FATHER HART Their hearts are wild As be the hearts of birds, till children come.

BRIDGET BRUIN She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow, Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.

FATHER HART I never saw her read a book before; What may it be?

MAURTEEN BRUIN I do not rightly know; It has been in the thatch for fifty years. My father told me my grandfather wrote it, Killed a red heifer and bound it with the hide. But draw your chair this way—supper is spread; And little good he got out of the book, Because it filled his house with roaming bards, And roaming ballad-makers and the like, And wasted all his goods.—Here is the wine: The griddle bread's beside you, Father Hart. Colleen, what have you got there in the book That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I, Or had my father, read or written books There were no stocking stuffed with golden guineas To come, when I am dead, to Shawn and you.

FATHER HART You should not fill your head with foolish dreams. What are you reading?

MARIE BRUIN How a Princess Edane, A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed, half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue; And she is still there, busied with a dance, Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.

MAURTEEN BRUIN Persuade the colleen to put by the book: My grandfather would mutter just such things, And he was no judge of a dog or horse, And any idle boy could blarney him: Just speak your mind.

FATHER HART Put it away, my colleen. God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, And gives a little round of deeds and days, And then come the wrecked angels and set snares, And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams, Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes, Half shuddering and half joyous, from God's peace: And it was some wrecked angel, blind from tears, Who flattered Edane's heart with merry words. My colleen, I have seen some other girls Restless and ill at ease, but years went by And they grew like their neighbours and were glad In minding children, working at the churn, And gossiping of weddings and of wakes; For life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age bring the red flare again.

MAURTEEN BRUIN That's true—but she's too young to know it's true.

BRIDGET BRUIN She's old enough to know that it is wrong To mope and idle.

SHAWN BRUIN I've little blame for her; And mother's tongue were harder still to bear, But for her fancies: this is May Eve too, When the good people post about the world, And surely one may think of them to-night. Maire, have you the primroses to fling Before the door to make a golden path For them to bring good luck into the house? Remember, they may steal new-married brides After the fall of twilight on May Eve.

(MAIRE BRUIN goes over to the window and takes flowers from the bowl and strews them outside the door.)

FATHER HART You do well, daughter, because God permits Great power to the good people on May Eve.

SHAWN BRUIN They can work all their will with primroses; Change them to golden money, or little flames To burn up those who do them any wrong.

MARIE BRUIN (in a dreamy voice) I had no sooner flung them by the door Than the wind cried and hurried them away; And then a child came running in the wind And caught them in her hands and fondled them: Her dress was green: her hair was of red gold; Her face was pale as water before dawn.

FATHER HART Whose child can this be?

MAURTEEN BRUIN No one's child at all. She often dreams that someone has gone by When there was nothing but a puff of wind.

MARIE BRUIN They will not bring good luck into the house, For they have blown the primroses away; Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them, For are not they, likewise, children of God?

FATHER HART Colleen, they are the children of the fiend, And they have power until the end of Time, When God shall fight with them a great pitched battle And hack them into pieces.

MARIE BRUIN He will smile, Father, perhaps, and open His great door, And call the pretty and kind into His house.

FATHER HART Did but the lawless angels see that door, They would fall, slain by everlasting peace; And when such angels knock upon our doors Who goes with them must drive through the same storm.

(A knock at the door. MAIRE BRUIN opens it and then goes to the dresser and fills a porringer with milk and hands it through the door, and takes it back empty and closes the door.)

MARIE BRUIN A little queer old woman cloaked in green, Who came to beg a porringer of milk.

BRIDGET BRUIN The good people go asking milk and fire Upon May Eve—Woe on the house that gives, For they have power upon it for a year. I knew you would bring evil on the house.

MAURTEEN BRUIN Who was she?

MARIE BRUIN Both the tongue and face were strange.

MAURTEEN BRUIN Some strangers came last week to Clover Hill; She must be one of them.

BRIDGET BRUIN I am afraid.

MAURTEEN BRUIN The priest will keep all harm out of the house.

FATHER HART The cross will keep all harm out of the house While it hangs there.

MAURTEEN BRUIN Come, sit beside me, colleen, And put away your dreams of discontent, For I would have you light up my last days Like the good glow of the turf, and when I die I will make you the wealthiest hereabout: For hid away where nobody can find I have a stocking full of yellow guineas.

BRIDGET BRUIN You are the fool of every pretty face, And I must pinch and pare that my son's wife May have all kinds of ribbons for her head.

MAURTEEN BRUIN Do not be cross; she is a right good girl! The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart. My colleen, have not Fate and Time and Change Done well for me and for old Bridget there? We have a hundred acres of good land, And sit beside each other at the fire, The wise priest of our parish to our right, And you and our dear son to left of us. To sit beside the board and drink good wine And watch the turf smoke coiling from the fire And feel content and wisdom in your heart, This is the best of life; when we are young We long to tread a way none trod before, But find the excellent old way through love And through the care of children to the hour For bidding Fate and Time and Change good-bye.

(A knock at the door. MAIRE BRUIN opens it and then takes a sod of turf out of the hearth in the tongs and goes out through the door. SHAWN follows her and meets her coming in.)

SHAWN BRUIN What is it draws you to the chill o' the wood? There is a light among the stems of the trees That makes one shiver.

MARIE BRUIN A little queer old man Made me a sign to show he wanted fire To light his pipe.

BRIDGET BRUIN You've given milk and fire, Upon the unluckiest night of the year, and brought, For all you know, evil upon the house. Before you married you were idle and fine, And went about with ribbons on your head; And now—no, father, I will speak my mind, She is not a fitting wife for any man—

SHAWN BRUIN Be quiet, mother!

MAURTEEN BRUIN You are much too cross!

MARIE BRUIN What do I care if I have given this house, Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue, Into the power of faeries!

BRIDGET BRUIN You know well How calling the good people by that name Or talking of them over much at all May bring all kinds of evil on the house.

MARIE BRUIN Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house! Let me have all the freedom I have lost; Work when I will and idle when I will! Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, For I would ride with you upon the wind, Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, And dance upon the mountains like a flame!

FATHER HART You cannot know the meaning of your words.

MARIE BRUIN Father, I am right weary of four tongues: A tongue that is too crafty and too wise, A tongue that is too godly and too grave, A tongue that is more bitter than the tide, And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love, Of drowsy love and my captivity.

(SHAWN BRUIN comes over to her and leads her to the settle.)

SHAWN BRUIN Do not blame me: I often lie awake Thinking that all things trouble your bright head— How beautiful it is—such broad pale brows Under a cloudy blossoming of hair! Sit down beside me here—these are too old, And have forgotten they were ever young.

MARIE BRUIN Oh, you are the great door-post of this house, And I, the red nasturtium, climbing up.

(She takes SHAWN'S hand, but looks shyly at the priest and lets it go.)

FATHER HART Good daughter, take his hand—by love alone God binds us to Himself and to the hearth And shuts us from the waste beyond His peace, From maddening freedom and bewildering light.

SHAWN BRUIN Would that the world were mine to give it you With every quiet hearth and barren waste, The maddening freedom of its woods and tides, And the bewildering light upon its hills.

MARIE BRUIN Then I would take and break it in my hands To see you smile watching it crumble away.

SHAWN BRUIN Then I would mould a world of fire and dew With no one bitter, grave, or over wise, And nothing marred or old to do you wrong, And crowd the enraptured quiet of the sky With candles burning to your lonely face.

MARIE BRUIN Your looks are all the candles that I need.

SHAWN BRUIN Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun, Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn, Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew, But now the indissoluble sacrament Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold With my warm heart forever; and sun and moon Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll; But your white spirit still walk by my spirit.

(A VOICE sings in the distance.)

MARIE BRUIN Did you hear something call? Oh, guard me close, Because I have said wicked things to-night; And seen a pale-faced child with red-gold hair, And longed to dance upon the winds with her.

A VOICE (close to the door) The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart And the lonely of heart is withered away, While the faeries dance in a place apart, Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur and sing Of a land where even the old are fair, And even the wise are merry of tongue; But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, "When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, The lonely of heart is withered away!"

MAURTEEN BRUIN I am right happy, and would make all else Be happy too. I hear a child outside, And will go bring her in out of the cold.

(He opens the door. A CHILD dressed in pale green and with red-gold hair comes into the house.)

THE CHILD I tire of winds and waters and pale lights!

MAURTEEN BRUIN You are most welcome. It is cold out there; Who would think to face such cold on a May Eve?

THE CHILD And when I tire of this warm little house There is one here who must away, away, To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams Are holding a continual festival.

MAURTEEN BRUIN Oh, listen to her dreamy and strange talk. Come to the fire.

THE CHILD I will sit upon your knee, For I have run from where the winds are born, And long to rest my feet a little while.

(She sits upon his knee.)

BRIDGET BRUIN How pretty you are!

MAURTEEN BRUIN Your hair is wet with dew!

BRIDGET BRUIN I will warm your chilly feet.

(She takes the child's feet in her hands.)

MAURTEEN BRUIN You must have come A long, long way, for I have never seen Your pretty face, and must be tired and hungry; Here is some bread and wine.

THE CHILD The wine is bitter. Old mother, have you no sweet food for me?

BRIDGET BRUIN I have some honey!

(She goes into the next room.)

MAURTEEN BRUIN You are a dear child; The mother was quite cross before you came.

(BRIDGET returns with the honey, and goes to the dresser and fills a porringer with milk.)

BRIDGET BRUIN She is the child of gentle people; look At her white hands and at her pretty dress. I've brought you some new milk, but wait awhile, And I will put it by the fire to warm, For things well fitted for poor folk like us Would never please a high-born child like you.

THE CHILD Old mother, my old mother, the green dawn Brightens above while you blow up the fire; And evening finds you spreading the white cloth. The young may lie in bed and dream and hope, But you work on because your heart is old.

BRIDGET BRUIN The young are idle.

THE CHILD Old father, you are wise And all the years have gathered in your heart To whisper of the wonders that are gone. The young must sigh through many a dream and hope, But you are wise because your heart is old.

MAURTEEN BRUIN Oh, who would think to find so young a child Loving old age and wisdom?

(BRIDGET gives her more bread and honey.)

THE CHILD No more, mother.

MAURTEEN BRUIN What a small bite! The milk is ready now; What a small sip!

THE CHILD Put on my shoes, old mother, For I would like to dance now I have eaten. The reeds are dancing by Coolaney lake, And I would like to dance until the reeds And the white waves have danced themselves to sleep.

BRIDGET (Having put on her shoes, she gets off the old man's knees and is about to dance, but suddenly sees the crucifix and shrieks and covers her eyes.) What is that ugly thing on the black cross?

FATHER HART You cannot know how naughty your words are! That is our Blessed Lord!

THE CHILD Hide it away!

BRIDGET BRUIN I have begun to be afraid, again!

THE CHILD Hide it away!

MAURTEEN BRUIN That would be wickedness!

BRIDGET BRUIN That would be sacrilege!

THE CHILD The tortured thing! Hide it away!

MAURTEEN BRUIN Her parents are to blame.

FATHER HART That is the image of the Son of God.

(THE CHILD puts her arm around his neck and kisses him.)

THE CHILD Hide it away! Hide it away!

MAURTEEN BRUIN No! no!

FATHER HART Because you are so young and little a child I will go take it down.

THE CHILD Hide it away, And cover it out of sight and out of mind.

(FATHER HART takes it down and carries it towards the inner room.)

FATHER HART Since you have come into this barony I will instruct you in our blessed faith: Being a clever child you will soon learn.

(To the others)

We must be tender with all budding things. Our Maker let no thought of Calvary Trouble the morning stars in their first song.

(Puts the crucifix in the inner room.)

THE CHILD Here is level ground for dancing. I will dance. The wind is blowing on the waving reeds, The wind is blowing on the heart of man.

(She dances, swaying about like the reeds.)

MAIRE (to SHAWN BRUIN) Just now when she came near I thought I heard Other small steps beating upon the floor, And a faint music blowing in the wind, Invisible pipes giving her feet the time.

SHAWN BRUIN I heard no step but hers.

MARIE BRUIN Look to the bolt! Because the unholy powers are abroad.

MAURTEEN BRUIN (to THE CHILD) Come over here, and if you promise me Not to talk wickedly of holy things I will give you something.

THE CHILD Bring it me, old father!

(MAURTEEN BRUIN goes into the next room.)

FATHER HART I will have queen cakes when you come to me!

(MAURTEEN BRUIN returns and lays a piece of money on the table. THE CHILD makes a gesture of refusal.)

MAURTEEN BRUIN It will buy lots of toys; see how it glitters!

THE CHILD Come, tell me, do you love me?

MAURTEEN BRUIN I love you!

THE CHILD Ah! but you love this fireside!

FATHER HART I love you. When the Almighty puts so great a share Of His own ageless youth into a creature, To look is but to love.

THE CHILD But you love Him above.

BRIDGET BRUIN She is blaspheming.

THE CHILD (to MAIRE) And do you love me?

MARIE BRUIN I—I do not know.

THE CHILD You love that great tall fellow over there: Yet I could make you ride upon the winds, Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, And dance upon the mountains like a flame!

MARIE BRUIN Queen of the Angels and kind Saints, defend us! Some dreadful fate has fallen: a while ago The wind cried out and took the primroses, And she ran by me laughing in the wind, And I gave milk and fire, and she came in And made you hide the blessed crucifix.

FATHER HART You fear because of her wild, pretty prattle; She knows no better.

(To THE CHILD)

Child, how old are you?

THE CHILD When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin, My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken My mother carries me in her golden arms. I will soon put on my womanhood and marry The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell When I was born for the first time? I think I am much older than the eagle cock That blinks and blinks on Ballygawley Hill, And he is the oldest thing under the moon.

FATHER HART She is of the faery people.

THE CHILD I am Brig's daughter. I sent my messengers for milk and fire, And then I heard one call to me and came.

(They all except SHAWN and MAIRE BRUIN gather behind the priest for protection.)

SHAWN (rising) Though you have made all these obedient, You have not charmed my sight, and won from me A wish or gift to make you powerful; I'll turn you from the house.

FATHER HART No, I will face her.

THE CHILD Because you took away the crucifix I am so mighty that there's none can pass Unless I will it, where my feet have danced Or where I've twirled my finger tops.

(SHAWN tries to approach her and cannot.)

MAURTEEN Look, look! There something stops him—look how he moves his hands As though he rubbed them on a wall of glass.

FATHER HART I will confront this mighty spirit alone.

(They cling to him and hold him back.)

THE CHILD (while she strews primroses) No one whose heart is heavy with human tears Can cross these little cressets of the wood.

FATHER HART Be not afraid, the Father is with us, And all the nine angelic hierarchies, The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents, The adoring Magi in their coats of mail, And He who died and rose on the third day, And Mary with her seven times wounded heart.

(THE CHILD ceases strewing the primroses, and kneels upon the settle beside MAIRE and puts her arms about her neck.)

Cry, daughter, to the Angels and the Saints.

THE CHILD You shall go with me, newly married bride, And gaze upon a merrier multitude; White-armed Nuala, Aengus of the birds, Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him Who is the ruler of the Western Host, Finvarra, and their Land of Heart's Desire, Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song. I kiss you and the world begins to fade.

FATHER HART Daughter, I call you unto home and love!

THE CHILD Stay, and come with me, newly married bride, For, if you hear him, you grow like the rest: Bear children, cook, be mindful of the churn, And wrangle over butter, fowl, and eggs, And sit at last there, old and bitter of tongue, Watching the white stars war upon your hopes.

SHAWN Awake out of that trance, and cover up Your eyes and ears.

FATHER HART She must both look and listen, For only the soul's choice can save her now. Daughter, I point you out the way to heaven.

THE CHILD But I can lead you, newly married bride, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue, And where kind tongues bring no captivity; For we are only true to the far lights We follow singing, over valley and hill.

FATHER HART By the dear name of the one crucified, I bid you, Maire Bruin, come to me.

THE CHILD I keep you in the name of your own heart!

(She leaves the settle, and stooping takes up a mass of primroses and kisses them.)

We have great power to-night, dear golden folk, For he took down and hid the crucifix. And my invisible brethren fill the house; I hear their footsteps going up and down. Oh, they shall soon rule all the hearts of men And own all lands; last night they merrily danced About his chapel belfry! (To MAIRE) Come away, I hear my brethren bidding us away!

FATHER HART I will go fetch the crucifix again.

(They hang about him in terror and prevent him from moving.)

BRIDGET BRUIN The enchanted flowers will kill us if you go.

MAURTEEN BRUIN They turn the flowers to little twisted flames.

SHAWN BRUIN The little twisted flames burn up the heart.

THE CHILD I hear them crying, "Newly married bride, Come to the woods and waters and pale lights."

MARIE BRUIN I will go with you.

FATHER HART She is lost, alas!

THE CHILD (standing by the door) But clinging mortal hope must fall from you: For we who ride the winds, run on the waves And dance upon the mountains, are more light Than dewdrops on the banners of the dawn.

MARIE BRUIN Oh, take me with you.

(SHAWN BRUIN goes over to her.)

SHAWN BRUIN Beloved, do not leave me! Remember when I met you by the well And took your hand in mine and spoke of love.

MARIE BRUIN Dear face! Dear voice!

THE CHILD Come, newly married bride!

MARIE BRUIN I always loved her world—and yet—and yet—

(Sinks into his arms.)

THE CHILD (from the door) White bird, white bird, come with me, little bird.

MARIE BRUIN She calls to me!

THE CHILD Come with me, little bird!

MARIE BRUIN I can hear songs and dancing!

SHAWN BRUIN Stay with me!

MARIE BRUIN I think that I would stay—and yet—and yet—

THE CHILD Come, little bird with crest of gold!

MARIE BRUIN (very softly) And yet—

THE CHILD Come, little bird with silver feet!

(MAIRE dies, and the child goes.)

SHAWN BRUIN She is dead!

BRIDGET BRUIN Come from that image: body and soul are gone. You have thrown your arms about a drift of leaves Or bole of an ash tree changed into her image.

FATHER HART Thus do the spirits of evil snatch their prey Almost out of the very hand of God; And day by day their power is more and more, And men and women leave old paths, for pride Comes knocking with thin knuckles on the heart.

A VOICE (singing outside) The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away While the faeries dance in a place apart, Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing Of a land where even the old are fair, And even the wise are merry of tongue; But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, "When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, The lonely of heart is withered away."

(The song is taken up by many voices, who sing loudly, as if in triumph. Some of the voices seem to come from within the house.)

[CURTAIN]



THE RIDING TO LITHEND[1]

Gordon Bottomley

[Footnote 1: This play is reprinted by permission of and by arrangement with Constable and Company, Limited, London.]

CHARACTERS

GUNNAR HAMUNDSSON HALLGERD LONGCOAT, his wife RANNVEIG, his mother ODDNY, ASTRID, and STEINVOR, Hallgerd's housewomen ORMILD, a woman thrall BIARTEY, JOFRID, and GUDFINN, beggar-women GIZUR THE WHITE, MORD VALGARDSSON, THORGRIM THE EASTERLING, THORBRAND THORLEIKSSON and ASBRAND his brother, AUNUND, THORGEIB, and HROALD, riders MANY OTHER RIDERS AND VOICES OF RIDERS

TIME: Iceland, A.D. 990

SCENE: The hall of GUNNAR'S house at Lithend in South Iceland. The portion shewn is set on the stage diagonally, so that to the right one end is seen, while from the rear corner of this, one side runs down almost to the left front.

The side wall is low and wainscoted with carved panelling on which hang weapons, shields, and coats of mail. In one place a panel slid aside shews a shut bed.

In front of the panelling are two long benches with a carved high-seat between them. Across the end of the hall are similar panellings and the seats, with corresponding tables, of the women's dais; behind these and in the gable wall is a high narrow door with a rounded top.

A timber roof slopes down to the side wall and is upheld by cross-beams and two rows of tall pillars which make a rather narrow nave of the centre of the hall. One of these rows runs parallel to the side wall, the pair of pillars before the high-seat being carved and ended with images; of the other row only two pillars are visible at the extreme right.

Within this nave is the space for the hearths; but the only hearth visible is the one near the women's dais. In the roof above it there is a louvre: the fire glows and no smoke rises. The hall is lit everywhere by the firelight.

The rafters over the women's dais carry a floor at the level of the side walls, forming an open loft which is reached by a wide ladder fixed against the wall: a bed is seen in this loft. Low in the roof at intervals are shuttered casements, one being above the loft: all the shutters are closed. Near the fire a large shaggy hound is sleeping; and ORMILD, in the undyed woollen dress of a thrall, is combing wool.

ODDNY stands spinning at the side; near her ASTRID and STEINVOR sit stitching a robe which hangs between them.

ASTRID Night is a winter long: and evening falls. Night, night and winter and the heavy snow Burden our eyes, intrude upon our dreams, And make of loneliness an earthly place.

ORMILD This bragging land of freedom that enthralls me Is still the fastness of a secret king Who treads the dark like snow, of old king Sleep. He works with night, he has stolen death's tool frost That makes the breaking wave forget to fall.

ASTRID Best mind thy comb-pot and forget our king Before the Longcoat helps at thy awaking.... I like not this forsaken quiet house. The housemen out at harvest in the Isles Never return. Perhaps they went but now, Yet I am sore with fearing and expecting Because they do not come. They will not come. I like not this forsaken quiet house, This late last harvest, and night creeping in.

ODDNY I like not dwelling in an outlaw's house. Snow shall be heavier upon some eyes Than you can tell of—ay, and unseen earth Shall keep that snow from filling those poor eyes. This void house is more void by brooding things That do not happen, than by absent men. Sometimes when I awaken in the night My throbbing ears are mocking me with rumours Of crackling beams, beams falling, and loud flames.

ASTRID (pointing to the weapons by the high-seat) The bill that Gunnar won in a far sea-fight Sings inwardly when battle impends; as a harp Replies to the wind, thus answers it to fierceness, So tense its nature is and the spell of its welding; Then trust ye well that while the bill is silent No danger thickens, for Gunnar dies not singly.

STEINVOR But women are let forth free when men go burning?

ODDNY Fire is a hurrying thing, and fire by night Can see its way better than men see theirs.

ASTRID The land will not be nobler or more holpen If Gunnar burns and we go forth unsinged. Why will he break the atonement that was set? That wise old Njal who has the second sight Foretold his death if he should slay twice over In the same kin, or break the atonement set: Yet has he done these things and will not care. Kolskegg, who kept his back in famous fights, Sailed long ago and far away from us Because that doom is on him for the slayings; Yet Gunnar bides although that doom is on him And he is outlawed by defiance of doom.

STEINVOR Gunnar has seen his death: he is spoken for. He would not sail because, when he rode down Unto the ship, his horse stumbled and threw him, His face toward the Lithe and his own fields. Olaf the Peacock bade him be with him In his new mighty house so carven and bright, And leave this house to Rannveig and his sons: He said that would be well, yet never goes. Is he not thinking death would ride with him? Did not Njal offer to send his sons, Skarphedin ugly and brave and Hauskuld with him, To hold this house with Gunnar, who refused them, Saying he would not lead young men to death? I tell you Gunnar is done.... His fetch is out.

ODDNY Nay, he's been topmost in so many fights That he believes he shall fight on untouched.

STEINVOR He rides to motes and Things before his foes. He has sent his sons harvesting in the Isles. He takes deliberate heed of death—to meet it, Like those whom Odin needs. He is fey, I tell you— And if we are past the foolish ardour of girls For heroisms and profitless loftiness We shall get gone when bedtime clears the house. 'T is much to have to be a hero's wife, And I shall wonder if Hallgerd cares about it: Yet she may kindle to it ere my heart quickens. I tell you, women, we have no duty here: Let us get gone to-night while there is time, And find new harbouring ere the laggard dawn, For death is making narrowing passages About this hushed and terrifying house.

(RANNVEIG, an old wimpled woman, enters as if from a door at the unseen end of the hall.)

ASTRID He is so great and manly, our master Gunnar, There are not many ready to meet his weapons: And so there may not be much need of weapons. He is so noble and clear, so swift and tender, So much of Iceland's fame in foreign places, That too many love him, too many honour him To let him die, lest the most gleaming glory Of our grey country should be there put out.

RANNVEIG Girl, girl, my son has many enemies Who will not lose the joy of hurting him. This little land is no more than a lair That holds too many fiercenesses too straitly, And no man will refuse the rapture of killing When outlawry has made it cheap and righteous. So long as anyone perceives he knows A bare place for a weapon on my son His hand shall twitch to fit a weapon in. Indeed he shall lose nothing but his life Because a woman is made so evil fair, Wasteful and white and proud in harmful acts. I lose two sons when Gunnar's eyes are still, For then will Kolskegg never more turn home.... If Gunnar would but sail, three years would pass; Only three years of banishment said the doom— So few, so few, for I can last ten years With this unshrunken body and steady heart.

(To ORMILD)

Have I sat down in comfort by the fire And waited to be told the thing I knew? Have any men come home to the young women, Thinking old women do not need to hear, That you can play at being a bower-maid In a long gown although no beasts are foddered? Up, lass, and get thy coats about thy knees, For we must cleanse the byre and heap the midden Before the master knows—or he will go, And there is peril for him in every darkness.

ORMILD (tucking up her skirts) Then are we out of peril in the darkness? We should do better to nail up the doors Each night and all night long and sleep through it, Giving the cattle meat and straw by day.

ODDNY Ay, and the hungry cattle should sing us to sleep.

(The others laugh. ORMILD goes out to the left; RANNVEIG is following her, but pauses at the sound of a voice.)

HALLGERD (beyond the door of the women's dais) Dead men have told me I was better than fair, And for my face welcomed the danger of me: Then am I spent?

(She enters angrily, looking backward through the doorway.)

Must I shut fast my doors And hide myself? Must I wear up the rags Of mortal perished beauty and be old? Or is there power left upon my mouth Like colour, and lilting of ruin in my eyes? Am I still rare enough to be your mate? Then why must I shame at feasts and bear myself In shy ungainly ways, made flushed and conscious By squat numb gestures of my shapeless head— Ay, and its wagging shadow—clouted up, Twice tangled with a bundle of hot hair, Like a thick cot-quean's in the settling time? There are few women in the Quarter now Who do not wear a shapely fine-webbed coif Stitched by dark Irish girls in Athcliath With golden flies and pearls and glinting things: Even my daughter lets her big locks show, Show and half show, from a hood gentle and close That spans her little head like her husband's hand.

GUNNAR (entering by the same door) I like you when you bear your head so high; Lift but your heart as high, you could get crowned And rule a kingdom of impossible things. You would have moon and sun to shine together, Snowflakes to knit for apples on bare boughs, Yea, love to thrive upon the terms of hate. If I had fared abroad I should have found In many countries many marvels for you— Though not more comeliness in peopled Romeborg And not more haughtiness in Mickligarth Nor craftiness in all the isles of the world, And only golden coifs in Athcliath: Yet you were ardent that I should not sail, And when I could not sail you laughed out loud And kissed me home....

HALLGERD (who has been biting her nails) And then ... and doubtless ... and strangely ... And not more thriftiness in Bergthorsknoll Where Njal saves old soft sackcloth for his wife. Oh, I must sit with peasants and aged women, And keep my head wrapped modestly and seemly.

(She turns to RANNVEIG.)

I must be humble—as one who lives on others.

(She snatches off her wimple, slipping her gold circlet as she does so, and loosens her hair.)

Unless I may be hooded delicately And use the adornment noble women use I'll mock you with my flown young widowhood, Letting my hair go loose past either cheek In two bright clouds and drop beyond my bosom, Turning the waving ends under my girdle As young glad widows do, and as I did Ere ever you saw me—ay, and when you found me And met me as a king meets a queen In the undying light of a summer night With burning robes and glances—stirring the heart with scarlet.

(She tucks the long ends of her hair under her girdle.)

RANNVEIG You have cast the head-ring of the nobly nurtured, Being eager for a bold uncovered head. You are conversant with a widow's fancies.... Ay, you are ready with your widowhood: Two men have had you, chilled their bosoms with you, And trusted that they held a precious thing— Yet your mean passionate wastefulness poured out Their lives for joy of seeing something done with. Cannot you wait this time? 'Twill not be long.