ACT II.
ACT III.
APPENDIX.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE.
PERSONS IN THE PLAY
LAVARCHAM, _Deirdre’s nurse_
OLD WOMAN, _Lavarcham’s servant_
OWEN, _Conchubor’s attendant and spy_
CONCHUBOR, _High King of Ulster_
FERGUS, _Conchubor’s friend_
DEIRDRE
NAISI, _Deirdre’s lover_
AINNLE, _Naisi’s brother_
ARDAN, _Naisi’s brother_
TWO SOLDIERS
ACT I.
_Lavarcham’s house on Slieve Fuadh. There is a door to inner room on
the left, and a door to open air on the right. Window at back and a
frame with a half-finished piece of tapestry. There are also a large
press and heavy oak chest near the back wall. The place is neat and
clean but bare. Lavarcham, woman of fifty, is working at tapestry
frame. Old Woman comes in from left._
OLD WOMAN.
She hasn’t come yet, is it, and it falling to the night?
LAVARCHAM.
She has not. . . (_Concealing her anxiety._) It’s dark with the clouds
are coming from the west and south, but it isn’t later than the common.
OLD WOMAN.
It’s later, surely, and I hear tell the Sons of Usna, Naisi and his
brothers, are above chasing hares for two days or three, and the same
awhile since when the moon was full.
LAVARCHAM.
— _more anxiously._ — The gods send they don’t set eyes on her — (_with
a sign of helplessness_) yet if they do itself, it wasn’t my wish
brought them or could send them away.
OLD WOMAN.
— _reprovingly._ — If it wasn’t, you’d do well to keep a check on her,
and she turning a woman that was meant to be a queen.
LAVARCHAM.
Who’d check her like was meant to have her pleasure only, the way if
there were no warnings told about her you’d see troubles coming when an
old king is taking her, and she without a thought but for her beauty
and to be straying the hills.
OLD WOMAN.
The gods help the lot of us. . . . Shouldn’t she be well pleased
getting the like of Conchubor, and he middling settled in his years
itself? I don’t know what he wanted putting her this wild place to be
breaking her in, or putting myself to be roasting her supper and she
with no patience for her food at all.
[_She looks out._
LAVARCHAM.
Is she coming from the glen?
OLD WOMAN.
She is not. But whisht — there’s two men leaving the furze — (_crying
out_) it’s Conchubor and Fergus along with him. Conchubor’ll be in a
blue stew this night and herself abroad.
LAVARCHAM.
— _settling room hastily._ — Are they close by?
OLD WOMAN.
Crossing the stream, and there’s herself on the hillside with a load of
twigs. Will I run out and put her in order before they’ll set eyes on
her at all?
LAVARCHAM.
You will not. Would you have him see you, and he a man would be jealous
of a hawk would fly between her and the rising sun. (_She looks out._)
Go up to the hearth and be as busy as if you hadn’t seen them at all.
OLD WOMAN.
— _sitting down to polish vessel._ — There’ll be trouble this night,
for he should be in his tempers from the way he’s stepping out, and he
swinging his hands.
LAVARCHAM.
— _wearied with the whole matter._ — It’d be best of all, maybe, if he
got in tempers with herself, and made an end quickly, for I’m in a poor
way between the pair of them (_going back to tapestry frame._) There
they are now at the door.
[_Conchubor and Fergus come in._
CONCHUBOR AND FERGUS.
The gods save you.
LAVARCHAM.
— _getting up and courtesying._ — The gods save and keep you kindly,
and stand between you and all harm for ever.
CONCHUBOR.
— _looking around._ — Where is Deirdre?
LAVARCHAM.
— _trying to speak with indifference._ — Abroad upon Slieve Fuadh. She
does be all times straying around picking flowers or nuts, or sticks
itself; but so long as she’s gathering new life I’ve a right not to
heed her, I’m thinking, and she taking her will.
[_Fergus talks to Old Woman._
CONCHUBOR.
— _stiffly._ — A night with thunder coming is no night to be abroad.
LAVARCHAM.
— _more uneasily._ — She’s used to every track and pathway, and the
lightning itself wouldn’t let down its flame to singe the beauty of her
like.
FERGUS.
— _cheerfully._ — She’s right, Conchubor, and let you sit down and take
your ease, (_he takes a wallet from under his cloak_) and I’ll count
out what we’ve brought, and put it in the presses within.
[_He goes into the inner room with the Old Woman._
CONCHUBOR.
— _sitting down and looking about._ — Where are the mats and hangings
and the silver skillets I sent up for Deirdre?
LAVARCHAM.
The mats and hangings are in this press, Conchubor. She wouldn’t wish
to be soiling them, she said, running out and in with mud and grasses
on her feet, and it raining since the night of Samhain. The silver
skillets and the golden cups we have beyond locked in the chest.
CONCHUBOR.
Bring them out and use them from this day.
LAVARCHAM.
We’ll do it, Conchubor.
CONCHUBOR.
— _getting up and going to frame._ — Is this hers?
LAVARCHAM.
— _pleased to speak of it._ — It is, Conchubor. All say there isn’t her
match at fancying figures and throwing purple upon crimson, and she
edging them all times with her greens and gold.
CONCHUBOR.
— _a little uneasily._ — Is she keeping wise and busy since I passed
before, and growing ready for her life in Emain?
LAVARCHAM.
— _dryly._ — That is a question will give small pleasure to yourself or
me. (_Making up her mind to speak out._) If it’s the truth I’ll tell
you, she’s growing too wise to marry a big king and she a score only.
Let you not be taking it bad, Conchubor, but you’ll get little good
seeing her this night, for with all my talking it’s wilfuller she’s
growing these two months or three.
CONCHUBOR.
— _severely, but relieved things are no worse._ — Isn’t it a poor thing
you’re doing so little to school her to meet what is to come?
LAVARCHAM.
I’m after serving you two score of years, and I’ll tell you this night,
Conchubor, she’s little call to mind an old woman when she has the
birds to school her, and the pools in the rivers where she goes bathing
in the sun. I’ll tell you if you seen her that time, with her white
skin, and her red lips, and the blue water and the ferns about her,
you’d know, maybe, and you greedy itself, it wasn’t for your like she
was born at all.
CONCHUBOR.
It’s little I heed for what she was born; she’ll be my comrade, surely.
[_He examines her workbox._
LAVARCHAM.
— _sinking into sadness again._ — I’m in dread so they were right
saying she’d bring destruction on the world, for it’s a poor thing when
you see a settled man putting the love he has for a young child, and
the love he has for a full woman, on a girl the like of her; and it’s a
poor thing, Conchubor, to see a High King, the way you are this day,
prying after her needles and numbering her lines of thread.
CONCHUBOR.
— _getting up._ — Let you not be talking too far and you old itself.
(_Walks across room and back._) Does she know the troubles are
foretold?
LAVARCHAM.
— _in the tone of the earlier talk._ — I’m after telling her one time
and another, but I’d do as well speaking to a lamb of ten weeks and it
racing the hills. . . . It’s not the dread of death or troubles that
would tame her like.
CONCHUBOR.
— _he looks out._ — She’s coming now, and let you walk in and keep
Fergus till I speak with her a while.
LAVARCHAM.
— _going left._ — If I’m after vexing you itself, it’d be best you
weren’t taking her hasty or scolding her at all.
CONCHUBOR.
— _very stiffly._ — I’ve no call to. I’m well pleased she’s light and
airy.
LAVARCHAM.
— _offended at his tone._ — Well pleased is it? (_With a snort of
irony_) It’s a queer thing the way the likes of me do be telling the
truth, and the wise are lying all times.
[_She goes into room on left. Conchubor arranges himself before a
mirror for a moment, then goes a little to the left and waits. Deirdre
comes in poorly dressed, with a little bag and a bundle of twigs in her
arms. She is astonished for a moment when she sees Conchubor; then she
makes a courtesy to him, and goes to the hearth without any
embarrassment._
CONCHUBOR.
The gods save you, Deirdre. I have come up bringing you rings and
jewels from Emain Macha.
DEIRDRE.
The gods save you.
CONCHUBOR.
What have you brought from the hills?
DEIRDRE.
— _quite self-possessed._ — A bag of nuts, and twigs for our fires at
the dawn of day.
CONCHUBOR.
— _showing annoyance in spite of himself._ — And it’s that way you’re
picking up the manners will fit you to be Queen of Ulster?
DEIRDRE.
— _made a little defiant by his tone._ — I have no wish to be a queen.
CONCHUBOR.
— _almost sneeringly._ — You’d wish to be dressing in your duns and
grey, and you herding your geese or driving your calves to their shed —
like the common lot scattered in the glens.
DEIRDRE.
— _very defiant._ — I would not, Conchubor. (_She goes to tapestry and
begins to work._) A girl born the way I’m born is more likely to wish
for a mate who’d be her likeness. . . . A man with his hair like the
raven, maybe, and his skin like the snow and his lips like blood spilt
on it.
CONCHUBOR.
— _sees his mistake, and after a moment takes a flattering tone,
looking at her work._ — Whatever you wish, there’s no queen but would
be well pleased to have your skill at choosing colours and making
pictures on the cloth. (_Looking closely._) What is it you’re figuring?
DEIRDRE.
— _deliberately._ — Three young men and they chasing in the green gap
of a wood.
CONCHUBOR.
— _now almost pleading._ — It’s soon you’ll have dogs with silver
chains to be chasing in the woods of Emain, for I have white hounds
rearing up for you, and grey horses, that I’ve chosen from the finest
in Ulster and Britain and Gaul.
DEIRDRE.
— _unmoved as before._ — I’ve heard tell, in Ulster and Britain and
Gaul, Naisi and his brothers have no match and they chasing in the
woods.
CONCHUBOR.
— _very gravely._ — Isn’t it a strange thing you’d be talking of Naisi
and his brothers, or figuring them either, when you know the things
that are foretold about themselves and you? Yet you’ve little
knowledge, and I’d do wrong taking it bad when it’ll be my share from
this out to keep you the way you’ll have little call to trouble for
knowledge, or its want either.
DEIRDRE.
Yourself should be wise, surely.
CONCHUBOR.
The like of me has a store of knowledge that’s a weight and terror.
It’s for that we do choose out the like of yourself that are young and
glad only. . . . I’m thinking you are gay and lively each day in the
year?
DEIRDRE.
I don’t know if that’s true, Conchubor. There are lonesome days and bad
nights in this place like another.
CONCHUBOR.
You should have as few sad days, I’m thinking, as I have glad and good
ones.
DEIRDRE.
What is it has you that way ever coming this place, when you’d hear the
old woman saying a good child’s as happy as a king?
CONCHUBOR.
How would I be happy seeing age coming on me each year, when the dry
leaves are blowing back and forward at the gate of Emain? And yet this
last while I’m saying out, when I see the furze breaking and the daws
sitting two and two on ash-trees by the duns of Emain, Deirdre’s a year
nearer her full age when she’ll be my mate and comrade and then I’m
glad surely.
DEIRDRE.
— _almost to herself._ — I will not be your mate in Emain.
CONCHUBOR.
— _not heeding her._ — It’s there you’ll be proud and happy and you’ll
learn that, if young men are great hunters, yet it’s with the like of
myself you’ll find a knowledge of what is priceless in your own like.
What we all need is a place is safe and splendid, and it’s that you’ll
get in Emain in two days or three.
DEIRDRE.
— _aghast._ — Two days!
CONCHUBOR.
I have the rooms ready, and in a little while you’ll be brought down
there, to be my queen and queen of the five parts of Ireland.
DEIRDRE.
— _standing up frightened and pleading._ — I’d liefer stay this place,
Conchubor. . . . Leave me this place, where I’m well used to the tracks
and pathways and the people of the glens. . . . It’s for this life I’m
born, surely.
CONCHUBOR.
You’ll be happier and greater with myself in Emain. It is I will be
your comrade, and will stand between you and the great troubles are
foretold.
DEIRDRE.
I will not be your queen in Emain when it’s my pleasure to be having my
freedom on the edges of the hills.
CONCHUBOR.
It’s my wish to have you quickly; I’m sick and weary thinking of the
day you’ll be brought down to me, and seeing you walking into my big,
empty halls. I’ve made all sure to have you, and yet all said there’s a
fear in the back of my mind I’d miss you and have great troubles in the
end. It’s for that, Deirdre, I’m praying that you’ll come quickly; and
you may take the word of a man has no lies, you’ll not find, with any
other, the like of what I’m bringing you in wildness and confusion in
my own mind.
DEIRDRE.
I cannot go, Conchubor.
CONCHUBOR.
— _taking a triumphant tone._ — It is my pleasure to have you, and I a
man is waiting a long while on the throne of Ulster. Wouldn’t you
liefer be my comrade, growing up the like of Emer and Maeve, than to be
in this place and you a child always?
DEIRDRE.
You don’t know me and you’d have little joy taking me, Conchubor. . . .
I’m a long while watching the days getting a great speed passing me by.
I’m too long taking my will, and it’s that way I’ll be living always.
CONCHUBOR.
— _dryly._ — Call Fergus to come with me. This is your last night upon
Slieve Fuadh.
DEIRDRE.
— _now pleadingly._ — Leave me a short space longer, Conchubor. Isn’t
it a poor thing I should be hastened away, when all these troubles are
foretold? Leave me a year, Conchubor; it isn’t much I’m asking.
CONCHUBOR.
It’s much to have me two score and two weeks waiting for your voice in
Emain, and you in this place growing lonesome and shy. I’m a ripe man
and in great love, and yet, Deirdre, I’m the King of Ulster. (_He gets
up._) I’ll call Fergus, and we’ll make Emain ready in the morning.
[_He goes towards door on left._
DEIRDRE.
— _clinging to him._ — Do not call him, Conchubor. . . . Promise me a
year of quiet. . . . It’s one year I’m asking only.
CONCHUBOR.
You’d be asking a year next year, and the years that follow.
(_Calling._) Fergus! Fergus! (_To Deirdre._) Young girls are slow
always; it is their lovers that must say the word. (_Calling._) Fergus!
[_Deirdre springs away from him as Fergus comes in with Lavarcham and
the Old Woman._
CONCHUBOR.
— _to Fergus._ — There is a storm coming, and we’d best be going to our
people when the night is young.
FERGUS.
— _cheerfully._ — The gods shield you, Deirdre. (_To Conchubor._) We’re
late already, and it’s no work the High King to be slipping on
stepping-stones and hilly pathways when the floods are rising with the
rain.
[_He helps Conchubor into his cloak._
CONCHUBOR.
— _glad that he has made his decision — to Lavarcham._ — Keep your
rules a few days longer, and you’ll be brought down to Emain, you and
Deirdre with you.
LAVARCHAM.
— _obediently._ — Your rules are kept always.
CONCHUBOR.
The gods shield you.
[_He goes out with Fergus. Old Woman bolts door._
LAVARCHAM.
— _looking at Deirdre, who has covered her face._ — Wasn’t I saying
you’d do it? You’ve brought your marriage a sight nearer not heeding
those are wiser than yourself.
DEIRDRE.
— _with agitation._ — It wasn’t I did it. Will you take me from this
place, Lavarcham, and keep me safe in the hills?
LAVARCHAM.
He’d have us tracked in the half of a day, and then you’d be his queen
in spite of you, and I and mine would be destroyed for ever.
DEIRDRE.
— _terrified with the reality that is before her._ — Are there none can
go against Conchubor?
LAVARCHAM.
Maeve of Connaught only, and those that are her like.
DEIRDRE.
Would Fergus go against him?
LAVARCHAM.
He would, maybe, and his temper roused.
DEIRDRE.
— _in a lower voice with sudden excitement._ — Would Naisi and his
brothers?
LAVARCHAM.
— _impatiently._ — Let you not be dwelling on Naisi and his brothers. .
. . In the end of all there is none can go against Conchubor, and it’s
folly that we’re talking, for if any went against Conchubor it’s sorrow
he’d earn and the shortening of his day of life.
[_She turns away, and Deirdre stands up stiff with excitement and goes
and looks out of the window._
DEIRDRE.
Are the stepping-stones flooding, Lavarcham? Will the night be stormy
in the hills?
LAVARCHAM.
— _looking at her curiously._ — The stepping-stones are flooding,
surely, and the night will be the worst, I’m thinking, we’ve seen these
years gone by.
DEIRDRE.
— _tearing open the press and pulling out clothes and tapestries._ —
Lay these mats and hangings by the windows, and at the tables for our
feet, and take out the skillets of silver, and the golden cups we have,
and our two flasks of wine.
LAVARCHAM.
What ails you?
DEIRDRE.
— _gathering up a dress._ — Lay them out quickly, Lavarcham, we’ve no
call dawdling this night. Lay them out quickly; I’m going into the room
to put on the rich dresses and jewels have been sent from Emain.
LAVARCHAM.
Putting on dresses at this hour, and it dark and drenching with the
weight of rain! Are you away in your head?
DEIRDRE.
— _gathering her things together with an outburst of excitement._ — I
will dress like Emer in Dundealgan, or Maeve in her house in Connaught.
If Conchubor’ll make me a queen, I’ll have the right of a queen who is
a master, taking her own choice and making a stir to the edges of the
seas. . . . Lay out your mats and hangings where I can stand this night
and look about me. Lay out the skins of the rams of Connaught and of
the goats of the west. I will not be a child or plaything; I’ll put on
my robes that are the richest, for I will not be brought down to Emain
as Cuchulain brings his horse to the yoke, or Conall Cearneach puts his
shield upon his arm; and maybe from this day I will turn the men of
Ireland like a wind blowing on the heath.
[_She goes into room. Lavarcham and Old Woman look at each other, then
the Old Woman goes over, looks in at Deirdre through chink of the door,
and then closes it carefully._
OLD WOMAN.
— _in a frightened whisper._ — She’s thrown off the rags she had about
her, and there she is in her skin; she’s putting her hair in shiny
twists. Is she raving, Lavarcham, or has she a good right turning to a
queen like Maeve?
LAVARCHAM.
— _putting up hanging very anxiously._ — It’s more than raving’s in her
mind, or I’m the more astray; and yet she’s as good a right as another,
maybe, having her pleasure, though she’d spoil the world.
OLD WOMAN.
— _helping her._ — Be quick before she’ll come back. . . . Who’d have
thought we’d run before her, and she so quiet till tonight. Will the
High King get the better of her, Lavarcham? If I was Conchubor, I
wouldn’t marry with her like at all.
LAVARCHAM.
Hang that by the window. That should please her, surely. When all’s
said, it’s her like will be the master till the end of time.
OLD WOMAN.
— _at the window._ — There’s a mountain of blackness in the sky, and
the greatest rain falling has been these long years on the earth. The
gods help Conchubor. He’ll be a sorry man this night, reaching his dun,
and he with all his spirits, thinking to himself he’ll be putting his
arms around her in two days or three.
LAVARCHAM.
It’s more than Conchubor’ll be sick and sorry, I’m thinking, before
this story is told to the end.
[_Loud knocking on door at the right._
LAVARCHAM.
— _startled._ — Who is that?
NAISI.
— _outside._ — Naisi and his brothers.
LAVARCHAM.
We are lonely women. What is it you’re wanting in the blackness of the
night?
NAISI.
We met a young girl in the woods who told us we might shelter this
place if the rivers rose on the pathways and the floods gathered from
the butt of the hills.
[_Old Woman clasps her hands in horror._
LAVARCHAM.
— _with great alarm._ — You cannot come in. . . . There is no one let
in here, and no young girl with us.
NAISI.
Let us in from the great storm. Let us in and we will go further when
the cloud will rise.
LAVARCHAM.
Go round east to the shed and you’ll have shelter. You cannot come in.
NAISI.
— _knocking loudly._ — Open the door or we will burst it. (_The door is
shaken._)
OLD WOMAN.
— _in a timid whisper._ — Let them in, and keep Deirdre in her room
tonight.
AINNLE AND ARDAN.
— _outside._ — Open! Open!
LAVARCHAM.
— _to Old Woman._ — Go in and keep her.
OLD WOMAN.
I couldn’t keep her. I’ve no hold on her. Go in yourself and I will
free the door.
LAVARCHAM.
I must stay and turn them out. (_She pulls her hair and cloak over her
face._) Go in and keep her.
OLD WOMAN.
The gods help us.
[_She runs into the inner room._
VOICES.
Open!
LAVARCHAM.
— _opening the door._ — Come in then and ill-luck if you’ll have it so.
[_Naisi and Ainnle and Ardan come in and look round with astonishment._
NAISI.
It’s a rich man has this place, and no herd at all.
LAVARCHAM.
— _sitting down with her head half covered._ — It is not, and you’d
best be going quickly.
NAISI.
— _hilariously, shaking rain from his clothes._ — When we’ve had the
pick of luck finding princely comfort in the darkness of the night!
Some rich man of Ulster should come here and he chasing in the woods.
May we drink? (_He takes up flask._) Whose wine is this that we may
drink his health?
LAVARCHAM.
It’s no one’s that you’ve call to know.
NAISI.
Your own health then and length of life. (_Pouring out wine for the
three. They drink._)
LAVARCHAM.
— _very crossly._ — You’re great boys taking a welcome where it isn’t
given, and asking questions where you’ve no call to. . . . If you’d a
quiet place settled up to be playing yourself, maybe, with a gentle
queen, what’d you think of young men prying around and carrying tales?
When I was a bit of a girl the big men of Ulster had better manners,
and they the like of your three selves, in the top folly of youth.
That’ll be a story to tell out in Tara that Naisi is a tippler and
stealer, and Ainnle the drawer of a stranger’s cork.
NAISI.
— _quite cheerfully, sitting down beside her._ — At your age you should
know there are nights when a king like Conchubor will spit upon his arm
ring, and queens will stick their tongues out at the rising moon. We’re
that way this night, and it’s not wine we’re asking only. Where is the
young girl told us we might shelter here?
LAVARCHAM.
Asking me you’d be? We’re decent people, and I wouldn’t put you
tracking a young girl, not if you gave me the gold clasp you have
hanging on your coat.
NAISI.
— _giving it to her._ — Where is she?
LAVARCHAM.
— _in confidential whisper, putting her hand on his arm._ — Let you
walk back into the hills and turn up by the second cnuceen where there
are three together. You’ll see a path running on the rocks and then
you’ll hear the dogs barking in the houses, and their noise will guide
you till you come to a bit of cabin at the foot of an ash-tree. It’s
there there is a young and flighty girl that I’m thinking is the one
you’ve seen.
NAISI.
— _hilariously._ — Here’s health, then, to herself and you!
ARDAN.
Here’s to the years when you were young as she!
AINNLE.
— _in a frightened whisper._ — Naisi!
[_Naisi looks up and Ainnle beckons to him. He goes over and Ainnle
points to something on the golden mug he holds in his hand._
NAISI.
— _looking at it in astonishment._ — This is the High King’s. . . . I
see his mark on the rim. Does Conchubor come lodging here?
LAVARCHAM.
— _jumping up with extreme annoyance._ — Who says it’s Conchubor’s? How
dare young fools the like of you — (_speaking with vehement insolence_)
come prying around, running the world into troubles for some slip of a
girl? What brings you this place straying from Emain? (_Very
bitterly._) Though you think, maybe, young men can do their fill of
foolery and there is none to blame them.
NAISI.
— _very soberly._ — Is the rain easing?
ARDAN.
The clouds are breaking. . . . I can see Orion in the gap of the glen.
NAISI.
— _still cheerfully._ — Open the door and we’ll go forward to the
little cabin between the ash-tree and the rocks. Lift the bolt and pull
it.
[_Deirdre comes in on left royally dressed and very beautiful. She
stands for a moment, and then as the door opens she calls softly._
DEIRDRE.
Naisi! Do not leave me, Naisi. I am Deirdre of the Sorrows.
NAISI.
— _transfixed with amazement._ — And it is you who go around in the
woods making the thrushes bear a grudge against the heavens for the
sweetness of your voice singing.
DEIRDRE.
It is with me you’ve spoken, surely. (_To Lavarcham and Old Woman._)
Take Ainnle and Ardan, these two princes, into the little hut where we
eat, and serve them with what is best and sweetest. I have many things
for Naisi only.
LAVARCHAM.
— _overawed by her tone._ — I will do it, and I ask their pardon. I
have fooled them here.
DEIRDRE.
— _to Ainnle and Ardan._ — Do not take it badly that I am asking you to
walk into our hut for a little. You will have a supper that is cooked
by the cook of Conchubor, and Lavarcham will tell you stories of Maeve
and Nessa and Rogh.
AINNLE.
We’ll ask Lavarcham to tell us stories of yourself, and with that we’ll
be well pleased to be doing your wish.
[_They all go out except Deirdre and Naisi._
DEIRDRE.
— _sitting in the high chair in the centre._ — Come to this stool,
Naisi (_pointing to the stool_). If it’s low itself the High King would
sooner be on it this night than on the throne of Emain Macha.
NAISI.
— _sitting down._ — You are Fedlimid’s daughter that Conchubor has
walled up from all the men of Ulster.
DEIRDRE.
Do many know what is foretold, that Deirdre will be the ruin of the
Sons of Usna, and have a little grave by herself, and a story will be
told for ever?
NAISI.
It’s a long while men have been talking of Deirdre, the child who had
all gifts, and the beauty that has no equal; there are many know it,
and there are kings would give a great price to be in my place this
night and you grown to a queen.
DEIRDRE.
It isn’t many I’d call, Naisi. . . . I was in the woods at the full
moon and I heard a voice singing. Then I gathered up my skirts, and I
ran on a little path I have to the verge of a rock, and I saw you pass
by underneath, in your crimson cloak, singing a song, and you standing
out beyond your brothers are called the Plower of Ireland.
NAISI.
It’s for that you called us in the dusk?
DEIRDRE.
— _in a low voice._ — Since that, Naisi, I have been one time the like
of a ewe looking for a lamb that had been taken away from her, and one
time seeing new gold on the stars, and a new face on the moon, and all
times dreading Emain.
NAISI.
— _pulling himself together and beginning to draw back a little._ — Yet
it should be a lonesome thing to be in this place and you born for
great company.
DEIRDRE.
— _softly._ — This night I have the best company in the whole world.
NAISI.
— _still a little formally._ — It is I who have the best company, for
when you’re queen in Emain you will have none to be your match or
fellow.
DEIRDRE.
I will not be queen in Emain.
NAISI.
Conchubor has made an oath you will, surely.
DEIRDRE.
It’s for that maybe I’m called Deirdre, the girl of many sorrows . . .
for it’s a sweet life you and I could have, Naisi. . . . . It should be
a sweet thing to have what is best and richest, if it’s for a short
space only.
NAISI.
— _very distressed._ — And we’ve a short space only to be triumphant
and brave.
DEIRDRE.
You must not go, Naisi, and leave me to the High King, a man is aging
in his dun, with his crowds round him, and his silver and gold. (_More
quickly._) I will not live to be shut up in Emain, and wouldn’t we do
well paying, Naisi, with silence and a near death. (_She stands up and
walks away from him._) I’m a long while in the woods with my own self,
and I’m in little dread of death, and it earned with riches would make
the sun red with envy, and he going up the heavens; and the moon pale
and lonesome, and she wasting away. (_She comes to him and puts her
hands on his shoulders._) Isn’t it a small thing is foretold about the
ruin of ourselves, Naisi, when all men have age coming and great ruin
in the end?
NAISI.
Yet it’s a poor thing it’s I should bring you to a tale of blood and
broken bodies, and the filth of the grave. . . . Wouldn’t we do well to
wait, Deirdre, and I each twilight meeting you on the sides of the
hills?
DEIRDRE.
— _despondently._ — His messengers are coming.
NAISI.
Messengers are coming?
DEIRDRE.
Tomorrow morning or the next, surely.
NAISI.
Then we’ll go away. It isn’t I will give your like to Conchubor, not if
the grave was dug to be my lodging when a week was by. (_He looks
out._) The stars are out, Deirdre, and let you come with me quickly,
for it is the stars will be our lamps many nights and we abroad in
Alban, and taking our journeys among the little islands in the sea.
There has never been the like of the joy we’ll have, Deirdre, you and
I, having our fill of love at the evening and the morning till the sun
is high.
DEIRDRE.
And yet I’m in dread leaving this place, where I have lived always.
Won’t I be lonesome and I thinking on the little hill beyond, and the
apple-trees do be budding in the spring-time by the post of the door?
(_A little shaken by what has passed._) Won’t I be in great dread to
bring you to destruction, Naisi, and you so happy and young?
NAISI.
Are you thinking I’d go on living after this night, Deirdre, and you
with Conchubor in Emain? Are you thinking I’d go out after hares when
I’ve had your lips in my sight?
[_Lavarcham comes in as they cling to each other._
LAVARCHAM.
Are you raving, Deirdre? Are you choosing this night to destroy the
world?
DEIRDRE.
— _very deliberately._ — It’s Conchubor has chosen this night calling
me to Emain. (_To Naisi._) Bring in Ainnle and Ardan, and take me from
this place, where I’m in dread from this out of the footsteps of a hare
passing.
[_He goes._
DEIRDRE.
— _clinging to Lavarcham._ — Do not take it bad I’m going, Lavarcham.
It’s you have been a good friend and given me great freedom and joy,
and I living on Slieve Fuadh; and maybe you’ll be well pleased one day
saying you have nursed Deirdre.
LAVARCHAM.
— _moved._ — It isn’t I’ll be well pleased and I far away from you.
Isn’t it a hard thing you’re doing, but who can help it? Birds go
mating in the spring of the year, and ewes at the leaves falling, but a
young girl must have her lover in all the courses of the sun and moon.
DEIRDRE.
Will you go to Emain in the morning?
LAVARCHAM.
I will not. I’ll go to Brandon in the south; and in the course of a
piece, maybe, I’ll be sailing back and forward on the seas to be
looking on your face and the little ways you have that none can equal.
[_Naisi comes back with Ainnle and Ardan and Old Woman._
DEIRDRE.
— _taking Naisi’s hand._ — My two brothers, I am going with Naisi to
Alban and the north to face the troubles are foretold. Will you take
word to Conchubor in Emain?
AINNLE.
We will go with you.
ARDAN.
We will be your servants and your huntsmen, Deirdre.
DEIRDRE.
It isn’t one brother only of you three is brave and courteous. Will you
wed us, Lavarcham? You have the words and customs.
LAVARCHAM.
I will not, then. What would I want meddling in the ruin you will earn?
NAISI.
Let Ainnle wed us. . . . He has been with wise men and he knows their
ways.
AINNLE.
— _joining their hands._ — By the sun and moon and the whole earth, I
wed Deirdre to Naisi. (_He steps back and holds up his hands._) May the
air bless you, and water and the wind, the sea, and all the hours of
the sun and moon.
CURTAIN