Complete Works of J M Synge Page 2

  TRAMP Is it to go away and leave you, and you having a wake, lady of the house? I will not surely. {He takes a drink from his glass which he has beside him.} And it’s none of your tea I’m asking either.

  {He goes on stitching. Nora makes the tea.}

  MICHEAL {After looking at the tramp rather scornfully for a moment.} That’s a poor coat you have, God help you, and I’m thinking it’s a poor tailor you are with it.

  TRAMP If it’s a poor tailor I am, I’m thinking it’s a poor herd does be running back and forward after a little handful of ewes the way I seen yourself running this day, young fellow, and you coming from the fair.

  {Nora comes back to the table.}

  NORA {To Micheal in a low voice.} Let you not mind him at all, Micheal Dara, he has a drop taken and it’s soon he’ll be falling asleep.

  MICHEAL It’s no lie he’s telling, I was destroyed surely. They were that wilful they were running off into one man’s bit of oats, and another man’s bit of hay, and tumbling into the red bogs till it’s more like a pack of old goats than sheep they were. Mountain ewes is a queer breed, Nora Burke, and I’m not used to them at all.

  NORA {Settling the tea things.} There’s no one can drive a mountain ewe but the men do be reared in the Glen Malure, I’ve heard them say, and above by Rathvanna, and the Glen Imaal, men the like of Patch Darcy, God spare his soul, who would walk through five hundred sheep and miss one of them, and he not reckoning them at all.

  MICHEAL {Uneasily.} Is it the man went queer in his head the year that’s gone?

  NORA It is surely.

  TRAMP {Plaintively.} That was a great man, young fellow, a great man I’m telling you. There was never a lamb from his own ewes he wouldn’t know before it was marked, and he’ld run from this to the city of Dublin and never catch for his breath.

  NORA {Turning round quickly.} He was a great man surely, stranger, and isn’t it a grand thing when you hear a living man saying a good word of a dead man, and he mad dying?

  TRAMP It’s the truth I’m saying, God spare his soul.

  {He puts the needle under the collar of his coat, and settles himself to sleep in the chimney-corner. Nora sits down at the table; their backs are turned to the bed.}

  MICHEAL {Looking at her with a queer look.} I heard tell this day, Nora Burke, that it was on the path below Patch Darcy would be passing up and passing down, and I heard them say he’ld never past it night or morning without speaking with yourself.

  NORA {In a low voice.} It was no lie you heard, Micheal Dara.

  MICHEAL I’m thinking it’s a power of men you’re after knowing if it’s in a lonesome place you live itself.

  NORA {Giving him his tea.} It’s in a lonesome place you do have to be talking with some one, and looking for some one, in the evening of the day, and if it’s a power of men I’m after knowing they were fine men, for I was a hard child to please, and a hard girl to please {she looks at him a little sternly}, and it’s a hard woman I am to please this day, Micheal Dara, and it’s no lie I’m telling you.

  MICHEAL {Looking over to see that the tramp is asleep, and then pointing to the dead man.} Was it a hard woman to please you were when you took himself for your man?

  NORA What way would I live and I an old woman if I didn’t marry a man with a bit of a farm, and cows on it, and sheep on the back hills?

  MICHEAL {Considering.} That’s true, Nora, and maybe it’s no fool you were, for there’s good grazing on it, if it is a lonesome place, and I’m thinking it’s a good sum he’s left behind. 28

  NORA {Taking the stocking with money from her pocket, and putting it on the table.} I do be thinking in the long nights it was a big fool I was that time, Micheal Dara, for what good is a bit of a farm with cows on it, and sheep on the back hills, when you do be sitting looking out from a door the like of that door, and seeing nothing but the mists rolling down the bog, and the mists again, and they rolling up the bog, and hearing nothing but the wind crying out in the bits of broken trees were left from the great storm, and the streams roaring with the rain.

  MICHEAL {Looking at her uneasily.} What is it ails you, this night, Nora Burke? I’ve heard tell it’s the like of that talk you do hear from men, and they after being a great while on the back hills.

  NORA {Putting out the money on the table.} It’s a bad night, and a wild night, Micheal Dara, and isn’t it a great while I am at the foot of the back hills, sitting up here boiling food for himself, and food for the brood sow, and baking a cake when the night falls? {She puts up the money, listlessly, in little piles on the table.} Isn’t it a long while I am sitting here in the winter and the summer, and the fine spring, with the young growing behind me and the old passing, saying to myself one time, to look on Mary Brien who wasn’t that height {holding out her hand}, and I a fine girl growing up, and there she is now with two children, and another coming on her in three months or four. {She pauses.}

  MICHEAL {Moving over three of the piles.} That’s three pounds we have now, Nora Burke.

  NORA {Continuing in the same voice.} And saying to myself another time, to look on Peggy Cavanagh, who had the lightest hand at milking a cow that wouldn’t be easy, or turning a cake, and there she is now walking round on the roads, or sitting in a dirty old house, with no teeth in her mouth, and no sense and no more hair than you’ld see on a bit of a hill and they after burning the furze from it.

  MICHEAL That’s five pounds and ten notes, a good sum, surely!... It’s not that way you’ll be talking when you marry a young man, Nora Burke, and they were saying in the fair my lambs were the best lambs, and I got a grand price, for I’m no fool now at making a bargain when my lambs are good.

  NORA What was it you got?

  MICHEAL Twenty pound for the lot, Nora Burke.... We’ld do right to wait now till himself will be quiet awhile in the Seven Churches, and then you’ll marry me in the chapel of Rathvanna, and I’ll bring the sheep up on the bit of a hill you have on the back mountain, and we won’t have anything we’ld be afeard to let our minds on when the mist is down.

  NORA {Pouring him out some whisky.} Why would I marry you, Mike Dara? You’ll be getting old and I’ll be getting old, and in a little while I’m telling you, you’ll be sitting up in your bed — the way himself was sitting — with a shake in your face, and your teeth falling, and the white hair sticking out round you like an old bush where sheep do be leaping a gap.

  {Dan Burke sits up noiselessly from under the sheet, with his hand to his face. His white hair is sticking out round his head.}

  NORA {Goes on slowly without hearing him.} It’s a pitiful thing to be getting old, but it’s a queer thing surely. It’s a queer thing to see an old man sitting up there in his bed with no teeth in him, and a rough word in his mouth, and his chin the way it would take the bark from the edge of an oak board you’ld have building a door.... God forgive me, Micheal Dara, we’ll all be getting old, but it’s a queer thing surely.

  MICHEAL It’s too lonesome you are from living a long time with an old man, Nora, and you’re talking again like a herd that would be coming down from the thick mist {he puts his arm round her}, but it’s a fine life you’ll have now with a young man, a fine life surely....

  {Dan sneezes violently. Micheal tries to get to the door, but before he can do so, Dan jumps out of the bed in queer white clothes, with his stick in his hand, and goes over and puts his back against it.}

  MICHEAL Son of God deliver us.

  {Crosses himself, and goes backward across the room.}

  DAN {Holding up his hand at him.} Now you’ll not marry her the time I’m rotting below in the Seven Churches, and you’ll see the thing I’ll give you will follow you on the back mountains when the wind is high.

  MICHEAL {To Nora.} Get me out of it, Nora, for the love of God. He always did what you bid him, and I’m thinking he would do it now.

  NORA {Looking at the Tramp.} Is it dead he is or living?

  DAN {Turning towards her.} It’s little you care if it’s dead o
r living I am, but there’ll be an end now of your fine times, and all the talk you have of young men and old men, and of the mist coming up or going down. {He opens the door.} You’ll walk out now from that door, Nora Burke, and it’s not to-morrow, or the next day, or any day of your life, that you’ll put in your foot through it again.

  TRAMP {Standing up.} It’s a hard thing you’re saying for an old man, master of the house, and what would the like of her do if you put her out on the roads?

  DAN Let her walk round the like of Peggy Cavanagh below, and be begging money at the cross-road, or selling songs to the men. {To Nora.} Walk out now, Nora Burke, and it’s soon you’ll be getting old with that life, I’m telling you; it’s soon your teeth’ll be falling and your head’ll be the like of a bush where sheep do be leaping a gap.

  {He pauses: she looks round at Micheal.}

  MICHEAL {Timidly.} There’s a fine Union below in Rathdrum.

  DAN The like of her would never go there.... It’s lonesome roads she’ll be going and hiding herself away till the end will come, and they find her stretched like a dead sheep with the frost on her, or the big spiders, maybe, and they putting their webs on her, in the butt of a ditch.

  NORA {Angrily.} What way will yourself be that day, Daniel Burke? What way will you be that day and you lying down a long while in your grave? For it’s bad you are living, and it’s bad you’ll be when you’re dead. {She looks at him a moment fiercely, then half turns away and speaks plaintively again.} Yet, if it is itself, Daniel Burke, who can help it at all, and let you be getting up into your bed, and not be taking your death with the wind blowing on you, and the rain with it, and you half in your skin.

  DAN It’s proud and happy you’ld be if I was getting my death the day I was shut of yourself. {Pointing to the door.} Let you walk out through that door, I’m telling you, and let you not be passing this way if it’s hungry you are, or wanting a bed.

  TRAMP {Pointing to Micheal.} Maybe himself would take her.

  NORA What would he do with me now?

  TRAMP Give you the half of a dry bed, and good food in your mouth.

  DAN Is it a fool you think him, stranger, or is it a fool you were born yourself? Let her walk out of that door, and let you go along with her, stranger — if it’s raining itself — for it’s too much talk you have surely.

  TRAMP {Going over to Nora.} We’ll be going now, lady of the house — the rain is falling, but the air is kind and maybe it’ll be a grand morning by the grace of God.

  NORA What good is a grand morning when I’m destroyed surely, and I going out to get my death walking the roads?

  TRAMP You’ll not be getting your death with myself, lady of the house, and I knowing all the ways a man can put food in his mouth.... We’ll be going now, I’m telling you, and the time you’ll be feeling the cold, and the frost, and the great rain, and the sun again, and the south wind blowing in the glens, you’ll not be sitting up on a wet ditch, the way you’re after sitting in the place, making yourself old with looking on each day, and it passing you by. You’ll be saying one time, “It’s a grand evening, by the grace of God,” and another time, “It’s a wild night, God help us, but it’ll pass surely.” You’ll be saying —

  DAN {Goes over to them crying out impatiently.} Go out of that door, I’m telling you, and do your blathering below in the glen.

  {Nora gathers a few things into her shawl.}

  TRAMP {At the door.} Come along with me now, lady of the house, and it’s not my blather you’ll be hearing only, but you’ll be hearing the herons crying out over the black lakes, and you’ll be hearing the grouse and the owls with them, and the larks and the big thrushes when the days are warm, and it’s not from the like of them you’ll be hearing a talk of getting old like Peggy Cavanagh, and losing the hair off you, and the light of your eyes, but it’s fine songs you’ll be hearing when the sun goes up, and there’ll be no old fellow wheezing, the like of a sick sheep, close to your ear.

  NORA I’m thinking it’s myself will be wheezing that time with lying down under the Heavens when the night is cold; but you’ve a fine bit of talk, stranger, and it’s with yourself I’ll go.

  {She goes towards the door, then turns to Dan.} You think it’s a grand thing you’re after doing with your letting on to be dead, but what is it at all? What way would a woman live in a lonesome place the like of this place, and she not making a talk with the men passing? And what way will yourself live from this day, with none to care for you? What is it you’ll have now but a black life, Daniel Burke, and it’s not long I’m telling you, till you’ll be lying again under that sheet, and you dead surely.

  {She goes out with the Tramp. Micheal is slinking after them, but Dan stops him.}

  DAN Sit down now and take a little taste of the stuff, Micheal Dara. There’s a great drouth on me, and the night is young.

  MICHEAL {Coming back to the table.} And it’s very dry I am, surely, with the fear of death you put on me, and I after driving mountain ewes since the turn of the day.

  DAN {Throwing away his stick.} I was thinking to strike you, Micheal Dara, but you’re a quiet man, God help you, and I don’t mind you at all.

  {He pours out two glasses of whisky, and gives one to Micheal.}

  DAN Your good health, Micheal Dara.

  MICHEAL God reward you, Daniel Burke, and may you have a long life, and a quiet life, and good health with it. {They drink.}

  CURTAIN.

  Riders to the Sea

  A PLAY IN ONE ACT

  First performed on 25 February 1904 at Molesworth Hall, this one-act tragedy is set in the Aran Islands, Inishmaan, and like all of Synge’s plays, it is noted for capturing the poetic dialogue of rural Ireland. The plot is based on the hopeless struggle of a people against the impersonal, but relentless cruelty of the sea. In 1897, Synge had been encouraged by his friend and fellow author W. B. Yeats to visit the Aran Islands. He went on to stay there every summer from 1898 to 1903. While there, he was intrigued by the story of a man from Inishmaan whose body washed up on the shore of an island of County Donegal, inspiring the plot for Riders to the Sea.

  The drama introduces the grief-stricken widow and mother of eight children Maurya, who has lost her husband and five sons to the sea. Nora and her elder daughter Cathleen receive word from the priest that a body, believed to be the son Michael, has washed up on shore in Donegal, on the Irish mainland north of their home island of Inishmaan. The younger son Bartley is planning to sail to Connemara to sell a horse and ignores Maurya’s pleas to stay. Maurya predicts that by nightfall she will have no living sons and her daughters chide her for sending Bartley off with an ill word. Maurya goes after Bartley to bless his voyage, and Nora and Cathleen receive clothing from the drowned corpse that confirms it is Michael. Maurya returns home claiming to have seen the ghost of Michael riding behind Bartley and laments the loss of the men in her family to the sea, after which several villagers bring in the corpse of Bartley, who has fallen off his horse into the sea and drowned.

  A pervading theme of the drama is the subtle paganism of the people of rural Ireland. Following his dismissal of Christianity, Synge found that the predominantly Roman Catholic Ireland still held on to many folk tales and superstitions inspired by the old Celtic paganism. Riders to the Sea explores this idea, as a set of deeply religious characters find themselves at odds with an invincible force of nature — the sea. While the family is clearly Catholic, they still find themselves wary of the supernatural characteristics of natural elements.

  W. B. Yeats photographed in 1903 by Alice Boughton

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  PERSONS

  SCENE

  View of the Inishmore coastline, Aran Islands

  INTRODUCTION

  IT MUST HAVE been on Synge’s second visit to the Aran Islands that he had the experience out of which was wrought what many believe to be his greatest play. The scene of “Riders to the Sea” is laid in a cottage on Inishmaan, the middle and
most interesting island of the Aran group. While Synge was on Inishmaan, the story came to him of a man whose body had been washed up on the far away coast of Donegal, and who, by reason of certain peculiarities of dress, was suspected to be from the island. In due course, he was recognised as a native of Inishmaan, in exactly the manner described in the play, and perhaps one of the most poignantly vivid passages in Synge’s book on “The Aran Islands” relates the incident of his burial.

  The other element in the story which Synge introduces into the play is equally true. Many tales of “second sight” are to be heard among Celtic races. In fact, they are so common as to arouse little or no wonder in the minds of the people. It is just such a tale, which there seems no valid reason for doubting, that Synge heard, and that gave the title, “Riders to the Sea”, to his play.

  It is the dramatist’s high distinction that he has simply taken the materials which lay ready to his hand, and by the power of sympathy woven them, with little modification, into a tragedy which, for dramatic irony and noble pity, has no equal among its contemporaries. Great tragedy, it is frequently claimed with some show of justice, has perforce departed with the advance of modern life and its complicated tangle of interests and creature comforts. A highly developed civilisation, with its attendant specialisation of culture, tends ever to lose sight of those elemental forces, those primal emotions, naked to wind and sky, which are the stuff from which great drama is wrought by the artist, but which, as it would seem, are rapidly departing from us. It is only in the far places, where solitary communion may be had with the elements, that this dynamic life is still to be found continuously, and it is accordingly thither that the dramatist, who would deal with spiritual life disengaged from the environment of an intellectual maze, must go for that experience which will beget in him inspiration for his art. The Aran Islands from which Synge gained his inspiration are rapidly losing that sense of isolation and self-dependence, which has hitherto been their rare distinction, and which furnished the motivation for Synge’s masterpiece. Whether or not Synge finds a successor, it is none the less true that in English dramatic literature “Riders to the Sea” has an historic value which it would be difficult to over-estimate in its accomplishment and its possibilities. A writer in The Manchester Guardian shortly after Synge’s death phrased it rightly when he wrote that it is “the tragic masterpiece of our language in our time; wherever it has been played in Europe from Galway to Prague, it has made the word tragedy mean something more profoundly stirring and cleansing to the spirit than it did.”