ACT II.
ACT III.
PREFACE
In writing THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD, as in my other plays, I
have used one or two words only that I have not heard among the country
people of Ireland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could read the
newspapers. A certain number of the phrases I employ I have heard also
from herds and fishermen along the coast from Kerry to Mayo, or from
beggar-women and ballad-singers nearer Dublin; and I am glad to
acknowledge how much I owe to the folk imagination of these fine
people. Anyone who has lived in real intimacy with the Irish peasantry
will know that the wildest sayings and ideas in this play are tame
indeed, compared with the fancies one may hear in any little hillside
cabin in Geesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All art is a
collaboration; and there is little doubt that in the happy ages of
literature, striking and beautiful phrases were as ready to the
story-teller’s or the playwright’s hand, as the rich cloaks and dresses
of his time. It is probable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took
his ink-horn and sat down to his work he used many phrases that he had
just heard, as he sat at dinner, from his mother or his children. In
Ireland, those of us who know the people have the same privilege. When
I was writing _The Shadow of the Glen_, some years ago, I got more aid
than any learning could have given me from a chink in the floor of the
old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear what was being
said by the servant girls in the kitchen. This matter, I think, is of
importance, for in countries where the imagination of the people, and
the language they use, is rich and living, it is possible for a writer
to be rich and copious in his words, and at the same time to give the
reality, which is the root of all poetry, in a comprehensive and
natural form. In the modern literature of towns, however, richness is
found only in sonnets, or prose poems, or in one or two elaborate books
that are far away from the profound and common interests of life. One
has, on one side, Mallarmé and Huysmans producing this literature; and
on the other, Ibsen and Zola dealing with the reality of life in
joyless and pallid words. On the stage one must have reality, and one
must have joy; and that is why the intellectual modern drama has
failed, and people have grown sick of the false joy of the musical
comedy, that has been given them in place of the rich joy found only in
what is superb and wild in reality. In a good play every speech should
be as fully flavoured as a nut or apple, and such speeches cannot be
written by anyone who works among people who have shut their lips on
poetry. In Ireland, for a few years more, we have a popular imagination
that is fiery and magnificent, and tender; so that those of us who wish
to write start with a chance that is not given to writers in places
where the springtime of the local life has been forgotten, and the
harvest is a memory only, and the straw has been turned into bricks.
J. M. S.
_January_ 21_st_, 1907.
PERSONS
CHRISTOPHER MAHON.
OLD MAHON, _his father, a squatter_.
MICHAEL JAMES FLAHERTY (called MICHAEL JAMES), _a publican_.
MARGARET FLAHERTY (called PEGEEN MIKE), _his daughter_.
SHAWN KEOUGH, _her cousin, a young farmer_.
WIDOW QUIN, _a woman of about thirty_.
PHILLY CULLEN and JIMMY FARRELL, _small farmers_.
SARA TANSEY, SUSAN BRADY, and HONOR BLAKE, _village girls_.
A BELLMAN.
SOME PEASANTS.
The action takes place near a village, on a wild coast of Mayo. The
first Act passes on an evening of autumn, the other two Acts on the
following day.
THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD
ACT I.
SCENE: Country public-house or shebeen, very rough and untidy. There is
a sort of counter on the right with shelves, holding many bottles and
jugs, just seen above it. Empty barrels stand near the counter. At
back, a little to left of counter, there is a door into the open air,
then, more to the left, there is a settle with shelves above it, with
more jugs, and a table beneath a window. At the left there is a large
open fire-place, with turf fire, and a small door into inner room.
Pegeen, a wild-looking but fine girl, of about twenty, is writing at
table. She is dressed in the usual peasant dress.
PEGEEN.
_slowly as she writes._—Six yards of stuff for to make a yellow gown. A
pair of lace boots with lengthy heels on them and brassy eyes. A hat is
suited for a wedding-day. A fine tooth comb. To be sent with three
barrels of porter in Jimmy Farrell’s creel cart on the evening of the
coming Fair to Mister Michael James Flaherty. With the best compliments
of this season. Margaret Flaherty.
SHAWN KEOGH.
_a fat and fair young man comes in as she signs, looks round awkwardly,
when he sees she is alone._—Where’s himself?
PEGEEN.
_without looking at him._—He’s coming. (_She directs the letter._) To
Mister Sheamus Mulroy, Wine and Spirit Dealer, Castlebar.
SHAWN.
_uneasily._—I didn’t see him on the road.
PEGEEN.
How would you see him (_licks stamp and puts it on letter_) and it dark
night this half hour gone by?
SHAWN.
_turning towards the door again._—I stood a while outside wondering
would I have a right to pass on or to walk in and see you, Pegeen Mike
(_comes to fire_), and I could hear the cows breathing, and sighing in
the stillness of the air, and not a step moving any place from this
gate to the bridge.
PEGEEN.
_putting letter in envelope._—It’s above at the cross-roads he is,
meeting Philly Cullen; and a couple more are going along with him to
Kate Cassidy’s wake.
SHAWN.
_looking at her blankly._—And he’s going that length in the dark night?
PEGEEN.
_impatiently._—He is surely, and leaving me lonesome on the scruff of
the hill. (_She gets up and puts envelope on dresser, then winds the
clock._) Isn’t it long the nights are now, Shawn Keogh, to be leaving a
poor girl with her own self counting the hours to the dawn of day?
SHAWN.
_with awkward humour._—If it is, when we’re wedded in a short while
you’ll have no call to complain, for I’ve little will to be walking off
to wakes or weddings in the darkness of the night.
PEGEEN.
_with rather scornful good humour._—You’re making mighty certain,
Shaneen, that I’ll wed you now.
SHAWN.
Aren’t we after making a good bargain, the way we’re only waiting these
days on Father Reilly’s dispensation from the bishops, or the Court of
Rome.
PEGEEN.
_looking at him teasingly, washing up at dresser._—It’s a wonder,
Shaneen, the Holy Father’d be taking notice of the likes of you; for if
I was him I wouldn’t bother with this place where you’ll meet none but
Red Linahan, has a squint in his eye, and Patcheen is lame in his heel,
or the mad Mulrannies were driven from California and they lost in
their wits. We’re a queer lot these times to go troubling the Holy
Father on his sacred seat.
SHAWN.
_scandalized._—If we are, we’re as good this place as another, maybe,
and as good these times as we were for ever.
PEGEEN.
_with scorn._—As good, is it? Where now will you meet the like of
Daneen Sullivan knocked the eye from a peeler, or Marcus Quin, God rest
him, got six months for maiming ewes, and he a great warrant to tell
stories of holy Ireland till he’d have the old women shedding down
tears about their feet. Where will you find the like of them, I’m
saying?
SHAWN.
_timidly._—If you don’t it’s a good job, maybe; for (_with peculiar
emphasis on the words_) Father Reilly has small conceit to have that
kind walking around and talking to the girls.
PEGEEN.
_impatiently, throwing water from basin out of the door._—Stop
tormenting me with Father Reilly (_imitating his voice_) when I’m
asking only what way I’ll pass these twelve hours of dark, and not take
my death with the fear. (_Looking out of door._)
SHAWN.
_timidly._—Would I fetch you the widow Quin, maybe?
PEGEEN.
Is it the like of that murderer? You’ll not, surely.
SHAWN.
_going to her, soothingly._—Then I’m thinking himself will stop along
with you when he sees you taking on, for it’ll be a long night-time
with great darkness, and I’m after feeling a kind of fellow above in
the furzy ditch, groaning wicked like a maddening dog, the way it’s
good cause you have, maybe, to be fearing now.
PEGEEN.
_turning on him sharply._—What’s that? Is it a man you seen?
SHAWN.
_retreating._—I couldn’t see him at all; but I heard him groaning out,
and breaking his heart. It should have been a young man from his words
speaking.
PEGEEN.
_going after him._—And you never went near to see was he hurted or what
ailed him at all?
SHAWN.
I did not, Pegeen Mike. It was a dark, lonesome place to be hearing the
like of him.
PEGEEN.
Well, you’re a daring fellow, and if they find his corpse stretched
above in the dews of dawn, what’ll you say then to the peelers, or the
Justice of the Peace?
SHAWN.
_thunderstruck._—I wasn’t thinking of that. For the love of God, Pegeen
Mike, don’t let on I was speaking of him. Don’t tell your father and
the men is coming above; for if they heard that story, they’d have
great blabbing this night at the wake.
PEGEEN.
I’ll maybe tell them, and I’ll maybe not.
SHAWN.
They are coming at the door, Will you whisht, I’m saying?
PEGEEN.
Whisht yourself.
[_She goes behind counter. Michael James, fat jovial publican, comes in
followed by Philly Cullen, who is thin and mistrusting, and Jimmy
Farrell, who is fat and amorous, about forty-five._]
MEN.
_together._—God bless you. The blessing of God on this place.
PEGEEN.
God bless you kindly.
MICHAEL.
_to men who go to the counter._—Sit down now, and take your rest.
(_Crosses to Shawn at the fire._) And how is it you are, Shawn Keogh?
Are you coming over the sands to Kate Cassidy’s wake?
SHAWN.
I am not, Michael James. I’m going home the short cut to my bed.
PEGEEN.
_speaking across the counter._—He’s right too, and have you no shame,
Michael James, to be quitting off for the whole night, and leaving
myself lonesome in the shop?
MICHAEL.
_good-humouredly._—Isn’t it the same whether I go for the whole night
or a part only? and I’m thinking it’s a queer daughter you are if you’d
have me crossing backward through the Stooks of the Dead Women, with a
drop taken.
PEGEEN.
If I am a queer daughter, it’s a queer father’d be leaving me lonesome
these twelve hours of dark, and I piling the turf with the dogs
barking, and the calves mooing, and my own teeth rattling with the
fear.
JIMMY.
_flatteringly._—What is there to hurt you, and you a fine, hardy girl
would knock the head of any two men in the place?
PEGEEN.
_working herself up._—Isn’t there the harvest boys with their tongues
red for drink, and the ten tinkers is camped in the east glen, and the
thousand militia—bad cess to them!—walking idle through the land.
There’s lots surely to hurt me, and I won’t stop alone in it, let
himself do what he will.
MICHAEL.
If you’re that afeard, let Shawn Keogh stop along with you. It’s the
will of God, I’m thinking, himself should be seeing to you now. [_They
all turn on Shawn._]
SHAWN.
_in horrified confusion._—I would and welcome, Michael James, but I’m
afeard of Father Reilly; and what at all would the Holy Father and the
Cardinals of Rome be saying if they heard I did the like of that?
MICHAEL.
_with contempt._—God help you! Can’t you sit in by the hearth with the
light lit and herself beyond in the room? You’ll do that surely, for
I’ve heard tell there’s a queer fellow above, going mad or getting his
death, maybe, in the gripe of the ditch, so she’d be safer this night
with a person here.
SHAWN.
_with plaintive despair._—I’m afeard of Father Reilly, I’m saying. Let
you not be tempting me, and we near married itself.
PHILLY.
_with cold contempt._—Lock him in the west room. He’ll stay then and
have no sin to be telling to the priest.
MICHAEL.
_to Shawn, getting between him and the door._—Go up now.
SHAWN.
_at the top of his voice._—Don’t stop me, Michael James. Let me out of
the door, I’m saying, for the love of the Almighty God. Let me out
(_trying to dodge past him_). Let me out of it, and may God grant you
His indulgence in the hour of need.
MICHAEL.
_loudly._—Stop your noising, and sit down by the hearth. [_Gives him a
push and goes to counter laughing._]
SHAWN.
_turning back, wringing his hands._—Oh, Father Reilly and the saints of
God, where will I hide myself to-day? Oh, St. Joseph and St. Patrick
and St. Brigid, and St. James, have mercy on me now! [_Shawn turns
round, sees door clear, and makes a rush for it._]
MICHAEL.
_catching him by the coattail._—You’d be going, is it?
SHAWN.
_screaming._—Leave me go, Michael James, leave me go, you old Pagan,
leave me go, or I’ll get the curse of the priests on you, and of the
scarlet-coated bishops of the courts of Rome. [_With a sudden movement
he pulls himself out of his coat, and disappears out of the door,
leaving his coat in Michael’s hands._]
MICHAEL.
_turning round, and holding up coat._—Well, there’s the coat of a
Christian man. Oh, there’s sainted glory this day in the lonesome west;
and by the will of God I’ve got you a decent man, Pegeen, you’ll have
no call to be spying after if you’ve a score of young girls, maybe,
weeding in your fields.
PEGEEN.
_taking up the defence of her property._—What right have you to be
making game of a poor fellow for minding the priest, when it’s your own
the fault is, not paying a penny pot-boy to stand along with me and
give me courage in the doing of my work? [_She snaps the coat away from
him, and goes behind counter with it._]
MICHAEL.
_taken aback._—Where would I get a pot-boy? Would you have me send the
bell-man screaming in the streets of Castlebar?
SHAWN.
_opening the door a chink and putting in his head, in a small
voice._—Michael James!
MICHAEL.
_imitating him._—What ails you?
SHAWN.
The queer dying fellow’s beyond looking over the ditch. He’s come up,
I’m thinking, stealing your hens. (_Looks over his shoulder._) God help
me, he’s following me now (_he runs into room_), and if he’s heard what
I said, he’ll be having my life, and I going home lonesome in the
darkness of the night. (_For a perceptible moment they watch the door
with curiosity. Some one coughs outside. Then Christy Mahon, a slight
young man, comes in very tired and frightened and dirty._)
CHRISTY.
_in a small voice._—God save all here!
MEN.
God save you kindly.
CHRISTY.
_going to the counter._—I’d trouble you for a glass of porter, woman of
the house. [_He puts down coin._]
PEGEEN.
_serving him._—You’re one of the tinkers, young fellow, is beyond
camped in the glen?
CHRISTY.
I am not; but I’m destroyed walking.
MICHAEL.
_patronizingly._—Let you come up then to the fire. You’re looking
famished with the cold.
CHRISTY.
God reward you. (_He takes up his glass and goes a little way across to
the left, then stops and looks about him._) Is it often the police do
be coming into this place, master of the house?
MICHAEL.
If you’d come in better hours, you’d have seen “Licensed for the sale
of Beer and Spirits, to be consumed on the premises,” written in white
letters above the door, and what would the polis want spying on me, and
not a decent house within four miles, the way every living Christian is
a bona fide, saving one widow alone?
CHRISTY.
_with relief._—It’s a safe house, so. [_He goes over to the fire,
sighing and moaning. Then he sits down, putting his glass beside him
and begins gnawing a turnip, too miserable to feel the others staring
at him with curiosity._]
MICHAEL.
_going after him._—Is it yourself fearing the polis? You’re wanting,
maybe?
CHRISTY.
There’s many wanting.
MICHAEL.
Many surely, with the broken harvest and the ended wars. (_He picks up
some stockings, etc., that are near the fire, and carries them away
furtively._) It should be larceny, I’m thinking?
CHRISTY.
_dolefully._—I had it in my mind it was a different word and a bigger.
PEGEEN.
There’s a queer lad. Were you never slapped in school, young fellow,
that you don’t know the name of your deed?
CHRISTY.
_bashfully._—I’m slow at learning, a middling scholar only.
MICHAEL.
If you’re a dunce itself, you’d have a right to know that larceny’s
robbing and stealing. Is it for the like of that you’re wanting?
CHRISTY.
_with a flash of family pride._—And I the son of a strong farmer (_with
a sudden qualm_), God rest his soul, could have bought up the whole of
your old house a while since, from the butt of his tailpocket, and not
have missed the weight of it gone.
MICHAEL.
_impressed._—If it’s not stealing, it’s maybe something big.
CHRISTY.
_flattered._—Aye; it’s maybe something big.
JIMMY.
He’s a wicked-looking young fellow. Maybe he followed after a young
woman on a lonesome night.
CHRISTY.
_shocked._—Oh, the saints forbid, mister; I was all times a decent lad.
PHILLY.
_turning on Jimmy._—You’re a silly man, Jimmy Farrell. He said his
father was a farmer a while since, and there’s himself now in a poor
state. Maybe the land was grabbed from him, and he did what any decent
man would do.
MICHAEL.
_to Christy, mysteriously._—Was it bailiffs?
CHRISTY.
The divil a one.
MICHAEL.
Agents?
CHRISTY.
The divil a one.
MICHAEL.
Landlords?
CHRISTY.
_peevishly._—Ah, not at all, I’m saying. You’d see the like of them
stories on any little paper of a Munster town. But I’m not calling to
mind any person, gentle, simple, judge or jury, did the like of me.
[_They all draw nearer with delighted curiosity._]
PHILLY.
Well, that lad’s a puzzle—the world.
JIMMY.
He’d beat Dan Davies’ circus, or the holy missioners making sermons on
the villainy of man. Try him again, Philly.
PHILLY.
Did you strike golden guineas out of solder, young fellow, or shilling
coins itself?
CHRISTY.
I did not, mister, not sixpence nor a farthing coin.
JIMMY.
Did you marry three wives maybe? I’m told there’s a sprinkling have
done that among the holy Luthers of the preaching north.
CHRISTY.
_shyly._—I never married with one, let alone with a couple or three.
PHILLY.
Maybe he went fighting for the Boers, the like of the man beyond, was
judged to be hanged, quartered and drawn. Were you off east, young
fellow, fighting bloody wars for Kruger and the freedom of the Boers?
CHRISTY.
I never left my own parish till Tuesday was a week.
PEGEEN.
_coming from counter._—He’s done nothing, so. (_To Christy._) If you
didn’t commit murder or a bad, nasty thing, or false coining, or
robbery, or butchery, or the like of them, there isn’t anything that
would be worth your troubling for to run from now. You did nothing at
all.
CHRISTY.
_his feelings hurt._—That’s an unkindly thing to be saying to a poor
orphaned traveller, has a prison behind him, and hanging before, and
hell’s gap gaping below.
PEGEEN.
_with a sign to the men to be quiet._—You’re only saying it. You did
nothing at all. A soft lad the like of you wouldn’t slit the windpipe
of a screeching sow.
CHRISTY.
_offended._—You’re not speaking the truth.
PEGEEN.
_in mock rage._—Not speaking the truth, is it? Would you have me knock
the head of you with the butt of the broom?
CHRISTY.
_twisting round on her with a sharp cry of horror._—Don’t strike me. I
killed my poor father, Tuesday was a week, for doing the like of that.
PEGEEN.
_with blank amazement._—Is it killed your father?
CHRISTY.
_subsiding._—With the help of God I did surely, and that the Holy
Immaculate Mother may intercede for his soul.
PHILLY.
_retreating with Jimmy._—There’s a daring fellow.
JIMMY.
Oh, glory be to God!
MICHAEL.
_with great respect._—That was a hanging crime, mister honey. You
should have had good reason for doing the like of that.
CHRISTY.
_in a very reasonable tone._—He was a dirty man, God forgive him, and
he getting old and crusty, the way I couldn’t put up with him at all.
PEGEEN.
And you shot him dead?
CHRISTY.
_shaking his head._—I never used weapons. I’ve no license, and I’m a
law-fearing man.
MICHAEL.
It was with a hilted knife maybe? I’m told, in the big world it’s
bloody knives they use.
CHRISTY.
_loudly, scandalized._—Do you take me for a slaughter-boy?
PEGEEN.
You never hanged him, the way Jimmy Farrell hanged his dog from the
license, and had it screeching and wriggling three hours at the butt of
a string, and himself swearing it was a dead dog, and the peelers
swearing it had life?
CHRISTY.
I did not then. I just riz the loy and let fall the edge of it on the
ridge of his skull, and he went down at my feet like an empty sack, and
never let a grunt or groan from him at all.
MICHAEL.
_making a sign to Pegeen to fill Christy’s glass._—And what way weren’t
you hanged, mister? Did you bury him then?
CHRISTY.
_considering._—Aye. I buried him then. Wasn’t I digging spuds in the
field?
MICHAEL.
And the peelers never followed after you the eleven days that you’re
out?
CHRISTY.
_shaking his head._—Never a one of them, and I walking forward facing
hog, dog, or divil on the highway of the road.
PHILLY.
_nodding wisely._—It’s only with a common week-day kind of a murderer
them lads would be trusting their carcase, and that man should be a
great terror when his temper’s roused.
MICHAEL.
He should then. (_To Christy._) And where was it, mister honey, that
you did the deed?
CHRISTY.
_looking at him with suspicion._—Oh, a distant place, master of the
house, a windy corner of high, distant hills.
PHILLY.
_nodding with approval._—He’s a close man, and he’s right, surely.
PEGEEN.
That’d be a lad with the sense of Solomon to have for a pot-boy,
Michael James, if it’s the truth you’re seeking one at all.
PHILLY.
The peelers is fearing him, and if you’d that lad in the house there
isn’t one of them would come smelling around if the dogs itself were
lapping poteen from the dungpit of the yard.
JIMMY.
Bravery’s a treasure in a lonesome place, and a lad would kill his
father, I’m thinking, would face a foxy divil with a pitchpike on the
flags of hell.
PEGEEN.
It’s the truth they’re saying, and if I’d that lad in the house, I
wouldn’t be fearing the loosed kharki cut-throats, or the walking dead.
CHRISTY.
_swelling with surprise and triumph._—Well, glory be to God!
MICHAEL.
_with deference._—Would you think well to stop here and be pot-boy,
mister honey, if we gave you good wages, and didn’t destroy you with
the weight of work?
SHAWN.
_coming forward uneasily._—That’d be a queer kind to bring into a
decent quiet household with the like of Pegeen Mike.
PEGEEN.
_very sharply._—Will you whisht? Who’s speaking to you?
SHAWN.
_retreating._—A bloody-handed murderer the like of....
PEGEEN.
_snapping at him._—Whisht I am saying; we’ll take no fooling from your
like at all. (_To Christy with a honeyed voice._) And you, young
fellow, you’d have a right to stop, I’m thinking, for we’d do our all
and utmost to content your needs.
CHRISTY.
_overcome with wonder._—And I’d be safe in this place from the
searching law?
MICHAEL.
You would, surely. If they’re not fearing you, itself, the peelers in
this place is decent droughty poor fellows, wouldn’t touch a cur dog
and not give warning in the dead of night.
PEGEEN.
_very kindly and persuasively._—Let you stop a short while anyhow.
Aren’t you destroyed walking with your feet in bleeding blisters, and
your whole skin needing washing like a Wicklow sheep.
CHRISTY.
_looking round with satisfaction._—It’s a nice room, and if it’s not
humbugging me you are, I’m thinking that I’ll surely stay.
JIMMY.
_jumps up._—Now, by the grace of God, herself will be safe this night,
with a man killed his father holding danger from the door, and let you
come on, Michael James, or they’ll have the best stuff drunk at the
wake.
MICHAEL.
_going to the door with men._—And begging your pardon, mister, what
name will we call you, for we’d like to know?
CHRISTY.
Christopher Mahon.
MICHAEL.
Well, God bless you, Christy, and a good rest till we meet again when
the sun’ll be rising to the noon of day.
CHRISTY.
God bless you all.
MEN.
God bless you. [_They go out except Shawn, who lingers at door._]
SHAWN.
_to Pegeen._—Are you wanting me to stop along with you and keep you
from harm?
PEGEEN.
_gruffly._—Didn’t you say you were fearing Father Reilly?
SHAWN.
There’d be no harm staying now, I’m thinking, and himself in it too.
PEGEEN.
You wouldn’t stay when there was need for you, and let you step off
nimble this time when there’s none.
SHAWN.
Didn’t I say it was Father Reilly....
PEGEEN.
Go on, then, to Father Reilly (_in a jeering tone_), and let him put
you in the holy brotherhoods, and leave that lad to me.
SHAWN.
If I meet the Widow Quin....
PEGEEN.
Go on, I’m saying, and don’t be waking this place with your noise.
(_She hustles him out and bolts the door._) That lad would wear the
spirits from the saints of peace. (_Bustles about, then takes off her
apron and pins it up in the window as a blind. Christy watching her
timidly. Then she comes to him and speaks with bland good-humour._) Let
you stretch out now by the fire, young fellow. You should be destroyed
travelling.
CHRISTY.
_shyly again, drawing off his boots._—I’m tired, surely, walking wild
eleven days, and waking fearful in the night. [_He holds up one of his
feet, feeling his blisters, and looking at them with compassion._]
PEGEEN.
_standing beside him, watching him with delight._—You should have had
great people in your family, I’m thinking, with the little, small feet
you have, and you with a kind of a quality name, the like of what you’d
find on the great powers and potentates of France and Spain.
CHRISTY.
_with pride._—We were great surely, with wide and windy acres of rich
Munster land.
PEGEEN.
Wasn’t I telling you, and you a fine, handsome young fellow with a
noble brow?
CHRISTY.
_with a flash of delighted surprise._—Is it me?
PEGEEN.
Aye. Did you never hear that from the young girls where you come from
in the west or south?
CHRISTY.
_with venom._—I did not then. Oh, they’re bloody liars in the naked
parish where I grew a man.
PEGEEN.
If they are itself, you’ve heard it these days, I’m thinking, and you
walking the world telling out your story to young girls or old.
CHRISTY.
I’ve told my story no place till this night, Pegeen Mike, and it’s
foolish I was here, maybe, to be talking free, but you’re decent
people, I’m thinking, and yourself a kindly woman, the way I wasn’t
fearing you at all.
PEGEEN.
_filling a sack with straw._—You’ve said the like of that, maybe, in
every cot and cabin where you’ve met a young girl on your way.
CHRISTY.
_going over to her, gradually raising his voice._—I’ve said it nowhere
till this night, I’m telling you, for I’ve seen none the like of you
the eleven long days I am walking the world, looking over a low ditch
or a high ditch on my north or my south, into stony scattered fields,
or scribes of bog, where you’d see young, limber girls, and fine
prancing women making laughter with the men.
PEGEEN.
If you weren’t destroyed travelling, you’d have as much talk and
streeleen, I’m thinking, as Owen Roe O’Sullivan or the poets of the
Dingle Bay, and I’ve heard all times it’s the poets are your like, fine
fiery fellows with great rages when their temper’s roused.
CHRISTY.
_drawing a little nearer to her._—You’ve a power of rings, God bless
you, and would there be any offence if I was asking are you single now?
PEGEEN.
What would I want wedding so young?
CHRISTY.
_with relief._—We’re alike, so.
PEGEEN.
_she puts sack on settle and beats it up._—I never killed my father.
I’d be afeard to do that, except I was the like of yourself with blind
rages tearing me within, for I’m thinking you should have had great
tussling when the end was come.
CHRISTY.
_expanding with delight at the first confidential talk he has ever had
with a woman._—We had not then. It was a hard woman was come over the
hill, and if he was always a crusty kind when he’d a hard woman setting
him on, not the divil himself or his four fathers could put up with him
at all.
PEGEEN.
_with curiosity._—And isn’t it a great wonder that one wasn’t fearing
you?
CHRISTY.
_very confidentially._—Up to the day I killed my father, there wasn’t a
person in Ireland knew the kind I was, and I there drinking, waking,
eating, sleeping, a quiet, simple poor fellow with no man giving me
heed.
PEGEEN.
_getting a quilt out of the cupboard and putting it on the sack._—It
was the girls were giving you heed maybe, and I’m thinking it’s most
conceit you’d have to be gaming with their like.
CHRISTY.
_shaking his head, with simplicity._—Not the girls itself, and I won’t
tell you a lie. There wasn’t anyone heeding me in that place saving
only the dumb beasts of the field. [_He sits down at fire._]
PEGEEN.
_with disappointment._—And I thinking you should have been living the
like of a king of Norway or the Eastern world. [_She comes and sits
beside him after placing bread and mug of milk on the table._]
CHRISTY.
_laughing piteously._—The like of a king, is it? And I after toiling,
moiling, digging, dodging from the dawn till dusk with never a sight of
joy or sport saving only when I’d be abroad in the dark night poaching
rabbits on hills, for I was a divil to poach, God forgive me, (_very
naïvely_) and I near got six months for going with a dung fork and
stabbing a fish.
PEGEEN.
And it’s that you’d call sport, is it, to be abroad in the darkness
with yourself alone?
CHRISTY.
I did, God help me, and there I’d be as happy as the sunshine of St.
Martin’s Day, watching the light passing the north or the patches of
fog, till I’d hear a rabbit starting to screech and I’d go running in
the furze. Then when I’d my full share I’d come walking down where
you’d see the ducks and geese stretched sleeping on the highway of the
road, and before I’d pass the dunghill, I’d hear himself snoring out, a
loud lonesome snore he’d be making all times, the while he was
sleeping, and he a man ’d be raging all times, the while he was waking,
like a gaudy officer you’d hear cursing and damning and swearing oaths.
PEGEEN.
Providence and Mercy, spare us all!
CHRISTY.
It’s that you’d say surely if you seen him and he after drinking for
weeks, rising up in the red dawn, or before it maybe, and going out
into the yard as naked as an ash tree in the moon of May, and shying
clods against the visage of the stars till he’d put the fear of death
into the banbhs and the screeching sows.
PEGEEN.
I’d be well-nigh afeard of that lad myself, I’m thinking. And there was
no one in it but the two of you alone?
CHRISTY.
The divil a one, though he’d sons and daughters walking all great
states and territories of the world, and not a one of them, to this
day, but would say their seven curses on him, and they rousing up to
let a cough or sneeze, maybe, in the deadness of the night.
PEGEEN.
_nodding her head._—Well, you should have been a queer lot. I never
cursed my father the like of that, though I’m twenty and more years of
age.
CHRISTY.
Then you’d have cursed mine, I’m telling you, and he a man never gave
peace to any, saving when he’d get two months or three, or be locked in
the asylums for battering peelers or assaulting men (_with depression_)
the way it was a bitter life he led me till I did up a Tuesday and
halve his skull.
PEGEEN.
_putting her hand on his shoulder._—Well, you’ll have peace in this
place, Christy Mahon, and none to trouble you, and it’s near time a
fine lad like you should have your good share of the earth.
CHRISTY.
It’s time surely, and I a seemly fellow with great strength in me and
bravery of.... [_Someone knocks._]
CHRISTY.
_clinging to Pegeen._—Oh, glory! it’s late for knocking, and this last
while I’m in terror of the peelers, and the walking dead. [_Knocking
again._]
PEGEEN.
Who’s there?
VOICE.
_outside._ Me.
PEGEEN.
Who’s me?
VOICE.
The Widow Quin.
PEGEEN.
_jumping up and giving him the bread and milk._—Go on now with your
supper, and let on to be sleepy, for if she found you were such a
warrant to talk, she’d be stringing gabble till the dawn of day. [_He
takes bread and sits shyly with his back to the door._]
PEGEEN.
_opening door, with temper._—What ails you, or what is it you’re
wanting at this hour of the night?
WIDOW QUIN.
_coming in a step and peering at Christy._—I’m after meeting Shawn
Keogh and Father Reilly below, who told me of your curiosity man, and
they fearing by this time he was maybe roaring, romping on your hands
with drink.
PEGEEN.
_pointing to Christy._—Look now is he roaring, and he stretched away
drowsy with his supper and his mug of milk. Walk down and tell that to
Father Reilly and to Shaneen Keogh.
WIDOW QUIN.
_coming forward._—I’ll not see them again, for I’ve their word to lead
that lad forward for to lodge with me.
PEGEEN.
_in blank amazement._—This night, is it?
WIDOW QUIN.
_going over._—This night. “It isn’t fitting,” says the priesteen, “to
have his likeness lodging with an orphaned girl.” (_To Christy._) God
save you, mister!
CHRISTY.
_shyly._—God save you kindly.
WIDOW QUIN.
_looking at him with half-amazed curiosity._—Well, aren’t you a little
smiling fellow? It should have been great and bitter torments did rouse
your spirits to a deed of blood.
CHRISTY.
_doubtfully._—It should, maybe.
WIDOW QUIN.
It’s more than “maybe” I’m saying, and it’d soften my heart to see you
sitting so simple with your cup and cake, and you fitter to be saying
your catechism than slaying your da.
PEGEEN.
_at counter, washing glasses._—There’s talking when any’d see he’s fit
to be holding his head high with the wonders of the world. Walk on from
this, for I’ll not have him tormented and he destroyed travelling since
Tuesday was a week.
WIDOW QUIN.
_peaceably._—We’ll be walking surely when his supper’s done, and you’ll
find we’re great company, young fellow, when it’s of the like of you
and me you’d hear the penny poets singing in an August Fair.
CHRISTY.
_innocently._—Did you kill your father?
PEGEEN.
_contemptuously._—She did not. She hit himself with a worn pick, and
the rusted poison did corrode his blood the way he never overed it, and
died after. That was a sneaky kind of murder did win small glory with
the boys itself. [_She crosses to Christy’s left._]
WIDOW QUIN.
_with good-humour._—If it didn’t, maybe all knows a widow woman has
buried her children and destroyed her man is a wiser comrade for a
young lad than a girl, the like of you, who’d go helter-skeltering
after any man would let you a wink upon the road.
PEGEEN.
_breaking out into wild rage._—And you’ll say that, Widow Quin, and you
gasping with the rage you had racing the hill beyond to look on his
face.
WIDOW QUIN.
_laughing derisively._—Me, is it? Well, Father Reilly has cuteness to
divide you now. (_She pulls Christy up._) There’s great temptation in a
man did slay his da, and we’d best be going, young fellow; so rise up
and come with me.
PEGEEN.
_seizing his arm._—He’ll not stir. He’s pot-boy in this place, and I’ll
not have him stolen off and kidnapped while himself’s abroad.
WIDOW QUIN.
It’d be a crazy pot-boy’d lodge him in the shebeen where he works by
day, so you’d have a right to come on, young fellow, till you see my
little houseen, a perch off on the rising hill.
PEGEEN.
Wait till morning, Christy Mahon. Wait till you lay eyes on her leaky
thatch is growing more pasture for her buck goat than her square of
fields, and she without a tramp itself to keep in order her place at
all.
WIDOW QUIN.
When you see me contriving in my little gardens, Christy Mahon, you’ll
swear the Lord God formed me to be living lone, and that there isn’t my
match in Mayo for thatching, or mowing, or shearing a sheep.
PEGEEN.
_with noisy scorn._—It’s true the Lord God formed you to contrive
indeed. Doesn’t the world know you reared a black lamb at your own
breast, so that the Lord Bishop of Connaught felt the elements of a
Christian, and he eating it after in a kidney stew? Doesn’t the world
know you’ve been seen shaving the foxy skipper from France for a
threepenny bit and a sop of grass tobacco would wring the liver from a
mountain goat you’d meet leaping the hills?
WIDOW QUIN.
_with amusement._—Do you hear her now, young fellow? Do you hear the
way she’ll be rating at your own self when a week is by?
PEGEEN.
_to Christy._—Don’t heed her. Tell her to go into her pigsty and not
plague us here.
WIDOW QUIN.
I’m going; but he’ll come with me.
PEGEEN.
_shaking him._—Are you dumb, young fellow?
CHRISTY.
_timidly, to Widow Quin._—God increase you; but I’m pot-boy in this
place, and it’s here I’d liefer stay.
PEGEEN.
_triumphantly._—Now you have heard him, and go on from this.
WIDOW QUIN.
_looking round the room._—It’s lonesome this hour crossing the hill,
and if he won’t come along with me, I’d have a right maybe to stop this
night with yourselves. Let me stretch out on the settle, Pegeen Mike;
and himself can lie by the hearth.
PEGEEN.
_short and fiercely._—Faith, I won’t. Quit off or I will send you now.
WIDOW QUIN.
_gathering her shawl up._—Well, it’s a terror to be aged a score. (_To
Christy._) God bless you now, young fellow, and let you be wary, or
there’s right torment will await you here if you go romancing with her
like, and she waiting only, as they bade me say, on a sheepskin
parchment to be wed with Shawn Keogh of Killakeen.
CHRISTY.
_going to Pegeen as she bolts the door._—What’s that she’s after
saying?
PEGEEN.
Lies and blather, you’ve no call to mind. Well, isn’t Shawn Keogh an
impudent fellow to send up spying on me? Wait till I lay hands on him.
Let him wait, I’m saying.
CHRISTY.
And you’re not wedding him at all?
PEGEEN.
I wouldn’t wed him if a bishop came walking for to join us here.
CHRISTY.
That God in glory may be thanked for that.
PEGEEN.
There’s your bed now. I’ve put a quilt upon you I’m after quilting a
while since with my own two hands, and you’d best stretch out now for
your sleep, and may God give you a good rest till I call you in the
morning when the cocks will crow.
CHRISTY.
_as she goes to inner room._—May God and Mary and St. Patrick bless you
and reward you, for your kindly talk. (_She shuts the door behind her.
He settles his bed slowly, feeling the quilt with immense
satisfaction._)—Well, it’s a clean bed and soft with it, and it’s great
luck and company I’ve won me in the end of time—two fine women fighting
for the likes of me—till I’m thinking this night wasn’t I a foolish
fellow not to kill my father in the years gone by.
CURTAIN.