SCENE:--The same as last, only that the place, by the absence of all
drawing-room ornaments, has assumed once more its aspect of a library. A
fire of fresh ashwood in the large fire-place burns cheerfully, while
sunlight streams in through the window-doors at back. A sheet of the
ordnance map lies on writing table. Several months have passed; and it
is now Spring.
KIT TYRRELL runs in by door at right carrying a child’s kite, which he
examines as he kneels down in front of the fire. Measuring out the
string at arm’s length, he appears dissatisfied. Then, as if suddenly
remembering, he runs over to the book-case at back, and climbing up on
its ledge he takes from behind the books on an upper row a mass of cord.
He returns, and disentangling it ties its end to the cord attached to
the kite, which he then carries to the window-doors at back. These he
opens, and stands in a flood of sunlight. Outside is heard the singing
of birds.
CARDEN TYRRELL, somewhat aged and careworn, enters by door at right.
TYR. (_half to himself as he watches KIT_). Oh, memories--
KIT. (_after a short pause, perceiving TYRRELL and running to him_).
Father.
TYR. The little birds are singing in the sunlight to my little bird.
Where are you going, Kit?
KIT. I am going to fly the kite. Oh, come out, father, with me to the
heather field. There is sure to be a splendid breeze there to-day.
TYR. (_sadly_). Ah, the heather field. No, Kit, I cannot.
KIT. You have not been there for such a long time. Why can’t you come?
TYR. I can’t; it is unbearable to be always followed and watched--and in
that place above all others.
KIT. But, father, why don’t you tell those policemen to go away?
TYR. I have done so over and over again. They will not go.
KIT. But why must they watch you, father, dear?
TYR. (_looks at KIT for a moment, then in an unsteady voice as he turns
away_). Do not ask me, boy. You would not understand.
KIT. (_catching TYRRELL by the arm_). Really? Yet Barry says that I
understand so many things better than if I were a man.
TYR. (_thoughtfully_). He is right. Only those who become as you are,
can know the rarest joys of life.
KIT. Then why do you think, father, I would not understand the reason
they are watching you.
TYR. Because--because it would appear--well, something incredible to
you. There, do not ask, boy. (_He flings himself moodily into the chair
on the outside of the writing table. A short pause._)
KIT. (_coming near_). Father, dear, you are not angry with me?
TYR. No, Kit. Only a bit worried by things in general.
KIT. I am sorry if I have ever worried you. I will try not to do it
again. I love you. Oh, you don’t know how I love you, father.
TYR. (_throwing his arms around KIT_). My darling, you have never
worried me. I could not live without you.
KIT. (_hiding his face on TYRRELL’S neck_). Oh, father, father!
TYR. Yes, Kit, you are the little elf that calls up for me the magic of
the heather field. Henceforth we must never be divided--you and I.
KIT. Never, oh never, father dear. You don’t know how lonely I feel away
from you. I have not been to the heather field for ever so long. It
seemed such a sad place when you were not there.
TYR. Even in spite of its wild flowers, Kit? It is time for them now to
be coming out again.
KIT. Yes, the heather field will be beginning to look lovely now.
TYR. How I wish I were free to walk among its flowers on this soft
spring day.
KIT. Poor father!--but would you like me to fetch you some of them.
Shall I go?
TYR. Yes, do, Kit. I should like some flowers from the heather field.
_BARRY USSHER enters at back._
KIT. Oh, there’s Barry.
TYR. What--Barry! It is an event when I see anyone now.
USS. As if it were not your own doing.
TYR. (_somewhat ruffled_). You may say what you like for all I care.
USS. (_shrugging his shoulders_). Heigh-ho! Well, Kit, are you glad the
winter is over?
KIT. Oh, yes, how horrid and dark it was.
USS. I wonder how you ever managed to exist through it. And you never
got the pony, after all?
KIT. No--you see when father promised me one he thought he could afford
it. But now he cannot, until he lets the heather field. I must wait a
while longer. Is not that so, father?
TYR. Yes, Kit, we must wait.
KIT. You know, Barry, I could not think of worrying him any more about
the pony.
USS. You good little son, there is no need to wait any longer. I have
just brought you such a nice pony.
TYR. What is this, Barry? what is this?
KIT. Oh, where is he, Barry?
USS. Out in the yard waiting for you--bridle, saddle and all.
KIT. Oh, thank you, Barry. Father, is he not nice and kind?
TYR. (_looking at USSHER_). Yes, always the kind friend--always the
same.
KIT. Father, I shall ride the pony off to the heather-field at once, and
get you those flowers.
[_Exit at back._
USS. How happy the little fellow is.
TYR. You have indeed made him so by your kindness, Barry.
USS. Bah--a selfish kindness at most. I tell you, I have not felt for a
long time such real happiness as just now when I saw myself looked at
like some good spirit by that little face.
TYR. And to think that you who are so lucky, to whom most things come so
easily, should say this! Why, even I, with all my troubles, could hardly
speak more despondingly. What would you do if you were imprisoned as I
am here since those evictions?
USS. Your health will be ruined by your obstinacy.
TYR. What can I do? The police have orders never to lose sight of me if
I go out. They say I should be shot at otherwise.
USS. Ha!
TYR. And you know I never could bear to be followed by a guard. It makes
me feel like a criminal. I would much rather stay indoors.
USS. (_after thinking for a moment_). Look here, Carden, you ought to
leave this place for a while. We will go together. We will travel.
TYR. Impossible, the drainage of the valley could never go on in my
absence.
USS. Why not? You haven’t been near it for ever so long.
TYR. Oh, that doesn’t matter in the least. I can direct it just as well
from this room. There on the writing table is my map with all the drains
marked upon it. The superintendent comes to me at stated intervals,
reports the progress of each man’s work, and takes the fresh orders
which I give him from the map. I assure you it gives me greater pleasure
to conduct operations in this way scientifically, than if I were to go
on the ground. One can imagine oneself in such a situation, like Moltke
fighting battles from his study.
USS. (_gives a quick look at TYRRELL. Then after a short pause_--) Well,
if you won’t leave here, at all events try and settle with those
peasants, so that you may dispense with police and be able to go about
again.
TYR. Settle? How could I settle with them? The only settlement they
would hear of I could never grant. Oh no--a nice ending, indeed, that
would be to our battle!
USS. Is there no compromise you will come to?
TYR. I will reinstate the evicted, if they pay in full their rents and
the costs I have incurred on their account.
USS. Oh, that is no compromise at all.
TYR. Well, it is as much as I can agree to. I told these people when
they struck, that I could not afford to give abatements on rents which
had already been reduced so much by the Land Commission, and I can less
afford to give any now with pressing mortgagees who have not been paid
for so long.
USS. But would it not be better to get some rent for that land instead
of leaving it idle? Others, you know, will not dare to take it from you.
TYR. I cannot help that. I must work it myself.
USS. Meanwhile how are you going to pay the mortgagees their interest?
TYR. Oh, there is the great difficulty. The chief mortgagee is most
pressing, and threatens to foreclose immediately. I have implored of him
again and again to wait until I can let the heather field, but in vain.
Miles, whom I expect home this evening, was to have made a final appeal
to him in Dublin last night. I can only hope for a favourable result.
USS. I think you had better come to terms with those tenants, Carden.
TYR. I shall never give in to them. I shall never voluntarily reduce the
value of my property. Besides, if the worst should come, I have always
the great resource.
USS. What is that?
TYR. The heather field!
USS. Carden, take care. It is a dangerous thing--trusting to only one
resource.
TYR. (_a little irritated_). What do you mean? Are you too going to join
the enemy?
USS. (_uneasily_). No, no, Carden, you do not understand me; but----
TYR. But what?
USS. Oh, I should so like to see you on good terms with your people
again. I am sure the remembrance of all that friendship with them in the
past must make this quarrel unbearable to you.
TYR. Yes, indeed that is true.
USS. And this continual watch upon your movements too must be dreadful.
TYR. Dreadful, it is gradually wearing me out. I know I cannot stand it
much longer. And most of the long dreary winter I had no one about me
whom I could confide in or consult; for Miles has been away at College
as you know.
USS. Yes, carrying everything before him. I see he has won a
scholarship. He is sure of his gold medal now.
TYR. Miles is of the stuff to succeed. I am so fond of Miles. He was
always such good company.
USS. Of course, a most charming boy. I am glad he is to be at home
to-day.
TYR. Indeed his companionship will make a great difference to me, now
that I can never get about.
USS. (_anxiously_). Oh, but Carden, you cannot continue in this way. You
have always been used to so free a life in the open air. I say this
imprisonment will kill you. Already I see a very marked change in your
appearance.
TYR. (_doggedly_). I cannot help it. My past demands that I must suffer.
[_With a sigh, he passes to right of doors at back, where he
looks out in a reverie._
USS. (_watching him_). For heaven’s sake, Carden, do not be so fatally
unreasonable.
TYR. (_after a pause, still looking in the same direction_). No--I am
not so; you think those remedies you suggest would avail to relieve
me--but they would not.
USS. Why not?
TYR. You ask--you who are such a philosopher? Can you not understand
that the only remedy for me must be something that has no relation
whatever with those circumstances that may affect me ill or otherwise?
USS. You mean that improvement of circumstances has little to do with
bringing contentment.
TYR. I mean that the only remedy must be something which would make me
forgetful that I am myself. (_Mysteriously_) Barry, would you believe
it, often in moments of darkest anxiety I am arrested by the sight of
some flower or leaf or some tiny nook in the garden out there. And oh--I
become then at once so peaceful that I care not what may happen to me. I
think it is only when we turn to them in our misery that we can really
see the exquisite beauty of these things.
USS. Ah, Carden, nature is a marvellous sedative. How infinite her
ingenuousness amidst all our pains and fears.
TYR. Yes--and just this moment when I looked upon the ocean there and
the land awakening with such freshness from its winter sleep, I felt
something that no improvement of circumstances could bring. (_Then with
a strange enthusiasm_) Oh, to feel that despite all suffering one has
the firmament, the earth, the sea! What more can one really require from
the world?
USS. Ay--true enough. “For all things were made from these,” to quote
the great mediæval philosopher. Nevertheless I think I might bring you
another and very real sort of relief from this present trouble, if you
would but allow me.
TYR. And what if you might? It would only be succeeded by some further
trouble. That is the only sort of relief you could ever bring. Ah, there
is a trouble past all your remedies.
USS. Alas, I fear there are many. How could I pretend otherwise? But
will you tell me this particular one?
TYR. I wonder will you understand.
USS. Why not, Carden?
TYR. Well then, have you ever seen on earth something beautiful beyond
earth--that great beauty which appears in divers ways? And then have you
known what it is to go back to the world again?
USS. (_sadly_). I know, I know--the pain of loss.
TYR. Is it not misery? But you have seen the great beauty have you not?
Oh, that immortal beauty--so far away--always so far away.
USS. Yes--yes, our ideal of beauty that for ever haunts and eludes us
through life. (_With a movement of resignation_) But let us not speak of
it any more.
TYR. Why, Barry?
USS. Because, as you say, it makes one so miserable in the world, and it
is such a hopeless phantom after all.
TYR. How can you say so? You who know that it is alone the reality in
the world.
USS. (_cautiously_). Hush, Carden, I do not know.
TYR. (_laughing bitterly_). There--just like you, Barry, careful never
to let yourself go.
USS. No--no, Carden, but you brood too much on these thoughts. You are
overworked--you ought really to come away from here. Do let us travel
somewhere together for a change.
TYR. Ah, not now--at some future time, perhaps--but not now. My
difficulties are gathering before me. I must stand and hew them from my
path.
_GRACE TYRRELL enters hurriedly and excitedly by door at right._
GR. (_pauses when she sees USSHER, then to TYRRELL_). Oh, but I suppose
as you have no secrets from him----
TYR. (_starting_). Well, what is the matter?
GR. (_holding out a paper_). A dreadful-looking man has just handed me
this.
TYR. Let me see (_takes paper_). Ah----
GR. I have so often asked you for money to pay this person.
TYR. I am very sorry. I had nothing to give you.
GR. Alas, you always had plenty to squander on that mountain.
TYR. That was Government money, and it could not honestly be expended
except on the object for which it was advanced.
GR. I am afraid I must have some of it now. I cannot be left in this
condition.
TYR. Indeed you shall not have one penny of it.
GR. What--you mean to leave me under the stigma of such an insult?
TYR. (_impatiently_). There is no particular urgency. I will see if I
can possibly meet this writ by some money of my own. (_With a painful
distracted look_) Oh this worry--this worry.
[_Exit by door at right._
GR. Well, Mr Ussher, I hope you are satisfied now. We are ruined; and my
husband is becoming stranger in his behaviour every day. But for you, he
might have been cured by this, and the estate in a very different
condition.
USS. I have nothing, Mrs Tyrrell, to reproach myself with. I did all for
the best.
GR. Yes, of course. That is the only satisfaction one ever receives for
injuries done through gratuitous interference.
USS. Nothing has since happened to convict me of having acted wrongly. I
have done you no injury.
GR. No injury? Well!
USS. You cannot lay to my account this quarrel with the tenants which is
the cause of your present difficulties. Goodness knows I have done my
best to mend it.
GR. (_impatiently_). Oh, that is only a temporary difficulty. But the
estate will be ruined for ever by the great debt from which we should
have saved it, if you had not interfered. (_Pause._) Yes--I see now how
it all will be. The child and I will be driven out, ruined, to battle
with the world.
USS. Oh, don’t think of such a thing, Mrs Tyrrell. It can never come to
that.
GR. (_sadly_). Ah, yes. You destroyed my last chance of saving our home.
I might have kept it lovingly for Kit until he grew to be a man; but now
I see it must go from us. I shall have to bid everything farewell--the
familiar rooms--the garden where I found an occupation for my life--even
those common useless things about the house I have been accustomed to
look at for years. Oh, you don’t know what it is--this parting from
those everyday things of one’s life.
USS. Yes, yes--indeed I do--and from my heart I feel for you.
GR. And yet you could have acted as you have.
USS. I acted only in good faith. Heaven knows that is the truth.
GR. The injury remains still the same.
USS. (_with strong emotion_). If it is I who have injured you, Mrs
Tyrrell, you must allow me to make amends.
GR. Alas, what amends are possible?
USS. Who can tell? I promise you, at least, you shall never, _never_ bid
farewell to your home.
GR. (_in a trembling voice_). If only what you say might come true.
_LADY SHRULE, LORD SHRULE, and CARDEN TYRRELL enter by door at right._
LORD S. Carden, I believe your servant was actually going to say “not at
home” to us, if I had not caught sight of you in the hall. Ha, ha.
LADY S. What a shame, Mr Tyrrell, to try and prevent me from seeing
Grace. How do you do, Grace dear? (_Giving her hand apathetically to
USSHER_) How do you do?
LORD S. (_shakes hands with GRACE and USSHER_). We should have been so
disappointed.
TYR. I assure you, Lord Shrule, my attempt to escape is purely an
imagination on your part.
LORD S. Oh, you sly fellow, you think I do not know. You are just like
your father when people used to call--although he would never run away
from me, I can tell you.
TYR. No more did I. I was only surprised to see you; that was all. When
I heard the bell I thought it was Miles come from Dublin. I am anxiously
expecting him now at any moment.
LORD S. Ah, it will be a pleasure to see Miles again. We have all heard
of his University triumphs. How proud your poor father would have been.
TYR. Yes, and how delighted to share his satisfaction with you.
LORD S. Poor Marmaduke, we were such friends--at our very last interview
he asked me to keep you and your brother always in mind after he was
gone. So I have always felt somehow like a father towards you both, you
know, and with a father’s privilege occasionally have given advice.
GR. Yes, Lord Shrule, and how I wish your good advice occasionally had
been followed.
LORD S. Ah, we cannot help that, Mrs Tyrrell. Nothing will ever teach
the young save bitter experience.
GR. I am sure there has been enough bitter experience; but it seems to
have taught nothing at all.
LORD S. Well, well, I hope it won’t be so. Eh, Carden?
TYR. I do not see how my experience can teach me to act differently from
my present way of acting. (_Aside to USSHER_) Miles ought to have
arrived by this. Oh, I am nearly dead with anxiety to know the news he
will bring.
USS. (_aside to TYRRELL_). I hope there will be good news.
LORD S. Never mind, Mrs Tyrrell. Carden will come by degrees to see his
mistakes.
GR. I fear we are now in so bad a way that it does not much matter
whether he sees them or not.
LADY S. No--really, Grace, you do not say so?
GR. Oh, Lilian, we are ruined.
LORD S. Come, come, I am sure it cannot be as bad as that.
TYR. Goodness me, of course not, Lord Shrule. On the contrary, in the
near future we shall make a fortune.
GR. I say we are ruined, utterly, irretrievably.
TYR. No--no----
USS. What noise is that? (_Listens, then opens door at right._) Why,
Miles has arrived.
TYR. Miles--oh!
USS. There, Carden, for goodness sake be calm.
_Enter MILES TYRRELL by door at right._
MIL. Carden. (_He grasps his brother by the hand, then greets all the
rest._)
TYR. What news, Miles? Will he wait?
MIL. (_turning away dejectedly_). I did my best, Carden. There is no
hope, I fear.
GR. No hope? What is this new misfortune? Who won’t wait?
MIL. The chief mortgagee.
GR. Is he going to foreclose?
MIL. He says so.
LORD S. Ha--this is a most serious matter.
TYR. But Miles, didn’t you explain to him all about the heather field?
MIL. Yes.
TYR. Didn’t you assure him that it would soon bring in what would more
than pay his interest?
MIL. Indeed I did, Carden.
TYR. Well?
MIL. Well, that only seemed to make him impatient with me. But I used
every argument I could think of, and pleaded with him for nearly an hour
in his office, until at last he had to get rid of me almost brutally.
TYR. (_with a look of humiliation and despair_). Oh ruin! ruin!
USS. No, no, Carden--it is not yet that. We must see how we can help you
through this difficulty.
TYR. (_quietly_). With all your goodwill, Barry, what can you do now?
USS. Who knows? Just keep quiet, and do not distress yourself. Leave it
all to me.
TYR. (_almost staggering_). Yes--such a severe blow--this. It has quite
upset me. I am sure you will all excuse me. You, Barry, will see what
you can do, won’t you? Yes-- (_He goes to door at right._)
USS. Yes, Carden, I hope all will come well.
LORD S. How much of the property does this mortgage cover?
GR. Oh, pretty nearly all, I should think.
TYR. (_suddenly turning_). All, do you say? No--not all. This vulture
cannot touch the heather field! My hope--it is my only hope now, and it
will save me in the end. Ha, ha! these wise ones! They did not think the
barren mountain of those days worth naming in their deed. But now that
mountain is a great green field worth more than all they can seize,
(_with a strange intensity_) and it is mine--all mine!
[_Exit by door at right._
LORD S. (_throwing up his hands_). Oh dear, oh dear, what infatuation!
GR. Yes indeed, it has caused us all to be cast adrift in the world. Oh,
what is to become of me--what is to become of me? (_She sobs in her
handkerchief._)
LADY S. Grace, you must not lose heart.
GR. Ah, the final misfortune has come.
LADY S. We shall try and help you, dear--there.
USS. Yes, we must lose no time now to see what can be done for Carden.
LADY S. You should indeed bestir yourself, Mr Ussher, and save him; for
we have you to thank that he was left in a position to ruin himself.
USS. And have not you too, Lady Shrule, to thank yourself for the same
thing?
LADY S. I? How so, pray?
USS. Why did you and Lord Shrule disappear so suddenly on that day the
doctors were here? Your advocacy would doubtless have made them heedless
of my objections--
LADY S. Ha--why indeed? You know, Shrule, I wanted you to----
LORD S. Well, well, I could not bear to act in such a way to the son of
my old friend. But I suppose in my weakness I did wrong.
USS. No, Lord Shrule, you did right. You never could be suspected by
anyone of doing otherwise.
LORD S. I hope not, Ussher! Still, I am inclined to think it might have
been wiser then to have taken some definite step.
LADY S. I should think so. Just see what has happened since.
GR. Nothing less than the ruin of a helpless woman and her child.
LADY S. You have, indeed, incurred a nice responsibility, Mr Ussher.
GR. (_to USSHER_). What--what right had you to do my child and me this
wrong?
USS. I only prevented what I thought a grievous wrong from being done to
my friend.
GR. It was no wrong--it was for his good--for all our good. In your
heart you must know I was right.
USS. I have often said, Mrs Tyrrell, I know nothing of the sort.
LADY S. Still, you must admit that his actions since more than justify
Mrs Tyrrell in the course she adopted.
LORD S. Alas, I fear that is the case.
USS. I admit he is very wilful and extravagant, but no more. I cannot
discover any mental infirmity. His mind has a perfect grasp of ideas.
GR. Don’t talk of ideas. I have heard enough about them since I was
married to give me a horror of them for the rest of my life.
LADY S. They have certainly caused the wreck of this household.
LORD S. Oh, I hope not. We must not be too pessimistic.--Who can
tell?--perhaps the heather field may turn out a success after all!
GR. (_with contempt_). The heather field.
LORD S. If it were to, there can be no doubt but that all would be
saved. I wonder how it is going on. Have you been there lately, Mrs
Tyrrell?
GR. Of course not, Lord Shrule. The very thought of the place fills me
with despair.
MIL. That is a pity, Grace--a great pity, when so much depends upon the
success of the heather field.
GR. No good can ever come of that abominable work.
MIL. You must not speak such words; no luck can come from such words.
GR. I cannot help it.
MIL. Oh, I know you have much to endure, but I cannot remain here and
listen to such denunciation of what my brother holds nearest to his
heart.
GR. I have only said the truth.
MIL. You cannot be certain of this truth. It is not right to speak such
words.
[_Exit by door at right._
LADY S. My poor Grace.
GR. Oh, Lilian.
LADY S. These troubles are driving you to distraction. You had better
leave this place for a while. Will you not come and stay with us?
LORD S. Oh yes, won’t you stay with us, Mrs Tyrrell? You might be saved
much annoyance and worry.
GR. You are both so kind--I should like to for a little while,
certainly. This house has become unbearable of late with debts and
difficulties on every side.
LADY S. Oh dear, how terrible. You had better leave at once, Grace.
Perhaps you might have some of your things seized. Anyhow, bring with
you those that you most value. We will take care of them.
GR. Thanks, Lilian.
LORD S. Well then, that is agreed, Mrs Tyrrell. I am so glad we may be
of use to you.
LADY S. We shall expect you this evening, dear.
GR. Yes, I shall get ready at once.
LADY S. And it is time for us to return home. Good-bye, Mr Ussher.
USS. Good-bye, Lady Shrule.
LORD S. Good-bye.
[_Exeunt LADY SHRULE, GRACE TYRRELL, and LORD SHRULE by door
at right._
USS. (_gloomily_). Heaven help her--help them all. What is to be
done?--Stay--I might go security, I would do anything to help them.--But
would it really be of use? Other difficulties must follow these, so that
my whole fortune would not suffice. I will think the matter over.--I
wonder how the heather field is going on. No one seems to have been
there lately.
_KIT TYRRELL, carrying a small white bundle, enters through door at
back._
KIT (_placing the bundle on sofa_). Barry, the pony is splendid. I had
such galloping over the heather field.
USS. Well, did you bring back any flowers?
KIT. They have not yet come out. All I could find there were these
little buds in my handkerchief. (_Unties the bundle_) Look.
USS. (_with a start_). What--buds of heather? Has your father seen
these, Kit?
KIT. Yes, I told him I found them growing all over the heather field.
USS. You did, boy--and what did he say?
KIT. Nothing for a while. But he looked--he looked--well, I have never
seen him look like that before.
USS. Ha--and then--?
KIT. Oh, then he seemed to forget all about it. He became so kind, and
oh, Barry, what do you think, he called me, his “little brother Miles.”
So I am really his brother, he says, after all--
_MILES TYRRELL, in haste and violent trepidation, enters through door
at back._
MIL. Barry, for pity’s sake--(_sees KIT and suddenly checks himself,
then brings USSHER over to fireplace_). Barry, something dreadful has
come over Carden. He does not know me.
USS. (_in a trembling voice, as he gazes fixedly before him_). The
vengeance of the heather field.
MIL. Oh! for pity’s sake, come to him. Come to him--
USS. Where is he?
MIL. Wandering helpless about the garden. Oh, heavens, what shall we do?
USS. (_with suppressed terror_). Let us find him. (_He turns to go._)
_CARDEN TYRRELL appears outside doorway at back. He has a strange,
collected look._
USS. (_starting_). Carden!
TYR. (_coming in_). Well, Barry?--Why, what has happened to you since
yesterday? My goodness, you look at least ten years older. (_Glancing at
MILES_) Who is that? He was annoying me about something just now in the
fuchsia walk.
MIL. Oh, I cannot stand this torture. Carden, dear Carden, look at me--
TYR. (_retreats like a frightened animal towards USSHER, keeping always
his eyes fixed on MILES_). Barry, what is the matter with him? Don’t
leave me alone with him, Barry. Get him to go away.
USS. You need not fear him, Carden. (_He signs to MILES, who retires
with an inconsolable expression and stands by fireplace._)
TYR. (_after a moment, mysteriously_). Barry--
USS. Yes, Carden.
TYR. (_looking cautiously around_). You remember our conversation
yesterday.
USS. (_puzzled_). Yesterday? I did not see you yesterday.
TYR. (_with impatience_). We did not walk together on the cliff
yesterday, when you advised me not to marry Grace Desmond? What do you
mean?
USS. (_suddenly recollecting_). Oh, I remember, I remember. (_Then in a
trembling voice_) But Carden--Carden, that was ten years ago. Don’t you
know that you are now married to her?
TYR. (_with a surprised baffled look_). I am?--
USS. (_very gently_). Yes, indeed.
TYR. Oh! (_His expression for a moment grows vaguely painful, then
gradually passes into one of vacant calm. After a short pause_) Barry,
you are quite right.
USS. (_joyfully_). I knew you would understand me, Carden.
TYR. Yes, I will take your advice. I will not ask her to be my wife.
USS. (_with cruel disappointment_). Hopeless--I see it is hopeless now.
TYR. (_unheeding_). I do not care for her any more. I know now I never
cared for her.
USS. Do you? Why?
TYR. (_distressfully_). Oh, I have had such a dreadful dream.
USS. A dream?
TYR. I must tell it to you.--Let me see, what was it? No--I cannot
remember--no,--it has gone completely from me before the beauty of the
morning. (_Looks out at back and stretches his arms_) Oh, is not this
Spring morning divine?
USS. But--Carden, can you not see that it is evening?
TYR. Ah, I must have been a long time asleep--a long, long time. Yet it
looks like the morning. Yes, it seems as if it would always be morning
now for me.
USS. (_with interest_). Indeed--is that so?
TYR. Yes--its genius somehow is always about me.
USS. And what do you call this genius of the morning?
TYR. (_with a strange ecstasy_). Joy! Joy!
USS. (_after looking at him for a while in wonder_). Then, you are
happy, Carden?
TYR. Oh, yes--so happy. Why not?
USS. (_with hesitation_). You have no troubles, have you?
TYR. Troubles--? No, except sometimes in dreams--but oh, when I awake to
the joy of this great beauty--
USS. Yet--great beauty--is it not for ever far away?
TYR. No--it is for ever by me. (_Then as if suddenly recollecting_) Ah,
now I can tell you my dreadful dream. (_Slowly_) I dreamed that my lot
was to wander through common luxurious life--seeing now and then in
glimpses, that beauty--but so far away! And when the vision left me--ah,
you do not know the anguish I felt in looking again at my lot in life.
USS. And this was only a dream?
TYR. (_fervently_). Thank heaven--only a dream! (_He goes to the sofa,
where KIT all this time has been playing with the heather buds._)
USS. (_meditatively sorrowful_). And are beauty and happiness mere
illusions after all? (Goes towards Miles) I am dazed in the presence of
this awful misfortune.
MIL. (_approaching USSHER_). Oh, the misery of seeing him like this. He
thinks he is living in the old days.
USS. It has come upon him again--that eerie ethereal youth I remember so
well.
MIL. And for which he would yearn with such fond regret. But Grace and
the child--Oh, what is to become of them? I fear their ruin is now
certain and complete.
USS. (_as if suddenly awakened_). Not so.--It may be possible to save
them now that there is no danger of further expenditure. And I will save
them. I will be security for the payment of all their debts. I will save
the estate, if it costs me every penny I have in the world.
MIL. (_grasping USSHER by the hand_). Oh, Barry, this is good of you.
(_They go towards the fireplace in earnest discourse._)
TYR. (_placing a heather wreath on KIT’S head_). There--you are like a
young field-faun now.
KIT. What sort of thing is that?
TYR. Why, one of the field-fairies fresh and clean as those soft
heather-shoots around your hair.
KIT (_delighted_). What--the fairies that live in green hillocks, and
dance by the river bank, in the valley over there? Oh, tell me of them
again.
TYR. Yes, beautiful child-fairies that play with the water nymphs--those
sirens, you know, who sing in the wistful depths of the stream. (_With a
sudden transport_) Oh, we must go to Lorlei as last year, where the
river is lit with their gold. (_Pointing out at back_) See, even now the
sky is darkening as in that storm scene of the old legend I told you on
the Rhine. See, the rain across a saffron sun trembles like gold harp
strings, through the purple Irish Spring!
_MRS GRACE TYRRELL enters by door at right, dressed for
going out, with her face thinly veiled and looking
altogether younger and more handsome._
GR. (_to TYRRELL_). I am just starting to visit the Shrules for some
days.
TYR. (_turns surprised_). Miss Desmond-- Oh-- (_With emotion and signs
of struggle_) Oh, where is that beauty now--that music of the morning?
(_Suddenly arrested_) Such strange solemn harmonies. (_Listens._) The
voices--yes, they are filling the house--those white-stoled children of
the morning. (_His eyes after a moment wander slowly to the doorway at
back_) Oh, the rainbow! (_To KIT_) Come quick, see the lovely rainbow!
(_They go to watch it hand in hand._) Oh, mystic highway of man’s
speechless longings! My heart goes forth upon the rainbow to that
horizon of joy! (_With a fearful exaltation_) The voices--I hear them
now triumphant in a silver glory of song!
GR. (_looking bewildered from MILES to USSHER_). What--what is all this?
USS. Ah, your fears have come true, Mrs Tyrrell. You have not heard----
GR. No.--What has happened? For heavens’ sake, speak.
USS. The wild heath has broken out again in the heather field.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MAEVE
A PSYCHOLOGICAL DRAMA IN TWO ACTS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
THE O’HEYNES, _Colman O’Heynes, Prince of Burren_.
MAEVE O’HEYNES, }
} _his daughters_.
FINOLA O’HEYNES, }
HUGH FITZ WALTER, _a young Englishman_.
PEG INERNY, _a vagrant_.
In the dream of MAEVE appear QUEEN MAEVE, A BOY PAGE, CHORUS OF BOY
PAGES, ancient Irish harpers, chieftains, warriors, people, etc.
The action takes place during the present time about and at O’Heynes
Castle among the Burren Mountains of County Clare in Ireland.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACT I
A ruined abbey in a green valley among mountains covered with layers of
grey rock. At back a little removed is a cairn overgrown with grass.
Gray limestones belonging to the ruin are strewn about the ground. At
the left in the surrounding pasture of pale green, great leafless ash
trees stand among boulders spotted with white and orange lichen. It is a
sunny evening in the month of March.
MAEVE O’HEYNES--a girl of about three and twenty with a fair complexion,
gold hair, and a certain boyish beauty in the lines and movement of her
slim figure, rests thoughtful and attentive on one of the fallen stones.
She wears a red frieze dress with a black jacket and folding linen
collar, and has on her head a sailor’s cap of black wool.
FINOLA O’HEYNES--a dark rather submissive-looking girl somewhat younger,
dressed simply in an ordinary gown, sits near on another stone.
FINOLA (_reading from an old book_).--
“Every hill which is at this Oenach
Hath under it heroes and queens,
And poets and distributors,
And fair fierce women.”
MAEVE (_rises and gazes before her as if in a dream_). And fair fierce
women!
FIN. (_closing the book, goes to her_). Maeve--what are you thinking of
so earnestly?
MA. (_recalled to herself_). Visions--visions.--That is all.
FIN. Has this old West Connacht poem brought you visions?
MA. Ah, the bard Dorban, who wrote it, was a poet! (_She sighs and
covers her face with her hands._)
FIN. (_turning away_). I am sorry I thought of reading it to you.
MA. Why, sister?
FIN. Because it seems to have called you back to your old self.
MA. (_smiling sadly_). My old self. As if I could ever have left my old
self.
FIN. Oh yes, you were peaceful and contented a little while ago.
MA. It seems so long ago, Finola.
FIN. Something strange has come over you now.
MA. (_with restlessness_). No, it is nothing. It is only the look of the
evening.
FIN. But this is such a peaceful evening with that saffron sunlight over
the ruins. Why should it make you anything else but peaceful?
MA. Oh, Finola, when I see the ruins like that, I know the visions are
near me.
FIN. Then, after all, it was not because I read that poem?
MA. Yes--that, and the evening.
FIN. (_looking at her anxiously_). Why should the visions make you so
sad, Maeve?
MA. (_wistfully_). Such beautiful dead people! They used to walk in the
oldest of these ruins before it was a ruin; they watched Goban, the
great architect, building that round tower (_pointing to the right_),
building his master-work. I see them now, and I see others who lived
long before them (_turns and looks to the back_), and are buried in that
green cairn. Oh, I am dying because I am exiled from such beauty.
FIN. (_with great gentleness_). Darling, you must not think of these
things. You know to-morrow----
MA. (_with a sudden chillness_). To-morrow,--why do you speak of
to-morrow while it is still to-day, and I can still think of my love?
FIN. _To_-morrow when you are married, Maeve, it will be your husband
who will be entitled to that love.
MA. (_significantly_). He has not yet returned.
FIN. Hugh will certainly return before night.
MA. But he has not yet returned, Finola.
FIN. Do you really think he will not return?
MA. (_with a baffled look_). Oh, I don’t know: but somehow I cannot
believe that I am to be married to-morrow. (_Looks around_) To leave all
this for an English home--
FIN. (_with increased anxiety_). Maeve--
MA. The very stones, as I wander among them, seem to forbid it.
[_Exit among the ruins at back._
FIN. (_walking about in agitation_). Oh, why does not Hugh return?
(_Then suddenly stopping_) Here is father again. Poor father.
_THE O’HEYNES enters from the left, leaning heavily on a
stick. He is an old man, with thin, white dishevelled
hair almost falling to his shoulders, wears a tall hat
and clothes of a somewhat bygone fashion; while about
his whole appearance there is just a suggestion of the
peasant._
THE O’H. (_restlessly_). Finola, I wonder will Hugh come after all?
FIN. Of course he will, father. Why have you been asking me this
question all day?
THE O’H. Because he has been promising to come for ever so long, and he
has not come.
FIN. Well--you know the reason.
THE O’H. (_peevishly_). Yes--yes--legal business--always the same
excuse.
FIN. You surely must understand that he had to consult the lawyers about
many matters before his marriage with Maeve.
THE O’H. When he left here for England he said it would only be for a
little time, and here he has been away more than two months.
FIN. The delay was very unfortunate, but necessary, I suppose. You see
every sort of legal business is so tedious.
THE O’H. I don’t know--I don’t know. I distrust his excuses. He said he
would certainly return to-day, and there, he hasn’t after all.
FIN. But to-day is not yet over. Oh, you needn’t fear. He will return
before to-morrow.
THE O’H. Ah, this is the way you are perpetually making excuses for him,
Finola.
FIN. (_a little confused_). Father, why do you say so?
THE O’H. I understand it all. Another girl would not be so forgiving as
you are, Finola.
FIN. I have nothing to forgive.
THE O’H. That is well, child. But, believe me, I had far rather he had
married you than Maeve.
FIN. Oh, no. He always liked Maeve from the first, and no one else. I
never at any time doubted that, father.
THE O’H. Well, this is certainly a queer way of showing his affection
for her.
FIN. I suppose it would be, if there were no reasons for it.
THE O’H. (_indignantly_). To think he should have put off coming until
his very wedding morning. He deserves to lose her after leaving her all
this time. Oh the persistent ill-luck that has pursued me all through
life.
FIN. I’m sure I can’t think how you consider it ill-luck to be on the
eve of having all your wishes fulfilled.
THE O’H. Ah, that is just it, child. I have so often been on the eve of
having my wishes fulfilled: and then somehow the unforeseen has come
about: and all my hopes have gone from me. I am surely the most
unfortunate of men.
FIN. Father, dear, you must not despond in this way.
THE O’H. To think of all the anxiety your sister has caused me, Finola,
and the trouble she put me to before she would accept this rich young
Englishman. She must have been mad. As if the coming into this place of
such a suitor was an everyday event to her.
FIN. (_pensively_). He never for a moment interested her somehow. It was
very strange, his coming--wasn’t it?
THE O’H. Was there ever such good fortune? I advertise the fishing of my
river in the papers. He arrives here last summer, and takes it at once.
To be sure it is splendid salmon fishing--but that it should have
brought such a tenant as Hugh Fitz Walter--and that he should have
fallen in love with Maeve--well--
FIN. (_with a sigh_). Well, father, you ought to be content with such
good fortune.
THE O’H. (_despondingly_). Ah, I am afraid it is too good to come to
anything. But just think that after all _he_ should be the one to wreck
this good fortune--Oh, I am distracted. (_He begins to work his hands
and tear his hair._)
FIN. (_alarmed_). Father, don’t fret in this way. It is bad for your
health. And you know there is no reason for it.
THE O’H. (_feebly_). Oh child, if you could only realise how I have
waited and waited for this--for the time when fortune would enable our
family to resume its fitting position in the county! Hugh has at last
promised me this fortune. Is it surprising that I should be anxious,
when I see the danger of his failing me?
FIN. (_inadvertently_). He is not the one who will fail you, father.
THE O’H. (_with a quick suspicion_). You think Maeve is more likely
to--eh? Where is she?
FIN. Oh don’t trouble about her. She is safe.
THE O’H. I noticed she was taking to her old habits lately. I had again
to forbid her to wander through the country at night.
FIN. (_as if laughing the matter off_). You must not mind these
wanderings of hers. They are very harmless, father.
THE O’H. (_anxiously_). Does she still talk of this strange one she is
in love with?
FIN. Oh that is nothing. Don’t trouble about it.
THE O’H. I am not so sure of what you say, Finola. I’ll take my oath she
is thinking about some good for nothing fellow after all.
FIN. No--no, nothing of the kind. You don’t understand her.
THE O’H. Indeed I don’t, child.
FIN. It is not often easy to do so. She seems to live by the brain as we
live by the heart.
THE O’H. She seems to me quite regardless of realities.
FIN. Those feelings and impulses which are in our hearts and which
govern our affections, with her are all in the head. This sounds
strange: but it is the only way I can account for her nature.
THE O’H. (_surprised_). In the head?
FIN. Yes--that is why she appears so cold, and, as you say, regardless
of realities. I even think if this one she loves were to become a
reality, he would cease to fascinate her.
THE O’H. (_curiously_). Have you ever found out who he is?
FIN. No--not altogether.
THE O’H. I wonder what put such an extravagant idea in her head.
FIN. I think I know.
THE O’H. Well, what is it?
FIN. Would you believe it, father, I think it is those books that
belonged to Uncle Bryan.
THE O’H. You mean those books up in the top room. They are mostly about
ancient Greece, aren’t they?
FIN. Yes. She is always poring over them and looking at their
pictures--white statues and beautiful wall ornaments which she told me
were in Greece. And then she showed me other books too, with pictures of
pillars and arches--all ornamented like those in the abbey here. Then I
have seen her take the writings of Uncle Bryan and study them with all
these pictures before her.
THE O’H. Poor Bryan’s writings, do you say? I didn’t think there were
any here. I thought the Society he belonged to, took them all. (_With
plaintive regret_) My poor brother Bryan; he was a great scholar. They
used to talk of him in Dublin. They said if he had lived to complete his
book, it would have made him famous.
FIN. What was he writing about when he died, father?
THE O’H. Let me see--I think his work was to be called “The Influence of
Greek Art on Celtic Ornament” or something of the sort.
FIN. That must have been it; for Maeve is always talking of that, and of
the brotherhood of the Greek and Celtic races, and of a curious unreal
beauty besides, which she says the Greeks invented. She thinks she has
discovered something similar in the Celt.
THE O’H. Is that what you say she is in love with?
FIN. (_with earnest conviction_). I verily believe so, father. (_Then
after a moment’s consideration_) Still it often seems to me she must
have some individual in her mind besides.
THE O’H. I thought that was the case.
FIN. Oh--not what you think.
THE O’H. What then, child?
FIN. I don’t know;--she speaks of his beauty as if it had some sort of
likeness to the Celtic ornament she is so much in love with.
THE O’H. Ah, she must have discovered this in the writings of Bryan.--He
had all sorts of odd theories about everything, poor fellow.
FIN. Yes, and she is as full of theories. She says that, because Celtic
ornament is as rare and delicate as the Greek, so her pattern of Celtic
youth must, in the same way, equal the perfection of Greek youth.
THE O’H. (_astonished_). My goodness, is the whole of life like this to
her?
FIN. Ah, now you understand what I meant when I told you that everything
with her seemed to be only in the head.
THE O’H. (_seriously_). Yes, Finola, and nothing in the heart. She has
no warm feelings of the heart. She was always cold and distant from her
earliest childhood.
FIN. No, I would not say so much. I think it is only her imagination
that has absorbed all the warmth of her nature.
THE O’H. What you say is the same thing, my dear. Whatever may be the
cause, depend upon it, she has no feeling.
FIN. Oh, don’t say that, father.
THE O’H. Oh no, she hasn’t, Finola; and I don’t wonder that this young
man’s affection should at last weary of her apathy.
FIN. It is not any want of affection that has delayed him, father.
THE O’H. I cannot believe any more in his affection. (_Querulously_) Why
is he not here? Why is he not here?
FIN. You will surely see him very soon. For goodness sake, do not fret
so. Go in, and try and rest.
THE O’H. Rest--I cannot rest. How can I rest with this anxiety gnawing
at me?
FIN. Oh, this miserable pride and position. They are ruining your health
and peace.
THE O’H. (_with a sudden reviving of energy_). Not they, my girl,
indeed--why do you say so? Why should what are good for every other man
be bad for old Colman O’Heynes?
FIN. Yes, yes, father dear, I know. But somehow we have been so happy
and united in our seclusion here. We are going to be divided.
THE O’H. How divided?
FIN. Maeve will soon leave us.
THE O’H. Ah--yes, of course.
FIN. Let that be sufficient. Let us at least not try to go out into the
world.
THE O’H. Why not, Finola?
FIN. The world is such a great lonely place.
THE O’H. But my lost position--the lost dignity of our family. I have
that to reassert. When my rich son-in-law comes there will be an end of
our poverty.
FIN. You are the Prince of Burren.--Is not the royalty of our race
acknowledged? What place can _we_ find in a grotesque world of
plutocrats and shop-keeper peers? This change in our life seems
unnatural to me. And then that wicked old Peg Inerny is always talking.
THE O’H. (_sharply_). Eh--what does she say?
FIN. Oh, nothing definite--nothing but insinuations and mystery, till I
feel quite terrified.
THE O’H. She has been the curse of our house; and now the infernal witch
has bewitched your sister.
FIN. I don’t think that--I hope not. Maeve is only fascinated by her
strange tales--the past, always the past.
THE O’H. Ay, it was the same way with your poor mother and this Peg
Inerny who was a servant here long ago, and put it into her head to call
your sister by the name of Maeve. Peg Inerny, I know, had some sinister
object for this.
FIN. Oh, no, no.
THE O’H. Ah--wait a while.
FIN. (_with a scared look_). Father, don’t forebode evil. Try and be
contented--try and check this restlessness that is urging you to change
your life. Let us go in. (_As they move to the left_) Look at our old
castle. How spectral those giant ash trees rise up around it from the
pale March grass. How peaceful they all live in the sunset. Would it not
be misery to leave that peace for a world where there is at least no
peace.
_HUGH FITZ WALTER--a good-looking young Englishman of about
five and twenty, dressed in a tweed suit--enters at the
right._
HUGH (_eagerly_). So I have arrived, you see, at last.
THE O’H. (_turning_). Who is that?--what, Hugh?
HUGH. It is I.
THE O’H. And so it is.--Heaven be praised. I thought you were never
coming, Hugh. (_He shakes him by the hand._)
FIN. (_also shaking him by the hand_). I am so glad you have come--at
last.
HUGH. But I wrote to you my reason for not getting here sooner.
THE O’H. Yes, I know, of course. But why should you have put off coming
like this till the very last?
HUGH. Haven’t I explained to you again and again how my affairs delayed
me?
THE O’H. (_peevishly_). Yes--yes--explanations. You have caused me,
Hugh, the greatest anxiety for all that.
HUGH. I assure you, O’Heynes, this delay was sorely against my will: and
I am sorry you have had any anxiety on my account. Why you have, indeed,
I cannot understand.
THE O’H. My mind has been a prey to all sorts of doubts and forebodings.
HUGH (_alarmed_). Good gracious. What is this for? Isn’t Maeve well? How
is she?
THE O’H. (_impatiently_). Oh, she is well--well enough.
HUGH. You are hiding something from me, O’Heynes.
THE O’H. No--not at all.
HUGH. I, too, was anxious. That is why I hurried here at once after my
arrival in the village.
THE O’H. (_suspiciously_). Eh--why were you anxious?
HUGH. I had not heard about her from Finola for some days.
THE O’H. There is nothing the matter with her except what has come by
your protracted absence.
HUGH (_frightened_). What has come to her? You alarm me.
THE O’H. Only a return of her strange ways that used to trouble me
before her engagement to you. That is all.
HUGH (_with visible relief_). Oh--that is all.
THE O’H. (_involuntarily_). She frightens me sometimes.
HUGH. In what way?
THE O’H. (_hesitates and looks confused_).
FIN. Oh, don’t worry her about such things. Hush, here she comes.
_MAEVE O’HEYNES enters from the back._
HUGH. Oh, Maeve, what is it--?
MA. (_starts when she perceives him_).
HUGH (_goes eagerly to her, but is checked by the chillness of her
manner, then taking her hand which she gives apathetically_). I hope you
are not angry, Maeve. I came as soon as it was possible for me.
MA. (_with some recovered composure_). Oh--for that--I am not angry in
the least--I am not angry at all.
HUGH. You looked as if something disturbed you.
FIN. Hugh, it is only her surprise at suddenly seeing you.
THE O’H. Yes, indeed, when you have disappointed her so often. But,
thank heaven, you have arrived safe at last. Come, Finola, come, now I
can rest. I feel I want rest after all this suspense. Come, let us go
indoors.
[_Exeunt THE O’HEYNES and FINOLA O’HEYNES at left._
HUGH (_to MAEVE_). Well, I am back at last; and you--you are so silent
and forgetful there among those old stones.
MA. (_as if recalled to herself_). No. I am in reality thinking of this
very thing.
HUGH. Of my coming?
MA. Yes.
HUGH. It has no interest for you one way or the other?
MA. Oh yes. But I can not understand father’s reason for being so
troubled about it.
HUGH. Of course not. As if I wouldn’t return on the first opportunity to
you. Why do you seem annoyed that I should tell you this?
MA. (_restlessly_). Somehow there seem such cross purposes in this world
of ours.
HUGH. Cross purposes--how so?
MA. Oh I don’t know--persons seem to give others what those others don’t
want from them, but want from someone else.
HUGH. That is indeed a world of cross purposes.
MA. (_sadly_). Don’t you see that it is just so with us here?
HUGH. (_dejectedly_). You mean that I give what is not wanted.
MA. Yes, and that another would give you what you want from some one
else.
HUGH. Who is that other?
MA. The one whom you once appeared to like best.
HUGH. You are the one I always liked best in the world.
MA. The world did not think so.
HUGH. Indeed?--You puzzle me. Explain what you are saying?
MA. (_with a certain embarrassment_). I thought you liked my sister
better than me.
HUGH. Than you? Oh no--impossible. I know you don’t believe what you are
saying.
MA. But you appeared to be so much more intimate with her than you have
been with me.
HUGH. Ah, that is just it. I have the greatest affection for Finola. I
admire her goodness and unselfishness. She has indeed the disposition of
an angel.
MA. And yet you could leave her for one so less worthy, as I am.
HUGH. You shall not say you are less worthy; I can see no fault in you.
MA. Oh, why did you ever leave Finola?
HUGH. You forget we were never more than friends. She is one of my very
dearest friends.
MA. And you were never engaged to her?
HUGH. Never. It was only when I despaired of your consent that I thought
for a while of Finola. But it was no use. Your image always rose up
between us. I soon understood that for me you were the only one in the
world. (_Pause._)
MA. (_absently_). The only one in the world. What happiness it must be
to find the one who is so much as that.
HUGH. It may also be misery--that is, in a certain sense.
MA. (_a little surprised_). Really? How can it be misery?
HUGH. When we know that nothing of what we feel is returned.
MA. (_abstractedly_). I should not have thought that much mattered.
HUGH. Do you say this because I persist in loving you through all your
contempt of my love?
MA. Oh no--I was not thinking of you at all.
HUGH. What was your reason then for saying it?
MA. (_with a pensive deliberation_). I should have imagined that if one
really loved, one would shrink from a return of love.
HUGH. (_surprised_). You wouldn’t like your love returned?
MA. Ah no, for I think if it were, the beauty of love would come to an
end in the lover.
HUGH. How very strange. But why should I think so? Yours is the
reasoning of one who has never known love.
MA. So you think I have never known love?
HUGH. Certainly. (_Pause._) Have you?
MA. Well, I can tell you truly that I have.
HUGH (_in a serious tone_). Is that really so?
MA. Yes.
HUGH (_with a sudden suspicion_). Do you love some one now?
MA. (_quietly_). Yes.
HUGH (_growing excited_). Who is he?
MA. (_wearily_). Oh, what is the use of telling you?
HUGH. Who is he, I say? For pity’s sake speak.
MA. You would never understand.
HUGH (_bitterly_). I should understand only too well.
MA. Look around you, then.
HUGH (_puzzled, looking around him_). Well? I see no one.
MA. (_scornfully_). I knew you would not understand.
HUGH (_wondering_). I see nothing but these ruins--that mysterious round
tower--the stony mountains--and your gray castle through the leafless
boughs of great ash trees.
MA. (_with a visionary look in her eyes_). And you see nothing but
these?
HUGH. Oh, what is this mystery? Will you tell me?
MA. (_smiling ecstatically_). Among all these that you see--listen to
what Gráinne says in the old poem--
“There lives a one
On whom I would love to gaze long,
For whom I would give the whole world,
All, all, though it is a delusion.”
HUGH (_downcast_). You are mocking me.
MA. (_gently_). Oh, no.--How can you think so? Are not all things
beautiful that remind us of our love?
HUGH (_after looking at her calmly for some time_). Yes, you are right.
How strange you are. I do not understand you. Among us simple men you
seem like one of your golden fairies. What is the name you call them?
MA. Tûatha dê Danann, those tall beautiful children of the Dagda Môr. It
is said they were the old people of Erin and were afterwards worshipped
as gods.
HUGH. But you do not believe they are really gods?
MA. Oh, no--only a race whose great beauty still haunts our land.
(_Sadly_) They were too beautiful to compare with me.
HUGH. They could not be more beautiful than you are. You don’t know how
beautiful you are to me. No--if you knew, you would not be so
indifferent. Ah, I realise but too well how little you care for me. You
would never have consented to be my wife but for your father: you are
doing it all for your father--not for me.
MA. Oh, why do you go back to all that? Have I not consented? And is not
that the main thing?
HUGH (_resignedly_). Yes,--I suppose I must be satisfied. I must only
trust to time for winning you completely.
MA. (_with mysterious significance_). Let us all trust to time.
HUGH (_brightening_). May I put my trust in time?
MA. You must ask that question of Time himself.
HUGH. Oh, I am confident of his answer.
MA. And I too, am confident in Time.
[_Exeunt leisurely at the left._
_As they are going, PEG INERNY--a little old woman in a
ragged red frieze petticoat, a black frieze cloak raised
up to partially cover her head, and with dark woollen
stockings worn away at the bare soles of her
feet--enters stealthily from among the ruins at back.
Muttering indistinctly she follows the two for a while,
then squats down on a stone and gazes fixedly at the
cairn._
_After a pause MAEVE and FINOLA O’HEYNES enter at the left._
FIN. Oh, Maeve, why do you come out here again?
MA. (_joyfully_). He is gone. Until to-morrow, at least I shall be free.
FIN. Poor Hugh.
MA. He is gone; and I will make the most of my little liberty. I have to
say good-bye to beauty. How this moonlit night--this Irish night comes
like a fawn!
FIN. (_perceives PEG INERNY and stands as if transfixed_).
MA. What’s the matter, Finola? (_Turns and looks_) Oh, it is only Peg
Inerny.
FIN. Come away, Maeve, for heavens’ sake come. I have left father
sleeping in the hall; and if he awakes he is sure to call me, and ask
where you are.
MA. (_not heeding FINOLA_). Peg, Peg, I have not seen you for many days.
What has brought you here to-night?
PEG (_rousing herself slowly and looking steadily at MAEVE_). I come to
take a last farewell of my Princess on the night before her wedding day.
MA. (_with a rigid melancholy_). Yes, I shall never return here, Peg.
PEG. Do you think you will ever leave, Princess?
FIN. Oh, what is that she says? I am terrified.
MA. (_carelessly_). You are always alarmed at one thing or another,
Finola.
FIN. (_uneasily_). No--no--but didn’t you hear her?
PEG. (_to FINOLA_). Princess, do not fear a poor old woman.
FIN. Why will you always call us princesses?
PEG. Isn’t your father a prince? The Prince of Burren?
MA. (_impatiently_). A prince indeed. It is a mockery now to call him
that.
PEG. The O’Heynes is none the less a prince whatever he may have done to
put shame on his race.
MA. (_helplessly_). Oh, what a misfortune it was.
FIN. (_expostulating_). Maeve--darling.
PEG (_slyly_). They told me my Princess Maeve was content to marry her
young Englishman.
MA. (_with suppressed scorn_). Ha--no one ever troubled before to
consider whether she was or not.
PEG. He is so rich--so rich with his grand English house and
possessions.
MA. Yes indeed--and that is how the whole tragedy has come about.
PEG. I was sure you cared not, Princess, for this world’s riches.
MA. (_sadly_). Heaven knows I never had any greed of them.
FIN. Oh Maeve, I thought you had done with these complaints once and for
all.
MA. (_pained and irresolute_). So I, too, thought--once perhaps. But
to-day in the abbey--it was so beautiful. Something seemed to come back
to me.
PEG. It was haunting you, Princess? The day-ghost, eh?
MA. (_with a wan look_). The day-ghost. Oh the wistful pleading of a
day-ghost!
FIN. (_frightened_). Why do you say that, Maeve?
MA. Ah--if you saw him--but you never have, Finola.
FIN. Saw him--good heavens, where?
MA. (_pointing to the round tower_). In the master-work of Goban--in the
mountains too.
PEG. Your love is dreaming among the rocks of these mountains, Princess.
MA. (_with a sort of ecstacy_). Oh, how I have grown to love these stony
mountains.
PEG. They are the pleasure haunts of many a beautiful ghost.
MA. The many beautiful buried in that cairn.
PEG. Oh what a world there is underneath that cairn.
MA. (_pensively_). Yes, the great beautiful Queen Maeve who reigned over
Connacht hundreds of years ago--she is buried in that cairn you say?
PEG. Haven’t I often told you so, Princess?
FIN. But I have always understood that Queen Maeve was buried at
Rathcroghan in County Roscommon.
PEG. No, Princess, she is here.
FIN. (_inquiringly_). Can you know that?
PEG. Can I know? I can know many things. (_With a low laugh_) Indeed I
ought to know where Queen Maeve is.
MA. Why you especially, Peg?
PEG. Haven’t I dwelt in her palace, child?
FIN. (_timidly approaching MAEVE_). That is a strange thing to say.
PEG. (_continuing with a sort of inward satisfaction_). Yes, I have
dwelt in her palace. Ha--ha--does anyone think that I could bear my
miserable outcast life in the world if I could not live the other life
also? Oh, my sweet ladies, you don’t know the grandeur of that other
life.
MA. (_eagerly_). Tell me, do tell me of that other life.
FIN. Maeve--take care--don’t ask such a thing.
MA. (_impatiently_). Oh Finola, you mustn’t prevent me in this way. (_To
PEG INERNY_) Tell me.
PEG. A life among the people with beautiful looks.
MA. (_suddenly delighted_). With beautiful looks!
PEG. Yes, Princess--Oh, just so graceful and clean as you are yourself.
I often think you must be one of them.
MA. Tell me more about those people.
PEG. They are now ruled over by the great Queen Maeve.
MA. (_puzzled_). But--she is dead, isn’t she? Didn’t you say she was
buried in the cairn?
PEG. (_with an enigmatical grimace_). Yes, yes, Princess--but not
dead--Oh, I never said that she was dead.
MA. What new and wonderful tale are you now telling me?
PEG. Haven’t I told you before that Queen Maeve has ever been watchful
of you?
MA. (_surprised_). No--you have not. What does this mean?
PEG. Just fancy, Princess, it was she who had you called after herself.
FIN. (_excitedly_). Maeve, don’t believe her. How is this possible?
PEG. Ah, Princess Finola, didn’t you ever know that I was once a servant
in the Castle?
FIN. (_restraining herself_). Yes, I believe you were. It was a very
long time ago, was it not?
PEG. When your beautiful sister here was born.
FIN. Well then, supposing you were, what has that to do with Queen Maeve
naming my sister?
PEG. (_slyly_). Oh--only ’twas I made them think of calling her Maeve.
FIN. But you said Queen Maeve did so?
PEG. (_with veiled significance_). Haven’t I told you of the other life
I lead, sweet Princess Finola?
FIN. (_starts, then looking awed and mystified at PEG INERNY, says in a
trembling voice_) Maeve, she is a wicked woman. It is not right to hold
any intercourse with her.
MA. (_who has been listening with a troubled expression_). Ah me, I am
the most miserable one in the world.
FIN. (_terrified_). Dearest, for pity’s sake don’t--don’t give way to
such a feeling.
MA. (_despairingly_). My father--oh, my father.
PEG. I know it was for his sake alone that you promised to marry this
Hugh Fitz Walter.
MA. Yes, father will become rich and great--but my heart will break.
FIN. (_anxiously_). No--no, Maeve, you must remember how good and kind
Hugh is. He will surely never cause you unhappiness.
MA. How could he be anything but unhappiness to me, when I can only
think of my beloved?
PEG (_insidiously_). That one who haunts the mountains and the beautiful
old buildings, Princess--
MA. My beloved whom I am leaving for ever!
FIN. (_throwing her arms around her sister_). Hush--you must not think
of him any more, Maeve.
PEG. Ah--you cling to her like ivy, my Lady Finola. You were the one
made for clinging. You were the wife that would have been best for the
Englishman.
MA. Oh, if he could but understand that this is so.
PEG. They never can, Princess. Dwellers in the valley are always looking
at the heights above them.
MA. (_sadly_). I am no longer on those heights. I have fallen from them
miserably, and have become (_looking at FINOLA_) like the ivy in the
valley.
PEG. Not yet--you are still on the heights. No, you are still like the
tall smooth larch on the top of the mountain.
MA. (_dejectedly_). Ah, no, not any longer.
PEG. Come then, to the mountains, Princess--there you will believe it.
FIN. (_restraining her_). Maeve, Maeve, do not go. It will kill father
if he hears you have wandered away to-night.
PEG. See how bright it is. The night is lit for your visit. (_MAEVE
appears to hesitate._) Beware of the ivy clinging around the larch,
Princess Maeve. It will kill the fairy growth of the larch.
MA. (_restlessly_). Let me go, Finola, let me go.
FIN. I will not, Maeve.
MA. Let me go to the mountains for this last time; I promise to return
soon.
FIN. Oh, sister, do not go there to-night.
MA. How white the moon rays dance upon the mountains.
PEG. It is the mountains, Princess, that are white with the dancing feet
of the fairies.
MA. (_desperately_). I must go there to-night.
FIN. You shall not, Maeve.
MA. (_gazing fondly on the mountains_). Oh beauty of my day-dreams come
forth from the mountains.
PEG. Princess, what is it that you see?
MA. (_with transport_). My love, like an exhalation from the earth to
the stars!
PEG (_moving towards the back_). Come, Princess, come.
MA. I am coming.
FIN. (_with a sudden determination_). Then I shall go too. I could not
bear the suspense of your absence. (_Distant voice of THE O’HEYNES is
heard several times calling “FINOLA.”_) Good heavens, there is father
calling (_runs to the left and listens in great agitation while the
calling is repeated_). Yes, father, yes, father.
[_Exeunt MAEVE O’HEYNES and PEG INERNY quickly at the back._
FIN. If he finds she has gone he will be so distressed. I must not tell
him. Oh, Maeve, why, why have you gone? Yes, father--coming--coming.
[_Exit at left._
ACT II
The exterior of O’Heynes Castle. At the left a large square tower with
its two roof gables facing right and left, and Irish battlements which
carry two high chimneys, one at front and one at back of roof. On ground
level at front is the pointed Gothic entrance-door, over which a
square-headed window lights a room above, while on the side facing the
right above a hall window, is another square-headed window belonging to
the same upper room. Around great leafless ash trees grow upon the pale
green grass. Some way off at the right is the cairn with the abbey ruins
beyond; and stony mountain ranges, as in the first act, form a
background to the whole scene.
It is a frosty night with a very bright moon.
FINOLA O’HEYNES, closely muffled, comes out through the door of the
castle.
FIN. Maeve. Are you there, Maeve? (_Pause._) Maeve. (_Goes to the right
and peers about_) I don’t see any sign of her. Oh dear, oh dear, I
wonder does she intend to come back. (_With an anxious and undecided
look_) I don’t know which way to search for her. Stop--I will try this
path leading to the mountain.
[_Exit at back behind the Castle._
_MAEVE O’HEYNES, looking very pale and listless, enters from the right._
MA. (_gazing forlorn around the scene_). Oh, moon and mountain and ruin,
give a voice to my infinite sadness! (_Pause._)
[_FINOLA O’HEYNES re-enters from behind the Castle._
FIN. O sister, you are here!
MA. (_slowly_). Yes.
FIN. Thank heaven, you have returned. (_She advances towards her._)
MA. I said I would return, Finola.
FIN. Oh, I was so frightened. Aren’t you perished without a cloak on,
this bitter night?
MA. (_wearily_). Is it so cold?
FIN. (_surprised_). Cold? You must feel this biting frosty air?
MA. No--not particularly.
FIN. (_feeling the hands and face of MAEVE_). Why, Maeve, you are like
ice.
MA. (_as if remembering_). Like ice. How beautiful to be like the ice!
FIN. Oh, come in, come in from the cold.
MA. No--let me wait here, in the moonlight.
FIN. Darling, you will get dreadfully ill--and on your wedding morning
too.
MA. (_with a shudder_). What--it is not yet the day?
FIN. Midnight has just passed--yes, this is your wedding day.
MA. (_mournfully_). Oh, so soon--so soon.
FIN. Far better had it been sooner, my poor sister.
MA. Oh, don’t say that, Finola.
FIN. Yes, yes, this long delay since your engagement has brought the old
trouble upon you again.
MA. (_with a scornful smile_). Do you think I was ever really reconciled
to my fate?
FIN. And yet--and yet--you seemed happy for a while.
MA. No--never really. I was only talked into a false sort of happiness,
Finola.
FIN. (_expostulating_). Oh, how can you say that?
MA. Yes, I deceived myself there among you. You all seemed so happy, and
were so kind and indulgent to me, that I wished to believe this marriage
was for the best.
FIN. And you never really believed it?
MA. Never--I was soon certain that I never did.
FIN. When was that?
MA. When he went to England to arrange with his lawyers, and this family
happiness that encircled me gradually disappeared--
FIN. Do you think so? I am sure father and I have never changed.
MA. Perhaps not, but you understand, I was left more to myself and had
time to think over what I had done. (_Despairingly_) Ah then I saw that
I never could be reconciled to my fate.
FIN. Darling, you should not have encouraged such a thought. It will
leave you, when you are married and away from here.
MA. Oh, the sacrifice--I make it for father’s sake.
FIN. Be sure your sacrifice for father’s sake will have its reward.
MA. It is a cruel sacrifice. And yet it must be--
FIN. Poor Hugh. At all events he is unchanged.
MA. I too am unchanged, Finola. Don’t you see it after what I have told
you?
FIN. I suppose so. But have you always disliked him? You do not hate
him?
MA. Oh, but if you were to see him, Finola, in the light he appears to
me--
FIN. How does he appear to you, dear?
MA. (_with sudden vehemence_). A bandit--a plunderer!
FIN. Maeve, what are you saying?
MA. Yes, I say a bandit, like his English predecessors who ruined every
beautiful thing we ever had.
FIN. (_frightened_). Sister, how can you accuse him of that?
MA. (_bitterly_). Yes, he has come finally to ruin every beautiful
thing.
FIN. He, who is so generous? Why, instead of destroying, is he not
restoring the dignity of our ancient Celtic house?
MA. (_scornfully_). Yes, I know what such restoration means. It is
bought at too great a price, I can tell you. It is like that great
restoration of a family’s pride by Strongbow, who first brought our
humiliation upon us.
FIN. No--I cannot see the likeness, Maeve.
MA. Don’t you remember the conditions of the English noble whom the
Irish king Diarmid called to his aid?
FIN. Was it not, if Strongbow regained for Diarmid his kingdom he was to
marry the king’s daughter Eva?
MA. Yes, and then become heir to Diarmid.--He succeeded in regaining the
kingdom and the conditions were fulfilled, weren’t they?
FIN. They were.
MA. And thus with the power that was given him he subdued and ruined the
ancient splendour of Erin. The old, old story! Poor Eva, you were
sacrificed--a sweet symbol of your country in her subjection.
FIN. That may be, but still I can’t understand in what way Hugh is to
injure our country.
MA. By killing the last flame of her life.
FIN. The last flame of our country’s life? How is that?
MA. Yes, the last light of her life.
FIN. What is this last light?
MA. (_with a child’s smile and as if forgetful of all sorrows_). The
fairy lamp of Celtic Beauty!
FIN. (_after a moment, in a very gentle voice_). Dearest, it is
impossible he ever could do this thing.
MA. Is he not destroying my chosen way of life--that life which alone
may keep the flame alight? Am I not the last?
FIN. The last? Why should you think that you are the last?
MA. Listen and I will tell you, Finola. You have heard Peg Inerny speak
of her other life, and of having dwelt in the palace of Queen Maeve?
FIN. (_nervously_.) Yes, what of her?
MA. This very night after I had left her upon the mountain I thought I
saw her beckoning to me in the abbey. I followed her while she went past
the round tower to the cairn which now was glowing against a sky that
had turned crimson. With a gesture the old woman seemed to open the
cairn, and then stood transformed in a curious region of fresh green
suffused with saffron light, so that I saw her tall, and beautiful, and
marvellously pale of face, and crowned with a golden diadem not so
golden as her hair. And I heard her say these words in ancient
Gaelic:--“Last Princess of Erin, thou art a lonely dweller among strange
peoples; but I the great Queen Maeve have watched thee from thy birth,
for thou wert to be the vestal of our country’s last beauty. Behold whom
thy love hath called to life. Mark him well, for already his hour of
dissolution hath come.” And I looked and saw him who was beauty standing
by the round tower. With a feeling of nothingness, I fell upon my knees
and bent down to the earth. When I looked again he was not there. Then a
company of ancient Celts bore a covered form upon their shoulders; while
a choir of rose-crowned boys sang dirges with violet voices of frail,
lace-like beauty. And they buried their dead one by the round tower, and
over his grave they raised a great ogham stone. And again I heard the
voice of the Queen:--“They have buried thy dead beauty, Princess. Thou
hast killed him by deserting thy chosen way of life; for there are no
more who live for beauty.” Then in my desolation I seemed to lose
consciousness of all save these last words of the queen: “Yet, princess,
I will come and comfort thee again to-night.” And with a start I
discovered that I was sitting alone in the moonlight by the round tower.
And I looked, and I could not find the great ogham stone that they had
raised over my beloved.
FIN. And so you were only dreaming after all?
MA. Yes, it must have only been a dream--for my beloved is not dead.
FIN. Nor will Queen Maeve come to you again to-night.
MA. Do not be so sure of that, Finola.
FIN. (_in a frightened voice_). Oh heavens! there she is.
MA. (_starting_). Who?
FIN. Peg Inerny.
_PEG INERNY enters from the right._
PEG. My noble ladies.
FIN. (_angrily_). What do you want?
PEG. Oh, I never thought you could be so sharp, Lady Finola.
FIN. (_with the desperation of terror_). Go--you are here for no good
purpose.
MA. (_deprecatingly_). Finola.
PEG (_to FINOLA_). Won’t you give me the liberty of a wild beast to walk
about at night, my dear?
FIN. (_shrieking_). Go, I say, or I will let loose the dogs of the
castle upon you.
MA. Finola, for goodness sake, what are you saying? What wrong has she
ever done to any of us?
FIN. Oh yes, don’t I know her evil intentions towards you?
MA. I feel sure she has never done me harm.
PEG (_to MAEVE_). Sweet Princess, you’ll rejoice for the gentleness you
have shown me.
FIN. (_to PEG INERNY_). I will call my father up if you don’t leave at
once. Come, sister, come into the castle.
PEG. Good-night, sweet Maeve--sleep--sleep--and dream.
[_Exit at right._
MA. (_yearningly_). And dream--Oh that I could dream again to-night,
that dream!
FIN. Don’t think of it any more, dearest. Come in to rest.
MA. No--let me stay a while longer here.
FIN. But you will be frozen, Maeve. I wonder you ever awoke again after
falling asleep in the abbey.
MA. Let me stay, Finola, I do not feel the cold.
FIN. It is because you are already so cold.
MA. My love is so divinely cold.
FIN. Ah, that is a strange sort of love.
MA. (_wistfully_). He is the only one I have ever loved. Let me stay. I
hear him coming.
FIN. (_frightened_). You hear him--?
MA. (_pointing towards the abbey_). Yes, there--far away--coming on the
wings of the March wind. Don’t you hear?
FIN. I hear the bitter wind, Maeve, through our old ash trees.
MA. (_smiling in reverie_). The fairy March wind which races at twilight
over our fields, turning them to that strange pale beauty, like the
beauty of a fairy’s face.--Oh, it is fit that my beloved should ride on
such a steed.
FIN. Dearest, you must go to rest. He will never come. He is dead.
MA. He is not dead. He will come. I know he will. But the way is long. A
long--long way.
FIN. A long way, indeed, without beginning and without end.
MA. It began from the land of everlasting youth.
FIN. You have often told me of that land, Tir-nan-ogue, is it not?
MA. The Celtic dream-land of ideal beauty. There he lives in
never-fading freshness of youth. (_With a steadfast visionary look_) I
am haunted by a boyish face close hooded with short gold hair--and every
movement of his slender faultless body goes straight to my heart like a
fairy melody. Oh, he has a long way to journey:--for that land of beauty
was never so far away as it is to-night.
FIN. (_sadly_). It never was nearer, my poor sister. Come, I will see
you to your rest.
MA. I must rest alone, Finola. You must not follow me to my room.
FIN. Why not, dear?
MA. Oh, do not. Leave me to myself.
FIN. (_with a sigh_). Very well, if you wish it.
MA. (_going_). Good-night.
FIN. Good-night, dear.
MA. (_quickly turning and throwing her arms around FINOLA_).
Good-night--good-bye--Oh my darling, good-bye.
FIN. (_consolingly_). My poor Maeve, it is not yet the time for parting.
MA. Who knows where I must go, when my beloved shall come.
[_Exit hurriedly by door leading into the Castle._
FIN. (_wonderingly_). What does she mean by those words? (_With a
reassured air_) Oh, she is tired, poor sister. That is what it is. And I
suppose her mind is confused with her imaginary difficulties. But all
will come well in good time.
[_Exit by door leading into the Castle._ (_Pause._)
_MAEVE O’HEYNES appears at the window of the castle, above
the hall-window facing the right, and slowly opens the
casement._
MA. (_leaning out_). Oh, the beautiful frosty night! I cannot keep it
from me. The greatest beauty like the old Greek sculpture is always
cold! My Prince of the hoar dew! My golden love, let me see you once
more in that aureole of crimson sky! (_With an infinite longing_) Oh
that the beauty I saw in my dream could return to me now. (_With sudden
terror_) But to-morrow, how shall I face the misery of to-morrow? Oh
pity me, pity me--(_Calmer_) And yet I have always known that my beloved
would deliver me from bondage. (_With a gradually weaker voice as she
sinks upon a chair_) But I am weary of waiting--weary--weary--it is hard
to resist the longing for sleep. (_She sighs as she reclines back out of
sight in an angle of the window._) (_Pause._)
[_There is a soft music of harps, while the aurora borealis
arises and glows in the sky. Soon a ghostly procession
is seen to emerge like vapour from the neighbourhood of
the cairn. Presently as it advances it grows more
distinct and then is discovered to consist of QUEEN
MAEVE, tall, pale faced and fair haired, in a golden
crown and gold embroidered robes; of BOY PAGES in
garlanded tunics and wearing wreaths of roses upon their
heads; of ancient Irish harpers with their harps; of
chieftains and warriors in conical caps; of people,
etc._
_As they approach near to the castle, MAEVE O’HEYNES enters
from the door at its front, and stands looking on in
wonder. They halt; and the harpers cease playing on
their harps._
CHORUS OF BOY PAGES.
(_Singing in broad solemn unison._)
Every hill which is at this Oenach
Hath under it heroes and Queens,
And poets and distributors,
And fair fierce women.
(_The harpers recommence their music._)
MA. (_with a thrill of happiness_). Ah, that song of Dorban I know so
well. And this is Queen Maeve again.
(_The harpers cease their music._)
CHORUS OF BOY PAGES.
Hast seen our warriors? In their hands are white shields
Ornamented with white silver signs--
They wield blue flaming swords
And carry red horns with metal mountings.
MA. (_listening_). Now they are chanting the lay of Fiachna son of Reta.
A BOY PAGE (_singing alone_).
Obedient to the settled order of the battle,
Preceding their prince of gracious mien
They march across blue lances
Those troops of white warriors with knotted hair.
CHORUS OF BOY PAGES.
They march across blue lances
Those troops of white warriors with knotted hair.
(_The harpers recommence their music._)
Q. MA. Princess I come, as I have promised.
MA. (_approaching and falling on her knees_). My Queen--Oh save me, my
queen.
Q. MA. O last of my daughters in the land, what help can I give you?
MA. My beloved--where is he?
Q. MA. He is coming over the mountains. He is coming to you over the
mountains.
MA. (_rising_). Yes, I knew he was coming on the fairy March wind.
Q. MA. Your love is so great that you divine his coming? and yet you can
suffer bondage?
MA. How shall I escape the stranger’s bondage?
Q. MA. I will take you to the land of joy.
MA. To Tir-nan-ogue?--O Queen, do you rule in Tir-nan-ogue?
Q. MA. The empire of the Gael is in Tir-nan-ogue. There during life he
is at peace in the building of beauty from the past.
MA. And so the land you reign in is the home of living men.
Q. MA. Each man who comes to his ideal has come to Tir-nan-ogue.
MA. And thus we see you so young and so beautiful after all those two
thousand years!
Q. MA. Your fame also shall remain beautiful and young.
MA. Of what kind is the happiness that makes Tir-nan-ogue happy?
Q. MA. Happiness in the present as sweet as the remembrance of
happiness.
MA. Then shall my happiness be great indeed.
Q. MA. You remember much happiness?
MA. I remember beauty.
Q. MA. Those who love beauty shall see beauty.
MA. The immortal beauty of form!
Q. MA. Form that will awaken genius!
MA. Form is my beauty and my love!
(_The harpers cease their music._)
CHORUS OF BOY PAGES.
Their strength, great as it is, can not be less,
They are sons of queens and kings,
On the heads of all a comely
Growth of hair yellow like gold.
A BOY PAGE.
Their bodies are graceful and majestic,
Their eyes with a look of power have the eye-ball blue.
Their teeth are brilliant like glass,
Their lips are red and thin.
CHORUS OF BOY PAGES.
Their bodies are graceful and majestic,
These sons of queens and kings.
(_The harpers recommence their music._)
MA. So Fiachna is made to sing when the poet tells how the hero came
from the land of the gods. I love that poem!
Q. MA. I have all the poems--the greatest those that are lost. Come into
my land; and they that made them shall sing them, and their music shall
turn all things to beauty.
MA. Queen, I have seen that land afar.
Q. MA. You also have seen Tir-nan-ogue?
MA. In my dreams, in my day-dreams.
Q. MA. Daughter, it is passing sweet when our day-dreams come true.
MA. Oh let me see the beloved of my day-dreams.
Q. MA. Your Prince of the hoar dew, when he comes, will give you rest.
MA. Rest without pain or fear of bondage?
Q. MA. Rest in beauty--a beauty which is transcendently cold.
MA. Oh let me see that beauty. I have sought it in vain on earth.
Q. MA. He is coming, he is coming over the mountains. You shall speak to
him when he is come.
MA. (_with a sudden disconsolate look_). I will never speak to him.
Q. MA. Why, wayward child?
MA. Queen, I cannot. The sight of such beauty will make me speechless.
Q. MA. Then shall you find peace in his beauty.
MA. But oh, my queen, let me see him.
Q. MA. You shall see him in the Northern lights of Tir-nan-ogue.
MA. And his beauty shall be my joy in an ideal land.
Q. MA. Beauty in the midst of all beautiful things.
MA. Oh take me to that land.
Q. MA. I am waiting for you, poor weary child.
MA. The land where my day-dreams will come true!
Q. MA. See, the Northern lights are passing before the dawn. We must not
tarry.
MA. I am ready, my beautiful queen.
Q. MA. Then come with the Northern lights, beautiful ice maiden!
MA. I shall see my beauty--my love--!
(_Half swooning she falls on the neck of QUEEN MAEVE._)
(_The harpers cease their music._)
CHORUS OF BOY PAGES.
Noble and melodious music thou dost hear;
Thou goest from kingdom to kingdom
Drinking from goblets of massy gold,
Thou wilt discourse with thy beloved.
A BOY PAGE.
We have carried from the plain Mag Mell
Thirty caldrons, thirty horns for drinking
We have carried from it the lamentation sung by Mear,
Daughter of Eochaid the Dumb.
(_The harpers re-commence their music._)
CHORUS OF BOY PAGES.
What a marvel in Tir-nan-ogue
That mead should fall with each shower,
Drinking from goblets of massy gold,
Thou wilt discourse with thy beloved.
[_During this song all, including MAEVE O’HEYNES, have
gradually moved off towards the cairn and faded away
with the aurora borealis, so that, when the music
ceases, no trace of them remains. A faint grey light of
dawn now prevails; and then the whole scene, at the
approach of sunrise, is discovered to be completely
white with a thick coating of hoar frost._
_After a while HUGH FITZ WALTER, muffled and carrying a large bunch of
flowers, enters from the left._
HUGH. I can wait no longer. I must come to her castle with the first
light. How fine it looks decked out with the hoar frost! Oh, I hope she
is safe and well; let these be my morning offering before she awakes.
(_He lays the flowers by the doorway of the castle._)
_The O’HEYNES, also muffled, enters from the left._
THE O’H. (_looking in the direction of HUGH_). Ah! you too, are out
early this morning.
HUGH. Yes. Somehow I felt I had to come.
THE O’H. What a blessing you are here at last, Hugh. (_He grasps him by
the hand._)
HUGH. I wish I could have returned sooner.
THE O’H. I wish you could have. Well, let that be.
HUGH. But why are you also about at this hour of the morning? I did not
expect to see any one stirring.
THE O’H. (_peevishly_). I could not sleep these hours past with thinking
and thinking. Then something made me get up, and see what would happen.
HUGH. (_anxiously_). What would happen? Heavens! what do you expect to
happen?
THE O’H. Oh nothing, nothing, I suppose. Only my mind will not let me
rest.
HUGH. Do you know I too was very uneasy about things last night.
THE O’H. (_suspiciously_). You, why? What reason could you have had?
HUGH. (_with rather a forced laugh_). Oh, none of course. How could I?
THE O’H. Of course not--of course not. But come in to the fire, Hugh,
and warm yourself. There has been a great frost last night.
HUGH. Yes, the whole country is white, as if it were covered with snow.
THE O’H. A March frost soon melts before the sun. See, it is already
rising. The day is going to be a glorious one.
HUGH. There is an old saying--“Happy is the bride the sun shines on.”
_As they go towards the door of the castle, FINOLA O’HEYNES enters
from it._
FIN. Oh, what lovely flowers!
HUGH. I brought them for Maeve. She is not yet awake?
FIN. No. I gave orders she was not to be disturbed. It was very late
last night when she went to rest; and she seemed so tired.
HUGH. Then I would not have her disturbed for worlds. Will you bring her
these flowers, Finola, when she awakes?
_PEG INERNY enters from the right._
PEG. When she awakes--? Ah,--my Princess Maeve--do you think she will
care for such flowers now?
HUGH (_in a subdued voice_). Why not? Why do you say she would not?
PEG. Oh, it’s a cold morning, a cruel cold morning.
FIN. Go away from this place.--Let me never see you again.
PEG. I have never before been refused the shelter of O’Heynes Castle.
HUGH. O’Heynes Castle is never the better for your presence. I
understand you are always importuning Miss O’Heynes.
THE O’H. Come, we must not be hard to the old woman on such a day as
this. Go round to the kitchen, Peg, and get something to eat.
PEG. Yes, some food. I want some food and warmth, Prince--I have been
out all night, and I am famished.
THE O’H. Well, then, get all you wish. The Castle hall is open to
everyone in honour of my daughter’s wedding to-day.
HUGH. Yes, we must try to make everyone happy to-day--even this wicked
old woman.
PEG (_with a sinister look_). I suppose you also, my brave Englishman,
think you ought to be happy.
HUGH. Why--of course. Don’t you know I am to be married to-day?
PEG (_almost contemptuously_). You married to the Princess Maeve?
HUGH (_bridling up_). Yes.
PEG (_mockingly_). Well, well, how queer that you should think so!
FIN. (_with a scared expression_). There is misfortune in those words.
THE O’H. Peg Inerny, you are awakening my forebodings again.
PEG (_humbly_). Oh, Prince, I can’t say otherwise.
HUGH (_indignantly_). What old woman’s talk is this?
PEG (_with a quiet prophetic triumph_). You think I am only an old
woman; but I tell you that Erin can never be subdued.
HUGH. I should like to know what that has to do with the matter?
PEG (_smiling insidiously_). Perhaps the Englishman may think that he
already holds her? Ah, she will slip like a fairy from his grasp. (_She
laughs low and sardonically._)
FIN. (_excitedly to PEG INERNY_). Leave the place at once, you wicked
woman. Oh, drive her away, Hugh, before she says any more.
HUGH (_advances to PEG INERNY, who draws herself up defiantly. He then
steps back, saying, with a forced laugh_) What do I care for her. I
shall soon be married and far away!
PEG. Take care, my fine Englishman, if your Irish Princess hasn’t
already slipped from you like a fairy.
THE O’H. (_nervously_). What do you mean, Peg Inerny?
PEG. Oh, my Prince, just before dawn upon the mountains--I saw her.
HUGH (_with a look of terror_). You saw her?
PEG (_with a smile of ecstacy_). Yes, I saw my Princess Maeve!
HUGH (_turning perplexed to THE O’HEYNES and to FINOLA_). But--but
didn’t you say she was there in the castle?
THE O’H. (_with a helpless look_). I thought so. I am sure I thought so.
Didn’t you say she was here, Finola?
FIN. (_in a hollow voice_). Yes, father. (_As if petrified she now
slowly retreats towards the castle door, keeping her eyes always fixed
on PEG INERNY._)
HUGH. Oh that Maeve should be wandering over the mountains on such a
night as this.
THE O’H. (_confusedly_). I knew some misfortune was coming. What has
happened?
PEG (_with increasing ecstacy_). If you had only seen her, as I saw her
upon the mountain--she was so beautiful--so happy. You would have died
at the sight of such beauty, my Englishman.
HUGH (_with a look of bitterness and despair_). As if I required to be
persuaded of her beauty!
PEG (_quietly_). And you will never see it again.
[_Exit FINOLA O’HEYNES by door leading into the castle._
HUGH (_suddenly subdued_). Never again--why never again?
PEG. It has gone to where he is.
HUGH (_wildly_). He--he--who is he? Speak at once. Don’t you see you
torture me?
PEG. The beauty that she loves.
HUGH (_growing quieter_). Ah, I understand--only that.
PEG (_calmly triumphant and ecstatic_). Like the glory of the Northern
lights was his face upon the mountains. And when she saw him, her own
face shone like a star.
HUGH (_as if transfixed_). Oh what does all this mean? (_Recovering
himself_) Ha--ha--it is nothing. Of course you are only raving. That’s
what it is. Anyone can see that.
THE O’H. (_with an agonised look_). She has given utterance to my worst
forebodings. Tell what you saw next, Peg Inerny.
PEG. The dawn came then; and Princess Maeve went out from my sight with
the stars!
(_Short pause._)
(_Cries of “help” are heard within the Castle. Then FINOLA
O’HEYNES, with a scared face, appears at the window over
the entrance door, and throws the casement open
violently_).
FIN. (_wailing_). Oh heavens, oh, my heavens--oh--(_looks across the
room towards the window facing the abbey at right, and after a moment’s
awful silence says in a voice of terror_)--Maeve--she is sitting there
at the open window--dead.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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TURNBULL AND SPEARS,
EDINBURGH
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_Messrs Duckworth & Co.’s New Books._
MODERN PLAYS.
Edited by R. Brimley Johnson and N. Erichsen.
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though translations seem to be more in demand every day, the greater
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Maeterlinck; as well as others who reflect more independently the genius
of their own country.
_Love’s Comedy_, which marks a transition from the early romantic to the
later social plays, is the only important work of Ibsen’s not yet
translated into English. The name of Strindberg, whose position in
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the English public. Villiers’ _La Révolte_ is a striking forecast of
_The Doll’s House_. Verhaeren is already known here as one of the
foremost of Belgian writers, who, like Maeterlinck, uses the French
tongue; and Brieux is among the most attractive of the younger native
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is generally recognised as _the_ characteristic Russian drama. _The
Convert_, by Stepniak, will be specially interesting as its author’s
only dramatic attempt.
The work of translation has been entrusted to English writers specially
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EARLY VOLUMES.
EMILE VERHAEREN
“Les Aubes” (“The Dawn”).--ARTHUR SYMONS.
OSTROVSKY
“The Storm.”--CONSTANCE GARNETT.
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
“Intérieur.”--WILLIAM ARCHER.
“La Mort de Tintagiles.” }
}--ALFRED SUTRO.
“Alladine et Palomides.” }
HENRIK IBSEN
“Love’s Comedy” (_Kjærlighedens Komedie_).--Prof. C. H. HERFORD.
VILLIERS DE L’ISLE ADAM
“La Révolte.” }
}--THERESA BARCLAY.
“L’Evasion.” }
SERGIUS STEPNIAK
“The Convert.”--CONSTANCE GARNETT.
AUGUST STRINDBERG
“The Father” (_Fadren_).--N. ERICHSEN.
BRIEUX
“Les Bienfaiteurs.”--LUCAS MALET.
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
“On a Single Card.”--E. L. VOYNICH.
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Transcriber’s Notes
This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. Upright small
capitals, used for character names in stage directions, are indicated
with UPPERCASE text. New original cover art included with this ebook is
granted to the public domain.
The following changes and corrections have been made:
• p. viii: Replaced “Independent Théâtre” with “Independent Theatre”
and “Theatre Libre” with “Théâtre Libre.”
• p. 24: Replaced “Lorlie” with “Lorlei” in preface to match
occurrences in play.
• p. 26: Replaced “one” with “our” in phrase “we are on the eve of
seeing our income doubled.”
• p. 29: Added small caps to “Miles” in stage direction “He hides his
face on MILES’ shoulder.”
• p. 29: Formatted phrase “Grace is silent” as stage direction.
• p. 87: Removed parentheses from second and third paragraphs of scene
description.
• p. 121: Replaced “hi” with “his” in phrase “Your love is so great
that you divine his coming.”
• p. 127: Replaced “daughters’” with “daughter’s” in phrase “in honour
of my daughter’s wedding.”