Peter Gillane
Michael Gillane, his Son, going to be married
Patrick Gillane, a lad of twelve, Michael’s Brother
Bridget Gillane, Peter’s Wife
Delia Cahel, engaged to Michael
The Poor Old Woman
Neighbours
Interior of a cottage close to Killala, in 1798. BRIDGET is standing at a table undoing a parcel. PETER is sitting at one side of the fire, PATRICK at the other.
What is that sound I hear?
I don’t hear anything. [He listens.] I hear it now. It’s like cheering. [He goes to the window and looks out.] I wonder what they are cheering about. I don’t see anybody.
It might be a hurling.
There’s no hurling to-day. It must be down in the town the cheering is.
I suppose the boys must be having some sport of their own. Come over here, Peter, and look at Michael’s wedding-clothes.
Those are grand clothes, indeed.
You hadn’t clothes like that when you married me, and no coat to put on of a Sunday more than any other day.
That is true, indeed. We never thought a son of our own would be wearing a suit of that sort for his wedding, or have so good a place to bring a wife to.
There’s an old woman coming down the road. I don’t know is it here she is coming?
It will be a neighbour coming to hear about Michael’s wedding. Can you see who it is?
I think it is a stranger, but she’s not coming to the house. She’s turned into the gap that goes down where Murteen and his sons are shearing sheep. [He turns towards BRIDGET.] Do you remember what Winny of the Cross Roads was saying the other night about the strange woman that goes through the country whatever time there’s war or trouble coming?
Don’t be bothering us about Winny’s talk, but go and open the door for your brother. I hear him coming up the path.
I hope he has brought Delia’s fortune with him safe, for fear her people might go back on the bargain and I after making it. Trouble enough I had making it.
[PATRICK opens the door and MICHAEL comes in.
What kept you, Michael? We were looking out for you this long time.
I went round by the priest’s house to bid him be ready to marry us to-morrow.
Did he say anything?
He said it was a very nice match, and that he was never better pleased to marry any two in his parish than myself and Delia Cahel.
Have you got the fortune, Michael?
Here it is.
[MICHAEL puts bag on table and goes over and leans against chimney-jamb. BRIDGET, who has been all this time examining the clothes, pulling the seams and trying the lining of the pockets, etc., puts the clothes on the dresser.
Yes, I made the bargain well for you, Michael. Old John Cahel would sooner have kept a share of this a while longer. ‘Let me keep the half of it until the first boy is born,’ says he. ‘You will not,’ says I. ‘Whether there is or is not a boy, the whole hundred pounds must be in Michael’s hands before he brings your daughter to the house.’ The wife spoke to him then, and he gave in at the end.
You seem well pleased to be handling the money, Peter.
Indeed, I wish I had had the luck to get a hundred pounds, or twenty pounds itself, with the wife I married.
Well, if I didn’t bring much I didn’t get much. What had you the day I married you but a flock of hens and you feeding them, and a few lambs and you driving them to the market at Ballina. [She is vexed and bangs a jug on the dresser.] If I brought no fortune I worked it out in my bones, laying down the baby, Michael that is standing there now, on a stook of straw, while I dug the potatoes, and never asking big dresses or anything but to be working.
That is true, indeed.
[He pats her arm.
Leave me alone now till I ready the house for the woman that is to come into it.
You are the best woman in Ireland, but money is good, too. [He begins handling the money again and sits down.] I never thought to see so much money within my four walls. We can do great things now we have it. We can take the ten acres of land we have a chance of since Jamsie Dempsey died, and stock it. We will go to the fair of Ballina to buy the stock. Did Delia ask any of the money for her own use, Michael?
She did not, indeed. She did not seem to take much notice of it, or to look at it at all.
That’s no wonder. Why would she look at it when she had yourself to look at, a fine, strong young man? it is proud she must be to get you; a good steady boy that will make use of the money, and not be running through it or spending it on drink like another.
It’s likely Michael himself was not thinking much of the fortune either, but of what sort the girl was to look at.
Well, you would like a nice comely girl to be beside you, and to go walking with you. The fortune only lasts for a while, but the woman will be there always.
They are cheering again down in the town. Maybe they are landing horses from Enniscrone. They do be cheering when the horses take the water well.
There are no horses in it. Where would they be going and no fair at hand? Go down to the town, Patrick, and see what is going on.
Will Delia remember, do you think, to bring the greyhound pup she promised me when she would be coming to the house?
She will surely.
[PATRICK goes out, leaving the door open.
It will be Patrick’s turn next to be looking for a fortune, but he won’t find it so easy to get it and he with no place of his own.
I do be thinking sometimes, now things are going so well with us, and the Cahels such a good back to us in the district, and Delia’s own uncle a priest, we might be put in the way of making Patrick a priest some day, and he so good at his books.
Time enough, time enough, you have always your head full of plans, Bridget.
We will be well able to give him learning, and not to send him tramping the country like a poor scholar that lives on charity.
They’re not done cheering yet.
[He goes over to the door and stands there for a moment, putting up his hand to shade his eyes.
Do you see anything?
I see an old woman coming up the path.
Who is it, I wonder? It must be the strange woman Patrick saw a while ago.
I don’t think it’s one of the neighbours anyway, but she has her cloak over her face.
It might be some poor woman heard we were making ready for the wedding and came to look for her share.
I may as well put the money out of sight. There is no use leaving it out for every stranger to look at.
[He goes over to a large box in the corner, opens it and puts the bag in and fumbles at the lock.
There she is, father! [An Old Woman passes the window slowly, she looks at MICHAEL as she passes.] I’d sooner a stranger not to come to the house the night before my wedding.
Open the door, Michael; don’t keep the poor woman waiting.
[The OLD WOMAN comes in. MICHAEL stands aside to make way for her.
God save all here!
God save you kindly!
You have good shelter here.
You are welcome to whatever shelter we have.
Sit down there by the fire and welcome.
There is a hard wind outside.
[MICHAEL watches her curiously from the door. PETER comes over to the table.
Have you travelled far to-day?
I have travelled far, very far; there are few have travelled so far as myself, and there’s many a one that doesn’t make me welcome. There was one that had strong sons I thought were friends of mine, but they were shearing their sheep, and they wouldn’t listen to me.
It’s a pity indeed for any person to have no place of their own.
That’s true for you indeed, and it’s long I’m on the roads since I first went wandering.
It is a wonder you are not worn out with so much wandering.
Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart. When the people see me quiet, they think old age has come on me and that all the stir has gone out of me. But when the trouble is on me I must be talking to my friends.
What was it put you wandering?
Too many strangers in the house.
Indeed you look as if you’d had your share of trouble.
I have had trouble indeed.
What was it put the trouble on you?
My land that was taken from me.
Was it much land they took from you?
My four beautiful green fields.
Do you think could she be the widow Casey that was put out of her holding at Kilglass a while ago?
She is not. I saw the widow Casey one time at the market in Ballina, a stout fresh woman.
Did you hear a noise of cheering, and you coming up the hill?
I thought I heard the noise I used to hear when my friends came to visit me.
[She begins singing half to herself.
I will go cry with the woman,
For yellow-haired Donough is dead,
With a hempen rope for a neckcloth,
And a white cloth on his head, —
What is that you are singing, ma’am?
Singing I am about a man I knew one time, yellow-haired Donough that was hanged in Galway.
[She goes on singing, much louder.
I am come to cry with you, woman,
My hair is unwound and unbound;
I remember him ploughing his field,
Turning up the red side of the ground,
And building his barn on the hill
With the good mortared stone;
O! we’d have pulled down the gallows
Had it happened in Enniscrone!
What was it brought him to his death?
He died for love of me: many a man has died for love of me.
Her trouble has put her wits astray.
Is it long since that song was made? Is it long since he got his death?
Not long, not long. But there were others that died for love of me a long time ago.
Were they neighbours of your own, ma’am?
Come here beside me and I’ll tell you about them. [MICHAEL sits down beside her at the hearth.] There was a red man of the O’Donnells from the north, and a man of the O’Sullivans from the south, and there was one Brian that lost his life at Clontarf by the sea, and there were a great many in the west, some that died hundreds of years ago, and there are some that will die to-morrow.
Is it in the west that men will die to-morrow?
Come nearer, nearer to me.
Is she right, do you think? Or is she a woman from beyond the world?
She doesn’t know well what she’s talking about, with the want and the trouble she has gone through.
The poor thing, we should treat her well.
Give her a drink of milk and a bit of the oaten cake.
Maybe we should give her something along with that, to bring her on her way. A few pence or a shilling itself, and we with so much money in the house.
Indeed I’d not begrudge it to her if we had it to spare, but if we go running through what we have, we’ll soon have to break the hundred pounds, and that would be a pity.
Shame on you, Peter. Give her the shilling and your blessing with it, or our own luck will go from us.
[PETER goes to the box and takes out a shilling.
Will you have a drink of milk, ma’am?
It is not food or drink that I want.
Here is something for you.
This is not what I want. It is not silver I want.
What is it you would be asking for?
If anyone would give me help he must give me himself, he must give me all.
[PETER goes over to the table staring at the shilling in his hand in a bewildered way, and stands whispering to BRIDGET.
Have you no one to care you in your age, ma’am?
I have not. With all the lovers that brought me their love, I never set out the bed for any.
Are you lonely going the roads, ma’am?
I have my thoughts and I have my hopes.
What hopes have you to hold to?
The hope of getting my beautiful fields back again; the hope of putting the strangers out of my house.
What way will you do that, ma’am?
I have good friends that will help me. They are gathering to help me now. I am not afraid. If they are put down to-day they will get the upper hand to-morrow. [She gets up.] I must be going to meet my friends. They are coming to help me and I must be there to welcome them. I must call the neighbours together to welcome them.
I will go with you.
It is not her friends you have to go and welcome, Michael; it is the girl coming into the house you have to welcome. You have plenty to do, it is food and drink you have to bring to the house. The woman that is coming home is not coming with empty hands; you would not have an empty house before her. [To the OLD WOMAN.] Maybe you don’t know, ma’am, that my son is going to be married to-morrow.
It is not a man going to his marriage that I look to for help.
Who is she, do you think, at all?
You did not tell us your name yet, ma’am.
Some call me the Poor Old Woman, and there are some that call me Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
I think I knew someone of that name once. Who was it, I wonder? It must have been someone I knew when I was a boy. No, no; I remember, I heard it in a song.
They are wondering that there were songs made for me; there have been many songs made for me. I heard one on the wind this morning.
[Sings.] Do not make a great keening
When the graves have been dug to-morrow.
Do not call the white-scarfed riders
To the burying that shall be to-morrow.
Do not spread food to call strangers
To the wakes that shall be to-morrow;
Do not give money for prayers
For the dead that shall die to-morrow.
they will have no need of prayers, they will have no need of prayers.
I do not know what that song means, but tell me something I can do for you.
Come over to me, Michael.
Hush, father, listen to her.
It is a hard service they take that help me. Many that are red-cheeked now will be pale-cheeked; many that have been free to walk the hills and the bogs and the rushes, will be sent to walk hard streets in far countries; many a good plan will be broken; many that have gathered money will not stay to spend it; many a child will be born and there will be no father at its christening to give it a name. They that had red cheeks will have pale cheeks for my sake; and for all that, they will think they are well paid.
[She goes out; her voice is heard outside singing.
They shall be remembered for ever,
They shall be alive for ever,
They shall be speaking for ever,
The people shall hear them for ever.
Look at him, Peter; he has the look of a man that has got the touch. [Raising her voice.] Look here, Michael, at the wedding clothes. Such grand clothes as these are! You have a right to fit them on now, it would be a pity to-morrow if they did not fit. The boys would be laughing at you. Take them, Michael, and go into the room and fit them on.
[She puts them on his arm.
What wedding are you talking of? What clothes will I be wearing to-morrow?
These are the clothes you are going to wear when you marry Delia Cahel to-morrow.
I had forgotten that.
[He looks at the clothes and turns towards the inner room, but stops at the sound of cheering outside.
There is the shouting come to our own door. What is it has happened?
[Neighbours come crowding in, PATRICK and DELIA with them.
There are ships in the Bay; the French are landing at Killala!
[PETER takes his pipe from his mouth and his hat off and stands up. The clothes slip from MICHAEL’S arm.
Michael! [He takes no notice.] Michael! [He turns towards her.] Why do you look at me like a stranger?
[She drops his arm. BRIDGET goes over towards her.
The boys are all hurrying down the hill-sides to join the French.
Michael won’t be going to join the French.
Tell him not to go, Peter.
It’s no use. He doesn’t hear a word we’re saying.
Try and coax him over to the fire.
Michael, Michael! You won’t leave me! You won’t join the French, and we going to be married!
[She puts her arms about him, he turns towards her as if about to yield.
They shall be speaking for ever,
The people shall hear them for ever.
[MICHAEL breaks away from DELIA, stands for a second at the door, then rushes out, following the OLD WOMAN’S voice. BRIDGET takes DELIA, who is crying silently, into her arms.
Did you see an old woman going down the path?
I did not, but I saw a young girl, and she had the walk of a queen.
Cuchulain
Leagerie
Conal
Emer, Cuchulain’s wife
Leagerie’s Wife
Conal’s Wife
Laeg, Cuchulain’s chariot-driver
Red Man
Horseboys and Scullions
Three Black Men
A house made of logs. There are two windows at the back and a door which cuts off one of the corners of the room. Through the door one can see rocks, which make the ground outside the door higher than it is within, and the sea. Through the windows one can see nothing but the sea. There are three great chairs at the opposite side to the door, with a table before them. There are cups and a flagon of ale on the table.
At the Abbey Theatre the house is orange red, and the chairs, tables and flagons black, with a slight purple tinge which is not clearly distinguishable from the black. The rocks are black, with a few green touches. The sea is green and luminous, and all the characters, except the RED MAN and the Black Men are dressed in various tints of green, one or two with touches of purple which looks nearly black. The Black Men are in dark purple and the RED MAN is altogether dressed in red. He is very tall and his height is increased by horns on the Golden Helmet. The Helmet has in reality more dark green than gold about it. The Black Men have cats’ heads painted on their black cloth caps. The effect is intentionally violent and startling.
Not a sail, not a wave, and if the sea were not purring a little like a cat, not a sound. There is no danger yet. I can see a long way for the moonlight is on the sea.
[A horn sounds.
Ah, there is something.
It must be from the land, and it is from the sea that danger comes. We need not be afraid of anything that comes from the land. [Looking out of door.] I cannot see anybody, the rocks and the trees hide a great part of the pathway upon that side.
It sounded like Cuchulain’s horn, but that’s not possible.
Yes, that’s impossible. He will never come home from Scotland. He has all he wants there. Luck in all he does. Victory and wealth and happiness flowing in on him, while here at home all goes to rack, and a man’s good name drifts away between night and morning.
I wish he would come home for all that, and put quiet and respect for those that are more than she is into that young wife of his. Only this very night your wife and my wife had to forbid her to go into the dining-hall before them. She is young, and she is Cuchulain’s wife, and so she must spread her tail like a peacock.
I can see the horn-blower now, a young man wrapped in a cloak.
Do not let him come in. Tell him to go elsewhere for shelter. This is no place to seek shelter in.
That is right. I will tell him to go away, for nobody must know the disgrace that is to fall upon Ireland this night.
Nobody of living men but us two must ever know that.
Go away, go away!
[A YOUNG MAN covered by a long cloak is standing upon the rocks outside door.
I am a traveller, and I am looking for sleep and food.
A law has been made that nobody is to come into this house to-night.
Who made that law?
We two made it, and who has so good a right? for we have to guard this house and to keep it from robbery, and from burning and from enchantment.
Then I will unmake the law. Out of my way!
[He struggles with CONAL and shoves past into the house.
I thought no living man but Leagerie could have stood against me; and Leagerie himself could not have shoved past me. What is more, no living man could if I were not taken by surprise. How could I expect to find so great a strength?
Go out of this: there is another house a little further along the shore; our wives are there with their servants, and they will give you food and drink.
It is in this house I will have food and drink.
Go out of this, or I will make you.
[The YOUNG MAN seizes LEAGERIE’S arm, and thrusting it up, passes him, and puts his shield over the chair where there is an empty place.
It is here I will spend the night, but I won’t tell you why till I have drunk. I am thirsty. What, the flagon full and the cups empty and Leagerie and Conal there! Why, what’s in the wind that Leagerie and Conal cannot drink?
It is Cuchulain.
Better go away to Scotland again, or if you stay here ask no one what has happened or what is going to happen.
What more is there that can happen so strange as that I should come home after years and that you should bid me begone?
I tell you that this is no fit house to welcome you, for it is a disgraced house.
What is it you are hinting at? You were sitting there with ale beside you and the door open, and quarrelsome thoughts. You are waiting for something or someone. It is for some messenger who is to bring you to some spoil, or to some adventure that you will keep for yourselves.
Better tell him, for he has such luck that it may be his luck will amend ours.
Yes, I had better tell him, for even now at this very door we saw what luck he had. He had the slope of the ground to help him. Is the sea quiet?
There is nothing stirring.
Cuchulain, a little after you went out of this country we were sitting here drinking. We were merry. It was late, close on to midnight, when a strange-looking man with red hair and a great sword in his hand came in through that door. He asked for ale and we gave it to him, for we were tired of drinking with one another. He became merry, and for every joke we made he made a better, and presently we all three got up and danced, and then we sang, and then he said he would show us a new game. He said he would stoop down and that one of us was to cut off his head, and afterwards one of us, or whoever had a mind for the game, was to stoop down and have his head whipped off. ‘You take off my head,’ said he, ‘and then I take off his head, and that will be a bargain and a debt between us. A head for a head, that is the game,’ said he. We laughed at him and told him he was drunk, for how could he whip off a head when his own had been whipped off? Then he began abusing us and calling us names, so I ran at him and cut his head off, and the head went on laughing where it lay, and presently he caught it up in his hands and ran out and plunged into the sea.
I have imagined as good, when I had as much ale, and believed it too.
I tell you, Cuchulain, you never did. You never imagined a story like this.
Why must you be always putting yourself up against Leagerie and myself? and what is more, it was no imagination at all. We said to ourselves that all came out of the flagon, and we laughed, and we said we will tell nobody about it. We made an oath to tell nobody. But twelve months after when we were sitting by this table, the flagon between us —
But full up to the brim —
The thought of that story had put us from our drinking —
We were telling it over to one another —
Suddenly that man came in with his head on his shoulders again, and the big sword in his hand. He asked for payment of his debt, and because neither I nor Leagerie would let him cut off our heads he began abusing us and making little of us, and saying that we were a disgrace, and that all Ireland was disgraced because of us. We had not a word to say.
If you had been here you would have been as silent as we were.
At last he said he would come again in twelve months and give us one more chance to keep our word and pay our debt. After that he went down into the sea again. Will he tell the whole world of the disgrace that has come upon us, do you think?
Whether he does or does not, we will stand there in the door with our swords out and drive him down to the sea again.
What is the use of fighting with a man whose head laughs when it has been cut off?
We might run away, but he would follow us everywhere.
He is coming; the sea is beginning to splash and rumble as it did before he came the last time.
Let us shut the door and put our backs against it.
It is too late. Look, there he is at the door. He is standing on the threshold.
[A MAN dressed in red, with a great sword and red ragged hair, and having a Golden Helmet on his head, is standing on the threshold.
Go back into the sea, old red head! If you will take off heads, take off the head of the sea turtle of Muirthemne, or of the pig of Connaught that has a moon in his belly, or of that old juggler Manannan, son of the sea, or of the red man of the Boyne, or of the King of the Cats, for they are of your own sort, and it may be they understand your ways. Go, I say, for when a man’s head is off it does not grow again. What are you standing there for? Go down, I say. If I cannot harm you with the sword I will put you down into the sea with my hands. Do you laugh at me, old red head? Go down before I lay my hands upon you.
So you also believe I was in earnest when I asked for a man’s head? It was but a drinker’s joke, an old juggling feat, to pass the time. I am the best of all drinkers and tipsy companions, the kindest there is among the Shape-changers of the world. Look, I have brought this Golden Helmet as a gift. It is for you or for Leagerie or for Conal, for the best man, and the bravest fighting-man amongst you, and you yourselves shall choose the man. Leagerie is brave, and Conal is brave. They risk their lives in battle, but they were not brave enough for my jokes and my juggling. [He lays the Golden Helmet on the ground.] Have I been too grim a joker? Well, I am forgiven now, for there is the Helmet, and let the strongest take it.
[He goes out.
It is my right. I am a year older than Leagerie, and I have fought in more battles.
Leagerie of the Battle
Has put to the sword
The cat-headed men
And carried away
Their hidden gold.
[He snatches Helmet at the last word.
Give it back to me, I say. What was the treasure but withered leaves when you got to your own door?
Give it to me, I say.
You are too young, Cuchulain. What deeds have you to be set beside our deeds?
I have not taken it for myself. It will belong to us all equally. [He goes to table and begins filling Helmet with ale.] We will pass it round and drink out of it turn about and no one will be able to claim that it belongs to him more than another. I drink to your wife, Conal, and to your wife, Leagerie, and I drink to Emer my own wife. [Shouting and blowing of horns in the distance.] What is that noise?
It is the horseboys and the huntboys and the scullions quarrelling. I know the sound, for I have heard it often of late. It is a good thing that you are home, Cuchulain, for it is your own horseboy and chariot-driver, Laeg, that is the worst of all, and now you will keep him quiet. They take down the great hunting-horns when they cannot drown one another’s voices by shouting. There – there – do you hear them now? [Shouting so as to be heard above the noise.] I drink to your good health, Cuchulain, and to your young wife, though it were well if she did not quarrel with my wife.
I am Cuchulain’s chariot-driver, and I say that my master is the best.
He is not, but Leagerie is.
No, but Conal is.
Make them listen to me, Cuchulain.
No, but listen to me.
When I said Cuchulain should have the Helmet, they blew the horns.
Conal has it. The best man has it.
Silence, all of you. What is all this uproar, Laeg, and who began it?
[The Scullions and the Horseboys point at LAEG and cry, ‘He began it.’ They keep up an all but continual murmur through what follows.
A man with a red beard came where we were sitting, and as he passed me he cried out that they were taking a golden helmet or some such thing from you and denying you the championship of Ireland. I stood up on that and I cried out that you were the best of the men of Ireland. But the others cried for Leagerie or Conal, and because I have a big voice they got down the horns to drown my voice, and as neither I nor they would keep silent we have come here to settle it. I demand that the Helmet be taken from Conal and be given to you.
[The Horseboys and the Scullions shout, ‘No, no; give it to Leagerie,’ ‘The best man has it,’ etc.
It has not been given to Conal or to anyone. I have made it into a drinking-cup that it may belong to all. I drank and then Conal drank. Give it to Leagerie, Conal, that he may drink. That will make them see that it belongs to all of us.
Cuchulain is right.
Cuchulain is right, and I am tired blowing on the big horn.
Cuchulain, you drank first.