Delphi Complete Poetry and Plays of W. B. Yeats (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)

by W. B. Yeats

  Jerome. [Sitting down.] What is wrong with you?

  Paul Ruttledge. Oh, nothing of course. You see how happy I am. I have a good house and a good property, and my brother and his charming wife have come to look after me. You see the toys of their children here and everywhere. What should be wrong with me?

  Jerome. I know you too well not to see that there is something wrong with you.

  Paul Ruttledge. There is nothing except that I have been thinking a good deal lately.

  Jerome. Perhaps your old dreams or visions or whatever they were have come back. They always made you restless. You ought to see more of your neighbours.

  Paul Ruttledge. There’s nothing interesting but human nature, and that’s in the single soul, but these neighbours of mine they think in flocks and roosts.

  Jerome. You are too hard on them. They are busy men, they hav’n’t much time for thought, I daresay.

  Paul Ruttledge. That’s what I complain of. When I hear these people talking I always hear some organized or vested interest chirp or quack, as it does in the newspapers. Algie chirps. Even you, Jerome, though I have not found your armorial beast, are getting a little monastic; when I have found it I will put it among the others. There is a place for it there, but the worst of it is that it will take so long getting nice and green.

  Jerome. I don’t know what creature you could make for me.

  Paul Ruttledge. I am not sure yet; I think it might be a pigeon, something cooing and gentle, and always coming home to the dovecot; not to the wild woods but to the dovecot.

  Jerome. I wonder what creature you yourself are like.

  Paul Ruttledge. I daresay I am like some creature or other, for very few of us are altogether men; but if I am, I would like to be one of the wild sort. You are right about my dreams. They have been coming back lately. Do you remember those strange ones I had at college?

  Jerome. Those visions of pulling something down?

  Paul Ruttledge. Yes, they have come back to me lately. Sometimes I dream I am pulling down my own house, and sometimes it is the whole world that I am pulling down. [Standing up.] I would like to have great iron claws, and to put them about the pillars, and to pull and pull till everything fell into pieces.

  Jerome. I don’t see what good that would do you.

  Paul Ruttledge. Oh, yes it would. When everything was pulled down we would have more room to get drunk in, to drink contentedly out of the cup of life, out of the drunken cup of life.

  Jerome. That is a terribly wild thought. I hope you don’t believe all you say.

  Paul Ruttledge. Perhaps not. I only know that I want to upset everything about me. Have you not noticed that it is a complaint many of us have in this country? and whether it comes from love or hate I don’t know, they are so mixed together here.

  Jerome. I wish you would come and talk to our Superior. He has a perfect gift for giving advice.

  Paul Ruttledge. Well, we’ll go to the yard now. [He gets up.

  Jerome. I have often thought you would come to the Monastery yourself in the end. You were so much the most pious of us all at school. You would be happy in a Monastery. Something is always happening there.

  Paul Ruttledge. [As they go up the garden.] I daresay, I daresay; but I am not even sure that I am a Christian.

  Jerome. Well, anyway, I wish that you would come and talk to our Superior. [They go out.

  Charlie Ward and Boy enter by the path beyond the hedge and stand at gate.

  Charlie Ward. No use going up there, Johneen, it’s too grand a place, it’s a dog they might let loose on us. But I’ll tell you what, just slip round to the back door and ask do they want any cans mended.

  Johneen. Let you take the rabbit then we’re after taking out of the snare. I can’t bring it round with me.

  Charlie Ward. Faith, you can’t. They think as bad of us taking a rabbit that was fed and minded by God as if it was of their own rearing; give it here to me. It’s hardly it will go in my pocket, it’s as big as a hare. It’s next my skin I’ll have to put it, or it might be noticed on me. [Boy goes out.

  [Charlie Ward is struggling to put rabbit inside his coat when Paul Ruttledge comes back.

  Paul Ruttledge. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you want to come in?

  Charlie Ward. I’m a tinker by trade, your honour. I wonder is there e’er a tin can the maids in the house might want mended or any chairs to be bottomed?

  Paul Ruttledge. A tinker; where do you live?

  Charlie Ward. Faith, I don’t stop long in any place. I go about like the crows; picking up my way of living like themselves.

  Paul Ruttledge. [Opening gate.] Come inside here. [Charlie Ward hesitates.] Come in, you are welcome.

  [Puts his hand on his shoulder. Charlie Ward tries to close his shirt over rabbit.

  Paul Ruttledge. Ah, you have a rabbit there. The keeper told me he had come across some snares in my woods.

  Charlie Ward. If he did, sir, it was no snare of mine he found. This is a rabbit I bought in the town of Garreen early this morning. Sixpence I was made give for it, and to mend a tin can along with that.

  Paul Ruttledge. [Touching rabbit.] It’s warm still, however. But the day is hot. Never mind; you are quite welcome to it. I daresay you will have a cheery meal of it by the roadside; my dinners are often tiresome enough. I often wish I could change — look here, will you change clothes with me?

  Charlie Ward. Faith, I’d swap soon enough if you weren’t humbugging me. It’s I that would look well with that suit on me! The peelers would all be touching their caps to me. You’d see them running out for me to sign summonses for them.

  Paul Ruttledge. But I am not humbugging. I am in earnest.

  Charlie Ward. In earnest! Then when I go back I’ll commit Paddy Cockfight to prison for hitting me yesterday.

  Paul Ruttledge. You don’t believe me, but I will explain. I’m dead sick of this life; I want to get away; I want to escape — as you say, to pick up my living like the crows for a while.

  Charlie Ward. To make your escape. Oh! that’s different. [Coming closer.] But what is it you did? You don’t look like one that would be in trouble. But sometimes a gentleman gets a bit wild when he has a drop taken.

  Paul Ruttledge. Well, never mind. I will explain better while we are changing. Come over here to the potting shed. Make haste, those magistrates will be coming out.

  Charlie Ward. The magistrates! Are they after you? Hurry on, then! Faith, they won’t know you with this coat. [Looking at his rags.] It’s a pity I didn’t put on my old one coming out this morning.

  [They go out through the garden. Thomas Ruttledge comes down steps from house with Colonel Lawley and Mr. Green.

  Mr. Green. Yes, they have made me President of the County Horticultural Society. My speech was quite a success; it was punctuated with applause. I said I looked upon the appointment not as a tribute to my own merits, but to their public spirit and to the Society, which I assured them had come to stay.

  Colonel Lawley. What has become of Paul and Father Jerome? I thought I heard their voices out here, and now they are conspicuous by their absence.

  Thomas Ruttledge. He seems to have no friend he cares for but that Father Jerome.

  Mr. Green. I wish he would come more into touch with his fellows.

  Colonel Lawley. What a pity he didn’t go into the army. I wish he would join the militia. Every man should try to find some useful sphere of employment.

  Mr. Green. Thomas, your brother will never come to see me, though I often ask him. He would find the best people — people worth meeting — at my house. I wonder if he would join the Horticultural Society? I know I voice the sentiments of all the members in saying this. I spoke to a number of them at the function the other day.

  Thomas Ruttledge. I wish he would join something. Joyce wants him to join the Masonic Lodge. It is not a right life for him to keep hanging about the place and doing nothing.

  Mr. Green. He won’t even come and sit on the Benc
h. It’s not fair to leave so much of the work to me. I ought to get all the support possible from local men.

  [Mrs. Ruttledge comes down steps with Mr. Dowler, Mr. Algie, and Mr. Joyce. She is walking in front.

  Mrs. Ruttledge. [To Thomas Ruttledge.] Oh! Thomas, isn’t it too bad, Paul has lent the donkey to that friar. I wanted Mr. Joyce to see the children in their panniers. Do speak to him about it.

  Thomas Ruttledge. Well, the donkey belongs to him, and for the matter of that so does the house and the place. It would be rather hard on him not to be able to use things as he likes.

  Mr. Algie. What a pleasure it must be to Paul to have you and the little ones living here. He certainly owes you a debt of gratitude. Man was not born to live alone.

  Mrs. Ruttledge. Well, I think we have done him good. He hasn’t done anything for years, except mope about the house and cut the bushes into those absurd shapes, and now we are trying to make him live more like other people.

  Colonel Lawley. He was always inclined to be a bit of a faddist.

  Mrs. Ruttledge. [To Mr. Algie.] Do let me give you a lesson in croquet. I have learned all the new rules. [To Mr. Joyce.] Please bring me that basket of balls. [To Colonel Lawley.] Will you bring me the mallets? Yes, I am afraid he is a faddist. We have done our best for him, but he ought to be more with men.

  Mr. Algie. Yes, Mr. Dowler was just saying he ought to try and be made a director of the new railway.

  Colonel Lawley. The militia — the militia.

  Mr. Joyce. It’s a great help to a man to belong to a Masonic Lodge.

  Mr. Green. The Horticultural Society is in want of new members.

  Mrs. Ruttledge. Well, I wish he would join something.

  Enter Paul Ruttledge in tinker’s clothes, carrying a rabbit in his hand. Charlie Ward follows in Paul’s clothes. All stand aghast.

  Mr. Joyce. Good God!

  [Drops basket. Colonel Lawley, who has mallets in his hand, at sight of Paul Ruttledge drops them, and stands still.

  Mrs. Ruttledge. Paul! are you out of your mind?

  Thomas Ruttledge. For goodness’ sake, Paul, don’t make such a fool of yourself.

  Mrs. Ruttledge. What on earth has happened, and who on earth is that man?

  Paul Ruttledge. [Opens gate for tinker. To Charlie Ward.] Wait for me, my friend, down there by the cross-road.

  [Charlie Ward goes out.

  Mr. Green. Has he stolen your clothes?

  Paul Ruttledge. Oh! it’s all right; I have changed clothes with him. I am going to join the tinkers.

  All. To join the tinkers!

  Paul Ruttledge. Life is getting too monotonous; I would give it a little variety. [To Mr. Green.] As you would say, it has been running in grooves.

  Mr. Joyce. [To Mrs. Ruttledge.] This is only his humbugging talk; he never believes what he says.

  [Paul Ruttledge goes towards the steps.

  Mrs. Ruttledge. Surely you are not going into the house with those clothes?

  Paul Ruttledge. You are quite right. Thomas will go in for me. [To Thomas Ruttledge.] Just go to my study, will you, and bring me my despatch-box; I want something from it before I go.

  Thomas Ruttledge. Where are you going to? I wish you would tell me what you are at.

  Paul Ruttledge. The despatch-box is on the top of the bureau.

  [Thomas Ruttledge goes out.

  Mr. Joyce. What does all this mean?

  Paul Ruttledge. I will explain. [Sits down on the edge of iron table.] Did you never wish to be a witch, and to ride through the air on a white horse?

  Mr. Joyce. I can’t say I ever did.

  Paul Ruttledge. Never? Only think of it — to ride in the darkness under the stars, to make one’s horse leap from cloud to cloud, to watch the sea glittering under one’s feet and the mountain tops going by.

  Colonel Lawley. But what has this to do with the tinkers?

  Paul Ruttledge. As I cannot find a broomstick that will turn itself into a white horse, I am going to turn tinker.

  Mr. Dowler. I suppose you have some picturesque idea about these people, but I assure you, you are quite wrong. They are nothing but poachers.

  Mr. Algie. They are nothing but thieves.

  Mr. Joyce. They are the worst class in the country.

  Paul Ruttledge. Oh, I know that; they are quite lawless. That is what attracts me to them. I am going to be irresponsible.

  Mr. Green. One cannot escape from responsibility by joining a set of vagabonds.

  Paul Ruttledge. Vagabonds — that is it. I want to be a vagabond, a wanderer. As I can’t leap from cloud to cloud I want to wander from road to road. That little path there by the clipped edge goes up to the highroad. I want to go up that path and to walk along the highroad, and so on and on and on, and to know all kinds of people. Did you ever think that the roads are the only things that are endless; that one can walk on and on and on, and never be stopped by a gate or a wall? They are the serpent of eternity. I wonder they have never been worshipped. What are the stars beside them? They never meet one another. The roads are the only things that are infinite. They are all endless.

  Mrs. Ruttledge. But they must stop when they come to the sea?

  Paul Ruttledge. Ah! you are always so wise.

  Mr. Joyce. Stop talking nonsense, Paul, and throw away those filthy things.

  Paul Ruttledge. That would be setting cleanliness before godliness. I have begun the regeneration of my soul.

  Mr. Dowler. I don’t see what godliness has got to do with it.

  Mr. Algie. Nor I either.

  Paul Ruttledge. There was a saint who said, “I must rejoice without ceasing, although the world shudder at my joy.” He did not think he could save his soul without it. I agree with him, and as I was discontented here, I thought it time to make a change. Like that worthy man, I must be content to shock my friends.

  Mr. Dowler. But you had everything here you could want.

  Paul Ruttledge. That’s just it. You who are so wealthy, you of all people should understand that I want to get rid of all that responsibility, answering letters and so on. It is not worth the trouble of being rich if one has to answer letters. Could you ever understand, Georgina, that one gets tired of many charming things? There are family responsibilities [to Mr. Joyce], but I can see that you, who were my guardian, sympathize with me in that.

  Mr. Joyce. Indeed I do not.

  Mrs. Ruttledge. I should think you could be cheerful without ceasing to be a gentleman.

  Paul Ruttledge. You are thinking of my clothes. We must feel at ease with the people we live amongst. I shall feel at ease with the great multitude in these clothes. I am beginning to be a man of the world. I am the beggarman of all the ages — I have a notion Homer wrote something about me.

  Mr. Dowler. He is either making fun of us or talking great rot. I can’t listen to any more of this nonsense. I can’t see why a man with property can’t let well alone. Algie are you coming my way?

  [They both go into the house, and come out presently with umbrella and coat.

  Mr. Green. Depend upon it, he’s going to write a book. There was a man who made quite a name for himself by sleeping in a casual ward.

  Paul Ruttledge. Oh! no, I’m not going to write about it; if one writes one can do nothing else. I am going to express myself in life. [To Thomas Ruttledge who has returned with box.] I hope soon to live by the work of my hands, but every trade has to be learned, and I must take something to start with. [To Mrs. Ruttledge.] Do you think you will have any kettles to mend when I come this way again?

  [He has taken box from Thomas Ruttledge and unlocked it.

  Thomas Ruttledge. I can’t make head or tail of what you are at.

  Colonel Lawley. What he is at is fads.

  Mr. Green. I don’t think his motive is far to seek. He has some idea of going back to the dark ages. Rousseau had some idea of the same kind, but it didn’t work.

  Paul Ruttledge. Yes; I want to go back to the dark ages.

  Mr.
Green. Do you want to lose all the world has gained since then?

  Paul Ruttledge. What has it gained? I am among those who think that sin and death came into the world the day Newton eat the apple. [To Mrs. Ruttledge, who is going to speak.] I know you are going to tell me he only saw it fall. Never mind, it is all the same thing.

  Mrs. Ruttledge. [Beginning to cry.] Oh! he is going mad!