by J. M. Synge
MICHEAL. I will not, Nora, I do be afeard of the dead.
(He sits down on a stool next the table facing the TRAMP. NORA puts the kettle on a lower hook of the pot-hooks, and piles turf under it.)
NORA (turning to TRAMP). Will you drink a sup of tea with myself and the young man, stranger, or (speaking more persuasively) will you go into the little room and stretch yourself a short while on the bed, I’m thinking it’s destroyed you are walking the length of that way in the great rain.
TRAMP. Is it to go away and leave you, and you having a wake, lady of the house? I will not surely. (He takes a drink from his glass which he has beside him.) And it’s none of your tea I’m asking either.
(He goes on stitching. NORA makes the tea.)
MICHEAL (after looking at the TRAMP rather scornfully for a moment). That’s a poor coat you have, God help you, and I’m thinking it’s a poor tailor you are with it.
TRAMP. If it’s a poor tailor I am, I’m thinking it’s a poor herd does be running back and forward after a little handful of ewes the way I seen yourself running this day, young fellow, and you coming from the fair.
(NORA comes back to the table.)
NORA (to MICHEAL in a low voice). Let you not mind him at all, Micheal Dara, he has a drop taken and it’s soon he’ll be falling asleep.
MICHEAL. It’s no lie he’s telling, I was destroyed surely. They were that wilful they were running off into one man’s bit of oats, and another man’s bit of hay, and tumbling into the red bogs till it’s more like a pack of old goats than sheep they were. Mountain ewes is a queer breed, Nora Burke, and I’m not used to them at all.
NORA (settling the tea things). There’s no one can drive a mountain ewe but the men do be reared in the Glen Malure, I’ve heard them say, and above by Rathvanna, and the Glen Imaal, men the like of Patch Darcy, God spare his soul, who would walk through five hundred sheep and miss one of them, and he not reckoning them at all.
MICHEAL (uneasily). Is it the man went queer in his head the year that’s gone?
NORA. It is surely.
TRAMP (plaintively). That was a great man, young fellow, a great man I’m telling you. There was never a lamb from his own ewes he wouldn’t know before it was marked, and he‘ld run from this to the city of Dublin and never catch for his breath.
NORA (turning round quickly). He was a great man surely, stranger, and isn’t it a grand thing when you hear a living man saying a good word of a dead man, and he mad dying?
TRAMP. It’s the truth I’m saying, God spare his soul.
(He puts the needle under the collar of his coat, and settles himself to sleep in the chimney-corner. NORA sits down at the table; their backs are turned to the bed.)
MICHEAL (looking at her with a queer look). I heard tell this day, Nora Burke, that it was on the path below Patch Darcy would be passing up and passing down, and I heard them say he‘ld never pass it night or morning without speaking with yourself.
NORA (in a low voice). It was no lie you heard, Micheal Dara.
MICHEAL. I’m thinking it’s a power of men you’re after knowing if it’s in a lonesome place you live itself.
NORA (giving him his tea). It’s in a lonesome place you do have to be talking with some one, and looking for some one, in the evening of the day, and if it’s a power of men I’m after knowing they were fine men, for I was a hard child to please, and a hard girl to please (she looks at him sternly), and it’s a hard woman I am to please this day, Micheal Dara, and it’s no lie I’m telling you.
MICHEAL (looking over to see that the TRAMP is asleep, and then pointing to the dead man). Was it a hard woman to please you were when you took himself for your man?
NORA. What way would I live and I an old woman if I didn’t marry a man with a bit of a farm, and cows on it, and sheep on the back hills?
MICHEAL (cansidering). That’s true, Nora, and maybe it’s no fool you were, for there’s good grazing on it, if it is a lonesome place, and I’m thinking it’s a good sum he’s left behind.
NORA (taking the stocking with money from her pocket, and putting it on the table). I do be thinking in the long nights it was a big fool I was that time, Micheal Dara, for what good is a bit of a farm with cows on it, and sheep on the back hills, when you do be sitting looking out from a door the like of that door, and seeing nothing but the mists rolling down the bog, and the mists again, and they rolling up the bog, and hearing nothing but the wind crying out in the bits of broken trees were left from the great storm, and the streams roaring with the rain.
MICHEAL (looking at her uneasily). What is it ails you, this night, Nora Burke? I’ve heard tell it’s the like of that talk you do hear from men, and they after being a great while on the back hills.
NORA (putting out the money on the table.) It’s a bad night, and a wild night, Micheal Dara, and isn’t it a great while I am at the foot of the back hills, sitting up here boiling food for himself, and food for the brood sow, and baking a cake when the night falls? (She puts up the money, listlessly, in little piles on the table.) Isn’t it a long while I am sitting here in the winter and the summer, and the fine spring, with the young growing behind me and the old passing, saying to myself one time, to look on Mary Brien who wasn’t that height (holding out her hand), and I a fine girl growing up, and there she is now with two children, and another coming on her in three months or four.
(She pauses.)
MICHEAL (moving over three of the piles). That’s three pounds we have now, Nora Burke.
NORA (continuing in the same voice). And saying to myself another time, to look on Peggy Cavanagh, who had the lightest hand at milking a cow that wouldn’t be easy, or turning a cake, and there she is now walking round on the roads, or sitting in a dirty old house, with no teeth in her mouth, and no sense and no more hair than you‘ld see on a bit of a hill and they after burning the furze from it.
MICHEAL. That’s five pounds and ten notes, a good sum, surely! ... It’s not that way you’ll be talking when you marry a young man, Nora Burke, and they were saying in the fair my lambs were the best lambs, and I got a grand price, for I’m no fool now at making a bargain when my lambs are good.
NORA. What was it you got?
MICHEAL. Twenty pound for the lot, Nora Burke.... We‘ld do right to wait now till himself will be quiet awhile in the Seven Churches, and then you’ll marry me in the chapel of Rathvanna, and I’ll bring the sheep up on the bit of a hill you have on the mountain, and we won’t have anything d be afeard to let our minds on when the mist own.
NORA (pouring him out some whisky). Why would I marry you, Mike Dara? You’ll be getting old and I’ll be getting old, and in a little while I’m telling you, you’ll be sitting up in your bed—the way himself was sitting—with a shake in your face, and your teeth falling, and the white hair sticking out round you like an old bush where sheep do be leaping a gap.
(DAN BURKE sits up noiselessly from under the sheet, with his hand to his face. His white hair is sticking out round his head.)
NORA (goes on slowly without hearing him). It’s a pitiful thing to be getting old, but it’s a queer thing surely. It’s a queer thing to see an old man sitting up there in his bed with no teeth in him, and a rough word in his mouth, and his chin the way it would take the bark from the edge of an oak board you‘ld have building a door.... God forgive me, Micheal Dara, we’ll all be getting old, but it’s a queer thing surely. MICHEAL. It’s too lonesome you are from living a long time with an old man, Nora, and you’re talking again like a herd that would be coming down from the thick mist (he puts his arm round her), but it’s a fine life you’ll have now with a young man, a fine life surely....
(DAN sneezes violently. MICHEAL tries to get to the door, but before he can do so, DAN jumps out of the bed in queer white clothes, with his stick in his hand, and goes over and puts his back against it.)
MICHEAL. Son of God deliver us.
(Crosses himself, and goes backward across the room.)
DAN
(holding up his hand at him). Now you’ll not marry her the time I’m rotting below in the Seven Churches, and you’ll see the thing I’ll give you will follow you on the back mountains when the wind is high.
MICHEAL (to NORA). Get me out of it, Nora, for the love of God. He always did what you bid him, and I’m thinking he would do it now.
NORA (looking at the TRAMP). Is it dead he is or living?
DAN (turning towards her). It’s little you care if it’s dead or living I am, but there’ll be an end now of your fine times, and all the talk you have of young men and old men, and of the mist coming up or going down. (He opens the door.) You’ll walk out now from that door, Nora Burke, and it’s not to-morrow, or the next day, or any day of your life, that you’ll put in your foot through it again.
TRAMP (standing up). It’s a hard thing you’re saying for an old man, master of the house, and what would the like of her do if you put her out on the roads?
DAN. Let her walk round the like of Peggy Cavanagh below, and be begging money at the cross-road, or selling songs to the men. (To NORA.) Walk out now, Nora Burke, and it’s soon you’ll be getting old with that life, I’m telling you; it’s soon your teeth’ll be falling and your head’ll be the like of a bush where sheep do be leaping a gap.
(He pauses: she looks round at MICHEAL.)
MICHEAL (timidly). There’s a fine Union below in Rathdrum.
DAN. The like of her would never go there.... It’s lonesome roads she’ll be going and hiding herself away till the end will come, and they find her stretched like a dead sheep with the frost on her, or the big spiders, maybe, and they putting their webs on her, in the butt of a ditch.
NORA (angrily). What way will yourself be that day, Daniel Burke? What way will you be that day and you lying down a long while in your grave? For it’s bad you are living, and it’s bad you’ll be when you’re dead. (She looks at him a moment fiercely, then half turns away and speaks plaintively again.) Yet, if it is itself, Daniel Burke, who can help it at all, and let you be getting up into your bed, and not be taking your death with the wind blowing on you, and the rain with it, and you half in your skin.
DAN. It’s proud and happy you‘ld be if I was getting my death the day I was shut of yourself. (Pointing to the door.) Let you walk out through that door, I’m telling you, and let you not be passing this way if it’s hungry you are, or wanting a bed.
TRAMP (pointing to MICHEAL). Maybe himself would take her.
NORA. What would he do with me now?
TRAMP. Give you the half of a dry bed, and good food in your mouth.
DAN. Is it a fool you think him, stranger, or is it a fool you were born yourself? Let her walk out of that door, and let you go along with her, stranger—if it’s raining itself—for it’s too much talk you have surely.
TRAMP (going over to NORA). We’ll be going now, lady of the house—the rain is falling, but the air is kind and maybe it’ll be a grand morning by the grace of God.
NORA. What good is a grand morning when I’m destroyed surely, and I going out to get my death walking the roads?
TRAMP. You’ll not be getting your death with myself, lady of the house, and I knowing all the ways a man can put food in his mouth.... We’ll be going now, I’m telling you, and the time you’ll be feeling the cold, and the frost, and the great rain, and the sun again, and the south wind blowing in the glens, you’ll not be sitting up on a wet ditch, the way you’re after sitting in the place, making yourself old with looking on each day, and it passing you by. You’ll be saying one time, “It’s a grand evening, by the grace of God,” and another time, “It’s a wild night, God help us, but it’ll pass surely.” You’ll be saying—
DAN (goes over to them crying out impatiently). Go out of that door, I’m telling you, and do your blathering below in the glen.
(NORA gathers a few things into her shawl.)
TRAMP (at the door). Come along with me now, lady of the house, and it’s not my blather you’ll be hearing only, but you’ll be hearing the herons crying out over the black lakes, and you’ll be hearing the grouse and the owls with them, and the larks and the big thrushes when the days are warm, and it’s not from the like of them you’ll be hearing a talk of getting old like Peggy Cavanagh, and losing the hair off you, and the light of your eyes, but it’s fine songs you’ll be hearing when the sun goes up, and there’ll be no old fellow wheezing, the like of a sick sheep, close to your ear.
NORA. I’m thinking it’s myself will be wheezing that time with lying down under the Heavens when the night is cold; but you’ve a fine bit of talk, stranger, and it’s with yourself I’ll go. (She goes towards the door, then turns to DAN.) You think it’s a grand thing you’re after doing with your letting on to be dead, but what is it at all? What way would a woman live in a lonesome place the like of this place, and she not making a talk with the men passing? And what way will yourself live from this day, with none to care for you? What is it you’ll have now but a black life, Daniel Burke, and it’s not long I’m telling you, till you’ll be lying again under that sheet, and you dead surely.
(She goes out with the TRAMP. MICHEAL is slinking after them, but DAN stops him.)
DAN. Sit down now and take a little taste of the stuff, Micheal Dara. There’s a great drouth on me, and the night is young.
MICHEAL (coming back to the table). And it’s very dry I am, surely, with the fear of death you put on me, and I after driving mountain ewes since the turn of the day.
DAN (throwing away his stick). I was thinking to strike you, Micheal Dara, but you’re a quiet man, God help you, and I don’t mind you at all.
(He pours out two glasses of whisky, and gives one to MICHEAL.)
DAN. Your good health, Micheal Dara.
MICHEAL. God reward you, Daniel Burke, and may you have a long life, and a quiet life, and good health with it.
(They drink.)
CURTAIN
RIDERS TO THE SEA
A PLAY IN ONE ACT
CAST OF 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, oil-skins, spinning-wheel, some new boards standing by the wall, etc. CATHLEEN, a girl of about twenty, finishes kneading cake, and puts it down in the pot-oven by the fire; then wipes her hands, and begins to spin at the wheel.
NORA, a young girl, puts her head in at the door.
NORA (in a low voice). Where is she?
CATHLEEN. She’s lying down, God help her, and may be sleeping, if she’s able.
(NORA comes in softly, and takes a bundle from under her shawl.)
CATHLEEN (spinning the wheel rapidly). What is it you have?
NORA. The young priest is after bringing them. It’s a shirt and a plain stocking were got off a drowned man in Donegal.
(CATHLEEN stops her wheel with a sudden movement, and leans out to listen.)
NORA. We’re to find out if it’s Michael’s they are, some time herself will be down looking by the sea.
CATHLEEN. How would they be Michael‘s, Nora. How would he go the length of that way to the far north?
NORA. The young priest says he’s known the like of it. “If it’s Michael’s they are,” says he, “you can tell herself he’s got a clean burial by the grace of God, and if they’re not his, let no one say a word about them, for she’ll be getting her death,” says he, “with crying and lamenting.”
(The door which NORA half closed 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.”
CATHL
EEN. 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.