_Alban. Early morning in the beginning of winter. A wood outside the
tent of Deirdre and Naisi. Lavarcham comes in muffled in a cloak._
LAVARCHAM.
— _calling._ — Deirdre. . . . Deirdre. . . .
DEIRDRE.
— _coming from tent._ — My welcome, Lavarcham. . . . Whose curagh is
rowing from Ulster? I saw the oars through the tops of the trees, and I
thought it was you were coming towards us.
LAVARCHAM.
I came in the shower was before dawn.
DEIRDRE.
And who is coming?
LAVARCHAM.
— _mournfully._ — Let you not be startled or taking it bad, Deirdre.
It’s Fergus bringing messages of peace from Conchubor to take Naisi and
his brothers back to Emain.
[_Sitting down._
DEIRDRE.
— _lightly._ — Naisi and his brothers are well pleased with this place;
and what would take them back to Conchubor in Ulster?
LAVARCHAM.
Their like would go any place where they’d see death standing. (_With
more agitation._) I’m in dread Conchubor wants to have yourself and to
kill Naisi, and that that’ll be the ruin of the Sons of Usna. I’m
silly, maybe, to be dreading the like, but those have a great love for
yourself have a right to be in dread always.
DEIRDRE.
— _more anxiously._ — Emain should be no safe place for myself and
Naisi. And isn’t it a hard thing they’ll leave us no peace, Lavarcham,
and we so quiet in the woods?
LAVARCHAM.
— _impressively._ — It’s a hard thing, surely; but let you take my word
and swear Naisi, by the earth, and the sun over it, and the four
quarters of the moon, he’ll not go back to Emain — for good faith or
bad faith — the time Conchubor’s keeping the high throne of Ireland. .
. . It’s that would save you, surely.
DEIRDRE.
— _without hope._ — There’s little power in oaths to stop what’s
coming, and little power in what I’d do, Lavarcham, to change the story
of Conchubor and Naisi and the things old men foretold.
LAVARCHAM.
— _aggressively._ — Was there little power in what you did the night
you dressed in your finery and ran Naisi off along with you, in spite
of Conchubor and the big nobles did dread the blackness of your luck?
It was power enough you had that night to bring distress and anguish;
and now I’m pointing you a way to save Naisi, you’ll not stir stick or
straw to aid me.
DEIRDRE.
— _a little haughtily._ — Let you not raise your voice against me,
Lavarcham, if you have will itself to guard Naisi.
LAVARCHAM.
— _breaking out in anger._ — Naisi is it? I didn’t care if the crows
were stripping his thigh-bones at the dawn of day. It’s to stop your
own despair and wailing, and you waking up in a cold bed, without the
man you have your heart on, I am raging now. (_Starting up with
temper._) Yet there is more men than Naisi in it; and maybe I was a big
fool thinking his dangers, and this day, would fill you up with dread.
DEIRDRE.
— _sharply._ — Let you end; such talking is a fool’s only, when it’s
well you know if a thing harmed Naisi it isn’t I would live after him.
(_With distress._) It’s well you know it’s this day I’m dreading seven
years, and I fine nights watching the heifers walking to the haggard
with long shadows on the grass; (_with emotion_) or the time I’ve been
stretched in the sunshine, when I’ve heard Ainnle and Ardan stepping
lightly, and they saying: Was there ever the like of Deirdre for a
happy and sleepy queen?
LAVARCHAM.
— _not fully pacified._ — And yet you’ll go, and welcome is it, if
Naisi chooses?
DEIRDRE.
I’ve dread going or staying, Lavarcham. It’s lonesome this place,
having happiness like ours, till I’m asking each day will this day
match yesterday, and will tomorrow take a good place beside the same
day in the year that’s gone, and wondering all times is it a game worth
playing, living on until you’re dried and old, and our joy is gone for
ever.
LAVARCHAM.
If it’s that ails you, I tell you there’s little hurt getting old,
though young girls and poets do be storming at the shapes of age.
(_Passionately._) There’s little hurt getting old, saving when you’re
looking back, the way I’m looking this day, and seeing the young you
have a love for breaking up their hearts with folly. (_Going to
Deirdre._) Take my word and stop Naisi, and the day’ll come you’ll have
more joy having the senses of an old woman and you with your little
grandsons shrieking round you, than I’d have this night putting on the
red mouth and the white arms you have, to go walking lonesome byways
with a gamey king.
DEIRDRE.
It’s little joy of a young woman, or an old woman, I’ll have from this
day, surely. But what use is in our talking when there’s Naisi on the
foreshore, and Fergus with him?
LAVARCHAM.
— _despairingly._ — I’m late so with my warnings, for Fergus’d talk the
moon over to take a new path in the sky. (_With reproach._) You’ll not
stop him this day, and isn’t it a strange story you were a plague and
torment, since you were that height, to those did hang their lifetimes
on your voice. (_Overcome with trouble; gathering her cloak about
her._) Don’t think bad of my crying. I’m not the like of many and I’d
see a score of naked corpses and not heed them at all, but I’m
destroyed seeing yourself in your hour of joy when the end is coming
surely.
[_Owen comes in quickly, rather ragged, bows to Deirdre._
OWEN.
— _to Lavarcham._ — Fergus’s men are calling you. You were seen on the
path, and he and Naisi want you for their talk below.
LAVARCHAM.
— _looking at him with dislike._ — Yourself’s an ill-lucky thing to
meet a morning is the like of this. Yet if you are a spy itself I’ll go
and give my word that’s wanting surely.
[_Goes out._
OWEN.
— _to Deirdre._ — So I’ve found you alone, and I after waiting three
weeks getting ague and asthma in the chill of the bogs, till I saw
Naisi caught with Fergus.
DEIRDRE.
I’ve heard news of Fergus; what brought you from Ulster?
OWEN.
— _who has been searching, finds a loaf and sits down eating greedily,
and cutting it with a large knife._ — The full moon, I’m thinking, and
it squeezing the crack in my skull. Was there ever a man crossed nine
waves after a fool’s wife and he not away in his head?
DEIRDRE.
— _absently._ — It should be a long time since you left Emain, where
there’s civility in speech with queens.
OWEN.
It’s a long while, surely. It’s three weeks I am losing my manners
beside the Saxon bull-frogs at the head of the bog. Three weeks is a
long space, and yet you’re seven years spancelled with Naisi and the
pair.
DEIRDRE.
— _beginning to fold up her silks and jewels._ — Three weeks of your
days might be long, surely, yet seven years are a short space for the
like of Naisi and myself.
OWEN.
— _derisively._ — If they’re a short space there aren’t many the like
of you. Wasn’t there a queen in Tara had to walk out every morning till
she’d meet a stranger and see the flame of courtship leaping up within
his eye? Tell me now, (_leaning towards her_) are you well pleased that
length with the same man snorting next you at the dawn of day?
DEIRDRE.
— _very quietly._ — Am I well pleased seven years seeing the same sun
throwing light across the branches at the dawn of day? It’s a
heartbreak to the wise that it’s for a short space we have the same
things only. (_With contempt._) Yet the earth itself is a silly place,
maybe, when a man’s a fool and talker.
OWEN.
— _sharply._ — Well, go, take your choice. Stay here and rot with Naisi
or go to Conchubor in Emain. Conchubor’s a wrinkled fool with a
swelling belly on him, and eyes falling downward from his shining
crown; Naisi should be stale and weary. Yet there are many roads,
Deirdre, and I tell you I’d liefer be bleaching in a bog-hole than
living on without a touch of kindness from your eyes and voice. It’s a
poor thing to be so lonesome you’d squeeze kisses on a cur dog’s nose.
DEIRDRE.
Are there no women like yourself could be your friends in Emain?
OWEN.
— _vehemently._ — There are none like you, Deirdre. It’s for that I’m
asking are you going back this night with Fergus?
DEIRDRE.
I will go where Naisi chooses.
OWEN.
— _with a burst of rage._ — It’s Naisi, Naisi, is it? Then, I tell you,
you’ll have great sport one day seeing Naisi getting a harshness in his
two sheep’s eyes and he looking on yourself. Would you credit it, my
father used to be in the broom and heather kissing Lavarcham, with a
little bird chirping out above their heads, and now she’d scare a raven
from a carcase on a hill. (_With a sad cry that brings dignity into his
voice._) Queens get old, Deirdre, with their white and long arms going
from them, and their backs hooping. I tell you it’s a poor thing to see
a queen’s nose reaching down to scrape her chin.
DEIRDRE.
— _looking out, a little uneasy._ — Naisi and Fergus are coming on the
path.
OWEN.
I’ll go so, for if I had you seven years I’d be jealous of the midges
and the dust is in the air. (_Muffles himself in his cloak; with a sort
of warning in his voice._) I’ll give you a riddle, Deirdre: Why isn’t
my father as ugly and old as Conchubor? You’ve no answer? . . . . It’s
because Naisi killed him. (_With curious expression._) Think of that
and you awake at night, hearing Naisi snoring, or the night you hear
strange stories of the things I’m doing in Alban or in Ulster either.
[_He goes out, and in a moment Naisi and Fergus come in on the other
side._
NAISI.
— _gaily._ — Fergus has brought messages of peace from Conchubor.
DEIRDRE.
— _greeting Fergus._ — He is welcome. Let you rest, Fergus, you should
be hot and thirsty after mounting the rocks.
FERGUS.
It’s a sunny nook you’ve found in Alban; yet any man would be well
pleased mounting higher rocks to fetch yourself and Naisi back to
Emain.
DEIRDRE.
— _with keenness._ — They’ve answered? They would go?
FERGUS.
— _benignly._ — They have not, but when I was a young man we’d have
given a lifetime to be in Ireland a score of weeks; and to this day the
old men have nothing so heavy as knowing it’s in a short while they’ll
lose the high skies are over Ireland, and the lonesome mornings with
birds crying on the bogs. Let you come this day, for there’s no place
but Ireland where the Gael can have peace always.
NAISI.
— _gruffly._ — It’s true, surely. Yet we’re better this place while
Conchubor’s in Emain Macha.
FERGUS.
— _giving him parchments._ — There are your sureties and Conchubor’s
seal. (_To Deirdre._) I am your surety with Conchubor. You’ll not be
young always, and it’s time you were making yourselves ready for the
years will come, building up a homely dun beside the seas of Ireland,
and getting in your children from the princes’ wives. It’s little joy
wandering till age is on you and your youth is gone away, so you’d best
come this night, for you’d have great pleasure putting out your foot
and saying, “I am in Ireland, surely.”
DEIRDRE.
It isn’t pleasure I’d have while Conchubor is king in Emain.
FERGUS.
— _almost annoyed._ — Would you doubt the seals of Conall Cearneach and
the kings of Meath? (_He gets parchments from his cloak and gives them
to Naisi. More gently._) It’s easy being fearful and you alone in the
woods, yet it would be a poor thing if a timid woman (_taunting her a
little_) could turn away the Sons of Usna from the life of kings. Let
you be thinking on the years to come, Deirdre, and the way you’d have a
right to see Naisi a high and white-haired justice beside some king of
Emain. Wouldn’t it be a poor story if a queen the like of you should
have no thought but to be scraping up her hours dallying in the
sunshine with the sons of kings?
DEIRDRE.
— _turning away a little haughtily._ — I leave the choice to Naisi.
(_Turning back towards Fergus._) Yet you’d do well, Fergus, to go on
your own way, for the sake of your own years, so you’ll not be saying
till your hour of death, maybe, it was yourself brought Naisi and his
brothers to a grave was scooped by treachery.
[_Goes into tent._
FERGUS.
It is a poor thing to see a queen so lonesome and afraid. (_He watches
till he is sure Deirdre cannot hear him._) Listen now to what I’m
saying. You’d do well to come back to men and women are your match and
comrades, and not be lingering until the day that you’ll grow weary,
and hurt Deirdre showing her the hardness will grow up within your
eyes. . . . You’re here years and plenty to know it’s truth I’m saying.
[_Deirdre comes out of tent with a horn of wine, she catches the
beginning of Naisi’s speech and stops with stony wonder._
NAISI.
— _very thoughtfully._ — I’ll not tell you a lie. There have been days
a while past when I’ve been throwing a line for salmon or watching for
the run of hares, that I’ve a dread upon me a day’d come I’d weary of
her voice, (_very slowly_) and Deirdre’d see I’d wearied.
FERGUS.
— _sympathetic but triumphant._ — I knew it, Naisi. . . . And take my
word, Deirdre’s seen your dread and she’ll have no peace from this out
in the woods.
NAISI.
— _with confidence._ — She’s not seen it. . . . Deirdre’s no thought of
getting old or wearied; it’s that puts wonder in her days, and she with
spirits would keep bravery and laughter in a town with plague.
[_Deirdre drops the horn of wine and crouches down where she is._
FERGUS.
That humour’ll leave her. But we’ve no call going too far, with one
word borrowing another. Will you come this night to Emain Macha?
NAISI.
I’ll not go, Fergus. I’ve had dreams of getting old and weary, and
losing my delight in Deirdre; but my dreams were dreams only. What are
Conchubor’s seals and all your talk of Emain and the fools of Meath
beside one evening in Glen Masain? We’ll stay this place till our lives
and time are worn out. It’s that word you may take in your curagh to
Conchubor in Emain.
FERGUS.
— _gathering up his parchments._ — And you won’t go, surely.
NAISI.
I will not. . . . I’ve had dread, I tell you, dread winter and summer,
and the autumn and the springtime, even when there’s a bird in every
bush making his own stir till the fall of night; but this talk’s
brought me ease, and I see we’re as happy as the leaves on the young
trees, and we’ll be so ever and always, though we’d live the age of the
eagle and the salmon and the crow of Britain.
FERGUS.
— _with anger._ — Where are your brothers? My message is for them also.
NAISI.
You’ll see them above chasing otters by the stream.
FERGUS.
— _bitterly._ — It isn’t much I was mistaken, thinking you were hunters
only.
[_He goes, Naisi turns towards tent and sees Deirdre crouching down
with her cloak round her face. Deirdre comes out._
NAISI.
You’ve heard my words to Fergus? (_She does not answer. A pause. He
puts his arm round her._) Leave troubling, and we’ll go this night to
Glen da Ruadh, where the salmon will be running with the tide.
[_Crosses and sits down._
DEIRDRE.
— _in a very low voice._ — With the tide in a little while we will be
journeying again, or it is our own blood maybe will be running away.
(_She turns and clings to him._) The dawn and evening are a little
while, the winter and the summer pass quickly, and what way would you
and I, Naisi, have joy for ever?
NAISI.
We’ll have the joy is highest till our age is come, for it isn’t
Fergus’s talk of great deeds could take us back to Emain.
DEIRDRE.
It isn’t to great deeds you’re going but to near troubles, and the
shortening of your days the time that they are bright and sunny; and
isn’t it a poor thing that I, Deirdre, could not hold you away?
NAISI.
I’ve said we’d stay in Alban always.
DEIRDRE.
There’s no place to stay always. . . . It’s a long time we’ve had,
pressing the lips together, going up and down, resting in our arms,
Naisi, waking with the smell of June in the tops of the grasses, and
listening to the birds in the branches that are highest. . . . It’s a
long time we’ve had, but the end has come, surely.
NAISI.
Would you have us go to Emain, though if any ask the reason we do not
know it, and we journeying as the thrushes come from the north, or
young birds fly out on a dark sea?
DEIRDRE.
There’s reason all times for an end that’s come. And I’m well pleased,
Naisi, we’re going forward in the winter the time the sun has a low
place, and the moon has her mastery in a dark sky, for it’s you and I
are well lodged our last day, where there is a light behind the clear
trees, and the berries on the thorns are a red wall.
NAISI.
If our time in this place is ended, come away without Ainnle and Ardan
to the woods of the east, for it’s right to be away from all people
when two lovers have their love only. Come away and we’ll be safe
always.
DEIRDRE.
— _broken-hearted._ — There’s no safe place, Naisi, on the ridge of the
world. . . . . And it’s in the quiet woods I’ve seen them digging our
grave, throwing out the clay on leaves are bright and withered.
NAISI.
— _still more eagerly._ — Come away, Deirdre, and it’s little we’ll
think of safety or the grave beyond it, and we resting in a little
corner between the daytime and the long night.
DEIRDRE.
— _clearly and gravely._ — It’s this hour we’re between the daytime and
a night where there is sleep for ever, and isn’t it a better thing to
be following on to a near death, than to be bending the head down, and
dragging with the feet, and seeing one day a blight showing upon love
where it is sweet and tender.
NAISI.
— _his voice broken with distraction._ — If a near death is coming what
will be my trouble losing the earth and the stars over it, and you,
Deirdre, are their flame and bright crown? Come away into the safety of
the woods.
DEIRDRE.
— _shaking her head slowly._ — There are as many ways to wither love as
there are stars in a night of Samhain; but there is no way to keep
life, or love with it, a short space only. . . . It’s for that there’s
nothing lonesome like a love is watching out the time most lovers do be
sleeping. . . . It’s for that we’re setting out for Emain Macha when
the tide turns on the sand.
NAISI.
— _giving in._ — You’re right, maybe. It should be a poor thing to see
great lovers and they sleepy and old.
DEIRDRE.
— _with a more tender intensity._ — We’re seven years without roughness
or growing weary; seven years so sweet and shining, the gods would be
hard set to give us seven days the like of them. It’s for that we’re
going to Emain, where there’ll be a rest for ever, or a place for
forgetting, in great crowds and they making a stir.
NAISI.
— _very softly._ — We’ll go, surely, in place of keeping a watch on a
love had no match and it wasting away. (_They cling to each other for a
moment, then Naisi looks up._) There are Fergus and Lavarcham and my
two brothers.
[_Deirdre goes. Naisi sits with his head bowed. Owen runs in
stealthily, comes behind Naisi and seizes him round the arms. Naisi
shakes him off and whips out his sword._
OWEN.
— _screaming with derisive laughter and showing his empty hands._ — Ah,
Naisi, wasn’t it well I didn’t kill you that time? There was a fright
you got! I’ve been watching Fergus above — don’t be frightened — and
I’ve come down to see him getting the cold shoulder, and going off
alone.
[_Fergus and others come in. They are all subdued like men at a queen’s
wake._
NAISI.
— _putting up his sword._ — There he is. (_Goes to Fergus._) We are
going back when the tide turns, I and Deirdre with yourself.
ALL.
Going back!
AINNLE.
And you’ll end your life with Deirdre, though she has no match for
keeping spirits in a little company is far away by itself?
ARDAN.
It’s seven years myself and Ainnle have been servants and bachelors for
yourself and Deirdre. Why will you take her back to Conchubor?
NAISI.
I have done what Deirdre wishes and has chosen.
FERGUS.
You’ve made a choice wise men will be glad of in the five ends of
Ireland.
OWEN.
Wise men is it, and they going back to Conchubor? I could stop them
only Naisi put in his sword among my father’s ribs, and when a man’s
done that he’ll not credit your oath. Going to Conchubor! I could tell
of plots and tricks, and spies were well paid for their play. (_He
throws up a bag of gold._) Are you paid, Fergus?
[_He scatters gold pieces over Fergus._
FERGUS.
He is raving. . . . Seize him.
OWEN.
— _flying between them._ — You won’t. Let the lot of you be off to
Emain, but I’ll be off before you. . . . Dead men, dead men! Men who’ll
die for Deirdre’s beauty; I’ll be before you in the grave!
[_Runs out with his knife in his hand. They all run after him except
Lavarcham, who looks out and then clasps her hands. Deirdre comes out
to her in a dark cloak._
DEIRDRE.
What has happened?
LAVARCHAM.
It’s Owen’s gone raging mad, and he’s after splitting his gullet beyond
at the butt of the stone. There was ill luck this day in his eye. And
he knew a power if he’d said it all.
[_Naisi comes back quickly, followed by the others._
AINNLE.
— _coming in very excited._ — That man knew plots of Conchubor’s. We’ll
not go to Emain, where Conchubor may love her and have hatred for
yourself.
FERGUS.
Would you mind a fool and raver?
AINNLE.
It’s many times there’s more sense in madmen than the wise. We will not
obey Conchubor.
NAISI.
I and Deirdre have chosen; we will go back with Fergus.
ARDAN.
We will not go back. We will burn your curaghs by the sea.
FERGUS.
My sons and I will guard them.
AINNLE.
We will blow the horn of Usna and our friends will come to aid us.
NAISI.
It is my friends will come.
AINNLE.
Your friends will bind your hands, and you out of your wits.
[_Deirdre comes forward quickly and comes between Ainnle and Naisi._
DEIRDRE.
— _in a low voice._ — For seven years the Sons of Usna have not raised
their voices in a quarrel.
AINNLE.
We will not take you to Emain.
ARDAN.
It is Conchubor has broken our peace.
AINNLE.
— _to Deirdre._ — Stop Naisi going. What way would we live if Conchubor
should take you from us?
DEIRDRE.
There is no one could take me from you. I have chosen to go back with
Fergus. Will you quarrel with me, Ainnle, though I have been your queen
these seven years in Alban?
AINNLE.
— _subsiding suddenly._ — Naisi has no call to take you.
ARDAN.
Why are you going?
DEIRDRE.
— _to both of them and the others._ — It is my wish. . . . It may be I
will not have Naisi growing an old man in Alban with an old woman at
his side, and young girls pointing out and saying, “that is Deirdre and
Naisi had great beauty in their youth.” It may be we do well putting a
sharp end to the day is brave and glorious, as our fathers put a sharp
end to the days of the kings of Ireland; or that I’m wishing to set my
foot on Slieve Fuadh, where I was running one time and leaping the
streams, (_to Lavarcham_) and that I’d be well pleased to see our
little apple-trees, Lavarcham, behind our cabin on the hill; or that
I’ve learned, Fergus, it’s a lonesome thing to be away from Ireland
always.
AINNLE.
— _giving in._ — There is no place but will be lonesome to us from this
out, and we thinking on our seven years in Alban.
DEIRDRE.
— _to Naisi._ — It’s in this place we’d be lonesome in the end. . . .
Take down Fergus to the sea. He has been a guest had a hard welcome and
he bringing messages of peace.
FERGUS.
We will make your curagh ready and it fitted for the voyage of a king.
[_He goes with Naisi._
DEIRDRE.
Take your spears, Ainnle and Ardan, and go down before me, and take
your horse-boys to be carrying my cloaks are on the threshold.
AINNLE.
— _obeying._ — It’s with a poor heart we’ll carry your things this day
we have carried merrily so often, and we hungry and cold.
[_They gather up things and go out._
DEIRDRE.
— _to Lavarcham._ — Go you, too, Lavarcham. You are old, and I will
follow quickly.
LAVARCHAM.
I’m old, surely, and the hopes I had my pride in are broken and torn.
[_She goes out, with a look of awe at Deirdre._
DEIRDRE.
— _clasping her hands._ — Woods of Cuan, woods of Cuan, dear country of
the east! It’s seven years we’ve had a life was joy only, and this day
we’re going west, this day we’re facing death, maybe, and death should
be a poor, untidy thing, though it’s a queen that dies.
[_She goes out slowly._
CURTAIN