by J. M. Synge
He feared that his mother would not approve of Molly, this inamorata who, after all, was a mere shop assistant brought in by her sister, Sara Allgood, to play a small part in an Abbey play, and recognized by Synge as ideal to play his ungovernable heroines. Glad he was of her lively and plucky way but yet he set about trying to educate her, to make her a “lady.” Between the imagination and the notion of protocol there lies such a lamentable gulf, and luckily for us, his imagination and her resistance to being gentrified won the day and these great plays are beyond the confines of gentility or propitiation.
As his health got worse he was wracked with the fear that he would never again write anything so rich and arresting. To Molly he confided his anxieties about his tumors, his exhaustion, his pacing up and down the room at night in the dark; his waning hope. She was young, ambitious, flirtatious, she listened, but had, too, some of the unconscious recoil that the healthy reserve for the ill. Their plans to marry were once again thwarted. He had gone back to his mother’s house in Glendalough where he began to write a new play for Molly, Deirdre of the Sorrows,but the malign cells were at their work, and he was a man with a death sentence. His last letter to her in 1909, before his operation, is heartbreaking in its restraint, simply asking that if anything should go wrong that she be brave and remember the good times and the beautiful things they had seen.
He gave Ireland what Ireland needed and he was crucified for it. In “The Death of Synge” Yeats calls it “A trumpeting and a coming up to Judgment.” But he has the last word. His detractors are long forgotten, his star is candescent.
PREFACE
In writing The Playboy of the Western World, as in my other plays, I have used one or two words only that I have not heard among the country people of Ireland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could read the newspapers. A certain number of the phrases I employ I have heard also from herds and fishermen along the coast from Kerry to Mayo, or from beggar-women and ballad-singers nearer Dublin; and I am glad to acknowledge how much I owe to the folk-imagination of these fine people. Anyone who has lived in real intimacy with the Irish peasantry will know that the wildest sayings and ideas in this play are tame indeed, compared with the fancies one may hear in any little hillside cabin in Geesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All art is a collaboration; and there is little doubt that in the happy ages of literature, striking and beautiful phrases were as ready to the story-teller’s or the playwright’s hand, as the rich cloaks and dresses of his time. It is probable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took his ink-horn and sat down to his work he used many phrases that he had just heard, as he sat at dinner, from his mother or his children. In Ireland, those of us who know the people have the same privilege. When I was writing The Shadow of the Glen, some years ago, I got more aid than any learning could have given me from a chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear what was being said by the servant girls in the kitchen. This matter, I think, is of importance, for in countries where the imagination of the people, and the language they use, is rich and living, it is possible for a writer to be rich and copious in his words, and at the same time to give the reality, which is the root of all poetry, in a comprehensive and natural form. In the modern literature of towns, however, richness is found only in sonnets, or prose poems, or in one or two elaborate books that are far away from the profound and common interests of life. One has, on one side, Mallarmé and Huysmans producing this literature; and on the other, Ibsen and Zola dealing with the reality of life in joyless and pallid words. On the stage one must have reality, and one must have joy; and that is why the intellectual modern drama has failed, and people have grown sick of the false joy of the musical comedy, that has been given them in place of the rich joy found only in what is superb and wild in reality. In a good play every speech should be as fully flavoured as a nut or apple, and such speeches cannot be written by anyone who works among people who have shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for a few years more, we have a popular imagination that is fiery and magnificent, and tender; so that those of us who wish to write start with a chance that is not given to writers in places where the springtime of the local life has been forgotten, and the harvest is a memory only, and the straw has been turned into bricks.
—J. M. S.
January 21, 1907
IN THE SHADOW OF THE GLEN
A PLAY IN ONE ACT
CAST OF CHARACTERS
DAN BURKE (farmer and herd)
NORA BURKE (his wife)
MICHEAL DARA (A young herd)
A TRAMP
SCENE. The last cottage at the head of a long glen in County Wicklow.
Cottage kitchen; turf fire on the right; a bed near it against the wall with a body lying on it covered with a sheet. A door is at the other end of the room, with a low table near it, and stools, or wooden chairs. There are a couple of glasses on the table, and a bottle of whisky, as if for a wake, with two cups, a teapot, and a home-made cake. There is another small door near the bed. NORA BURKE is moving about the room, settling a few things, and lighting candles on the table, looking now and then at the bed with an uneasy look. Some one knocks softly at the door. She takes up a stocking with money from the table and puts it in her pocket. Then she opens the door.
TRAMP (outside). Good evening to you, lady of the house.
NORA. Good evening, kindly stranger, it’s a wild night, God help you, to be out in the rain falling.
TRAMP. It is, surely, and I walking to Brittas from the Aughrim fair.
NORA. Is it walking on your feet, stranger?
TRAMP. On my two feet, lady of the house, and when I saw the light below I thought maybe if you’d a sup of new milk and a quiet decent comer where a man could sleep. (He looks in past her and sees the dead man.) The Lord have mercy on us all!
NORA. It doesn’t matter anyway, stranger, come in out of the rain.
TRAMP (coming in slowly and going towards the bed). Is it departed he is?
NORA. It is, stranger. He’s after dying on me, God forgive him, and there I am now with a hundred sheep beyond on the hills, and no turf drawn for the winter.
TRAMP (looking closely at the dead man). It’s a queer look is on him for a man that’s dead.
NORA (half-humorously). He was always queer, stranger, and I suppose them that’s queer and they living men will be queer bodies after.
TRAMP. Isn’t it a great wonder you’re letting him lie there, and he is not tidied, or laid out itself?
NORA (coming to the bed). I was afeard, stranger, for he put a black curse on me this morning if I‘Id touch his body the time he’ld die sudden, or let any one touch it except his sister only, and it’s ten miles away she lives in the big glen over the hill.
TRAMP (looking at her and nodding slowly). It’s a queer story he wouldn’t let his own wife touch him, and he dying quiet in his bed.
NORA. He was an old man, and an odd man, stranger, and it’s always up on the hills he was thinking thoughts in the dark mist. (She pulls back a bit of the sheet.) Lay your hand on him now, and tell me if it’s cold he is surely.
TRAMP. Is it getting the curse on me you‘ld be, woman of the house? I wouldn’t lay my hand on him for the Lough Nahanagan and it filled with gold.
NORA (looking uneasily at the body). Maybe cold would be no sign of death with the like of him, for he was always cold, every day since I knew him,—and every night, stranger,—(she covers up his face and comes away from the bed); but I’m thinking it’s dead he is surely, for he’s complaining a while back of a pain in his heart, and this morning, the time he was going off to Brittas for three days or four, he was taken with a sharp turn. Then he went into his bed and he was saying it was destroyed he was, the time the shadow was going up through the glen, and when the sun set on the bog beyond he made a great lep, and let a great cry out of him, and stiffened himself out the like of a dead sheep.
TRAMP (crosses himself). God rest his soul.
NORA (pouring him ou
t a glass of whisky). Maybe that would do you better than the milk of the sweetest cow in County Wicklow.
TRAMP. The Almighty God reward you, and may it be to your good health.
(He drinks.)
NORA (giving him a pipe and tobacco). I’ve no pipes saving his own, stranger, but they’re sweet pipes to smoke.
TRAMP. Thank you kindly, lady of the house.
NORA. Sit down now, stranger, and be taking your rest.
TRAMP (filling a pipe and looking about the room). I’ve walked a great way through the world, lady of the house, and seen great wonders, but I never seen a wake till this day with fine spirits, and good tobacco, and the best of pipes, and no one to taste them but a woman only.
NORA. Didn’t you hear me say it was only after dying on me he was when the sun went down, and how would I go out into the glen and tell the neighbours, andIalone woman with no house near me?
TRAMP (drinking). There’s no offence, lady of the house?
NORA. No offence in life, stranger. How would the like of you, passing in the dark night, know the lonesome way I was with no house near me at all?
TRAMP (sitting down). I know rightly. (He lights his pipe so that there is a sharp light beneath his haggard face.) And I was thinking, and I coming in through the door, that it’s many a lone woman would be afeard of the like of me in the dark night, in a place wouldn’t be as lonesome as this place, where there aren’t two living souls would see the little light you have shining from the glass.
NORA (slowly). I’m thinking many would be afeard, but I never knew what way I’d be afeard of beggar or bishop or any man of you at all. (She looks towards the window and lowers her voice.) It’s other things than the like of you, stranger, would make a person afeard.
TRAMP (looking round with a half-shudder). It is surely, God help us all!
NORA (looking at him for a moment with curiosity). You’re saying that, stranger, as if you were easy afeard.
TRAMP (speaking mournfully). Is it myself, lady of the house, that does be walking round in the long nights, and crossing the hills when the fog is on them, the time a little stick would seem as big as your arm, and a rabbit as big as a bay horse, and a stack of turf as big as a towering church in the city of Dublin? If myself was easily afeard, I’m telling you, it’s long ago I‘ld have been locked into the Richmond Asylum, or maybe have run up into the back hills with nothing on me but an old shirt, and been eaten with crows the like of Patch Darcy—the Lord have mercy on him—in the year that’s gone.
NORA (with interest). You knew Darcy?
TRAMP. Wasn’t I the last one heard his living voice in the whole world?
NORA. There were great stories of what was heard at that time, but would any one believe the things they do be saying in the glen?
TRAMP. It was no lie, lady of the house.... I was passing below on a dark night the like of this night, and the sheep were lying under the ditch and every one of them coughing, and choking, like an old man, with the great rain and the fog. Then I heard a thing talking—queer talk, you wouldn’t believe at all, and you out of your dreams,—and “Merciful God,” says I, “if I begin hearing the like of that voice out of the thick mist, I’m destroyed surely.” Then I run, and I run, and I run, till I was below in Rathvanna. I got drunk that night, I got drunk in the morning, and drunk the day after,—I was coming from the races beyond—and the third day they found Darcy.... Then I knew it was himself I was after hearing, and I wasn’t afeard any more.
NORA (speaking sorrowfully and slowly). God spare Darcy, he‘ld always look in here and he passing up or passing down, and it’s very lonesome I was after him a long while (she looks over at the bed and lowers her voice, speaking very clearly), and then I got happy again—if it’s ever happy we are, stranger,—for I got used to being lonesome.
(A short pause; then she stands up.)
NORA. Was there any one on the last bit of the road, stranger, and you coming from Aughrim?
TRAMP. There was a young man with a drift of mountain ewes, and he running after them this way and that.
NORA (with a half-smile). Far down, stranger?
TRAMP. A piece only.
(She fills the kettle and puts it on the fire.)
NORA. Maybe, if you’re not easy afeard, you‘ld stay here a short while alone with himself.
TRAMP. I would surely. A man that’s dead can do no hurt.
NORA (speaking with a sort of constraint). I’m going a little back to the west, stranger, for himself would go there one night and another and whistle at that place, and then the young man you’re after seeing—a kind of a farmer has come up from the sea to live in a cottage beyond—would walk round to see if there was a thing we‘ld have to be done, and I’m wanting him this night, the way he can go down into the glen when the sun goes up and tell the people that himself is dead.
TRAMP (looking at the body in the sheet). It’s myself will go for him, lady of the house, and let you not be destroying yourself with the great rain.
NORA. You wouldn’t find your way, stranger, for there’s a small path only, and it running up between two sluigs where an ass and cart would be drowned. (She puts a shawl over her head.) Let you be making yourself easy, and saying a prayer for his soul, and it’s not long I’ll be coming again.
TRAMP (moving uneasily). Maybe if you’d a piece of a grey thread and a sharp needle—there’s great safety in a needle, lady of the house—I‘ld be putting a little stitch here and there in my old coat, the time I’ll be praying for his soul, and it going up naked to the saints of God.
NORA (takes a needle and thread from the front of her dress and gives it to him). There’s the needle, stranger, and I’m thinking you won’t be lonesome, and you used to the back hills, for isn’t a dead man itself more company than to be sitting alone, and hearing the winds crying, and you not knowing on what thing your mind would stay?
TRAMP (slowly). It’s true, surely, and the Lord have mercy on us all!
(NORA goes out. The TRAMP begins stitching one of the tags in his coat, saying the “De Profundis” under his breath. In an instant the sheet is drawn slowly down, and DAN BURKE looks out. The TRAMP moves uneasily, then looks up, and springs to his feet with a movement of terror.)
DAN (with a hoarse voice). Don’t be afeard, stranger; a man that’s dead can do no hurt.
TRAMP (trembling). I meant no harm, your honour; and won’t you leave me easy to be saying a little prayer for your soul?
(A long whistle is heard outside.)
DAN (sitting up in his bed and speaking fiercely). Ah, the devil mend her.... Do you hear that, stranger? Did ever you hear another woman could whistle the like of that with two fingers in her mouth? (He looks at the table hurriedly.) I’m destroyed with the drouth, and let you bring me a drop quickly before herself will come back.
TRAMP (doubtfully). Is it not dead you are?
DAN. How would I be dead, and I as dry as a baked bone, stranger?
TRAMP (pouring out the whisky). What will herself say if she smells the stuff on you, for I’m thinking it’s not for nothing you’re letting on to be dead?
DAN. It is not, stranger, but she won’t be coming near me at all, and it’s not long now I’ll be letting on, for I’ve a cramp in my back, and my hip’s asleep on me, and there’s been the devil’s own fly itching my nose. It’s near dead I was wanting to sneeze, and you blathering about the rain, and Darcy (bitterly)— the devil choke him—and the towering church. (Crying out impatiently.) Give me that whisky. Would you have herself come back before I taste a drop at all?
(TRAMP gives him the glass.)
DAN (after drinking). Go over now to that cupboard, and bring me a black stick you’ll see in the west corner by the wall.
TRAMP (taking a stick from the cupboard). Is it that?
DAN. It is, stranger; it’s a long time I’m keeping that stick for I’ve a bad wife in the house.
TRAMP (with a queer look). Is it herself, master of the house, and she a grand
woman to talk?
DAN. It’s herself, surely, it’s a bad wife she is—a bad wife for an old man, and I’m getting old, God help me, though I’ve an arm to me still. (He takes the stick in his hand.) Let you wait now a short while, and it’s a great sight you’ll see in this room in two hours or three. (He stops to listen.) Is that somebody above?
TRAMP (listening). There’s a voice speaking on the path.
DAN. Put that stick here in the bed and smooth the sheet the way it was lying. (He covers himself up hastily.) Be falling to sleep now and don’t let on you know anything, or I’ll be having your life. I wouldn’t have told you at all but it’s destroyed with the drouth I was.
TRAMP (covering his head.) Have no fear, master of the house. What is it I know of the like of you that I‘ld be saying a word or putting out my hand to stay you at all?
(He goes back to the fire, sits down on a stool with his back to the bed and goes on stitching his coat.)
DAN (under the sheet, querulously.) Stranger.
TRAMP (quickly). Whisht, whisht. Be quiet I’m telling you, they’re coming now at the door.
(NORA comes in with MICHEAL DARA, a tall, innocent young man behind her.)
NORA. I wasn’t long at all, stranger, for I met himself on the path.
TRAMP. You were middling long, lady of the house.
NORA. There was no sign from himself?
TRAMP. No sign at all, lady of the house.
NORA (to MICHEAL). Go over now and pull down the sheet, and look on himself, Micheal Dara, and you’ll see it’s the truth I’m telling you.