by J. M. Synge
[He begins saying a Latin malediction in a loud ecclesiastical voice.]
MARY: There’s an old villain.
ALLTOGETHER:Run, run. Run for your lives.
[They rush out, leaving the Priest master of the situation.]
CURTAIN
Deirdre of the Sorrows
This three-act play was first performed at the Abbey Theatre by the Irish National Theatre Society in 1910. Based on Irish mythology, in particular the myths concerning Deirdre and Conchobar, the play was left unfinished at the author’s death in 1909, but was completed by W. B. Yeats and Synge’s fiancée, Molly Allgood. Deirdre is the foremost tragic heroine in Irish legend and is known by the epithet ‘Deirdre of the Sorrows’. Her story forms part of the Ulster Cycle, the best-known stories of pre-Christian Ireland.
Synge’s plot concerns Conchubor, the aging High King of Ulster, who has charged his female servant Lavarcham to raise the child Deirdre to be his queen when she comes of age. In time, Lavarcham finds that the beautiful Deirdre is a wilful young woman, without interest in marrying an old man. Conchubor arrives to bring Deirdre to his palace, Emain Macha, ignoring her pleas to remain in the countryside for another year. After he leaves, Naoise, son of Usna, and his brothers come to the cottage seeking Deirdre, and they learn of her summons. Deirdre is aware of a prophecy that she will be the doom of the sons of Usna; nevertheless, she asks Naoise to take her away from Ulster. He agrees and Ainnle weds them in an impromptu ceremony…
The first edition
CONTENTS
PERSONS IN THE PLAY
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
APPENDIX
The first edition’s title page
A painting of Deirdrê in “A Book of Myths” (1915) by Helen Stratton
PERSONS IN THE PLAY
LAVARCHAM, DEIRDRE’S NURSE
OLD WOMAN, Lavarcham’s servant
OWEN, Conchubor’s attendant and spy
CONCHUBOR, High King of Ulster
FERGUS, Conchubor’s friend
DEIRDRE
NAISI, Deirdre’s lover
AINNLE, Naisi’s brother
ARDAN, Naisi’s brother
TWO SOLDIERS
ACT I.
LAVARCHAM’S HOUSE ON Slieve Fuadh. There is a door to inner room on the left, and a door to open air on the right. Window at back and a frame with a half-finished piece of tapestry. There are also a large press and heavy oak chest near the back wall. The place is neat and clean but bare. Lavarcham, woman of fifty, is working at tapestry frame. Old Woman comes in from left.
OLD WOMAN. She hasn’t come yet, is it, and it falling to the night?
LAVARCHAM. She has not. . . (Concealing her anxiety.) It’s dark with the clouds are coming from the west and south, but it isn’t later than the common.
OLD WOMAN. It’s later, surely, and I hear tell the Sons of Usna, Naisi and his brothers, are above chasing hares for two days or three, and the same awhile since when the moon was full.
LAVARCHAM — more anxiously. — The gods send they don’t set eyes on her — (with a sign of helplessness) yet if they do itself, it wasn’t my wish brought them or could send them away.
OLD WOMAN — reprovingly. — If it wasn’t, you’d do well to keep a check on her, and she turning a woman that was meant to be a queen.
LAVARCHAM. Who’d check her like was meant to have her pleasure only, the way if there were no warnings told about her you’d see troubles coming when an old king is taking her, and she without a thought but for her beauty and to be straying the hills.
OLD WOMAN. The gods help the lot of us. . . . Shouldn’t she be well pleased getting the like of Conchubor, and he middling settled in his years itself? I don’t know what he wanted putting her this wild place to be breaking her in, or putting myself to be roasting her supper and she with no patience for her food at all. [She looks out.
LAVARCHAM. Is she coming from the glen?
OLD WOMAN. She is not. But whisht — there’s two men leaving the furze — (crying out) it’s Conchubor and Fergus along with him. Conchubor’ll be in a blue stew this night and herself abroad.
LAVARCHAM — settling room hastily. — Are they close by?
OLD WOMAN. Crossing the stream, and there’s herself on the hillside with a load of twigs. Will I run out and put her in order before they’ll set eyes on her at all?
LAVARCHAM. You will not. Would you have him see you, and he a man would be jealous of a hawk would fly between her and the rising sun. (She looks out.) Go up to the hearth and be as busy as if you hadn’t seen them at all.
OLD WOMAN — sitting down to polish vessel. — There’ll be trouble this night, for he should be in his tempers from the way he’s stepping out, and he swinging his hands.
LAVARCHAM — wearied with the whole matter. — It’d be best of all, maybe, if he got in tempers with herself, and made an end quickly, for I’m in a poor way between the pair of them (going back to tapestry frame.) There they are now at the door. [Conchubor and Fergus come in.
CONCHUBOR AND FERGUS. The gods save you.
LAVARCHAM — getting up and courtesying. — The gods save and keep you kindly, and stand between you and all harm for ever.
CONCHUBOR — looking around. — Where is Deirdre?
LAVARCHAM — trying to speak with indifference. — Abroad upon Slieve Fuadh. She does be all times straying around picking flowers or nuts, or sticks itself; but so long as she’s gathering new life I’ve a right not to heed her, I’m thinking, and she taking her will. [Fergus talks to Old Woman.
CONCHUBOR — stiffly. — A night with thunder coming is no night to be abroad.
LAVARCHAM — more uneasily. — She’s used to every track and pathway, and the lightning itself wouldn’t let down its flame to singe the beauty of her like.
FERGUS — cheerfully. — She’s right, Conchubor, and let you sit down and take your ease, (he takes a wallet from under his cloak) and I’ll count out what we’ve brought, and put it in the presses within. [He goes into the inner room with the Old Woman.
CONCHUBOR — sitting down and looking about. — Where are the mats and hangings and the silver skillets I sent up for Deirdre?
LAVARCHAM. The mats and hangings are in this press, Conchubor. She wouldn’t wish to be soiling them, she said, running out and in with mud and grasses on her feet, and it raining since the night of Samhain. The silver skillets and the golden cups we have beyond locked in the chest.
CONCHUBOR. Bring them out and use them from this day.
LAVARCHAM. We’ll do it, Conchubor.
CONCHUBOR — getting up and going to frame. — Is this hers?
LAVARCHAM — pleased to speak of it. — It is, Conchubor. All say there isn’t her match at fancying figures and throwing purple upon crimson, and she edging them all times with her greens and gold.
CONCHUBOR — a little uneasily. — Is she keeping wise and busy since I passed before, and growing ready for her life in Emain?
LAVARCHAM — dryly. — That is a question will give small pleasure to yourself or me. (Making up her mind to speak out.) If it’s the truth I’ll tell you, she’s growing too wise to marry a big king and she a score only. Let you not be taking it bad, Conchubor, but you’ll get little good seeing her this night, for with all my talking it’s wilfuller she’s growing these two months or three.
CONCHUBOR — severely, but relieved things are no worse. — Isn’t it a poor thing you’re doing so little to school her to meet what is to come?
LAVARCHAM. I’m after serving you two score of years, and I’ll tell you this night, Conchubor, she’s little call to mind an old woman when she has the birds to school her, and the pools in the rivers where she goes bathing in the sun. I’ll tell you if you seen her that time, with her white skin, and her red lips, and the blue water and the ferns about her, you’d know, maybe, and you greedy itself, it wasn’t for your like she was born at all.
CONCHUBOR. It’s little I heed
for what she was born; she’ll be my comrade, surely. [He examines her workbox.
LAVARCHAM — sinking into sadness again. — I’m in dread so they were right saying she’d bring destruction on the world, for it’s a poor thing when you see a settled man putting the love he has for a young child, and the love he has for a full woman, on a girl the like of her; and it’s a poor thing, Conchubor, to see a High King, the way you are this day, prying after her needles and numbering her lines of thread.
CONCHUBOR — getting up. — Let you not be talking too far and you old itself.
(Walks across room and back.) Does she know the troubles are foretold?
LAVARCHAM — in the tone of the earlier talk. — I’m after telling her one time and another, but I’d do as well speaking to a lamb of ten weeks and it racing the hills. . . . It’s not the dread of death or troubles that would tame her like.
CONCHUBOR — he looks out. — She’s coming now, and let you walk in and keep Fergus till I speak with her a while.
LAVARCHAM — going left. — If I’m after vexing you itself, it’d be best you weren’t taking her hasty or scolding her at all.
CONCHUBOR — very stiffly. — I’ve no call to. I’m well pleased she’s light and airy.
LAVARCHAM — offended at his tone. — Well pleased is it? (With a snort of irony) It’s a queer thing the way the likes of me do be telling the truth, and the wise are lying all times. [She goes into room on left. Conchubor arranges himself before a mirror for a moment, then goes a little to the left and waits. Deirdre comes in poorly dressed, with a little bag and a bundle of twigs in her arms. She is astonished for a moment when she sees Conchubor; then she makes a courtesy to him, and goes to the hearth without any embarrassment.
CONCHUBOR. The gods save you, Deirdre. I have come up bringing you rings and jewels from Emain Macha.
DEIRDRE. The gods save you.
CONCHUBOR. What have you brought from the hills?
DEIRDRE — quite self-possessed. — A bag of nuts, and twigs for our fires at the dawn of day.
CONCHUBOR — showing annoyance in spite of himself. — And it’s that way you’re picking up the manners will fit you to be Queen of Ulster?
DEIRDRE — made a little defiant by his tone. — I have no wish to be a queen.
CONCHUBOR — almost sneeringly. — You’d wish to be dressing in your duns and grey, and you herding your geese or driving your calves to their shed — like the common lot scattered in the glens.
DEIRDRE — very defiant. — I would not, Conchubor. (She goes to tapestry and begins to work.) A girl born the way I’m born is more likely to wish for a mate who’d be her likeness. . . . A man with his hair like the raven, maybe, and his skin like the snow and his lips like blood spilt on it.
CONCHUBOR — sees his mistake, and after a moment takes a flattering tone, looking at her work. — Whatever you wish, there’s no queen but would be well pleased to have your skill at choosing colours and making pictures on the cloth. (Looking closely.) What is it you’re figuring?
DEIRDRE — deliberately. — Three young men and they chasing in the green gap of a wood.
CONCHUBOR — now almost pleading. — It’s soon you’ll have dogs with silver chains to be chasing in the woods of Emain, for I have white hounds rearing up for you, and grey horses, that I’ve chosen from the finest in Ulster and Britain and Gaul.
DEIRDRE — unmoved as before. — I’ve heard tell, in Ulster and Britain and Gaul, Naisi and his brothers have no match and they chasing in the woods.
CONCHUBOR — very gravely. — Isn’t it a strange thing you’d be talking of Naisi and his brothers, or figuring them either, when you know the things that are foretold about themselves and you? Yet you’ve little knowledge, and I’d do wrong taking it bad when it’ll be my share from this out to keep you the way you’ll have little call to trouble for knowledge, or its want either.
DEIRDRE. Yourself should be wise, surely.
CONCHUBOR. The like of me has a store of knowledge that’s a weight and terror. It’s for that we do choose out the like of yourself that are young and glad only. . . . I’m thinking you are gay and lively each day in the year?
DEIRDRE. I don’t know if that’s true, Conchubor. There are lonesome days and bad nights in this place like another.
CONCHUBOR. You should have as few sad days, I’m thinking, as I have glad and good ones.
DEIRDRE. What is it has you that way ever coming this place, when you’d hear the old woman saying a good child’s as happy as a king?
CONCHUBOR. How would I be happy seeing age coming on me each year, when the dry leaves are blowing back and forward at the gate of Emain? And yet this last while I’m saying out, when I see the furze breaking and the daws sitting two and two on ash-trees by the duns of Emain, Deirdre’s a year nearer her full age when she’ll be my mate and comrade and then I’m glad surely.
DEIRDRE — almost to herself. — I will not be your mate in Emain.
CONCHUBOR — not heeding her. — It’s there you’ll be proud and happy and you’ll learn that, if young men are great hunters, yet it’s with the like of myself you’ll find a knowledge of what is priceless in your own like. What we all need is a place is safe and splendid, and it’s that you’ll get in Emain in two days or three.
DEIRDRE — aghast. — Two days!
CONCHUBOR. I have the rooms ready, and in a little while you’ll be brought down there, to be my queen and queen of the five parts of Ireland.
DEIRDRE — standing up frightened and pleading. — I’d liefer stay this place, Conchubor. . . . Leave me this place, where I’m well used to the tracks and pathways and the people of the glens. . . . It’s for this life I’m born, surely.
CONCHUBOR. You’ll be happier and greater with myself in Emain. It is I will be your comrade, and will stand between you and the great troubles are foretold.
DEIRDRE. I will not be your queen in
Emain when it’s my pleasure to be having my freedom on the edges of the hills.
CONCHUBOR. It’s my wish to have you quickly; I’m sick and weary thinking of the day you’ll be brought down to me, and seeing you walking into my big, empty halls. I’ve made all sure to have you, and yet all said there’s a fear in the back of my mind I’d miss you and have great troubles in the end. It’s for that, Deirdre, I’m praying that you’ll come quickly; and you may take the word of a man has no lies, you’ll not find, with any other, the like of what I’m bringing you in wildness and confusion in my own mind.
DEIRDRE. I cannot go, Conchubor.
CONCHUBOR — taking a triumphant tone. — It is my pleasure to have you, and I a man is waiting a long while on the throne of Ulster. Wouldn’t you liefer be my comrade, growing up the like of Emer and Maeve, than to be in this place and you a child always?
DEIRDRE. You don’t know me and you’d have little joy taking me, Conchubor. . . . I’m a long while watching the days getting a great speed passing me by. I’m too long taking my will, and it’s that way I’ll be living always.
CONCHUBOR — dryly. — Call Fergus to come with me. This is your last night upon Slieve Fuadh.
DEIRDRE — now pleadingly. — Leave me a short space longer, Conchubor. Isn’t it a poor thing I should be hastened away, when all these troubles are foretold? Leave me a year, Conchubor; it isn’t much I’m asking.
CONCHUBOR. It’s much to have me two score and two weeks waiting for your voice in Emain, and you in this place growing lonesome and shy. I’m a ripe man and in great love, and yet, Deirdre, I’m the King of Ulster. (He gets up.) I’ll call Fergus, and we’ll make Emain ready in the morning. [He goes towards door on left.
DEIRDRE — clinging to him. — Do not call him, Conchubor. . . . Promise me a year of quiet. . . . It’s one year I’m asking only.
CONCHUBOR. You’d be asking a year next year, and the years that follow. (Calling.) Fergus! Fergus! (To Deirdre.) Young girls are slow always; it is their lovers that must say the word. (Calling.) Fergus! [Deirdre
springs away from him as Fergus comes in with Lavarcham and the Old Woman.
CONCHUBOR — to Fergus. — There is a storm coming, and we’d best be going to our people when the night is young.
FERGUS — cheerfully. — The gods shield you, Deirdre. (To Conchubor.) We’re late already, and it’s no work the High King to be slipping on stepping-stones and hilly pathways when the floods are rising with the rain. [He helps Conchubor into his cloak.
CONCHUBOR — glad that he has made his decision — to Lavarcham. — Keep your rules a few days longer, and you’ll be brought down to Emain, you and Deirdre with you.
LAVARCHAM — obediently. — Your rules are kept always.
CONCHUBOR. The gods shield you. [He goes out with Fergus. Old Woman bolts door.
LAVARCHAM — looking at Deirdre, who has covered her face. — Wasn’t I saying you’d do it? You’ve brought your marriage a sight nearer not heeding those are wiser than yourself.
DEIRDRE — with agitation. — It wasn’t I did it. Will you take me from this place, Lavarcham, and keep me safe in the hills?
LAVARCHAM. He’d have us tracked in the half of a day, and then you’d be his queen in spite of you, and I and mine would be destroyed for ever.
DEIRDRE — terrified with the reality that is before her. — Are there none can go against Conchubor?
LAVARCHAM. Maeve of Connaught only, and those that are her like.
DEIRDRE. Would Fergus go against him?
LAVARCHAM. He would, maybe, and his temper roused.
DEIRDRE — in a lower voice with sudden excitement. — Would Naisi and his brothers?
LAVARCHAM — impatiently. — Let you not be dwelling on Naisi and his brothers. . . . In the end of all there is none can go against Conchubor, and it’s folly that we’re talking, for if any went against Conchubor it’s sorrow he’d earn and the shortening of his day of life. [She turns away, and Deirdre stands up stiff with excitement and goes and looks out of the window.
