SCENE V

SCENE.--_The house of_ SHEMUS RUA. _There is an alcove at the back with

curtains; in it a bed, and on the bed is the body of_ MARY _with

candles round it. The two_ MERCHANTS _while they speak put a large

book upon a table, arrange money, and so on_.

FIRST MERCHANT. Thanks to that lie I told about her ships

And that about the herdsman lying sick,

We shall be too much thronged with souls to-morrow.

SECOND MERCHANT. What has she in her coffers now but mice?

FIRST MERCHANT. When the night fell and I had shaped myself

Into the image of the man-headed owl,

I hurried to the cliffs of Donegal,

And saw with all their canvas full of wind

And rushing through the parti-coloured sea

Those ships that bring the woman grain and meal.

They’re but three days from us.

SECOND MERCHANT. When the dew rose

I hurried in like feathers to the east,

And saw nine hundred oxen driven through Meath

With goads of iron. They’re but three days from us.

FIRST MERCHANT. Three days for traffic.

[PEASANTS _crowd in with_ TEIG _and_ SHEMUS.

SHEMUS. Come in, come in, you are welcome.

That is my wife. She mocked at my great masters,

And would not deal with them. Now there she is;

She does not even know she was a fool,

So great a fool she was.

TEIG. She would not eat

One crumb of bread bought with our master’s money,

But lived on nettles, dock, and dandelion.

SHEMUS. There’s nobody could put into her head

That Death is the worst thing can happen us.

Though that sounds simple, for her tongue grew rank

With all the lies that she had heard in chapel.

Draw to the curtain.

[TEIG _draws it_.]

You’ll not play the fool

While these good gentlemen are there to save you.

SECOND MERCHANT. Since the drought came they drift about in a

throng,

Like autumn leaves blown by the dreary winds.

Come, deal--come, deal.

FIRST MERCHANT. Who will come deal with us?

SHEMUS. They are out of spirit, sir, with lack of food,

Save four or five. Here, sir, is one of these;

The others will gain courage in good time.

MIDDLE-AGED MAN. I come to deal--if you give honest price.

FIRST MERCHANT [_reading in a book_]. ‘John Maher, a man of

substance, with dull mind,

And quiet senses and unventurous heart.

The angels think him safe.’ Two hundred crowns,

All for a soul, a little breath of wind.

THE MAN. I ask three hundred crowns. You have read there

That no mere lapse of days can make me yours.

FIRST MERCHANT. There is something more writ here--‘Often at night

He is wakeful from a dread of growing poor,

And thereon wonders if there’s any man

That he could rob in safety.’

A PEASANT. Who’d have thought it?

And I was once alone with him at midnight.

ANOTHER PEASANT. I will not trust my mother after this.

FIRST MERCHANT. There is this crack in you--two hundred crowns.

A PEASANT. That’s plenty for a rogue.

ANOTHER PEASANT. I’d give him nothing.

SHEMUS. You’ll get no more--so take what’s offered you.

[_A general murmur, during which the_ MIDDLE-AGED MAN _takes

money, and slips into background, where he sinks on to a seat_.

FIRST MERCHANT. Has no one got a better soul than that?

If only for the credit of your parishes,

Traffic with us.

A WOMAN. What will you give for mine?

FIRST MERCHANT [_reading in book_]. ‘Soft, handsome, and still

young’--not much, I think.

‘It’s certain that the man she’s married to

Knows nothing of what’s hidden in the jar

Between the hour-glass and the pepper-pot.’

THE WOMAN. The scandalous book.

FIRST MERCHANT. ‘Nor how when he’s away

At the horse fair the hand that wrote what’s hid

Will tap three times upon the window-pane.’

THE WOMAN. And if there is a letter, that is no reason

Why I should have less money than the others.

FIRST MERCHANT. You’re almost safe, I give you fifty crowns.

[_She turns to go._

A hundred, then.

SHEMUS. Woman, have sense--come, come.

Is this a time to haggle at the price?

There, take it up. There, there. That’s right.

[_She takes them and goes into the crowd._

FIRST MERCHANT. Come, deal, deal, deal. It is but for charity

We buy such souls at all; a thousand sins

Made them our Master’s long before we came.

ALEEL _enters_.

ALEEL. Here, take my soul, for I am tired of it.

I do not ask a price.

SHEMUS. Not ask a price?

How can you sell your soul without a price?

I would not listen to his broken wits;

His love for Countess Cathleen has so crazed him

He hardly understands what he is saying.

ALEEL. The trouble that has come on Countess Cathleen,

The sorrow that is in her wasted face,

The burden in her eyes, have broke my wits,

And yet I know I’d have you take my soul.

FIRST MERCHANT. We cannot take your soul, for it is hers.

ALEEL. No, but you must. Seeing it cannot help her

I have grown tired of it.

FIRST MERCHANT. Begone from me,

I may not touch it.

ALEEL. Is your power so small?

And must I bear it with me all my days?

May you be scorned and mocked!

FIRST MERCHANT. Drag him away. He troubles me.

[TEIG _and_ SHEMUS _lead_ ALEEL _into the crowd_.

SECOND MERCHANT. His gaze has filled me, brother,

With shaking and a dreadful fear.

FIRST MERCHANT. Lean forward

And kiss the circlet where my Master’s lips

Were pressed upon it when he sent us hither;

You shall have peace once more.

[SECOND MERCHANT _kisses the gold circlet that is about the head

of the_ FIRST MERCHANT.

I, too, grow weary,

But there is something moving in my heart

Whereby I know that what we seek the most

Is drawing near--our labour will soon end.

Come, deal, deal, deal, deal, deal; are you all dumb?

What, will you keep me from our ancient home,

And from the eternal revelry?

SECOND MERCHANT. Deal, deal.

SHEMUS. They say you beat the woman down too low.

FIRST MERCHANT. I offer this great price: a thousand crowns

For an old woman who was always ugly.

[_An old_ PEASANT WOMAN _comes forward, and he takes up a book

and reads_:

There is but little set down here against her.

‘She has stolen eggs and fowl when times were bad,

But when the times grew better has confessed it;

She never missed her chapel of a Sunday

And when she could, paid dues.’ Take up your money.

OLD WOMAN. God bless you, sir. [_She screams._] Oh, sir, a pain went

through me!

FIRST MERCHANT. That name is like a fire to all damned souls.

[_Murmur among the_ PEASANTS, _who shrink back from her as she

goes out_.

A PEASANT. How she screamed out!

SECOND PEASANT. And maybe we shall scream so.

THIRD PEASANT. I tell you there is no such place as hell.

FIRST MERCHANT. Can such a trifle turn you from your profit?

Come, deal; come, deal.

MIDDLE-AGED MAN. Master, I am afraid.

FIRST MERCHANT. I bought your soul, and there’s no sense in fear

Now the soul’s gone.

MIDDLE-AGED MAN. Give me my soul again.

WOMAN [_going on her knees and clinging to_ MERCHANT]. And take this

money too, and give me mine.

SECOND MERCHANT. Bear bastards, drink or follow some wild fancy;

For sighs and cries are the soul’s work,

And you have none.

[_Throws the woman off._

PEASANT. Come, let’s away.

ANOTHER PEASANT. Yes, yes.

ANOTHER PEASANT. Come quickly; if that woman had not screamed

I would have lost my soul.

ANOTHER PEASANT. Come, come away.

[_They turn to door, but are stopped by shouts of ‘Countess

Cathleen! Countess Cathleen!’_

CATHLEEN [_entering_]. And so you trade once more?

FIRST MERCHANT. In spite of you.

What brings you here, saint with the sapphire eyes?

CATHLEEN. I come to barter a soul for a great price.

SECOND MERCHANT. What matter, if the soul be worth the price?

CATHLEEN. The people starve, therefore the people go

Thronging to you. I hear a cry come from them

And it is in my ears by night and day,

And I would have five hundred thousand crowns

That I may feed them till the dearth go by.

FIRST MERCHANT. It may be the soul’s worth it.

CATHLEEN. There is more:

The souls that you have bought must be set free.

FIRST MERCHANT. We know of but one soul that’s worth the price.

CATHLEEN. Being my own it seems a priceless thing.

SECOND MERCHANT. You offer us----

CATHLEEN. I offer my own soul.

A PEASANT. Do not, do not, for souls the like of ours

Are not precious to God as your soul is.

O! what would Heaven do without you, lady?

ANOTHER PEASANT. Look how their claws clutch in their leathern

gloves.

FIRST MERCHANT. Five hundred thousand crowns; we give the price.

The gold is here; the souls even while you speak

Have slipped out of our bond, because your face

Has shed a light on them and filled their hearts.

But you must sign, for we omit no form

In buying a soul like yours.

SECOND MERCHANT. Sign with this quill.

It was a feather growing on the cock

That crowed when Peter dared deny his Master,

And all who use it have great honour in Hell.

[CATHLEEN _leans forward to sign_.

ALEEL [_rushing forward and snatching the pen from her_]. Leave all

things to the builder of the heavens.

CATHLEEN. I have no thoughts; I hear a cry--a cry.

ALEEL [_casting the pen on the ground_]. I have seen a vision under

a green hedge,

A hedge of hips and haws--men yet shall hear

The Archangels rolling Satan’s empty skull

Over the mountain-tops.

FIRST MERCHANT. Take him away.

[TEIG _and_ SHEMUS _drag him roughly away so that he falls upon

the floor among the_ PEASANTS. CATHLEEN _picks up parchment and

signs, then turns towards the_ PEASANTS.

CATHLEEN. Take up the money, and now come with me;

When we are far from this polluted place

I will give everybody money enough.

[_She goes out, the_ PEASANTS _crowding around her and kissing

her dress_. ALEEL _and the two_ MERCHANTS _are left alone_.

SECOND MERCHANT. We must away and wait until she dies,

Sitting above her tower as two grey owls,

Waiting as many years as may be, guarding

Our precious jewel; waiting to seize her soul.

FIRST MERCHANT. We need but hover over her head in the air,

For she has only minutes. When she signed

Her heart began to break. Hush, hush, I hear

The brazen door of Hell move on its hinges, and the eternal revelry

float hither

To hearten us.

SECOND MERCHANT. Leap feathered on the air

And meet them with her soul caught in your claws.

[_They rush out._ ALEEL _crawls into the middle of the room. The

twilight has fallen and gradually darkens as the scene goes on.

There is a distant muttering of thunder and a sound of rising

storm._

ALEEL. The brazen door stands wide, and Balor comes

Borne in his heavy car, and demons have lifted

The age-weary eyelids from the eyes that of old

Turned gods to stone; Barach, the traitor, comes

And the lascivious race, Cailitin,

That cast a druid weakness and decay

Over Sualtem’s and old Dectera’s child;

And that great king Hell first took hold upon

When he killed Naisi and broke Deirdre’s heart

And all their heads are twisted to one side,

For when they lived they warred on beauty and peace

With obstinate, crafty, sidelong bitterness.

[OONA _enters_.

Crouch down, old heron, out of the blind storm.

OONA. Where is the Countess Cathleen? All this day

Her eyes were full of tears, and when for a moment

Her hand was laid upon my hand it trembled,

And now I do not know where she is gone.

ALEEL. Cathleen has chosen other friends than us,

And they are rising through the hollow world.

Demons are out, old heron.

OONA. God guard her soul.

ALEEL. She’s bartered it away this very hour,

As though we two were never in the world.

[_He points downward._

First, Orchill, her pale, beautiful head alive,

Her body shadowy as vapour drifting

Under the dawn, for she who awoke desire

Has but a heart of blood when others die;

About her is a vapoury multitude

Of women alluring devils with soft laughter;

Behind her a host heat of the blood made sin,

But all the little pink white nails have grown

To be great talons.

[_He seizes_ OONA _and drags her into the middle of the room and

points downward with vehement gestures. The wind roars._

They begin a song

And there is still some music on their tongues.

OONA [_casting herself face downward on the floor_]. O, Maker of

all, protect her from the demons,

And if a soul must need be lost, take mine.

[ALEEL _kneels beside her, but does not seem to hear her words.

The_ PEASANTS _return. They carry the_ COUNTESS CATHLEEN _and

lay her upon the ground before_ OONA _and_ ALEEL. _She lies

there as if dead._

OONA. O, that so many pitchers of rough clay

Should prosper and the porcelain break in two!

[_She kisses the hands of_ CATHLEEN.

A PEASANT. We were under the tree where the path turns,

When she grew pale as death and fainted away.

And while we bore her hither cloudy gusts

Blackened the world and shook us on our feet;

Draw the great bolt, for no man has beheld

So black, bitter, blinding, and sudden a storm.

[_One who is near the door draws the bolt._

CATHLEEN. O, hold me, and hold me tightly, for the storm

Is dragging me away.

[OONA _takes her in her arms. A_ WOMAN _begins to wail_.

PEASANTS. Hush!

PEASANTS. Hush!

PEASANT WOMEN. Hush!

OTHER PEASANT WOMEN. Hush!

CATHLEEN [_half rising_]. Lay all the bags of money in a heap,

And when I am gone, old Oona, share them out

To every man and woman: judge, and give

According to their needs.

A PEASANT WOMAN. And will she give

Enough to keep my children through the dearth?

ANOTHER PEASANT WOMAN. O, Queen of Heaven, and all you blessed

saints,

Let us and ours be lost so she be shriven.

CATHLEEN. Bend down your faces, Oona and Aleel;

I gaze upon them as the swallow gazes

Upon the nest under the eave, before

She wander the loud waters. Do not weep

Too great a while, for there is many a candle

On the High Altar though one fall. Aleel,

Who sang about the dancers of the woods,

That know not the hard burden of the world,

Having but breath in their kind bodies, farewell!

And farewell, Oona, you who played with me,

And bore me in your arms about the house

When I was but a child and therefore happy,

Therefore happy, even like those that dance.

The storm is in my hair and I must go.

[_She dies._

OONA. Bring me the looking-glass.

[A WOMAN _brings it to her out of the inner room._ OONA _holds it

over the lips of_ CATHLEEN. _All is silent for a moment. And

then she speaks in a half scream_:

O, she is dead!

A PEASANT. She was the great white lily of the world.

A PEASANT. She was more beautiful than the pale stars.

AN OLD PEASANT WOMAN. The little plant I love is broken in two.

[ALEEL _takes looking-glass from_ OONA _and flings it upon the

floor so that it is broken in many pieces_.

ALEEL. I shatter you in fragments, for the face

That brimmed you up with beauty is no more:

And die, dull heart, for she whose mournful words

Made you a living spirit has passed away

And left you but a ball of passionate dust.

And you, proud earth and plumy sea, fade out!

For you may hear no more her faltering feet,

But are left lonely amid the clamorous war

Of angels upon devils.

[_He stands up; almost every one is kneeling, but it has grown so

dark that only confused forms can be seen._

And I who weep

Call curses on you, Time and Fate and Change,

And have no excellent hope but the great hour

When you shall plunge headlong through bottomless space.

[_A flash of lightning followed immediately by thunder._

A PEASANT WOMAN. Pull him upon his knees before his curses

Have plucked thunder and lightning on our heads.

ALEEL. Angels and devils clash in the middle air,

And brazen swords clang upon brazen helms.

[_A flash of lightning followed immediately by thunder._

Yonder a bright spear, cast out of a sling,

Has torn through Balor’s eye, and the dark clans

Fly screaming as they fled Moytura of old.

[_Everything is lost in darkness._

AN OLD MAN. The Almighty wrath at our great weakness and sin

Has blotted out the world and we must die.

[_The darkness is broken by a visionary light. The_ PEASANTS

_seem to be kneeling upon the rocky slope of a mountain, and

vapour full of storm and ever-changing light is sweeping above

them and behind them. Half in the light, half in the shadow,

stand armed angels. Their armour is old and worn, and their

drawn swords dim and dinted. They stand as if upon the air in

formation of battle and look downward with stern faces. The_

PEASANTS _cast themselves on the ground_.

ALEEL. Look no more on the half-closed gates of Hell,

But speak to me, whose mind is smitten of God,

That it may be no more with mortal things,

And tell of her who lies there.

[_He seizes one of the angels._

Till you speak

You shall not drift into eternity.

THE ANGEL. The light beats down; the gates of pearl are wide

And she is passing to the floor of peace,

And Mary of the seven times wounded heart

Has kissed her lips, and the long blessed hair

Has fallen on her face; The Light of Lights

Looks always on the motive, not the deed,

The Shadow of Shadows on the deed alone.

[ALEEL _releases the_ ANGEL _and kneels_.

OONA. Tell them who walk upon the floor of peace

That I would die and go to her I love;

The years like great black oxen tread the world,

And God the herdsman goads them on behind

And I am broken by their passing feet.

[_A sound of far-off horns seems to come from the heart of the

Light. The vision melts away, and the forms of the kneeling_

PEASANTS _appear faintly in the darkness_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

NOTE

‘THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN’

I found the story of the Countess Cathleen in what professed to be a

collection of Irish folk-lore in an Irish newspaper some years ago. I

wrote to the compiler, asking about its source, but got no answer, but

have since heard that it was translated from _Les Matinées de Timothée

Trimm_ a good many years ago, and has been drifting about the Irish

press ever since. Léo Lespès gives it as an Irish story, and though the

editor of _Folklore_ has kindly advertised for information, the only

Christian variant I know of is a Donegal tale, given by Mr. Larminie in

his _West Irish Folk Tales and Romances_, of a woman who goes to hell

for ten years to save her husband, and stays there another ten, having

been granted permission to carry away as many souls as could cling to

her skirt. Léo Lespès may have added a few details, but I have no doubt

of the essential antiquity of what seems to me the most impressive form

of one of the supreme parables of the world. The parable came to the

Greeks in the sacrifice of Alcestis, but her sacrifice was less

overwhelming, less apparently irremediable. Léo Lespès tells the story

as follows:--

Ce que je vais vous dire est un récit du carême irlandais. Le boiteux,

l’aveugle, le paralytique des rues de Dublin ou de Limerick, vous le

diraient mieux que moi, cher lecteur, si vous alliez le leur demander,

un sixpence d’argent à la main.--Il n’est pas une jeune fille catholique

à laquelle on ne l’ait appris pendant les jours de préparation à la

communion sainte, pas un berger des bords de la Blackwater qui ne le

puisse redire à la veillée.

Il y a bien longtemps qu’il apparut tout-à-coup dans la vieille Irlande

deux marchands inconnus dont personne n’avait ouï parler, et qui

parlaient néanmoins avec la plus grande perfection la langue du pays.

Leurs cheveux étaient noirs et ferrés avec de l’or et leurs robes d’une

grande magnificence.

Tous deux semblaient avoir le même âge; ils paraissaient être des hommes

de cinquante ans, car leur barbe grisonnait un peu.

Or, à cette époque, comme aujourd’hui, l’Irlande était pauvre, car le

soleil avait été rare, et des récoltes presque nulles. Les indigents ne

savaient à quel saint se vouer, et la misère devenait de plus en plus

terrible.

Dans l’hôtellerie où descendirent les marchands fastueux on chercha à

pénétrer leurs desseins: mais ce fut en vain, ils demeurèrent silencieux

et discrets.

Et pendant qu’ils demeurêrent dans l’hôtellerie, ils ne cessèrent de

compter et de recompter des sacs de pièces d’or, dont la vive clarté

s’apercevait à travers les vitres du logis.

Gentlemen, leur dit l’hôtesse un jour, d’où vient que vous êtes si

opulents, et que, venus pour secourir la misère publique, vous ne

fassiez pas de bonnes œuvres?

--Belle hôtesse, répondit l’un d’eux, nous n’avons pas voulu aller

au-devant d’infortunes honorables, dans la crainte d’être trompés par

des misères fictives: que la douleur frappe à la porte, nous ouvrirons.

Le lendemain, quand on sut qu’il existait deux opulents étrangers prêts

à prodiguer l’or, la foule assiégea leur logis; mais les figures des

gens qui en sortaient étaient bien diverses. Les uns avaient la fierté

dans le regard, les autres portaient la honte au front. Les deux

trafiquants achetaient des âmes pour le démon. L’âme d’un vieillard

valait vingt pièces d’or, pas un penny de plus; car Satan avait eu le

temps d’y former hypothèque. L’âme d’une épouse en valait cinquante

quand elle était jolie, ou cent quand elle était laide. L’âme d’une

jeune fille se payait des prix fous: les fleurs les plus belles et les

plus pures sont les plus chères.

Pendant ce temps, il existait dans la ville un ange de beauté, la

comtesse Ketty O’Connor. Elle était l’idole du peuple, et la providence

des indigents. Dès qu’elle eut appris que des mécréants profitaient de

la misère publique pour dérober des cœurs à Dieu, elle fit appeler son

majordome.

--Master Patrick, lui dit-elle, combien ai-je de pièces d’or dans mon

coffre?

--Cent mille.

--Combien de bijoux?

--Pour autant d’argent.

--Combien de chateaux, de bois et de terres?

--Pour le double de ces sommes.

--Eh bien! Patrick, vendez tout ce qui n’est pas or et apportez-m’en le

montant. Je ne veux garder à moi que ce castel et le champ qui

l’entoure.

Deux jours après, les ordres de la pieuse Ketty étaient exécutés et le

trésor était distribué aux pauvres au fur et à mesure de leurs besoins.

Ceci ne faisait pas le compte, dit la tradition, des commis-voyageurs du

malin esprit, qui ne trouvaient plus d’âmes à acheter.

Aidés par un valet infâme, ils pénétrèrent dans la retraite de la noble

dame et lui dérobèrent le reste de son trésor ... en vain lutta-t-elle

de toutes ses forces pour sauver le contenu de son coffre, les larrons

diaboliques furent les plus forts. Si Ketty avait eu les moyens de faire

un signe de croix, ajoute la légende irlandaise, elle les eût mis en

fuite, mais ses mains étaient captives--Le larcin fut effectué. Alors

les pauvres sollicitèrent en vain près de Ketty dépouillée, elle ne

pouvait plus secourir leur misère;--elle les abandonnait à la tentation.

Pourtant il n’y avait plus que huit jours à passer pour que les grains

et les fourrages arrivassent en abondance des pays d’Orient. Mais, huit

jours, c’était un siècle: huit jours nécessitaient une somme immense

pour subvenir aux exigences de la disette, et les pauvres allaient ou

expirer dans les angoisses de la faim, ou, reniant les saints maximes de

l’Evangile, vendre à vil prix leur âme, le plus beau présent de la

munificence du Seigneur tout-puissant.

Et Ketty n’avait plus une obole, car elle avait abandonné son château

aux malheureux.

Elle passa douze heures dans les larmes et le deuil, arrachant ses

cheveux couleur de soleil et meurtrissant son sein couleur du lis: puis

elle se leva résolue, animée par un vif sentiment de désespoir.

Elle se rendit chez les marchands d’âmes.

--Que voulez-vous? dirent-ils.

--Vous achetez des âmes?

--Oui, un peu malgré vous, n’est-ce pas, sainte aux yeux de saphir?

--Aujourd’hui je viens vous proposer un marché, reprit-elle.

--Lequel?

--J’ai une âme à vendre; mais elle est chère.

--Qu’importe si elle est précieuse? l’âme, comme le diamant, s’apprécie

à sa blancheur.

--C’est la mienne, dit Ketty.

Les deux envoyés de Satan tressaillirent. Leurs griffes s’allongèrent

sous leurs gants de cuir; leurs yeux gris étincelèrent:--l’âme, pure,

immaculée, virginale de Ketty!... c’était une acquisition inappreciable.

--Gentille dame, combien voulez-vous?

--Cent cinquante mille écus d’or.

--C’est fait, dirent les marchands: et ils tendirent à Ketty un

parchemin cacheté de noir, qu’elle signa en frissonnant.

La somme lui fut comptée.

Dès qu’elle fut rentrée, elle dit au majordome:

--Tenez, distribuez ceci. Avec la somme que je vous donne les pauvres

attendront la huitaine nécessaire et pas une de leurs âmes ne sera

livrée au démon.

Puis elle s’enferma et recommanda qu’on ne vint pas la déranger.

Trois jours se passèrent; elle n’appela pas; elle ne sortit pas.

Quand on ouvrit sa porte, on la trouva raide et froide: elle était morte

de douleur.

Mais la vente de cette âme si adorable dans sa charité fut déclarée

nulle par le Seigneur: car elle avait sauvé ses concitoyens de la mort

éternelle.

Après la huitaine, des vaisseaux nombreux amenèrent à l’Irlande affamée

d’immenses provisions de grains.

La famine n’était plus possible. Quant aux marchands, ils disparurent de

leur hôtellerie, sans qu’on sût jamais ce qu’ils étaient devenus.

Toutefois, les pêcheurs de la Blackwater prétendent qu’ils sont

enchaînés dans une prison souterraine par ordre de Lucifer jusqu’au

moment où ils pourront livrer l’âme de Ketty qui leur a échappé. Je vous

dis la légende telle que je la sais.

Mais les pauvres l’ont raconté d’âge en âge et les enfants de Cork et de

Dublin chantent encore la ballade dont voici les derniers couplets:--

Pour sauver les pauvres qu’elle aime

Ketty donna

Son esprit, sa croyance même:

Satan paya

Cette âme au dévoûment sublime,

En écus d’or,

Disons pour racheter son crime,

_Confiteor_.

Mais l’ange qui se fit coupable

Par charité

Au séjour d’amour ineffable

Est remonté.

Satan vaincu n’eut pas de prise

Sur ce cœur d’or;

Chantons sous la nef de l’église,

_Confiteor_.

N’est-ce pas que ce récit, né de l’imagination des poètes catholiques de

la verte Erin, est une véritable récit de carême?

_The Countess Cathleen_ was acted in Dublin in 1899, with Mr. Marcus St.

John and Mr. Trevor Lowe as the First and Second Demon, Mr. Valentine

Grace as Shemus Rua, Master Charles Sefton as Teig, Madame San Carola as

Mary, Miss Florence Farr as Aleel, Miss Anna Mather as Oona, Mr. Charles

Holmes as the Herdsman, Mr. Jack Wilcox as the Gardener, Mr. Walford as

a Peasant, Miss Dorothy Paget as a Spirit, Miss M. Kelly as a Peasant

Woman, Mr. T. E. Wilkinson as a Servant, and Miss May Whitty as the

Countess Kathleen. They had to face a very vehement opposition stirred

up by a politician and a newspaper, the one accusing me in a pamphlet,

the other in long articles day after day, of blasphemy because of the

language of the demons or of Shemus Rua, and because I made a woman sell

her soul and yet escape damnation, and of a lack of patriotism because I

made Irish men and women, who, it seems, never did such a thing, sell

theirs. The politician or the newspaper persuaded some forty Catholic

students to sign a protest against the play, and a Cardinal, who avowed

that he had not read it, to make another, and both politician and

newspaper made such obvious appeals to the audience to break the peace,

that a score or so of police were sent to the theatre to see that they

did not. I had, however, no reason to regret the result, for the stalls,

containing almost all that was distinguished in Dublin, and a gallery of

artisans alike insisted on the freedom of literature.

After the performance in 1899 I added the love scene between Aleel and

the Countess, and in this new form the play was revived in New York by

Miss Wycherley as well as being played a good deal in England and

America by amateurs. Now at last I have made a complete revision to make

it suitable for performance at the Abbey Theatre. The first two scenes

are almost wholly new, and throughout the play I have added or left out

such passages as a stage experience of some years showed me encumbered

the action; the play in its first form having been written before I knew

anything of the theatre. I have left the old end, however, in the

version printed in the body of this book, because the change for

dramatic purposes has been made for no better reason than that

audiences--even at the Abbey Theatre--are almost ignorant of Irish

mythology--or because a shallow stage made the elaborate vision of armed

angels upon a mountain-side impossible. The new end is particularly

suited to the Abbey stage, where the stage platform can be brought out

in front of the proscenium and have a flight of steps at one side up

which the Angel comes, crossing towards the back of the stage at the

opposite side. The principal lighting is from two arc lights in the

balcony which throw their lights into the faces of the players, making

footlights unnecessary. The room at Shemus Rua’s house is suggested by a

great grey curtain--a colour which becomes full of rich tints under the

stream of light from the arcs. The two or more arches in the third scene

permit the use of a gauze. The short front scene before the last is just

long enough when played with incidental music to allow the scene set

behind it to be changed. The play when played without interval in this

way lasts a little over an hour.

The play was performed at the Abbey Theatre for the first time on

December 14, 1911, Miss Maire O’Neill taking the part of the Countess,

and the last scene from the going out of the Merchants was as follows:--

[MERCHANTS _rush out_. ALEEL _crawls into the middle of the room;

the twilight has fallen and gradually darkens as the scene goes

on_.

ALEEL. They’re rising up--they’re rising through the earth,

Fat Asmodel and giddy Belial,

And all the fiends. Now they leap in the air.

But why does Hell’s gate creak so? Round and round.

Hither and hither, to and fro they’re running.

[_He moves about as though the air was full of spirits._ OONA

_enters_.

Crouch down, old heron, out of the blind storm.

OONA. Where is the Countess Cathleen? All this day

Her eyes were full of tears, and when for a moment

Her hand was laid upon my hand, it trembled.

And now I do not know where she is gone.

ALEEL. Cathleen has chosen other friends than us,

And they are rising through the hollow world.

Demons are out, old heron.

OONA. God guard her soul.

ALEEL. She’s bartered it away this very hour,

As though we two were never in the world.

[_He kneels beside her, but does not seem to hear her words. The_

PEASANTS _return. They carry the_ COUNTESS CATHLEEN _and lay

her upon the ground before_ OONA _and_ ALEEL. _She lies there

as if dead._

OONA. O, that so many pitchers of rough clay

Should prosper and the porcelain break in two!

[_She kisses the hands of_ CATHLEEN.

A PEASANT. We were under the tree where the path turns

When she grew pale as death and fainted away.

CATHLEEN. O, hold me, and hold me tightly, for the storm

Is dragging me away.

[OONA _takes her in her arms_. A WOMAN _begins to wail_.

PEASANTS. Hush!

PEASANTS. Hush!

PEASANT WOMEN. Hush!

OTHER PEASANT WOMEN. Hush!

CATHLEEN [_half rising_]. Lay all the bags of money in a heap,

And when I am gone, old Oona, share them out

To every man and woman: judge, and give

According to their needs.

A PEASANT WOMAN. And will she give

Enough to keep my children through the dearth?

ANOTHER PEASANT WOMAN. O, Queen of Heaven, and all you blessed

saints,

Let us and ours be lost, so she be shriven.

CATHLEEN. Bend down your faces, Oona and Aleel;

I gaze upon them as the swallow gazes

Upon the nest under the eave, before

She wander the loud waters. Do not weep

Too great a while, for there is many a candle

On the High Altar though one fall. Aleel,

Who sang about the dancers of the woods,

That know not the hard burden of the world,

Having but breath in their kind bodies, farewell!

And farewell, Oona, you who played with me

And bore me in your arms about the house

When I was but a child--and therefore happy,

Therefore happy even like those that dance.

The storm is in my hair and I must go.

_She dies._

OONA. Bring me the looking-glass.

[_A_ WOMAN _brings it to her out of inner room_. OONA _holds the

glass over the lips of_ CATHLEEN. _All is silent for a moment,

then she speaks in a half-scream._

O, she is dead!

A PEASANT. She was the great white lily of the world.

A PEASANT. She was more beautiful than the pale stars.

AN OLD PEASANT WOMAN. The little plant I loved is broken in two.

[ALEEL _takes looking-glass from_ OONA _and flings it upon floor,

so that it is broken in many pieces_.

ALEEL. I shatter you in fragments, for the face

That brimmed you up with beauty is no more;

And die, dull heart, for you that were a mirror

Are but a ball of passionate dust again!

And level earth and plumy sea, rise up!

And haughty sky, fall down!

A PEASANT WOMAN. Pull him upon his knees,

His curses will pluck lightning on our heads.

ALEEL. Angels and devils clash in the middle air,

And brazen swords clang upon brazen helms.

Look, look, a spear has gone through Belial’s eye!

[_A winged_ ANGEL, _carrying a torch and a sword, enters from

the_ R. _with eyes fixed upon some distant thing. The_ ANGEL

_is about to pass out to the_ L. _when_ ALEEL _speaks. The_

ANGEL _stops a moment and turns_.

Look no more on the half-closed gates of Hell,

But speak to me whose mind is smitten of God,

That it may be no more with mortal things:

And tell of her who lies there.

[_The_ ANGEL _turns again and is about to go, but is seized by_

ALEEL.

Till you speak

You shall not drift into eternity.

THE ANGEL. The light beats down; the gates of pearl are wide.

And she is passing to the floor of peace,

And Mary of the seven times wounded heart

Has kissed her lips, and the long blessed hair

Has fallen on her face; the Light of Lights

Looks always on the motive, not the deed,

The Shadow of Shadows on the deed alone.

[ALEEL _releases the_ ANGEL _and kneels_.

OONA. Tell them to walk upon the floor of peace,

That I would die and go to her I love;

The years like great black oxen tread the world,

And God the herdsman goads them on behind,

And I am broken by their passing feet.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_O Rose, thou art sick._

WILLIAM BLAKE.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TO

FLORENCE FARR

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_PERSONS OF THE PLAY_

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

BRIDGET BRUIN.

SHAWN BRUIN.

MARY BRUIN.

FATHER HART.

A FAERY CHILD.

_The Scene is laid in the Barony of Kilmacowen, in the County of Sligo,

and at a remote time._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

PREFACE

This play contains more of my first experiments in blank verse than any

other in my books, for _The Countess Cathleen_, though published before

it, was all rewritten for later editions. Many passages that pleased me

when I wrote them, and some that please me still, are mere ornament

without dramatic value. A revival of the play but a few days ago at the

Abbey Theatre enabled me to leave out these and other passages and to

test the play without them. I think that it gained greatly, became

indeed for the first time tolerable drama; certainly for the first time

for many years gave its author pleasure. Amateurs perform it more often

than any other play of mine, and I urge them to omit all lines that I

have enclosed in brackets. It should sound simple and natural if played

with the text I recommend, and it may be that it would read better too,

being a more perfect action, but I hesitate to leave out altogether what

many people like, what, it may be, I can no longer judge. Somebody, Dr.

Todhunter, the dramatic poet, I think, had said in my hearing that

dramatic poetry must be oratorical, and I think that I wrote partly to

prove that false; but every now and then I lost courage, as it seems,

and remembering that I had some reputation as a lyric poet wrote for the

reader of lyrics. When I saw it played with all needless and all mere

lyrical passages cut away, I recalled the kind of pleasure that I had

sought to create, and at last listened with the hope that this pleasure

had reached those about me. Mr. Lennox Robinson, the producer, had kept

all the players except the fairy child as still and statuesque as

possible, so that the blank verse where there is so little animation

seemed their natural utterance.

W. B. YEATS.

March 10.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

SCENE.--_A room with a hearth on the floor in the middle of a deep

alcove to the Right. There are benches in the alcove and a table; and

a crucifix on the wall. The alcove is full of a glow of light from

the fire. There is an open door facing the audience to the Left, and

to the left of this a bench. Through the door one can see the forest.

It is night, but the moon or a late sunset glimmers through the trees

and carries the eye far off into a vague, mysterious world._ MAURTEEN

BRUIN, SHAWN BRUIN, _and_ BRIDGET BRUIN _sit in the alcove at the

table or about the fire. They are dressed in the costume of some

remote time, and near them sits an old priest_, FATHER HART. _He may

be dressed as a friar. There is food and drink upon the table._ MARY

BRUIN _stands by the door reading a book. If she looks up she can see

through the door into the wood._

BRIDGET. Because I bid her clean the pots for supper

She took that old book down out of the thatch;

She has been doubled over it ever since.

We should be deafened by her groans and moans

Had she to work as some do, Father Hart;

Get up at dawn like me and mend and scour

Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you,

The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.

SHAWN. Mother, you are too cross.

BRIDGET. You’ve married her,

And fear to vex her and so take her part.

MAURTEEN [_to_ FATHER HART]. It is but right that youth should side

with youth;

She quarrels with my wife a bit at times,

And is too deep just now in the old book!

But do not blame her greatly; [she will grow

As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree

When but the moons of marriage dawn and die

For half a score of times.]

FATHER HART. Their hearts are wild,

As be the hearts of birds, till children come.

BRIDGET. She would not mind the kettle, milk the cow,

Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.

SHAWN. Mother, if only----

MAURTEEN. Shawn, this is half empty;

Go, bring up the best bottle that we have.

FATHER HART. I _never_ saw her read a book before,

What can it be?

MAURTEEN [_to_ SHAWN]. What are you waiting for?

You must not shake it when you draw the cork;

It’s precious wine, so take you time about it.

[SHAWN _goes_.

[_To Priest._]

[There was a Spaniard wrecked at Ocris Head,

When I was young, and I have still some bottles.]

He cannot bear to hear her blamed; the book

Has lain up in the thatch these fifty years;

My father told me my grandfather wrote it,

And killed a heifer for the binding of it--

[But supper’s spread, and we can talk and eat]

It was little good he got out of the book,

Because it filled his house with rambling fiddlers,

And rambling ballad-makers and the like.

[The griddle-bread is there in front of you.]

Colleen, what is the wonder in that book,

That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I

Or had my father read or written books

There were no stocking stuffed with yellow guineas

To come when I am dead to Shawn and you.

FATHER HART. You should not fill your head with foolish dreams.

What are you reading?

MARY. How a Princess Edane,

A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard

A voice singing on a May Eve like this,

And followed half awake and half asleep,

Until she came into the Land of Faery,

Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,

Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,

Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

And she is still there, busied with a dance

Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood,

[Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.]

MAURTEEN. Persuade the colleen to put down the book;

My grandfather would mutter just such things,

And he was no judge of a dog or a horse,

And any idle boy could blarney him;

Just speak your mind.

FATHER HART. Put it away, my colleen;

[God spreads the heavens above us like great wings

And gives a little round of deeds and days,

And then come the wrecked angels and set snares,

And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams,

Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes

Half shuddering and half joyous from God’s peace;]

For it was some wrecked angel, blind with tears,

Who flattered Edane’s heart with merry words.

My colleen, I have seen some other girls

Restless and ill at ease, but years went by

And they grew like their neighbours and were glad

In minding children, working at the churn,

And gossiping of weddings and of wakes;

[For life moves out of a red flare of dreams

Into a common light of common hours,

Until old age bring the red flare again.]

MAURTEEN. That’s true--but she’s too young to know it’s true.

BRIDGET. She’s old enough to know that it is wrong

To mope and idle.

MAURTEEN. I’ve little blame for her;

She’s dull when my big son is in the fields,

And that and maybe this good woman’s tongue

Have driven her to hide among her dreams

Like children from the dark under the bed-clothes.

BRIDGET. She’d never do a turn if I were silent.

MAURTEEN. And maybe it is natural upon May Eve

To dream of the good people. But tell me, girl,

If you’ve the branch of blessed quicken wood

That women hang upon the post of the door

That they may send good luck into the house?

Remember they may steal new-married brides

After the fall of twilight on May Eve,

Or what old women mutter at the fire

Is but a pack of lies.

FATHER HART. It may be truth.

We do not know the limit of those powers

God has permitted to the evil spirits

For some mysterious end. You have done right [_to_ MARY];

It’s well to keep old innocent customs up.

[MARY BRUIN _has taken a bough of quicken wood from a seat and

hung it on a nail in the door-post. A girl child strangely

dressed, perhaps in faery green, comes out of the wood and

takes it away._

MARY. I had no sooner hung it on the nail

Before a child ran up out of the wind;

She has caught it in her hand and fondled it;

[Her face is pale as water before dawn.]

FATHER HART. Whose child can this be?

MAURTEEN. No one’s child at all.

She often dreams that some one has gone by,

When there was nothing but a puff of wind.

MARY. They have taken away the blessed quicken wood,

They will not bring good luck into the house;

Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them,

For are not they, likewise, children of God?

FATHER HART. Colleen, they are the children of the fiend,

And they have power until the end of Time,

When God shall fight with them a great pitched battle

And hack them into pieces.

MARY. He will smile,

Father, perhaps, and open His great door.

FATHER HART. Did but the lawless angels see that door

They would fall, slain by everlasting peace;

And when such angels knock upon our doors,

Who goes with them must drive through the same storm.

[_An arm comes around the door-post and knocks and beckons. It is

clearly seen in the silvery light._ MARY BRUIN _goes to door

and stands in it for a moment_. MAURTEEN BRUIN _is busy

filling_ FATHER HART’S _plate_. BRIDGET BRUIN _stirs the fire_.

MARY [_coming to table_]. There’s somebody out there that beckoned

me

And raised her hand as though it held a cup,

And she was drinking from it, so it may be

That she is thirsty.

[_She takes milk from the table and carries it to the door._

FATHER HART. That will be the child

That you would have it was no child at all.

BRIDGET. [And maybe, Father, what he said was true;

For there is not another night in the year

So wicked as to-night.

MAURTEEN. Nothing can harm us

While the good Father’s underneath our roof.

MARY. A little queer old woman dressed in green.

BRIDGET. The good people beg for milk and fire

Upon May Eve--woe to the house that gives,

For they have power upon it for a year.

MAURTEEN. Hush, woman, hush!

BRIDGET. She’s given milk away.

I knew she would bring evil on the house.

MAURTEEN. Who was it?

MARY. Both the tongue and face were strange.

MAURTEEN. Some strangers came last week to Clover Hill;

She must be one of them.]

BRIDGET. I am afraid.

FATHER HART. The Cross will keep all evil from the house

While it hangs there.

MAURTEEN. Come, sit beside me, colleen,

And put away your dreams of discontent,

For I would have you light up my last days,

Like the good glow of the turf; and when I die

You’ll be the wealthiest hereabout, for, colleen,

I have a stocking full of yellow guineas

Hidden away where nobody can find it.

BRIDGET. You are the fool of every pretty face,

And I must spare and pinch that my son’s wife

May have all kinds of ribbons for her head.

MAURTEEN. Do not be cross; she is a right good girl!

[The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart.

My colleen, have not Fate and Time and Change

Done well for me and for old Bridget there?]

We have a hundred acres of good land,

And sit beside each other at the fire.

I have this reverend Father for my friend,

I look upon your face and my son’s face--

We’ve put his plate by yours--and here he comes,

And brings with him the only thing we have lacked,

Abundance of good wine. [SHAWN _comes in_]. Stir up the fire,

And put new turf upon it till it blaze;

To watch the turf-smoke coiling from the fire,

And feel content and wisdom in your heart,

This is the best of life; [when we are young

We long to tread a way none trod before,

But find the excellent old way through love,

And through the care of children, to the hour

For bidding Fate and Time and Change good-bye.]

[MARY _stands for a moment in the door, and then takes a sod of

turf from the fire and goes out through the door_. SHAWN

_follows her and meets her coming in_.

SHAWN. What is it draws you to the chill o’ the wood?

There is a light among the stems of the trees

That makes one shiver.

MARY. [A little queer old man

Made me a sign to show he wanted fire

To light his pipe.]

BRIDGET. You’ve given milk and fire

Upon the unluckiest night of the year and brought,

For all you know, evil upon the house.

Before you married you were idle and fine

And went about with ribbons on your head;

And now--no, Father, I will speak my mind--

She is not a fitting wife for any man----

SHAWN. Be quiet, mother!

MAURTEEN. You are much too cross.

MARY. What do I care if I have given this house,

Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue,

Into the power of faeries!

BRIDGET. You know well

How calling the good people by that name,

Or talking of them over much at all,

May bring all kinds of evil on the house.

MARY. Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house!

Let me have all the freedom I have lost;

Work when I will and idle when I will!

Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,

For I would ride with you upon the wind,

[Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,]

And dance upon the mountains like a flame.

FATHER HART. You cannot know the meaning of your words.

MARY. Father, I am right weary of four tongues:

A tongue that is too crafty and too wise,

A tongue that is too godly and too grave,

A tongue that is more bitter than the tide,

And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love,

Of drowsy love and my captivity.

[SHAWN BRUIN _leads her to a seat at the left of the door_.

SHAWN. Do not blame me; I often lie awake

Thinking that all things trouble your bright head.

How beautiful it is--your broad pale forehead

Under a cloudy blossoming of hair!

Sit down beside me here--these are too old,

And have forgotten they were ever young.

MARY. O, you are the great door-post of this house,

And I the branch of blessed quicken wood,

And if I could I’d hang upon the post,

Till I had brought good luck into the house.

[_She would put her arms about him, but looks shyly at the priest

and lets her arms fall._

FATHER HART. My daughter, take his hand--by love alone

God binds us to Himself and to the hearth,

That shuts us from the waste beyond His peace,

From maddening freedom and bewildering light.

SHAWN. Would that the world were mine to give it you,

And not its quiet hearths alone, but even

All that bewilderment of light and freedom,

If you would have it.

MARY. I would take the world

And break it into pieces in my hands

To see you smile watching it crumble away.

SHAWN. Then I would mould a world of fire and dew,

With no one bitter, grave or over wise,

And nothing marred or old to do you wrong,

And crowd the enraptured quiet of the sky

With candles burning to your lonely face.

MARY. Your looks are all the candles that I need.

SHAWN. Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun,

Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn,

Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew,

But now the indissoluble sacrament

Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold

With my warm heart for ever; the sun and moon

Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll;

But your white spirit still walks by my spirit.

[_A Voice singing in the wood._

MAURTEEN. There’s some one singing. Why, it’s but a child.

It sang, ‘The lonely of heart is withered away.’

A strange song for a child, but she sings sweetly.

Listen, listen!

[_Goes to door._

MARY. O, cling close to me,

Because I have said wicked things to-night.

THE VOICE. The wind blows out of the gates of the day,

The wind blows over the lonely of heart,

And the lonely of heart is withered away.

While the faeries dance in a place apart,

Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,

Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;

For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing

Of a land where even the old are fair,

And even the wise are merry of tongue;

But I heard a reed of Coolaney say,

‘When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung

The lonely of heart is withered away!’

MAURTEEN. Being happy, I would have all others happy,

So I will bring her in out of the cold.

[_He brings in the faery child._

THE CHILD. [I tire of winds and waters and pale lights.

MAURTEEN. And that’s no wonder, for when night has fallen]

The wood’s a cold and a bewildering place,

But you are welcome here.

THE CHILD. I am welcome here.

[For when I tire of this warm little house]

But there is one here that must away, away.

MAURTEEN. O, listen to her dreamy and strange talk.

Are you not cold?

THE CHILD. I will crouch down beside you,

For I have run a long, long way this night.

BRIDGET. You have a comely shape.

MAURTEEN. Your hair is wet.

BRIDGET. I’ll warm your chilly feet.

MAURTEEN. You have come indeed

A long, long way--for I have never seen

Your pretty face--and must be tired and hungry,

Here is some bread and wine.

THE CHILD. The wine is bitter.

Old mother, have you no sweet food for me?

BRIDGET. I have some honey.

[_She goes into the next room._

MAURTEEN. You have coaxing ways,

The mother was quite cross before you came.

[BRIDGET _returns with the honey and fills a porringer with

milk_.

BRIDGET. She is the child of gentle people; look

At her white hands and at her pretty dress.

I’ve brought you some new milk, but wait a while

And I will put it to the fire to warm,

For things well fitted for poor folk like us

Would never please a high-born child like you.

THE CHILD. From dawn, when you must blow the fire ablaze,

You work your fingers to the bone, old mother.

The young may lie in bed and dream and hope,

But you must work your fingers to the bone

Because your heart is old.

BRIDGET. The young are idle.

THE CHILD. Your memories have made you wise, old father;

The young must sigh through many a dream and hope,

But you are wise because your heart is old.

[BRIDGET _gives her more bread and honey_.

MAURTEEN. O, who would think to find so young a girl

Loving old age and wisdom?

THE CHILD. No more, mother.

MAURTEEN. What a small bite! The milk is ready now. [_Hands it to

her._]

What a small sip!

THE CHILD. Put on my shoes, old mother.

For I would like to dance now I have eaten,

The reeds are dancing by Coolaney lake,

And I would like to dance until the reeds

And the white waves have danced themselves asleep.

[BRIDGET _puts on the shoes, and the_ CHILD _is about to dance,

but suddenly sees the crucifix and shrieks and covers her

eyes_.

What is that ugly thing on the black cross?

FATHER HART. You cannot know how naughty your words are!

That is our Blessed Lord.

THE CHILD. Hide it away!

BRIDGET. I have begun to be afraid again.

THE CHILD. Hide it away!

MAURTEEN. That would be wickedness!

BRIDGET. That would be sacrilege!

THE CHILD. The tortured thing!

Hide it away!

MAURTEEN. Her parents are to blame.

FATHER HART. That is the image of the Son of God.

THE CHILD [_caressing him_]. Hide it away, hide it away!

MAURTEEN. No, no.

FATHER HART. Because you are so young and like a bird,

That must take fright at every stir of the leaves.

I will go take it down.

THE CHILD. Hide it away!

And cover it out of sight and out of mind!

[FATHER HART _takes crucifix from wall and carries it towards

inner room_.

FATHER HART. Since you have come into this barony,

I will instruct you in our blessed faith;

And being so keen witted you’ll soon learn.

[_To the others._

We must be tender to all budding things,

Our Maker let no thought of Calvary

Trouble the morning stars in their first song.

[_Puts crucifix in inner room._

THE CHILD. Here is level ground for dancing; I will dance.

[_Sings._]

The wind blows out of the gates of the day,

The wind blows over the lonely of heart,

And the lonely of heart is withered away.

[_She dances._

MARY [_to_ SHAWN]. Just now when she came near I thought I heard

Other small steps beating upon the floor,

And a faint music blowing in the wind,

Invisible pipes giving her feet the tune.

SHAWN. I heard no steps but hers.

MARY. I hear them now,

The unholy powers are dancing in the house.

MAURTEEN. Come over here, and if you promise me

Not to talk wickedly of holy things

I will give you something.

THE CHILD. Bring it me, old father.

MAURTEEN. Here are some ribbons that I bought in the town

For my son’s wife--but she will let me give them

To tie up that wild hair the winds have tumbled.

THE CHILD. Come, tell me, do you love me?

MAURTEEN. Yes, I love you.

THE CHILD. Ah, but you love this fireside. Do you love me?

FATHER HART. When the Almighty puts so great a share

Of His own ageless youth into a creature,

To look is but to love.

THE CHILD. But you love Him?

BRIDGET. She is blaspheming.

THE CHILD. And do you love me too?

MARY. I do not know.

THE CHILD. You love that young man there,

Yet I could make you ride upon the winds,

[Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,]

And dance upon the mountains like a flame.

MARY. Queen of Angels and kind saints defend us!

Some dreadful thing will happen. A while ago

She took away the blessed quicken wood.

FATHER HART. You fear because of her unmeasured prattle;

She knows no better. Child, how old are you?

THE CHILD. When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin,

My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken

My mother carries me in her golden arms;

I’ll soon put on my womanhood and marry

The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell

When I was born for the first time? I think

I am much older than the eagle cock

[That blinks and blinks on Ballygawley Hill,]

And he is the oldest thing under the moon.

FATHER HART. O she is of the faery people.

THE CHILD. One called,

I sent my messengers for milk and fire,

She called again and after that I came.

[_All except_ SHAWN _and_ MARY BRUIN _gather behind the priest

for protection_.

SHAWN [_rising_]. Though you have made all these obedient,

You have not charmed my sight and won from me

A wish or gift to make you powerful;

I’ll turn you from the house.

FATHER HART. No, I will face her.

THE CHILD. Because you took away the crucifix

I am so mighty that there’s none can pass,

Unless I will it, where my feet have danced

Or where I’ve whirled my finger-tops.

[SHAWN _tries to approach her and cannot_.

MAURTEEN. Look, look!

There something stops him--look how he moves his hands

As though he rubbed them on a wall of glass!

FATHER HART. I will confront this mighty spirit alone;

Be not afraid, the Father is with us,

[The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents,

The adoring Magi in their coats of mail,]

And He who died and rose on the third day,

[And all the nine angelic hierarchies.]

[_The_ CHILD _kneels upon the settle beside_ MARY _and puts her

arms about her_.

Cry, daughter, to the Angels and the Saints.

THE CHILD. You shall go with me, newly-married bride.

And gaze upon a merrier multitude.

[White-armed Nuala, Aengus of the Birds,

Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him

Who is the ruler of the Western Host,

Finvarra, and their Land of Heart’s Desire,]

Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,

But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song.

I kiss you and the world begins to fade.

SHAWN. Awake out of that trance--and cover up

Your eyes and ears.

FATHER HART. She must both look and listen,

For only the soul’s choice can save her now.

Come over to me, daughter; stand beside me;

Think of this house and of your duties in it.

THE CHILD. Stay and come with me, newly-married bride,

For if you hear him you grow like the rest;

Bear children, cook, and bend above the churn,

And wrangle over butter, fowl, and eggs,

Until at last, grown old and bitter of tongue,

You’re crouching there and shivering at the grave.

FATHER HART. Daughter, I point you out the way to Heaven.

THE CHILD. But I can lead you, newly-married bride,

Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,

Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,

Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue,

And where kind tongues bring no captivity;

For we are but obedient to the thoughts

That drift into the mind at a wink of the eye.

FATHER HART. By the dear Name of the One crucified,

I bid you, Mary Bruin, come to me.

THE CHILD. I keep you in the name of your own heart.

FATHER HART. It is because I put away the crucifix

That I am nothing, and my power is nothing.

I’ll bring it here again.

MAURTEEN [_clinging to him_]. No.

BRIDGET. Do not leave us.

FATHER HART. O, let me go before it is too late;

It is my sin alone that brought it all.

[_Singing outside._

THE CHILD. I hear them sing, ‘Come, newly-married bride,

Come, to the woods and waters and pale lights.’

MARY. I will go with you.

FATHER HART. She is lost, alas!

THE CHILD [_standing by the door_]. But clinging mortal hope must

fall from you,

For we who ride the winds, run on the waves,

And dance upon the mountains are more light

Than dewdrops on the banner of the dawn.

MARY. O, take me with you.

SHAWN. Beloved, I will keep you.

I’ve more than words, I have these arms to hold you,

Nor all the faery host, do what they please,

Shall ever make me loosen you from these arms.

MARY. Dear face! Dear voice!

THE CHILD. Come, newly-married bride.

MARY. I always loved her world--and yet--and yet----

THE CHILD. White bird, white bird, come with me, little bird.

MARY. She calls me!

THE CHILD. Come with me, little bird.

[_Distant dancing figures appear in the wood._

MARY. I can hear songs and dancing.

SHAWN. Stay with me.

MARY. I think that I would stay--and yet--and yet----

THE CHILD. Come, little bird with crest of gold.

MARY [_very softly_]. And yet----

THE CHILD. Come, little bird with silver feet!

[MARY BRUIN _dies, and the_ CHILD _goes_.

SHAWN. She is dead!

BRIDGET. Come from that image; body and soul are gone.

You have thrown your arms about a drift of leaves,

Or bole of an ash-tree changed into her image.

FATHER HART. Thus do the spirits of evil snatch their prey,

Almost out of the very hand of God;

And day by day their power is more and more,

And men and women leave old paths, for pride

Comes knocking with thin knuckles on the heart.

[_Outside there are dancing figures, and it may be a white bird,

and many voices singing_:

The wind blows out of the gates of the day,

The wind blows over the lonely of heart,

And the lonely of heart is withered away;

[While the faeries dance in a place apart,

Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,

Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;

For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing

Of a land where even the old are fair,

And even the wise are merry of tongue;

But I heard a reed of Coolaney say--

‘When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung,

The lonely of heart is withered away.’]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

NOTE

‘THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE’

This little play was produced at the Avenue Theatre in the spring of

1894, with the following cast:--Maurteen Bruin, Mr. James Welch; Shawn

Bruin, Mr. A. E. W. Mason; Father Hart, Mr. G. R. Foss; Bridget Bruin,

Miss Charlotte Morland; Mary Bruin, Miss Winifred Fraser; A Faery Child,

Miss Dorothy Paget. It ran for a little over six weeks. It was revived

in America in 1901, when it was taken on tour by Mrs. Lemoyne. It has

been played two or three times professionally since then in America, and

a great many times in England and America by amateurs. Till lately it

was not part of the repertory of the Abbey Theatre, for I had grown to

dislike it without knowing what I disliked in it. This winter, however,

I have made many revisions, and now it plays well enough to give me

pleasure. It is printed in this book in the new form, which was acted

for the first time on February 22, 1912, at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin.

At the Abbey Theatre, where the platform of the stage comes out in front

of the curtain, the curtain falls before the priest’s last words. He

remains outside the curtain and the words are spoken to the audience

like an epilogue.--W. B. Y., 1912.

When revived last spring the passages between brackets were left

out.--W. B. Y., 1923.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

FOUR PLAYS FOR DANCERS

------------------------------------------------------------------------

PREFACE

Two of these plays must be opened by the unfolding and folding of the

cloth, a substitute for the rising of the curtain, and all must be

closed by it. The others, _The Dreaming of the Bones_ and _Calvary_,

should have the same opening, unless played after plays of the same

kind, when it may seem a needless repetition. All must be played to the

accompaniment of drum and zither and flute, but on no account must the

words be spoken ‘through music’ in the fashionable way; and the players

must move a little stiffly and gravely like marionettes and, I think, to

the accompaniment of drum taps. I felt, however, during the performance

of _The Hawk’s Well_, the only one played up to this, that there was

much to discover. Should I make a serious attempt, which I may not,

being rather tired of the theatre, to arrange and supervise

performances, the dancing will give me most trouble, for I know but

vaguely what I want. I do not want any existing form of stage dancing,

but something with a smaller gamut of expression, something more

reserved, more self-controlled, as befits performers within arm’s reach

of their audience.

Mr. Edmund Dulac designed the masks and costumes used in the first

performance of _The Hawk’s Well_. The beautiful mask of Cuchulain may, I

think, serve for Dervorgilla, and if I write plays and organise

performances on any scale and with any system, I shall hope for a small

number of typical masks, each capable of use in several plays. The face

of the speaker should be as much a work of art as the lines that he

speaks or the costume that he wears, that all may be as artificial as

possible. Perhaps in the end one would write plays for certain masks. If

some fine sculptor should create for my _Calvary_, for instance, the

masks of Judas, of Lazarus, and of Christ, would not this suggest other

plays now, or many generations from now, and possess one cannot tell

what philosophical virility? The mask, apart from its beauty, may

suggest new situations at a moment when the old ones seem exhausted;

_The Only Jealousy of Emer_ was written to find what dramatic effect one

could get out of a mask, changed while the player remains upon the stage

to suggest a change of personality. At the end of this book there is

some music by Mr. Rummell, which my friends tell me is both difficult

and beautiful, for _The Dreaming of the Bones_. It will require, I am

told, either a number of flutes of which the flute-player will pick now

one, now another, or an elaborate modern flute, which would not look in

keeping. I prefer the first suggestion. I notice that Mr. Rummell has

written no music for the dance, and I have some vague memory that when

we talked it over in Paris he felt that he could not without the

dancer’s help. There is also music for _The Hawk’s Well_ by Mr. Dulac,

which is itself an exposition of method, for it was written after a

number of rehearsals and for instruments that have great pictorial

effect....

_At the Hawk’s Well_ and _The Only Jealousy of Emer_ are the first and

last plays of a series of four dealing with Cuchulain’s life (see _Plays

in Prose and Verse_).

That I might write _The Dreaming of the Bones_, Mr. W. A. Henderson with

great kindness wrote out for me all historical allusions to

‘Dervorgilla’; but neither that nor any of these plays could have

existed if Mr. Edmund Dulac had not taught me the value and beauty of

the mask and rediscovered how to design and make it.

W. B. YEATS.

_July 1920._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration: The Guardian of the Well in ‘At the Hawk’s Well.’]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

AT THE HAWK’S WELL

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_PERSONS OF THE PLAY_

THREE MUSICIANS (_their faces made up to resemble masks_).

THE GUARDIAN OF THE WELL (_with face made up to resemble a mask_).

AN OLD MAN (_wearing a mask_).

A YOUNG MAN (_wearing a mask_).

_The Time--the Irish Heroic Age._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_The stage is any bare space before a wall against which stands a

patterned screen. A drum and a gong and a zither have been laid close

to the screen before the play begins. If necessary, they can be

carried in, after the audience is seated, by the_ FIRST MUSICIAN,

_who also can attend to the lights if there is any special lighting.

We had two lanterns upon posts--designed by Mr. Dulac--at the outer

corners of the stage, but they did not give enough light, and we

found it better to play by the light of a large chandelier. Indeed, I

think, so far as my present experience goes, that the most effective

lighting is the lighting we are most accustomed to in our rooms.

These masked players seem stranger when there is no mechanical means

of separating them from us. The_ FIRST MUSICIAN _carries with him a

folded black cloth and goes to the centre of the stage towards the

front and stands motionless, the folded cloth hanging from between

his hands. The two musicians enter and, after standing a moment at

either side of the stage, go towards him and slowly unfold the cloth,

singing as they do so_:

I call to the eye of the mind

A well long choked up and dry

And boughs long stripped by the wind,

And I call to the mind’s eye

Pallor of an ivory face,

Its lofty dissolute air,

A man climbing up to a place

The salt sea wind has swept bare.

[Illustration: Design for Black Cloth used in ‘At the Hawk’s Well.’]

_As they unfold the cloth, they go backward a little so that the

stretched cloth and the wall make a triangle with the_ FIRST MUSICIAN

_at the apex supporting the centre of the cloth. On the black cloth

is a gold pattern suggesting a hawk. The_ SECOND _and_ THIRD

MUSICIANS _now slowly fold up the cloth again, pacing with a rhythmic

movement of the arms towards the_ FIRST MUSICIAN _and singing_:

What were his life soon done!

Would he lose by that or win?

A mother that saw her son

Doubled over a speckled shin,

Cross-grained with ninety years,

Would cry, ‘How little worth

Were all my hopes and fears

And the hard pain of his birth!’

_The words ‘a speckled shin’ are familiar to readers of Irish legendary

stories in descriptions of old men bent double over the fire. While

the cloth has been spread out, the_ GUARDIAN OF THE WELL _has entered

and is now crouching upon the ground. She is entirely covered by a

black cloak. The three musicians have taken their places against the

wall beside their instruments of music; they will accompany the

movements of the players with gong or drum or zither._

FIRST MUSICIAN [_singing_]

The boughs of the hazel shake,

The sun goes down in the west.

SECOND MUSICIAN [_singing_]

The heart would be always awake,

The heart would turn to its rest.

[_They now go to one side of the stage rolling up the cloth. A_

GIRL _has taken her place by a square blue cloth representing a

well. She is motionless._

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. Night falls;

The mountain-side grows dark;

The withered leaves of the hazel

Half-choke the dry bed of the well;

The guardian of the well is sitting

Upon the old grey stone at its side,

Worn out from raking its dry bed,

Worn out from gathering up the leaves.

Her heavy eyes

Know nothing, or but look upon stone.

The wind that blows out of the sea

Turns over the heaped-up leaves at her side;

They rustle and diminish.

SECOND MUSICIAN. I am afraid of this place.

BOTH MUSICIANS [_singing_]

‘Why should I sleep?’ the heart cries.

‘For the wind, the salt wind, the sea wind,

Is beating a cloud through the skies;

I would wander always like the wind.’

_An_ OLD MAN _enters through the audience_.

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. That old man climbs up hither,

Who has been watching by his well

These fifty years.

He is all doubled up with age;

The old thorn-trees are doubled so

Among the rocks where he is climbing.

[_The_ OLD MAN _stands for a moment motionless by the side of the

stage with bowed head. He lifts his head at the sound of a drum

tap. He goes towards the front of the stage moving to the taps

of the drum. He crouches and moves his hands as if making a

fire. His movements, like those of the other persons of the

play, suggest a marionette._

[Illustration: Musician in ‘At the Hawk’s Well.’]

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. He has made a little heap of leaves;

He lays the dry sticks on the leaves

And, shivering with cold, he has taken up

The fire-stick and socket from its hole.

He whirls it round to get a flame;

And now the dry sticks take the fire

And now the fire leaps up and shines

Upon the hazels and the empty well.

MUSICIANS [_singing_]

‘O wind, O salt wind, O sea wind!’

Cries the heart, ‘it is time to sleep;

Why wander and nothing to find?

Better grow old and sleep.’

OLD MAN [_speaking_]. Why don’t you speak to me? Why don’t you say,

‘Are you not weary gathering those sticks?

Are not your fingers cold?’ You have not one word,

While yesterday you spoke three times. You said:

‘The well is full of hazel leaves.’ You said:

‘The wind is from the west.’ And after that:

‘If there is rain it’s likely there’ll be mud.’

To-day you are as stupid as a fish,

No, worse, worse, being less lively and as dumb.

[_He goes nearer._

Your eyes are dazed and heavy. If the Sidhe

Must have a guardian to clean out the well

And drive the cattle off, they might choose somebody

That can be pleasant and companionable

Once in the day. Why do you stare like that?

You had that glassy look about the eyes

Last time it happened. Do you know anything?

It is enough to drive an old man crazy

To look all day upon these broken rocks,

And ragged thorns, and that one stupid face,

And speak and get no answer.

YOUNG MAN [_who has entered through the audience during the last

speech_]. Then speak to me,

For youth is not more patient than old age;

And though I have trod the rocks for half a day

I cannot find what I am looking for.

OLD MAN. Who speaks?

Who comes so suddenly into this place

Where nothing thrives? If I may judge by the gold

On head and feet and glittering in your coat,

You are not of those who hate the living world.

[Illustration: Old Man in ‘At the Hawk’s Well.’]

YOUNG MAN. I am named Cuchulain, I am Sualtam’s son.

OLD MAN. I have never heard that name.

CUCHULAIN. It is not unknown.

I have an ancient house beyond the sea.

OLD MAN. What mischief brings you hither--you are like those

Who are crazy for the shedding of men’s blood,

And for the love of women?

YOUNG MAN. A rumour has led me,

A story told over the wine towards dawn.

I rose from table, found a boat, spread sail

And with a lucky wind under the sail

Crossed waves that have seemed charmed, and found this shore.

OLD MAN. There is no house to sack among these hills

Nor beautiful woman to be carried off.

YOUNG MAN. You should be native here, for that rough tongue

Matches the barbarous spot. You can, it may be,

Lead me to what I seek, a well wherein

Three hazels drop their nuts and withered leaves,

And where a solitary girl keeps watch

Among grey boulders. He who drinks, they say,

Of that miraculous water lives for ever.

OLD MAN. And are there not before your eyes at the instant

Grey boulders and a solitary girl

And three stripped hazels?

YOUNG MAN. But there is no well.

OLD MAN. Can you see nothing yonder?

YOUNG MAN. I but see

A hollow among stones half-full of leaves.

OLD MAN. And do you think so great a gift is found

By no more toil than spreading out a sail,

And climbing a steep hill? Oh, folly of youth,

Why should that hollow place fill up for you,

That will not fill for me? I have lain in wait

For more than fifty years to find it empty,

Or but to find the stupid wind of the sea

Drive round the perishable leaves.

YOUNG MAN. So it seems

There is some moment when the water fills it.

OLD MAN. A secret moment that the holy shades

That dance upon the desolate mountain know,

And not a living man, and when it comes

The water has scarce plashed before it is gone.

[Illustration: Mask for Old Man in ‘At the Hawk’s Well.’]

YOUNG MAN. I will stand here and wait. Why should the luck

Of Sualtam’s son desert him now? For never

Have I had long to wait for anything.

OLD MAN. No! Go from this accursed place, this place

Belongs to me, that girl there and those others,

Deceivers of men.

YOUNG MAN. And who are you who rail

Upon those dancers that all others bless?

OLD MAN. One whom the dancers cheat. I came like you

When young in body and in mind, and blown

By what had seemed to me a lucky sail.

The well was dry, I sat upon its edge,

I waited the miraculous flood, I waited

While the years passed and withered me away.

I have snared the birds for food and eaten grass

And drunk the rain, and neither in dark nor shine

Wandered too far away to have heard the plash,

And yet the dancers have deceived me. Thrice

I have awakened from a sudden sleep

To find the stones were wet.

YOUNG MAN. My luck is strong,

It will not leave me waiting, nor will they

That dance among the stones put me asleep;

If I grow drowsy I can pierce my foot.

OLD MAN. No, do not pierce it, for the foot is tender,

It feels pain much. But find your sail again

And leave the well to me, for it belongs

To all that’s old and withered.

YOUNG MAN. No, I stay.

[_The_ GIRL _gives the cry of the hawk_.

There is that bird again.

OLD MAN. There is no bird.

YOUNG MAN. It sounded like the sudden cry of a hawk,

But there’s no wing in sight. As I came hither

A great grey hawk swept down out of the sky,

And though I have good hawks, the best in the world

I had fancied, I have not seen its like. It flew

As though it would have torn me with its beak,

Or blinded me, smiting with that great wing.

I had to draw my sword to drive it off,

And after that it flew from rock to rock.

I pelted it with stones, a good half-hour,

And just before I had turned the big rock there

And seen this place, it seemed to vanish away.

Could I but find a means to bring it down

I’d hood it.

[Illustration: Mask for Young Man in ‘At the Hawk’s Well.’]

OLD MAN. The woman of the Sidhe herself,

The mountain witch, the unappeasable shadow.

She is always flitting upon this mountain-side,

To allure or to destroy. When she has shown

Herself to the fierce women of the hills

Under that shape they offer sacrifice

And arm for battle. There falls a curse

On all who have gazed in her unmoistened eyes;

So get you gone while you have that proud step

And confident voice, for not a man alive

Has so much luck that he can play with it.

Those that have long to live should fear her most,

The old are cursed already. That curse may be

Never to win a woman’s love and keep it;

Or always to mix hatred in the love;

Or it may be that she will kill your children,

That you will find them, their throats torn and bloody,

Or you will be so maddened that you kill them

With your own hand.

YOUNG MAN. Have you been set down there

To threaten all who come, and scare them off?

You seem as dried up as the leaves and sticks,

As though you had no part in life.

[GIRL _gives hawk cry again_.

That cry!

There is that cry again. That woman made it,

But why does she cry out as the hawk cries?

OLD MAN. It was her mouth, and yet not she, that cried.

It was that shadow cried behind her mouth;

And now I know why she has been so stupid

All the day through, and had such heavy eyes.

Look at her shivering now, the terrible life

Is slipping through her veins. She is possessed.

Who knows whom she will murder or betray

Before she awakes in ignorance of it all,

And gathers up the leaves! But they’ll be wet;

The water will have come and gone again;

That shivering is the sign. Oh, get you gone,

At any moment now I shall hear it bubble.

If you are good you will leave it. I am old,

And if I do not drink it now, will never;

I have been watching all my life and maybe

Only a little cupful will bubble up.

[Illustration: Young Man in ‘At the Hawk’s Well.’]

YOUNG MAN. I’ll take it in my hands. We shall both drink,

And even if there are but a few drops,

Share them.

OLD MAN. But swear that I may drink the first;

The young are greedy, and if you drink the first

You’ll drink it all. Ah, you have looked at her;

She has felt your gaze and turned her eyes on us;

I cannot bear her eyes, they are not of this world,

Nor moist, nor faltering; they are no girl’s eyes.

[_He covers his head. The_ GUARDIAN OF THE WELL _throws off her

cloak and rises. Her dress under the cloak suggests a hawk._

YOUNG MAN. Why do you gaze upon me with the eyes of a hawk?

I am not afraid of you, bird, woman, or witch.

[_He goes to the side of the well, which the_ GUARDIAN OF THE

WELL _has left_.

Do what you will, I shall not leave this place

Till I have grown immortal like yourself.

[_He has sat down, the_ GIRL _has begun to dance, moving like a

hawk. The_ OLD MAN _sleeps. The dance goes on for some time._

FIRST MUSICIAN [_singing or half-singing_]

O God, protect me

From a horrible deathless body

Sliding through the veins of a sudden.

[_The dance goes on for some time. The_ YOUNG MAN _rises slowly_.

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. The madness has laid hold upon him now,

For he grows pale and staggers to his feet.

[_The dance goes on._

YOUNG MAN. Run where you will,

Grey bird, you shall be perched upon my wrist,

Some were called queens and yet have been perched there.

[_The dance goes on._

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. I have heard water plash! it comes, it

comes;

It glitters among the stones and he has heard the plash;

Look, he has turned his head.

[_The Hawk has gone out. The_ YOUNG MAN _drops his spear as if in

a dream and goes out_.

MUSICIANS [_singing_]

He has lost what may not be found

Till men heap his burial mound

And all the history ends.

He might have lived at his ease,

An old dog’s head on his knees,

Among his children and friends.

[_The_ OLD MAN _creeps up to the well_.

OLD MAN. The accursed shadows have deluded me,

The stones are dark and yet the well is empty;

The water flowed and emptied while I slept;

You have deluded me my whole life through.

Accursed dancers, you have stolen my life.

That there should be such evil in a shadow!

YOUNG MAN [_entering_]. She has fled from me and hidden in the

rocks.

OLD MAN. She has but led you from the fountain. Look!

The stones and leaves are dark where it has flowed,

Yet there is not a drop to drink.

[_The Musicians cry ‘Eofe! Eofe!’ and strike gong._

YOUNG MAN. What are those cries?

What is that sound that runs along the hill?

Who are they that beat a sword upon a shield?

OLD MAN. She has roused up the fierce women of the hills,

Eofe, and all her troop, to take your life,

And never till you are lying in the earth

Can you know rest.

YOUNG MAN. The clash of arms again!

OLD MAN. Oh, do not go! The mountain is accursed;

Stay with me, I have nothing more to lose,

I do not now deceive you.

YOUNG MAN. I will face them.

[_He goes out no longer as if in a dream, but shouldering his

spear and calling_:

He comes! Cuchulain, son of Sualtam, comes!

[_The Musicians stand up; one goes to centre with folded cloth.

The others unfold it. While they do so they sing. During the

singing, and while hidden by the cloth, the_ OLD MAN _goes out.

When the play is performed with Mr. Dulac’s music, the

Musicians do not rise or unfold the cloth till after they have

sung the words ‘a bitter life.’_

[_Songs for the unfolding and folding of the cloth._]

Come to me, human faces,

Familiar memories;

I have found hateful eyes

Among the desolate places,

Unfaltering, unmoistened eyes.

Folly alone I cherish,

I choose it for my share;

Being but a mouthful of air,

I am content to perish;

I am but a mouthful of sweet air.