Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tinker’s Wedding, by J. M. Synge This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Tinker’s Wedding Author: J. M. Synge Release Date: May 1998 [EBook #1328] Last Updated: January 26, 2019 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TINKER’S WEDDING *** This etext was prepared by Judy Boss
| PREFACE. |
| THE TINKER’S WEDDING |
| PERSONS. |
| ACT I. |
| ACT II. |
The drama is made serious—in the French sense of the word—not by the degree in which it is taken up with problems that are serious in themselves, but by the degree in which it gives the nourishment, not very easy to define, on which our imaginations live. We should not go to the theatre as we go to a chemist’s, or a dram-shop, but as we go to a dinner, where the food we need is taken with pleasure and excitement. This was nearly always so in Spain and England and France when the drama was at its richest—the infancy and decay of the drama tend to be didactic—but in these days the playhouse is too often stocked with the drugs of many seedy problems, or with the absinthe or vermouth of the last musical comedy.
The drama, like the symphony, does not teach or prove anything. Analysts with their problems, and teachers with their systems, are soon as old-fashioned as the pharmacopœia of Galen,—look at Ibsen and the Germans—but the best plays of Ben Jonson and Molière can no more go out of fashion than the black-berries on the hedges.
Of the things which nourish the imagination humour is one of the most needful, and it is dangerous to limit or destroy it. Baudelaire calls laughter the greatest sign of the Satanic element in man; and where a country loses its humor, as some towns in Ireland are doing, there will be morbidity of mind, as Baudelaire’s mind was morbid.
In the greater part of Ireland, however, the whole people, from the tinkers to the clergy, have still a life, and view of life, that are rich and genial and humorous. I do not think that these country people, who have so much humor themselves, will mind being laughed at without malice, as the people in every country have been laughed at in their own comedies.
J. M. S.
December 2nd, 1907.
MICHAEL BYRNE, a tinker.
MARY BYRNE, an old woman, his mother.
SARAH CASEY, a young tinker woman.
A PRIEST.
SCENE: A Village roadside after nightfall. A fire of sticks is burning near
the ditch a little to the right. Michael is working beside it. In the
background, on the left, a sort of tent and ragged clothes drying on the hedge.
On the right a chapel-gate.
SARAH CASEY
coming in on right, eagerly.—We’ll see his reverence this
place, Michael Byrne, and he passing backward to his house to-night.
MICHAEL
grimly.—That’ll be a sacred and a sainted joy!
SARAH
sharply.—It’ll be small joy for yourself if you aren’t
ready with my wedding ring. (She goes over to him.) Is it near done this
time, or what way is it at all?
MICHAEL
A poor way only, Sarah Casey, for it’s the divil’s job making a
ring, and you’ll be having my hands destroyed in a short while the way
I’ll not be able to make a tin can at all maybe at the dawn of day.
SARAH
sitting down beside him and throwing sticks on the fire.—If
it’s the divil’s job, let you mind it, and leave your speeches that
would choke a fool.
MICHAEL
slowly and glumly.—And it’s you’ll go talking of
fools, Sarah Casey, when no man did ever hear a lying story even of your like
unto this mortal day. You to be going beside me a great while, and rearing a
lot of them, and then to be setting off with your talk of getting married, and
your driving me to it, and I not asking it at all.
[Sarah turns her back to him and arranges something in the ditch.
MICHAEL
angrily.—Can’t you speak a word when I’m asking what
is it ails you since the moon did change?
SARAH
musingly.—I’m thinking there isn’t anything ails me,
Michael Byrne; but the spring-time is a queer time, and it’s queer
thoughts maybe I do think at whiles.
MICHAEL
It’s hard set you’d be to think queerer than welcome, Sarah Casey;
but what will you gain dragging me to the priest this night, I’m saying,
when it’s new thoughts you’ll be thinking at the dawn of day?
SARAH
teasingly.—It’s at the dawn of day I do be thinking
I’d have a right to be going off to the rich tinkers do be travelling
from Tibradden to the Tara Hill; for it’d be a fine life to be driving
with young Jaunting Jim, where there wouldn’t be any big hills to break
the back of you, with walking up and walking down.
MICHAEL
with dismay.—It’s the like of that you do be thinking!
SARAH
The like of that, Michael Byrne, when there is a bit of sun in it, and a kind
air, and a great smell coming from the thorn-trees is above your head.
MICHAEL
looks at her for a moment with horror, and then hands her the
ring.—Will that fit you now?
SARAH
trying it on.—It’s making it tight you are, and the edges
sharp on the tin.
MICHAEL
looking at it carefully.—It’s the fat of your own finger,
Sarah Casey; and isn’t it a mad thing I’m saying again that
you’d be asking marriage of me, or making a talk of going away from me,
and you thriving and getting your good health by the grace of the Almighty God?
SARAH
giving it back to him.—Fix it now, and it’ll do, if
you’re wary you don’t squeeze it again.
MICHAEL
moodily, working again.—It’s easy saying be wary;
there’s many things easy said, Sarah Casey, you’d wonder a fool
even would be saying at all. (He starts violently.) The divil mend you,
I’m scalded again!
SARAH
scornfully.—If you are, it’s a clumsy man you are this
night, Michael Byrne (raising her voice); and let you make haste now, or
herself will be coming with the porter.
MICHAEL
defiantly, raising his voice.—Let me make haste? I’ll be
making haste maybe to hit you a great clout; for I’m thinking on the day
I got you above at Rathvanna, and the way you began crying out and saying,
“I’ll go back to my ma,” and I’m thinking on the way I
came behind you that time, and hit you a great clout in the lug, and how quiet
and easy it was you came along with me from that hour to this present day.
SARAH
standing up and throwing all her sticks into the fire.—And a big
fool I was too, maybe; but we’ll be seeing Jaunting Jim to-morrow in
Ballinaclash, and he after getting a great price for his white foal in the
horse-fair of Wicklow, the way it’ll be a great sight to see him
squandering his share of gold, and he with a grand eye for a fine horse, and a
grand eye for a woman.
MICHAEL
working again with impatience.—The divil do him good with the two
of them.
SARAH
kicking up the ashes with her foot.—Ah, he’s a great lad,
I’m telling you, and it’s proud and happy I’ll be to see him,
and he the first one called me the Beauty of Ballinacree, a fine name for a
woman.
MICHAEL
with contempt.—It’s the like of that name they do be putting
on the horses they have below racing in Arklow. It’s easy pleased you
are, Sarah Casey, easy pleased with a big word, or the liar speaks it.
SARAH
Liar!
MICHAEL
Liar, surely.
SARAH
indignantly.—Liar, is it? Didn’t you ever hear tell of the
peelers followed me ten miles along the Glen Malure, and they talking love to
me in the dark night, or of the children you’ll meet coming from school
and they saying one to the other, “It’s this day we seen Sarah
Casey, the Beauty of Ballinacree, a great sight surely.”
MICHAEL
God help the lot of them!
SARAH
It’s yourself you’ll be calling God to help, in two weeks or three,
when you’ll be waking up in the dark night and thinking you see me coming
with the sun on me, and I driving a high cart with Jaunting Jim going behind.
It’s lonesome and cold you’ll be feeling the ditch where
you’ll be lying down that night, I’m telling you, and you hearing
the old woman making a great noise in her sleep, and the bats squeaking in the
trees.
MICHAEL
Whist. I hear some one coming the road.
SARAH
looking out right.—It’s some one coming forward from the
doctor’s door.
MICHAEL
It’s often his reverence does be in there playing cards, or drinking a
sup, or singing songs, until the dawn of day.
SARAH
It’s a big boast of a man with a long step on him and a trumpeting voice.
It’s his reverence surely; and if you have the ring done, it’s a
great bargain we’ll make now and he after drinking his glass.
MICHAEL
going to her and giving her the ring.—There’s your ring,
Sarah Casey; but I’m thinking he’ll walk by and not stop to speak
with the like of us at all.
SARAH
tidying herself, in great excitement.—Let you be sitting here and
keeping a great blaze, the way he can look on my face; and let you seem to be
working, for it’s great love the like of him have to talk of work.
MICHAEL
moodily, sitting down and beginning to work at a tin
can.—Great love surely.
SARAH
eagerly.—Make a great blaze now, Michael Byrne.
[The priest comes in on right; she comes forward in front of him.
SARAH
in a very plausible voice.—Good evening, your reverence.
It’s a grand fine night, by the grace of God.
PRIEST
The Lord have mercy on us! What kind of a living woman is it that you are at
all?
SARAH
It’s Sarah Casey I am, your reverence, the Beauty of Ballinacree, and
it’s Michael Byrne is below in the ditch.
PRIEST
A holy pair, surely! Let you get out of my way.
[He tries to pass by.
SARAH
keeping in front of him.—We are wanting a little word with your
reverence.
PRIEST
I haven’t a halfpenny at all. Leave the road I’m saying.
SARAH
It isn’t a halfpenny we’re asking, holy father; but we were
thinking maybe we’d have a right to be getting married; and we were
thinking it’s yourself would marry us for not a halfpenny at all; for
you’re a kind man, your reverence, a kind man with the poor.
PRIEST
with astonishment.—Is it marry you for nothing at all?
SARAH
It is, your reverence; and we were thinking maybe you’d give us a little
small bit of silver to pay for the ring.
PRIEST
loudly.—Let you hold your tongue; let you be quiet, Sarah Casey.
I’ve no silver at all for the like of you; and if you want to be married,
let you pay your pound. I’d do it for a pound only, and that’s
making it a sight cheaper than I’d make it for one of my own pairs is
living here in the place.
SARAH
Where would the like of us get a pound, your reverence?
PRIEST
Wouldn’t you easy get it with your selling asses, and making cans, and
your stealing east and west in Wicklow and Wexford and the county Meath? (He
tries to pass her.) Let you leave the road, and not be plaguing me more.
SARAH
pleadingly, taking money from her pocket.—Wouldn’t you have
a little mercy on us, your reverence? (Holding out money.)
Wouldn’t you marry us for a half a sovereign, and it a nice shiny one
with a view on it of the living king’s mamma?
PRIEST
If it’s ten shillings you have, let you get ten more the same way, and
I’ll marry you then.
SARAH
whining.—It’s two years we are getting that bit, your
reverence, with our pence and our halfpence and an odd three-penny bit; and if
you don’t marry us now, himself and the old woman, who has a great
drouth, will be drinking it to-morrow in the fair (she puts her apron to her
eyes, half sobbing), and then I won’t be married any time, and
I’ll be saying till I’m an old woman: “It’s a cruel and
a wicked thing to be bred poor.”
PRIEST
turning up towards the fire.—Let you not be crying, Sarah Casey.
It’s a queer woman you are to be crying at the like of that, and you your
whole life walking the roads.
SARAH
sobbing.—It’s two years we are getting the gold, your
reverence, and now you won’t marry us for that bit, and we hard-working
poor people do be making cans in the dark night, and blinding our eyes with the
black smoke from the bits of twigs we do be burning.
[An old woman is heard singing tipsily on the left.
PRIEST
looking at the can Michael is making.—When will you have that can
done, Michael Byrne?
MICHAEL
In a short space only, your reverence, for I’m putting the last dab of
solder on the rim.
PRIEST
Let you get a crown along with the ten shillings and the gallon can, Sarah
Casey, and I will wed you so.
MARY
suddenly shouting behind, tipsily.—Larry was a fine lad, I’m
saying; Larry was a fine lad, Sarah Casey—
MICHAEL
Whist, now, the two of you. There’s my mother coming, and she’d
have us destroyed if she heard the like of that talk the time she’s been
drinking her fill.
MARY
comes in singing
And when we asked him what way he’d die,
And he hanging unrepented,
“Begob,” says Larry, “that’s all in my eye,
By the clergy first invented.”
SARAH
Give me the jug now, or you’ll have it spilt in the ditch.
MARY
holding the jug with both her hands, in a stilted voice.—Let you
leave me easy, Sarah Casey. I won’t spill it, I’m saying. God help
you; are you thinking it’s frothing full to the brim it is at this hour
of the night, and I after carrying it in my two hands a long step from Jemmy
Neill’s?
MICHAEL
anxiously.—Is there a sup left at all?
SARAH
looking into the jug.—A little small sup only I’m thinking.
MARY
sees the priest, and holds out jug towards him.—God save your
reverence. I’m after bringing down a smart drop; and let you drink it up
now, for it’s a middling drouthy man you are at all times, God forgive
you, and this night is cruel dry.
[She tries to go towards him. Sarah holds her back.
PRIEST
waving her away.—Let you not be falling to the flames. Keep off,
I’m saying.
MARY
persuasively.—Let you not be shy of us, your reverence.
Aren’t we all sinners, God help us! Drink a sup now, I’m telling
you; and we won’t let on a word about it till the Judgment Day.
[She takes up a tin mug, pours some porter into it, and gives it to him.
MARY
singing, and holding the jug in her hand.
A lonesome ditch in Ballygan
The day you’re beating a tenpenny can;
A lonesome bank in Ballyduff
The time . . .
[She breaks off. It’s a bad, wicked song, Sarah Casey; and let you
put me down now in the ditch, and I won’t sing it till himself will be
gone; for it’s bad enough he is, I’m thinking, without ourselves
making him worse.
SARAH
putting her down, to the priest, half laughing.—Don’t mind
her at all, your reverence. She’s no shame the time she’s a drop
taken; and if it was the Holy Father from Rome was in it, she’d give him
a little sup out of her mug, and say the same as she’d say to yourself.
MARY
to the priest.—Let you drink it up, holy father. Let you drink it
up, I’m saying, and not be letting on you wouldn’t do the like of
it, and you with a stack of pint bottles above, reaching the sky.
PRIEST
with resignation.—Well, here’s to your good health, and God
forgive us all.
[He drinks.
MARY
That’s right now, your reverence, and the blessing of God be on you.
Isn’t it a grand thing to see you sitting down, with no pride in you, and
drinking a sup with the like of us, and we the poorest, wretched, starving
creatures you’d see any place on the earth?
PRIEST
If it’s starving you are itself, I’m thinking it’s well for
the like of you that do be drinking when there’s drouth on you, and lying
down to sleep when your legs are stiff. (He sighs gloomily.) What would
you do if it was the like of myself you were, saying Mass with your mouth dry,
and running east and west for a sick call maybe, and hearing the rural people
again and they saying their sins?
MARY
with compassion.—It’s destroyed you must be hearing the sins
of the rural people on a fine spring.
PRIEST
with despondency.—It’s a hard life, I’m telling you, a
hard life, Mary Byrne; and there’s the bishop coming in the morning, and
he an old man, would have you destroyed if he seen a thing at all.
MARY
with great sympathy.—It’d break my heart to hear you talking
and sighing the like of that, your reverence. (She pats him on the
knee.) Let you rouse up, now, if it’s a poor, single man you are
itself, and I’ll be singing you songs unto the dawn of day.
PRIEST
interrupting her.—What is it I want with your songs when
it’d be better for the like of you, that’ll soon die, to be down on
your two knees saying prayers to the Almighty God?
MARY
If it’s prayers I want, you’d have a right to say one yourself,
holy father; for we don’t have them at all, and I’ve heard tell a
power of times it’s that you’re for. Say one now, your reverence,
for I’ve heard a power of queer things and I walking the world, but
there’s one thing I never heard any time, and that’s a real priest
saying a prayer.
PRIEST
The Lord protect us!
MARY
It’s no lie, holy father. I often heard the rural people making a queer
noise and they going to rest; but who’d mind the like of them? And
I’m thinking it should be great game to hear a scholar, the like of you,
speaking Latin to the saints above.
PRIEST
scandalized.—Stop your talking, Mary Byrne; you’re an old
flagrant heathen, and I’ll stay no more with the lot of you.
[He rises.
MARY
catching hold of him.—Stop till you say a prayer, your reverence;
stop till you say a little prayer, I’m telling you, and I’ll give
you my blessing and the last sup from the jug.
PRIEST
breaking away.—Leave me go, Mary Byrne; for I have never met your
like for hard abominations the score and two years I’m living in the
place.
MARY
innocently.—Is that the truth?
PRIEST
—It is, then, and God have mercy on your soul.
[The priest goes towards the left, and Sarah follows him.
SARAH
in a low voice.—And what time will you do the thing I’m
asking, holy father? for I’m thinking you’ll do it surely, and not
have me growing into an old wicked heathen like herself.
MARY
calling out shrilly.—Let you be walking back here, Sarah Casey,
and not be talking whisper-talk with the like of him in the face of the
Almighty God.
SARAH
to the priest.—Do you hear her now, your reverence? Isn’t it
true, surely, she’s an old, flagrant heathen, would destroy the world?
PRIEST
to Sarah, moving off.—Well, I’ll be coming down early to the
chapel, and let you come to me a while after you see me passing, and bring the
bit of gold along with you, and the tin can. I’ll marry you for them two,
though it’s a pitiful small sum; for I wouldn’t be easy in my soul
if I left you growing into an old, wicked heathen the like of her.
SARAH
following him out.—The blessing of the Almighty God be on you,
holy father, and that He may reward and watch you from this present day.
MARY
nudging Michael.—Did you see that, Michael Byrne? Didn’t you
hear me telling you she’s flighty a while back since the change of the
moon? With her fussing for marriage, and she making whisper-talk with one man
or another man along by the road.
MICHAEL
—Whist now, or she’ll knock the head of you the time she comes
back.
MARY
—Ah, it’s a bad, wicked way the world is this night, if
there’s a fine air in it itself. You’d never have seen me, and I a
young woman, making whisper-talk with the like of him, and he the fearfullest
old fellow you’d see any place walking the world.
[Sarah comes back quickly.
MARY
calling out to her.—What is it you’re after whispering above
with himself?
SARAH
exultingly.—Lie down, and leave us in peace. She whispers with
Michael.
MARY
poking out her pipe with a straw, sings—
She’d whisper with one, and she’d whisper with two—
She breaks off coughing.—My singing voice is gone for this night,
Sarah Casey. (She lights her pipe.) But if it’s flighty you are
itself, you’re a grand handsome woman, the glory of tinkers, the pride of
Wicklow, the Beauty of Ballinacree. I wouldn’t have you lying down and
you lonesome to sleep this night in a dark ditch when the spring is coming in
the trees; so let you sit down there by the big bough, and I’ll be
telling you the finest story you’d hear any place from Dundalk to
Ballinacree, with great queens in it, making themselves matches from the start
to the end, and they with shiny silks on them the length of the day, and white
shifts for the night.
MICHAEL
standing up with the tin can in his hand.—Let you go asleep, and
not have us destroyed.
MARY
lying back sleepily.—Don’t mind him, Sarah Casey. Sit down
now, and I’ll be telling you a story would be fit to tell a woman the
like of you in the springtime of the year.
SARAH
taking the can from Michael, and tying it up in a piece of
sacking.—That’ll not be rusting now in the dews of night.
I’ll put it up in the ditch the way it will be handy in the morning; and
now we’ve that done, Michael Byrne, I’ll go along with you and
welcome for Tim Flaherty’s hens.
[She puts the can in the ditch.
MARY
sleepily.—I’ve a grand story of the great queens of Ireland
with white necks on them the like of Sarah Casey, and fine arms would hit you a
slap the way Sarah Casey would hit you.
SARAH
beckoning on the left.—Come along now, Michael, while she’s
falling asleep.
[He goes towards left. Mary sees that they are going, starts up suddenly, and turns over on her hands and knees.
MARY
piteously.—Where is it you’re going? Let you walk back here,
and not be leaving me lonesome when the night is fine.
SARAH
Don’t be waking the world with your talk when we’re going up
through the back wood to get two of Tim Flaherty’s hens are roosting in
the ash-tree above at the well.
MARY
And it’s leaving me lone you are? Come back here, Sarah Casey. Come back
here, I’m saying; or if it’s off you must go, leave me the two
little coppers you have, the way I can walk up in a short while, and get
another pint for my sleep.
SARAH
It’s too much you have taken. Let you stretch yourself out and take a
long sleep; for isn’t that the best thing any woman can do, and she an
old drinking heathen like yourself.
[She and Michael go out left.
MARY
standing up slowly.—It’s gone they are, and I with my feet
that weak under me you’d knock me down with a rush, and my head with a
noise in it the like of what you’d hear in a stream and it running
between two rocks and rain falling. (She goes over to the ditch where the
can is tied in sacking, and takes it down.) What good am I this night, God
help me? What good are the grand stories I have when it’s few would
listen to an old woman, few but a girl maybe would be in great fear the time
her hour was come, or a little child wouldn’t be sleeping with the hunger
on a cold night? (She takes the can from the sacking and fits in three empty
bottles and straw in its place, and ties them up.) Maybe the two of them
have a good right to be walking out the little short while they’d be
young; but if they have itself, they’ll not keep Mary Byrne from her full
pint when the night’s fine, and there’s a dry moon in the sky.
(She takes up the can, and puts the package back in the ditch.) Jemmy
Neill’s a decent lad; and he’ll give me a good drop for the can;
and maybe if I keep near the peelers to-morrow for the first bit of the fair,
herself won’t strike me at all; and if she does itself, what’s a
little stroke on your head beside sitting lonesome on a fine night, hearing the
dogs barking, and the bats squeaking, and you saying over, it’s a short
while only till you die.
[She goes out singing “The night before Larry was stretched.”
SCENE: The same. Early morning. Sarah is washing her face in an old bucket; then plaits her hair. Michael is tidying himself also. Mary Byrne is asleep against the ditch.
SARAH
to Michael, with pleased excitement.—Go over, now, to the bundle
beyond, and you’ll find a kind of a red handkerchief to put upon your
neck, and a green one for myself.
MICHAEL
getting them.—You’re after spending more money on the like
of them. Well, it’s a power we’re losing this time, and we not
gaining a thing at all. (With the handkerchief.) Is it them two?
SARAH
It is, Michael. (She takes one of them.) Let you tackle that one round
under your chin; and let you not forget to take your hat from your head when we
go up into the church. I asked Biddy Flynn below, that’s after marrying
her second man, and she told me it’s the like of that they do.
[Mary yawns, and turns over in her sleep.
SARAH
with anxiety.—There she is waking up on us, and I thinking
we’d have the job done before she’d know of it at all.
MICHAEL
She’ll be crying out now, and making game of us, and saying it’s
fools we are surely.
SARAH
I’ll send her to sleep again, or get her out of it one way or another;
for it’d be a bad case to have a divil’s scholar the like of her
turning the priest against us maybe with her godless talk.
MARY
waking up, and looking at them with curiosity,
blandly.—That’s fine things you have on you, Sarah Casey; and
it’s a great stir you’re making this day, washing your face.
I’m that used to the hammer, I wouldn’t hear it at all, but washing
is a rare thing, and you’re after waking me up, and I having a great
sleep in the sun.
[She looks around cautiously at the bundle in which she has hidden the bottles.
SARAH
coaxingly.—Let you stretch out again for a sleep, Mary Byrne, for
it’ll be a middling time yet before we go to the fair.
MARY
with suspicion.—That’s a sweet tongue you have, Sarah Casey;
but if sleep’s a grand thing, it’s a grand thing to be waking up a
day the like of this, when there’s a warm sun in it, and a kind air, and
you’ll hear the cuckoos singing and crying out on the top of the hills.
SARAH
If it’s that gay you are, you’d have a right to walk down and see
would you get a few halfpence from the rich men do be driving early to the
fair.
MARY
When rich men do be driving early, it’s queer tempers they have, the Lord
forgive them; the way it’s little but bad words and swearing out
you’d get from them all.
SARAH
losing her temper and breaking out fiercely.—Then if you’ll
neither beg nor sleep, let you walk off from this place where you’re not
wanted, and not have us waiting for you maybe at the turn of day.
MARY
rather uneasy, turning to Michael.—God help our spirits, Michael;
there she is again rousing cranky from the break of dawn. Oh! isn’t she a
terror since the moon did change? (She gets up slowly.) And I’d
best be going forward to sell the gallon can.
[She goes over and takes up the bundle.
SARAH
crying out angrily.—Leave that down, Mary Byrne. Oh! aren’t
you the scorn of women to think that you’d have that drouth and roguery
on you that you’d go drinking the can and the dew not dried from the
grass?
MARY
in a feigned tone of pacification, with the bundle still in her
hand.—It’s not a drouth but a heartburn I have this day, Sarah
Casey, so I’m going down to cool my gullet at the blessed well; and
I’ll sell the can to the parson’s daughter below, a harmless poor
creature would fill your hand with shillings for a brace of lies.
SARAH
Leave down the tin can, Mary Byrne, for I hear the drouth upon your tongue
to-day.
MARY
There’s not a drink-house from this place to the fair, Sarah Casey; the
way you’ll find me below with the full price, and not a farthing gone.
[She turns to go off left.
SARAH
jumping up, and picking up the hammer threateningly.—Put down that
can, I’m saying.
MARY
looking at her for a moment in terror, and putting down the bundle in the
ditch.—Is it raving mad you’re going, Sarah Casey, and you the
pride of women to destroy the world?
SARAH
going up to her, and giving her a push off left.—I’ll show
you if it’s raving mad I am. Go on from this place, I’m saying, and
be wary now.
MARY
turning back after her.—If I go, I’ll be telling old and
young you’re a weathered heathen savage, Sarah Casey, the one did put
down a head of the parson’s cabbage to boil in the pot with your clothes
(the Priest comes in behind her, on the left, and listens), and quenched
the flaming candles on the throne of God the time your shadow fell within the
pillars of the chapel door.
[Sarah turns on her, and she springs round nearly into the Priest’s arms. When she sees him, she claps her shawl over her mouth, and goes up towards the ditch, laughing to herself.
PRIEST
going to Sarah, half terrified at the language that he has
heard.—Well, aren’t you a fearful lot? I’m thinking
it’s only humbug you were making at the fall of night, and you
won’t need me at all.
SARAH
with anger still in her voice.—Humbug is it! Would you be turning
back upon your spoken promise in the face of God?
PRIEST
dubiously.—I’m thinking you were never christened, Sarah
Casey; and it would be a queer job to go dealing Christian sacraments unto the
like of you. (Persuasively feeling in his pocket.) So it would be best,
maybe, I’d give you a shilling for to drink my health, and let you walk
on, and not trouble me at all.
SARAH
That’s your talking, is it? If you don’t stand to your spoken word,
holy father, I’ll make my own complaint to the mitred bishop in the face
of all.
PRIEST
You’d do that!
SARAH
I would surely, holy father, if I walked to the city of Dublin with blood and
blisters on my naked feet.
PRIEST
uneasily scratching his ear.—I wish this day was done, Sarah
Casey; for I’m thinking it’s a risky thing getting mixed up in any
matters with the like of you.
SARAH
Be hasty then, and you’ll have us done with before you’d think at
all.
PRIEST
giving in.—Well, maybe it’s right you are, and let you come
up to the chapel when you see me looking from the door.
[He goes up into the chapel.
SARAH
calling after him.—We will, and God preserve you, holy father.
MARY
coming down to them, speaking with amazement and consternation, but without
anger.—Going to the chapel! It’s at marriage you’re
fooling again, maybe? (Sarah turns her back on her.) It was for that you
were washing your face, and you after sending me for porter at the fall of
night the way I’d drink a good half from the jug? (Going round in
front of Sarah.) Is it at marriage you’re fooling again?
SARAH
triumphantly.—It is, Mary Byrne. I’ll be married now in a
short while; and from this day there will no one have a right to call me a
dirty name and I selling cans in Wicklow or Wexford or the city of Dublin
itself.
MARY
turning to Michael.—And it’s yourself is wedding her,
Michael Byrne?
MICHAEL
gloomily.—It is, God spare us.
MARY
looks at Sarah for a moment, and then bursts out into a laugh of
derision.—Well, she’s a tight, hardy girl, and it’s no
lie; but I never knew till this day it was a black born fool I had for a son.
You’ll breed asses, I’ve heard them say, and poaching dogs, and
horses’d go licking the wind, but it’s a hard thing, God help me,
to breed sense in a son.
MICHAEL
gloomily.—If I didn’t marry her, she’d be walking off
to Jaunting Jim maybe at the fall of night; and it’s well yourself knows
there isn’t the like of her for getting money and selling songs to the
men.
MARY
And you’re thinking it’s paying gold to his reverence would make a
woman stop when she’s a mind to go?
SARAH
angrily.—Let you not be destroying us with your talk when
I’ve as good a right to a decent marriage as any speckled female does be
sleeping in the black hovels above, would choke a mule.
MARY
soothingly.—It’s as good a right you have surely, Sarah
Casey, but what good will it do? Is it putting that ring on your finger will
keep you from getting an aged woman and losing the fine face you have, or be
easing your pains, when it’s the grand ladies do be married in silk
dresses, with rings of gold, that do pass any woman with their share of torment
in the hour of birth, and do be paying the doctors in the city of Dublin a
great price at that time, the like of what you’d pay for a good ass and a
cart?
[She sits down.
SARAH
puzzled.—Is that the truth?
MARY
pleased with the point she has made.—Wouldn’t any know
it’s the truth? Ah, it’s a few short years you are yet in the
world, Sarah Casey, and it’s little or nothing at all maybe you know
about it.
SARAH
vehement but uneasy.—What is it yourself knows of the fine ladies
when they wouldn’t let the like of you go near them at all?
MARY
If you do be drinking a little sup in one town and another town, it’s
soon you get great knowledge and a great sight into the world. You’ll see
men there, and women there, sitting up on the ends of barrels in the dark
night, and they making great talk would soon have the like of you, Sarah Casey,
as wise as a March hare.
MICHAEL
to Sarah.—That’s the truth she’s saying, and maybe if
you’ve sense in you at all, you’d have a right still to leave your
fooling, and not be wasting our gold.
SARAH
decisively.—If it’s wise or fool I am, I’ve made a
good bargain and I’ll stand to it now.
MARY
What is it he’s making you give?
MICHAEL
The ten shillings in gold, and the tin can is above tied in the sack.
MARY
looking at the bundle with surprise and dread.—The bit of gold and
the tin can, is it?
MICHAEL
The half a sovereign, and the gallon can.
MARY
scrambling to her feet quickly.—Well, I think I’ll be
walking off the road to the fair the way you won’t be destroying me going
too fast on the hills. (She goes a few steps towards the left, then turns
and speaks to Sarah very persuasively.) Let you not take the can from the
sack, Sarah Casey; for the people is coming above would be making game of you,
and pointing their fingers if they seen you do the like of that. Let you leave
it safe in the bag, I’m saying, Sarah darling. It’s that way will
be best.
[She goes towards left, and pauses for a moment, looking about her with embarrassment.
MICHAEL
in a low voice.—What ails her at all?
SARAH
anxiously.—It’s real wicked she does be when you hear her
speaking as easy as that.
MARY
to herself.—I’d be safer in the chapel, I’m thinking;
for if she caught me after on the road, maybe she would kill me then.
[She comes hobbling back towards the right.
SARAH
Where is it you’re going? It isn’t that way we’ll be walking
to the fair.
MARY
I’m going up into the chapel to give you my blessing and hear the priest
saying his prayers. It’s a lonesome road is running below to Greenane,
and a woman would never know the things might happen her and she walking single
in a lonesome place.
[As she reaches the chapel-gate, the Priest comes to it in his surplice.
PRIEST
crying out.—Come along now. It is the whole day you’d keep
me here saying my prayers, and I getting my death with not a bit in my stomach,
and my breakfast in ruins, and the Lord Bishop maybe driving on the road
to-day?
SARAH
We’re coming now, holy father.
PRIEST
Give me the bit of gold into my hand.
SARAH
It’s here, holy father.
[She gives it to him. Michael takes the bundle from the ditch and brings it over, standing a little behind Sarah. He feels the bundle, and looks at Mary with a meaning look.
PRIEST
looking at the gold.—It’s a good one, I’m thinking,
wherever you got it. And where is the can?
SARAH
taking the bundle.—We have it here in a bit of clean sack, your
reverence. We tied it up in the inside of that to keep it from rusting in the
dews of night, and let you not open it now or you’ll have the people
making game of us and telling the story on us, east and west to the butt of the
hills.
PRIEST
taking the bundle.—Give it here into my hand, Sarah Casey. What is
it any person would think of a tinker making a can.
[He begins opening the bundle.
SARAH
It’s a fine can, your reverence. for if it’s poor simple people we
are, it’s fine cans we can make, and himself, God help him, is a great
man surely at the trade.
[Priest opens the bundle; the three empty bottles fall out.
SARAH
Glory to the saints of joy!
PRIEST
Did ever any man see the like of that? To think you’d be putting deceit
on me, and telling lies to me, and I going to marry you for a little sum
wouldn’t marry a child.
SARAH
crestfallen and astonished.—It’s the divil did it, your
reverence, and I wouldn’t tell you a lie. (Raising her hands.) May
the Lord Almighty strike me dead if the divil isn’t after hooshing the
tin can from the bag.
PRIEST
vehemently.—Go along now, and don’t be swearing your lies.
Go along now, and let you not be thinking I’m big fool enough to believe
the like of that, when it’s after selling it you are or making a swap for
drink of it, maybe, in the darkness of the night.
MARY
in a peacemaking voice, putting her hand on the Priest’s left
arm.—She wouldn’t do the like of that, your reverence, when she
hasn’t a decent standing drouth on her at all; and she’s setting
great store on her marriage the way you’d have a right to be taking her
easy, and not minding the can. What differ would an empty can make with a fine,
rich, hardy man the like of you?
SARAH
imploringly.—Marry us, your reverence, for the ten shillings in
gold, and we’ll make you a grand can in the evening—a can would be
fit to carry water for the holy man of God. Marry us now and I’ll be
saying fine prayers for you, morning and night, if it’d be raining
itself, and it’d be in two black pools I’d be setting my knees.
PRIEST
loudly.—It’s a wicked, thieving, lying, scheming lot you
are, the pack of you. Let you walk off now and take every stinking rag you have
there from the ditch.
MARY
putting her shawl over her head.—Marry her, your reverence, for
the love of God, for there’ll be queer doings below if you send her off
the like of that and she swearing crazy on the road.
SARAH
angrily.—It’s the truth she’s saying; for it’s
herself, I’m thinking, is after swapping the tin can for a pint, the time
she was raging mad with the drouth, and ourselves above walking the hill.
MARY
crying out with indignation.—Have you no shame, Sarah Casey, to
tell lies unto a holy man?
SARAH
to Mary, working herself into a rage.—It’s making game of me
you’d be, and putting a fool’s head on me in the face of the world;
but if you were thinking to be mighty cute walking off, or going up to hide in
the church, I’ve got you this time, and you’ll not run from me now.
She seizes up one of the bottles.
MARY
hiding behind the priest.—Keep her off, your reverence, keep her
off for the love of the Almighty God. What at all would the Lord Bishop say if
he found me here lying with my head broken across, or the two of yous maybe
digging a bloody grave for me at the door of the church?
PRIEST
waving Sarah off.—Go along, Sarah Casey. Would you be doing murder
at my feet? Go along from me now, and wasn’t I a big fool to have to do
with you when it’s nothing but distraction and torment I get from the
kindness of my heart?
SARAH
shouting.—I’ve bet a power of strong lads east and west
through the world, and are you thinking I’d turn back from a priest?
Leave the road now, or maybe I would strike yourself.
PRIEST
You would not, Sarah Casey. I’ve no fear for the lot of you; but let you
walk off, I’m saying, and not be coming where you’ve no business,
and screeching tumult and murder at the doorway of the church.
SARAH
I’ll not go a step till I have her head broke, or till I’m wed with
himself. If you want to get shut of us, let you marry us now, for I’m
thinking the ten shillings in gold is a good price for the like of you, and you
near burst with the fat.
PRIEST
I wouldn’t have you coming in on me and soiling my church; for
there’s nothing at all, I’m thinking, would keep the like of you
from hell. (He throws down the ten shillings on the ground.) Gather up
your gold now, and begone from my sight, for if ever I set an eye on you again
you’ll hear me telling the peelers who it was stole the black ass
belonging to Philly O’Cullen, and whose hay it is the grey ass does be
eating.
SARAH
You’d do that?
PRIEST
I would, surely.
SARAH
If you do, you’ll be getting all the tinkers from Wicklow and Wexford,
and the County Meath, to put up block tin in the place of glass to shield your
windows where you do be looking out and blinking at the girls. It’s hard
set you’ll be that time, I’m telling you, to fill the depth of your
belly the long days of Lent; for we wouldn’t leave a laying pullet in
your yard at all.
PRIEST
losing his temper finally.—Go on, now, or I’ll send the
Lords of Justice a dated story of your villainies—burning, stealing,
robbing, raping to this mortal day. Go on now, I’m saying, if you’d
run from Kilmainham or the rope itself.
MICHAEL
taking off his coat.—Is it run from the like of you, holy father?
Go up to your own shanty, or I’ll beat you with the ass’s reins
till the world would hear you roaring from this place to the coast of Clare.
PRIEST
Is it lift your hand upon myself when the Lord would blight your members if
you’d touch me now? Go on from this.
[He gives him a shove.
MICHAEL
Blight me is it? Take it then, your reverence, and God help you so.
[He runs at him with the reins.
PRIEST
runs up to ditch crying out.—There are the peelers passing by the
grace of God—hey, below!
MARY
clapping her hand over his mouth.—Knock him down on the road; they
didn’t hear him at all.
[Michael pulls him down.
SARAH
Gag his jaws.
MARY
Stuff the sacking in his teeth.
[They gag him with the sack that had the can in it.
SARAH
Tie the bag around his head, and if the peelers come, we’ll put him
head-first in the boghole is beyond the ditch.
[They tie him up in some sacking.
MICHAEL
to Mary.—Keep him quiet, and the rags tight on him for fear
he’d screech. (He goes back to their camp.) Hurry with the things,
Sarah Casey. The peelers aren’t coming this way, and maybe we’ll
get off from them now.
[They bundle the things together in wild haste, the priest wriggling and struggling about on the ground, with old Mary trying to keep him quiet.
MARY
patting his head.—Be quiet, your reverence. What is it ails you,
with your wrigglings now? Is it choking maybe? (She puts her hand under the
sack, and feels his mouth, patting him on the back.) It’s only
letting on you are, holy father, for your nose is blowing back and forward as
easy as an east wind on an April day. (In a soothing voice.) There now,
holy father, let you stay easy, I’m telling you, and learn a little sense
and patience, the way you’ll not be so airy again going to rob poor
sinners of their scraps of gold. (He gets quieter.) That’s a good
boy you are now, your reverence, and let you not be uneasy, for we
wouldn’t hurt you at all. It’s sick and sorry we are to tease you;
but what did you want meddling with the like of us, when it’s a long time
we are going our own ways—father and son, and his son after him, or
mother and daughter, and her own daughter again—and it’s little
need we ever had of going up into a church and swearing—I’m told
there’s swearing with it—a word no man would believe, or with
drawing rings on our fingers, would be cutting our skins maybe when we’d
be taking the ass from the shafts, and pulling the straps the time they’d
be slippy with going around beneath the heavens in rains falling.
MICHAEL
who has finished bundling up the things, comes over to
Sarah.—We’re fixed now; and I have a mind to run him in a
boghole the way he’ll not be tattling to the peelers of our games to-day.
SARAH
You’d have a right too, I’m thinking.
MARY
soothingly.—Let you not be rough with him, Sarah Casey, and he
after drinking his sup of porter with us at the fall of night. Maybe he’d
swear a mighty oath he wouldn’t harm us, and then we’d safer loose
him; for if we went to drown him, they’d maybe hang the batch of us, man
and child and woman, and the ass itself.
MICHAEL
What would he care for an oath?
MARY
Don’t you know his like do live in terror of the wrath of God?
(Putting her mouth to the Priest’s ear in the sacking.) Would you
swear an oath, holy father, to leave us in our freedom, and not talk at all?
(Priest nods in sacking.) Didn’t I tell you? Look at the poor
fellow nodding his head off in the bias of the sacks. Strip them off from him,
and he’ll be easy now.
MICHAEL
as if speaking to a horse.—Hold up, holy father.
[He pulls the sacking off, and shows the priest with his hair on end. They free his mouth.
MARY
Hold him till he swears.
PRIEST
in a faint voice.—I swear surely. If you let me go in peace,
I’ll not inform against you or say a thing at all, and may God forgive me
for giving heed unto your like to-day.
SARAH
puts the ring on his finger.—There’s the ring, holy father,
to keep you minding of your oath until the end of time; for my heart’s
scalded with your fooling; and it’ll be a long day till I go making talk
of marriage or the like of that.
MARY
complacently, standing up slowly.—She’s vexed now, your
reverence; and let you not mind her at all, for she’s right surely, and
it’s little need we ever had of the like of you to get us our bit to eat,
and our bit to drink, and our time of love when we were young men and women,
and were fine to look at.
MICHAEL
Hurry on now. He’s a great man to have kept us from fooling our gold; and
we’ll have a great time drinking that bit with the trampers on the green
of Clash.
[They gather up their things. The priest stands up.
PRIEST
lifting up his hand.—I’ve sworn not to call the hand of man
upon your crimes to-day; but I haven’t sworn I wouldn’t call the
fire of heaven from the hand of the Almighty God.
[He begins saying a Latin malediction in a loud ecclesiastical voice.
MARY
There’s an old villain.
ALL
together.—Run, run. Run for your lives.
[They rush out, leaving the Priest master of the situation.
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