by J. M. Synge
DEIRDRE. Are the stepping-stones flooding, Lavarcham? Will the night be stormy in the hills?
LAVARCHAM — looking at her curiously. The stepping-stones are flooding, surely, and the night will be the worst, I’m thinking, we’ve seen these years gone by.
DEIRDRE — tearing open the press and pulling out clothes and tapestries. — Lay these mats and hangings by the windows, and at the tables for our feet, and take out the skillets of silver, and the golden cups we have, and our two flasks of wine.
LAVARCHAM. What ails you?
DEIRDRE — gathering up a dress. — Lay them out quickly, Lavarcham, we’ve no call dawdling this night. Lay them out quickly; I’m going into the room to put on the rich dresses and jewels have been sent from Emain.
LAVARCHAM. Putting on dresses at this hour, and it dark and drenching with the weight of rain! Are you away in your head?
DEIRDRE — gathering her things together with an outburst of excitement. — I will dress like Emer in Dundealgan, or Maeve in her house in Connaught. If Conchubor’ll make me a queen, I’ll have the right of a queen who is a master, taking her own choice and making a stir to the edges of the seas. . . . Lay out your mats and hangings where I can stand this night and look about me. Lay out the skins of the rams of Connaught and of the goats of the west. I will not be a child or plaything; I’ll put on my robes that are the richest, for I will not be brought down to Emain as Cuchulain brings his horse to the yoke, or Conall Cearneach puts his shield upon his arm; and maybe from this day I will turn the men of Ireland like a wind blowing on the heath. [She goes into room. Lavarcham and Old Woman look at each other, then the Old Woman goes over, looks in at Deirdre through chink of the door, and then closes it carefully.
OLD WOMAN — in a frightened whisper. — She’s thrown off the rags she had about her, and there she is in her skin; she’s putting her hair in shiny twists. Is she raving, Lavarcham, or has she a good right turning to a queen like Maeve?
LAVARCHAM — putting up hanging very anxiously. — It’s more than raving’s in her mind, or I’m the more astray; and yet she’s as good a right as another, maybe, having her pleasure, though she’d spoil the world.
OLD WOMAN — helping her. — Be quick before she’ll come back. . . . Who’d have thought we’d run before her, and she so quiet till to-night. Will the High King get the better of her, Lavarcham? If I was Conchubor, I wouldn’t marry with her like at all.
LAVARCHAM. Hang that by the window. That should please her, surely. When all’s said, it’s her like will be the master till the end of time.
OLD WOMAN — at the window. — There’s a mountain of blackness in the sky, and the greatest rain falling has been these long years on the earth. The gods help Conchubor. He’ll be a sorry man this night, reaching his dun, and he with all his spirits, thinking to himself he’ll be putting his arms around her in two days or three.
LAVARCHAM. It’s more than Conchubor’ll be sick and sorry, I’m thinking, before this story is told to the end. [Loud knocking on door at the right.
LAVARCHAM — startled. — Who is that?
NAISI — outside. — Naisi and his brothers.
LAVARCHAM. We are lonely women. What is it you’re wanting in the blackness of the night?
NAISI. We met a young girl in the woods who told us we might shelter this place if the rivers rose on the pathways and the floods gathered from the butt of the hills. [Old Woman clasps her hands in horror.
LAVARCHAM — with great alarm. — You cannot come in. . . . There is no one let in here, and no young girl with us.
NAISI. Let us in from the great storm. Let us in and we will go further when the cloud will rise.
LAVARCHAM. Go round east to the shed and you’ll have shelter. You cannot come in.
NAISI — knocking loudly. — Open the door or we will burst it. (The door is shaken.)
OLD WOMAN — in a timid whisper. — Let them in, and keep Deirdre in her room to-night.
AINNLE AND ARDAN — outside. — Open! Open!
LAVARCHAM — to Old Woman. — Go in and keep her.
OLD WOMAN. I couldn’t keep her. I’ve no hold on her. Go in yourself and I will free the door.
LAVARCHAM. I must stay and turn them out. (She pulls her hair and cloak over her face.) Go in and keep her.
OLD WOMAN. The gods help us. [She runs into the inner room.
VOICES. Open!
LAVARCHAM — opening the door. —
Come in then and ill-luck if you’ll have it so. [Naisi and Ainnle and Ardan come in and look round with astonishment.
NAISI. It’s a rich man has this place, and no herd at all.
LAVARCHAM — sitting down with her head half covered. — It is not, and you’d best be going quickly.
NAISI — hilariously, shaking rain from his clothes. — When we’ve had the pick of luck finding princely comfort in the darkness of the night! Some rich man of Ulster should come here and he chasing in the woods. May we drink? (He takes up flask.) Whose wine is this that we may drink his health?
LAVARCHAM. It’s no one’s that you’ve call to know.
NAISI. Your own health then and length of life. (Pouring out wine for the three. They drink.)
LAVARCHAM — very crossly. — You’re great boys taking a welcome where it isn’t given, and asking questions where you’ve no call to. . . . If you’d a quiet place settled up to be playing yourself, maybe, with a gentle queen, what’d you think of young men prying around and carrying tales? When I was a bit of a girl the big men of Ulster had better manners, and they the like of your three selves, in the top folly of youth. That’ll be a story to tell out in Tara that Naisi is a tippler and stealer, and Ainnle the drawer of a stranger’s cork.
NAISI — quite cheerfully, sitting down beside her. — At your age you should know there are nights when a king like Conchubor will spit upon his arm ring, and queens will stick their tongues out at the rising moon. We’re that way this night, and it’s not wine we’re asking only. Where is the young girl told us we might shelter here?
LAVARCHAM. Asking me you’d be? We’re decent people, and I wouldn’t put you tracking a young girl, not if you gave me the gold clasp you have hanging on your coat.
NAISI — giving it to her. — Where is she?
LAVARCHAM — in confidential whisper, putting her hand on his arm. — Let you walk back into the hills and turn up by the second cnuceen where there are three together. You’ll see a path running on the rocks and then you’ll hear the dogs barking in the houses, and their noise will guide you till you come to a bit of cabin at the foot of an ash-tree. It’s there there is a young and flighty girl that I’m thinking is the one you’ve seen.
NAISI — hilariously. — Here’s health, then, to herself and you!
ARDAN. Here’s to the years when you were young as she!
AINNLE — in a frightened whisper. — Naisi! [Naisi looks up and Ainnle beckons to him. He goes over and Ainnle points to something on the golden mug he holds in his hand.
NAISI — looking at it in astonishment. — This is the High King’s. . . . I see his mark on the rim. Does Conchubor come lodging here?
LAVARCHAM — jumping up with extreme annoyance. — Who says it’s Conchubor’s? How dare young fools the like of you — (speaking with vehement insolence) come prying around, running the world into troubles for some slip of a girl? What brings you this place straying from Emain? (Very bitterly.) Though you think, maybe, young men can do their fill of foolery and there is none to blame them.
NAISI — very soberly. — Is the rain easing?
ARDAN. The clouds are breaking. . . . I can see Orion in the gap of the glen.
NAISI — still cheerfully. — Open the door and we’ll go forward to the little cabin between the ash-tree and the rocks. Lift the bolt and pull it. [Deirdre comes in on left royally dressed and very beautiful. She stands for a moment, and then as the door opens she calls softly.
DEIRDRE. Naisi! Do not leave me, Naisi. I am Deirdre of th
e Sorrows.
NAISI — transfixed with amazement. — And it is you who go around in the woods making the thrushes bear a grudge against the heavens for the sweetness of your voice singing.
DEIRDRE. It is with me you’ve spoken, surely. (To Lavarcham and Old Woman.) Take Ainnle and Ardan, these two princes, into the little hut where we eat, and serve them with what is best and sweetest. I have many thing for Naisi only.
LAVARCHAM — overawed by her tone. — I will do it, and I ask their pardon. I have fooled them here.
DEIRDRE — to Ainnle and Ardan. — Do not take it badly that I am asking you to walk into our hut for a little. You will have a supper that is cooked by the cook of Conchubor, and Lavarcham will tell you stories of Maeve and Nessa and Rogh.
AINNLE. We’ll ask Lavarcham to tell us stories of yourself, and with that we’ll be well pleased to be doing your wish. [They all go out except Deirdre and Naisi.
DEIRDRE — sitting in the high chair in the centre. — Come to this stool, Naisi (pointing to the stool). If it’s low itself the High King would sooner be on it this night than on the throne of Emain Macha.
NAISI — sitting down. — You are Fedlimid’s daughter that Conchubor has walled up from all the men of Ulster.
DEIRDRE. Do many know what is foretold, that Deirdre will be the ruin of the Sons of Usna, and have a little grave by herself, and a story will be told for ever?
NAISI. It’s a long while men have been talking of Deirdre, the child who had all gifts, and the beauty that has no equal; there are many know it, and there are kings would give a great price to be in my place this night and you grown to a queen.
DEIRDRE. It isn’t many I’d call, Naisi. . . . I was in the woods at the full moon and I heard a voice singing. Then I gathered up my skirts, and I ran on a little path I have to the verge of a rock, and I saw you pass by underneath, in your crimson cloak, singing a song, and you standing out beyond your brothers are called the Plower of Ireland.
NAISI. It’s for that you called us in the dusk?
DEIRDRE — in a low voice. — Since that, Naisi, I have been one time the like of a ewe looking for a lamb that had been taken away from her, and one time seeing new gold on the stars, and a new face on the moon, and all times dreading Emain.
NAISI — pulling himself together and beginning to draw back a little. — Yet it should be a lonesome thing to be in this place and you born for great company.
DEIRDRE — softly. — This night I have the best company in the whole world.
NAISI — still a little formally. — It is I who have the best company, for when you’re queen in Emain you will have none to be your match or fellow.
DEIRDRE. I will not be queen in Emain.
NAISI. Conchubor has made an oath you will, surely.
DEIRDRE. It’s for that maybe I’m called Deirdre, the girl of many sorrows . . . for it’s a sweet life you and I could have, Naisi.
. . . . It should be a sweet thing to have what is best and richest, if it’s for a short space only.
NAISI — very distressed. — And we’ve a short space only to be triumphant and brave.
DEIRDRE. You must not go, Naisi, and leave me to the High King, a man is aging in his dun, with his crowds round him, and his silver and gold. (More quickly.) I will not live to be shut up in Emain, and wouldn’t we do well paying, Naisi, with silence and a near death. (She stands up and walks away from him.) I’m a long while in the woods with my own self, and I’m in little dread of death, and it earned with riches would make the sun red with envy, and he going up the heavens; and the moon pale and lonesome, and she wasting away. (She comes to him and puts her hands on his shoulders.) Isn’t it a small thing is foretold about the ruin of ourselves, Naisi, when all men have age coming and great ruin in the end?
NAISI. Yet it’s a poor thing it’s I should bring you to a tale of blood and broken bodies, and the filth of the grave. . . . Wouldn’t we do well to wait, Deirdre, and I each twilight meeting you on the sides of the hills?
DEIRDRE — despondently. — His messengers are coming.
NAISI. Messengers are coming?
DEIRDRE. To-morrow morning or the next, surely.
NAISI. Then we’ll go away. It isn’t I will give your like to Conchubor, not if the grave was dug to be my lodging when a week was by. (He looks out.) The stars are out, Deirdre, and let you come with me quickly, for it is the stars will be our lamps many nights and we abroad in Alban, and taking our journeys among the little islands in the sea. There has never been the like of the joy we’ll have, Deirdre, you and I, having our fill of love at the evening and the morning till the sun is high.
DEIRDRE. And yet I’m in dread leaving this place, where I have lived always. Won’t I be lonesome and I thinking on the little hill beyond, and the apple-trees do be budding in the spring-time by the post of the door? (A little shaken by what has passed.) Won’t I be in great dread to bring you to destruction, Naisi, and you so happy and young?
NAISI. Are you thinking I’d go on living after this night, Deirdre, and you with Conchubor in Emain? Are you thinking I’d go out after hares when I’ve had your lips in my sight? [Lavarcham comes in as they cling to each other.
LAVARCHAM. Are you raving, Deirdre? Are you choosing this night to destroy the world?
DEIRDRE — very deliberately. — It’s Conchubor has chosen this night calling me to Emain. (To Naisi.) Bring in Ainnle and Ardan, and take me from this place, where I’m in dread from this out of the footsteps of a hare passing. [He goes.
DEIRDRE — clinging to Lavarcham. — Do not take it bad I’m going, Lavarcham. It’s you have been a good friend and given me great freedom and joy, and I living on Slieve Fuadh; and maybe you’ll be well pleased one day saying you have nursed Deirdre.
LAVARCHAM — moved. — It isn’t I’ll be well pleased and I far away from you. Isn’t it a hard thing you’re doing, but who can help it? Birds go mating in the spring of the year, and ewes at the leaves falling, but a young girl must have her lover in all the courses of the sun and moon.
DEIRDRE. Will you go to Emain in the morning?
LAVARCHAM. I will not. I’ll go to Brandon in the south; and in the course of a piece, maybe, I’ll be sailing back and forward on the seas to be looking on your face and the little ways you have that none can equal.
[Naisi comes back with Ainnle and Ardan and Old Woman.
DEIRDRE — taking Naisi’s hand. — My two brothers, I am going with Naisi to Alban and the north to face the troubles are foretold. Will you take word to Conchubor in Emain?
AINNLE. We will go with you.
ARDAN. We will be your servants and your huntsmen, Deirdre.
DEIRDRE. It isn’t one brother only of you three is brave and courteous. Will you wed us, Lavarcham? You have the words and customs.
LAVARCHAM. I will not, then. What would I want meddling in the ruin you will earn?
NAISI. Let Ainnle wed us. . . . He has been with wise men and he knows their ways.
AINNLE — joining their hands. — By the sun and moon and the whole earth, I wed Deirdre to Naisi. (He steps back and holds up his hands.) May the air bless you, and water and the wind, the sea, and all the hours of the sun and moon.
CURTAIN
ACT II.
ALBAN. EARLY MORNING in the beginning of winter. A wood outside the tent of Deirdre and Naisi. Lavarcham comes in muffled in a cloak.
LAVARCHAM — calling. — Deirdre. . . . Deirdre. . . .
DEIRDRE — coming from tent. — My welcome, Lavarcham. . . . Whose curagh is rowing from Ulster? I saw the oars through the tops of the trees, and I thought it was you were coming towards us.
LAVARCHAM. I came in the shower was before dawn.
DEIRDRE. And who is coming?
LAVARCHAM — mournfully. — Let you not be startled or taking it bad, Deirdre. It’s Fergus bringing messages of peace from Conchubor to take Naisi and his brothers back to Emain. [Sitting down.
DEIRDRE — lightly. — Naisi and hi
s brothers are well pleased with this place; and what would take them back to Conchubor in Ulster?
LAVARCHAM. Their like would go any place where they’d see death standing. (With more agitation.) I’m in dread Conchubor wants to have yourself and to kill Naisi, and that that’ll be the ruin of the Sons of Usna. I’m silly, maybe, to be dreading the like, but those have a great love for yourself have a right to be in dread always.
DEIRDRE — more anxiously. — Emain should be no safe place for myself and Naisi. And isn’t it a hard thing they’ll leave us no peace, Lavarcham, and we so quiet in the woods?
LAVARCHAM — impressively. — It’s a hard thing, surely; but let you take my word and swear Naisi, by the earth, and the sun over it, and the four quarters of the moon, he’ll not go back to Emain — for good faith or bad faith — the time Conchubor’s keeping the high throne of Ireland. . . . It’s that would save you, surely.
DEIRDRE — without hope. — There’s little power in oaths to stop what’s coming, and little power in what I’d do, Lavarcham, to change the story of Conchubor and Naisi and the things old men foretold.
LAVARCHAM — aggressively. — Was there little power in what you did the night you dressed in your finery and ran Naisi off along with you, in spite of Conchubor and the big nobles did dread the blackness of your luck? It was power enough you had that night to bring distress and anguish; and now I’m pointing you a way to save Naisi, you’ll not stir stick or straw to aid me.
DEIRDRE — a little haughtily. — Let you not raise your voice against me, Lavarcham, if you have will itself to guard Naisi.
LAVARCHAM — breaking out in anger. — Naisi is it? I didn’t care if the crows were stripping his thigh-bones at the dawn of day. It’s to stop your own despair and wailing, and you waking up in a cold bed, without the man you have your heart on, I am raging now. (Starting up with temper.) Yet there is more men than Naisi in it; and maybe I was a big fool thinking his dangers, and this day, would fill you up with dread.
