Part 19

EILIR MORRIS [_who thinks his uncle has been drinking, speaks to him as if he would humor his whim_]. Aye, Uncle, I'm kin, an' I promise. Tell on. What is it? Are ye sick?

VAVASOUR [_drearily_]. Uch, lad, I'm not sick!

EILIR MORRIS. Well, what ails ye?

VAVASOUR. 'Tis Allhallows' Eve an'--

EILIR MORRIS. Aren't ye goin' to Pally Hughes's?

VAVASOUR [_moaning and rising_]. Ow, the devil, goin' to Pally Hughes's while 'tis drawin' nearer an' nearer an'--Ow! 'Tis the night when Catherine must go.

EILIR MORRIS. When Aunt Kats must go! What do you mean?

VAVASOUR. She'll be dead to-night at twelve.

EILIR MORRIS [_bewildered_]. Dead at twelve? But she's at Pally Hughes's. Does she know it?

VAVASOUR. No, but I do, an' to think I've been unkind to her! I've tried this year to make up for it, but 'tis no use, lad; one year'll never make up for ten of harsh words, whatever. Ow! [_Groaning, VAVASOUR collapses on to the settle and rocks to and fro, moaning aloud._]

EILIR MORRIS [_mystified_]. Well, ye've not been good to her, Uncle, that's certain; but ye've been different the past year.

VAVASOUR [_sobbing_]. Aye, but a year'll not do any good, an' she'll be dyin' at twelve to-night. Ow! I've turned to the scriptures to see what it says about a man an' his wife, but it'll no do, no do, no do!

EILIR MORRIS. Have ye been drinkin', Uncle?

VAVASOUR [_hotly_]. Drinkin'!

EILIR MORRIS. Well, indeed, no harm, but, Uncle, I cannot understand why Aunt Kats's goin' an' where.

VAVASOUR [_rising suddenly from the settle and seizing EILIR by the coat lapel_]. She's goin' to leave me, lad; 'tis Allhallows' Eve whatever! An' she'll be dyin' at twelve. Aye, a year ago things were so bad between us, on Allhallows' Eve I went down to the church porch shortly before midnight to see whether the spirit of your Aunt Kats would be called an'--

EILIR MORRIS. Uncle, 'twas fair killin' her!

VAVASOUR. I wanted to see whether she would live the twelve months out. An' as I was leanin' against the church wall, hopin', aye, lad, prayin' to see her spirit there, an' know she'd die, I saw somethin' comin' 'round the corner with white over its head.

EILIR MORRIS [_wailing_]. Ow--w!

VAVASOUR. It drew nearer an' nearer, an' when it came in full view of the church porch, it paused, it whirled around like that, an' sped away with the shroud flappin' about its feet, an' the rain beatin' down on its white hood.

EILIR MORRIS [_wailing again_]. Ow--w!

VAVASOUR. But there was time to see that it was the spirit of Catherine, an' I was glad because my wicked prayer had been answered, an' because with Catherine dyin' the next Allhallows', we'd have to live together only the year out.

EILIR MORRIS [_raising his hand_]. Hush, what's that?

VAVASOUR. 'Tis voices whatever. [_Both listen, EILIR goes to the window, VAVASOUR to the door. The voices become louder._]

EILIR MORRIS. They're singin' a song at Pally Hughes's. [_Voices are audibly singing:_]

Ni awn adre bawb dan ganu, Ar hyd y nos; Saif ein hiaith safo Cymru, Ar hyd y nos; Bydded undeb a brawdgarwch Ini'n gwlwm diogelwch, Felly canwn er hyfrydwch, Ar hyd y nos.

Sweetly sang beside a fountain, All through the night, Mona's maiden on that mountain, All through the night. When wilt thou, from war returning, In whose breast true love is burning, Come and change to joy my mourning, By day and night?

VAVASOUR. Aye, they're happy, an' Kats does not know. I went home that night, lad, thinkin' 'twas the last year we'd have to live together, an', considerin' as 'twas the last year, I might just as well try to be decent an' kind. An' when I reached home, Catherine was up waitin' for me an' spoke so pleasantly, an' we sat down an' had a long talk--just like the days when we were courtin'.

EILIR MORRIS. Did she know, Uncle?

VAVASOUR [_puzzled_]. Nay, how could she know. But she seems queer,--as if she felt the evil comin'. Well, indeed, each day was sweeter than the one before, an' we were man an' wife in love an' kindness at last, but all the while I was thinkin' of that figure by the churchyard. Lad, lad, ye'll be marryin' before long,--be good to her, lad, be good to her! [_VAVASOUR lets go the lapels of EILIR's coat and sinks back on to the settle, half sobbing. Outside the roar of wind and rain growing louder can be heard._]

VAVASOUR [_looking at the clock_]. An' here 'tis Allhallows' Eve again, an' the best year of my life is past, an' she must die in an hour an' a half. Ow, ow! It has all come from my own evil heart an' evil wish. Think, lad, prayin' for her callin'; aye, goin' there, hopin' ye'd see her spirit, an' countin' on her death!

EILIR MORRIS [_mournfully_]. Aye, Uncle, 'tis bad, an' I've no word to say to ye for comfort. I recollect well the story Granny used to tell about Christmas Pryce; 'twas somethin' the same whatever. An' there was Betty Williams was called a year ago, an' is dead now; an' there was Silvan Griffith, an' Geffery, his friend, an' Silvan had just time to dig Geffery's grave an' then his own, too, by its side, an' they was buried the same day an' hour.

VAVASOUR [_wailing_]. Ow--w--w! [_At that moment the door is blown violently open by the wind; both men jump and stare out into the dark where only the dimmed lights of the rain-swept street are to be seen, and the very bright windows of Pally Hughes's cottage._]

EILIR MORRIS. Uch, she'll be taken there!

VAVASOUR. Aye, an', Eilir, she was loath to go to Pally's, but I could not tell her the truth.

EILIR MORRIS. Are ye not goin', Uncle?

VAVASOUR. Nay, lad, I cannot go. I'm fair crazy. I'll just be stayin' home, waitin' for them to bring her back. Ow--w--w!

EILIR MORRIS. Tut, tut, Uncle, I'm sorry. I'll just see for ye what they're doin'. [_EILIR steps out and is gone for an instant. He comes back excitedly._]

VAVASOUR [_shouting after him_]. Can ye see her, lad?

EILIR MORRIS [_returning_]. Dear, they've a grand display, raisins an' buns, an' spices an' biscuits--

VAVASOUR. But your Aunt Kats?

EILIR MORRIS. Aye, an' a grand fire, an' a tub with apples in it an'--

VAVASOUR. But Catherine?

EILIR MORRIS. Aye, she was there near the fire, an' just as I turned, they blew the lights out.

VAVASOUR. Blew the lights out! Uch, she'll be taken there whatever!

EILIR MORRIS. They're tellin' stories in the dark.

VAVASOUR. Go back again an' tell what ye can see of your Aunt Kats, lad.

EILIR MORRIS. Aye.

VAVASOUR [_shouting after him_]. Find where she's sittin', lad--make certain of that.

EILIR MORRIS [_running in breathless_]. They're throwin' nuts on the fire--

VAVASOUR. Is she there?

EILIR MORRIS. I'm thinkin' she is, but old Pally Hughes was just throwin' a nut on the fire an'--

VAVASOUR [_impatiently_]. 'Tis no matter about Pally Hughes whatever, but your Aunt Kats, did--

EILIR MORRIS. There was only the light of the fire; I did not see her, but I'll go again.

VAVASOUR. Watch for her nut an' see does it burn brightly.

EILIR MORRIS [_going out_]. Aye.

VAVASOUR [_calling after_]. Mind, I'm wantin' to know what she's doin'. [_He has scarcely spoken the last word when a great commotion is heard: a door across the street being slammed to violently, and the sound of running feet. VAVASOUR straightens up, his eyes in terror on the door, which CATHERINE JONES throws open and bursts through._]

VAVASOUR [_holding out his arms_]. Catherine, is it really ye! [_CATHERINE, after a searching glance at him, draws herself up. VAVASOUR draws himself up, too, and then stoops to pick up some peat which he puts on the fire, and crosses over to left and sits down on the settle near the chimney, without having embraced her. CATHERINE's face is flushed, her eyes wild under the pretty white cap she wears, a black Welsh beaver above it. She is dressed in a scarlet cloak, under this a tight bodice and short, full skirt, bright stockings, and clogs with brass tips. Her apron is of heavy linen, striped; over her breast a kerchief is crossed, and from the elbows down to the wrist are full white sleeves stiffly starched._]

CATHERINE. Yiss, yiss, 'twas dull at Pally's--very dull. My nut didn't burn very brightly, an'--an'--well, indeed, my feet was wet, an' I feared takin' a cold.

VAVASOUR. Yiss, yiss, 'tis better for ye here, dearie. [_Then there is silence between them. CATHERINE still breathes heavily from the running, and VAVASOUR shuffles his feet. While they are both sitting there, unable to say a word, the door opens without a sound, and EILIR's curly head is thrust in. A guttural exclamation from him makes them start and look towards the door, but he closes it before they can see him. CATHERINE then takes off her beaver and looks at VAVASOUR. VAVASOUR opens his mouth, shuts it, and opens it again._]

VAVASOUR [_desperately_]. Did ye have a fine time at Pally's?

CATHERINE. Aye, 'twas gay an' fine an'--an'--yiss, yiss, so 'twas an' so 'twasn't.

VAVASOUR [_his eyes seeking the clock_]. A quarter past eleven, uch! Katy, do ye recall Pastor Evan's sermon, the one he preached last New Year?

CATHERINE [_also glancing at the clock_]. Sixteen minutes after eleven--yiss--yiss--

VAVASOUR [_catching CATHERINE's glance at the clock_]. Well, Catherine, do--

CATHERINE. Yiss, yiss, I said I did whatever. 'Twas about inheritin' the grace of life together.

VAVASOUR. Kats, dear, wasn't he sayin' that love is eternal, an' that--a man--an'--an'--his wife was lovin' for--for--

CATHERINE [_glancing at the clock and meeting VAVASOUR's eyes just glancing away from the clock_]. Aye, lad, for ever-lastin' life! Uch, what have I done?

VAVASOUR [_unheeding and doubling up as if from pain_]. Half after eleven! Yiss, yiss, dear, didn't he say that the Lord was mindful of us--of our difficulties, an' our temptations an' our mistakes?

CATHERINE [_tragically_]. Aye, an' our mistakes. Ow, ow, ow, but a half hour's left!

VAVASOUR. Do ye think, dearie, that if a man were to--to--uch!--be unkind to his wife--an' was sorry an' his wife--his wife dies, that he'd be--be--

CATHERINE [_tenderly_]. Aye, I'm thinkin' so. An', lad dear, do ye think if anythin' was to happen to ye to-night,--yiss, _this_ night,--that ye'd take any grudge against me away with ye?

VAVASOUR [_stiffening_]. Happen to _me_, Catherine? [_VAVASOUR collapses, groaning. CATHERINE goes to his side on the settle._]

CATHERINE [_in an agonized voice_]. Uch, dearie, what is it, what is it, what ails ye?

VAVASOUR [_slanting an eye at the clock_]. Nothin', nothin' at all. Ow, the devil, 'tis twenty minutes before twelve whatever!

CATHERINE. Lad, lad, what is it?

VAVASOUR. 'Tis nothin', nothin' at all--'tis--ow!--'tis just a little pain across me.

CATHERINE [_her face whitening as she steals a look at the clock and puts her arm around VAVASOUR_]. Vavasour, lad dear, is that the wind in the chimney? Put your arm about me an' hold fast.

VAVASOUR [_both hands across his stomach, his eyes on the clock_]. Ow--ten minutes!

CATHERINE [_shaking all over_]. Is that a step at the door?

VAVASOUR [_unheeding_].'Tis goin' to strike now in a minute.

CATHERINE [_her eyes in horror on the clock_]. Five minutes before twelve!

VAVASOUR [_almost crying, his eyes fixed on the clock's face_]. Uch, the toad, the serpent!

CATHERINE [_her face in her hands_]. Dear God, he's goin' now!

VAVASOUR [_covering his eyes_]. Uch, the devil! Uch, the gates of hell! [_CATHERINE cries out. VAVASOUR groans loudly. The clock is striking: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve! The last loud clang vibrates and subsides. Through a chink in her fingers CATHERINE is peering at VAVASOUR. Through a similar chink his agonized eyes are peering at her._]

CATHERINE [_gulping_]. Uch!

VAVASOUR. The devil!

CATHERINE [_putting out her hand to touch him_]. Lad, dear! [_They embrace, they kiss, they dance madly about. Then they do it all over again. While they are doing this, EILIR opens the door again and thrusts in his head. He stares open-eyed, open-mouthed at them, and leans around the side of the door to see what time it is, saying audibly "five minutes past twelve," grunts his satisfaction, and closes the door._]

VAVASOUR [_mad with joy_]. Kats, are ye here, really here?

CATHERINE [_surprised_]. Am _I_ here? Tut, lad, are _ye_ here?

VAVASOUR [_shrewdly_]. Yiss, that is are we _both_ here?

CATHERINE [_perplexed_]. Did ye think I wasn't goin' to be?

VAVASOUR [_suppressed intelligent joy in his eyes_]. No--o, not that, only I thought, I thought ye was goin' to--to--faint, Kats. I thought ye looked like it, Kats.

CATHERINE [_the happiness on her face vanishing, sinks on to the nearest settle_]. Uch, I'm a bad, bad woman, aye, Vavasour Jones, a _bad_ woman!

VAVASOUR [_puzzled, yet lightly_]. Nay, Kats, nay!

CATHERINE [_desperately and almost in tears_]. Ye cannot believe what I must tell ye. Lad, a year ago this night I went to the church porch, hopin', aye, prayin', ye'd be called, that I'd see your spirit walkin'.

VAVASOUR [_starting and recovering himself_]. Catherine, ye did that!

CATHERINE [_plunging on with her confession_]. Aye, lad, I did, I'd been so unhappy with the quarrelin' an' hard words. I could think of nothin' but gettin' rid of them.

VAVASOUR [_in a tone of condemnation and standing over her_]. That was bad, very bad indeed!

CATHERINE. An' then, lad, when I reached the church corner an' saw your spirit was really there, _really_ called, an' I knew ye'd not live the year out, I was frightened, but uch! lad, I was glad, I was indeed.

VAVASOUR [_looking grave_]. Catherine, 'twas a terrible thing to do!

CATHERINE [_meekly_]. Yiss, I know it now, but I didn't then. I was hard-hearted, an' I was weak with longin' to escape from it all. An' when I ran home I was frightened, but uch! lad, I was glad, too, an' now it hurts me so to think of it. Can you no comfort me?

VAVASOUR [_grudgingly, but not touching CATHERINE's outstretched hand_]. Aye, well, I could, but, Kats, 'twas such a terrible thing to do!

CATHERINE. Yiss, yiss, ye'll never be able to forgive me, I'm thinkin'. An' then when ye came in from the lodge, ye spoke so pleasantly to me that I was troubled. An' now the year through it has grown better an' better, an' I could think of nothin' but lovin' ye, an' wishing' ye to live, an' knowin' I was the cause of your bein' called. Uch, lad, _can_ ye forgive me?

VAVASOUR [_slowly_]. Aye, I can, none of us is without sin; but, Catherine, it was wrong, aye, aye, 'twas a wicked thing for a woman to do.

CATHERINE [_still more meekly_]. An' then to-night, lad, I was expectin' ye to go, knowin' ye couldn't live after twelve, an' ye sittin' there so innocent an' mournful. An' when the time came, I wanted to die myself. Uch!

VAVASOUR [_sitting down beside her and putting an arm about her as he speaks in a superior tone of voice_]. No matter, dearie, now. It _was_ wrong in ye, but we're still here, an' it's been a sweet year, yiss, better nor a honeymoon, an' all the years after we'll make better nor this. There, there, Kats, let's have a bit of a wassail to celebrate our Allhallows' honeymoon, shall we?

CATHERINE [_starting to fetch a bowl_]. Yiss, lad, 'twould be fine, but, Vavasour, can ye forgive me, think, lad, for hopin', aye, an' prayin' to see your spirit called, just wishin' that ye'd not live the year out?

VAVASOUR [_with condescension_]. Kats, I can, an' I'm not layin' it up against ye, though 'twas a wicked thing for ye to do--for anyone to do. Now, darlin', fetch the bowl.

CATHERINE [_starting for the bowl again but turning on him_]. Vavasour, how does it happen that the callin' is set aside, an' that ye're really here? Such a thing has not been in Beddgelert in the memory of man.

VAVASOUR [_with dignity_]. I'm not sayin' how it's happened, Kats, but I'm thinkin' 'tis modern times whatever, an' things have changed--aye, indeed, 'tis modern times.

CATHERINE [_sighing contentedly_]. Good! 'Tis lucky 'tis modern times whatever!

[THE CURTAIN.]

RIDERS TO THE SEA[41]

By JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE

[Footnote 41: Copyright, 1916, by L. E. Bassett. Reprinted by special arrangement with John W. Luce & Company, Boston. Acting rights in the hands of Samuel French, 28 West 38 Street, New York.]

"He was of a dark type of Irishman, though not black-haired. Something in his air gave one the fancy that his face was dark from gravity. Gravity filled the face and haunted it, as though the man behind were forever listening to life's case before passing judgment.... When someone spoke to him he answered with grave Irish courtesy. When the talk became general he was silent.... His manner was that of a man too much interested in the life about him to wish to be more than a spectator. His interest was in life, not in ideas." In these words, John Masefield gives his first impressions of John Millington Synge, whom he met at a friend's house, in London, in January, 1903.

Synge, born April 16, 1871, at Newton Little, near Dublin, and dying in Dublin, March 24, 1909, belongs to that group of "inheritors of unfulfilled renown" who died before the prime of life was reached. He left six plays, notable the _Riders to the Sea_ and _Deirdre of the Sorrows_, that are among the greatest in our language. He was delicate from the beginning, and after some education in private schools in Dublin and Bray, left school when about fourteen and studied with a tutor. In 1892 he took his B.A. degree from Trinity College, Dublin, whose rolls contain a number of names famous in English literature. While at college, he studied music at the Royal Irish Academy of Music, where he won a scholarship. His first impulse was to make music his career, and he spent portions of the next four years in Germany, France, and Italy studying music and traveling. In May, 1898, he first went to the Aran Islands, later to be the scene of _Riders to the Sea_. Thereafter in Paris in 1899 he met Yeats, who advised him to go back to the Aran Islands to renew his contact with the simple folk there. For the next three years he divided his time between Paris and Ireland. It was in 1904 that his play, _Riders to the Sea_,[42] was first produced. He was at Dublin that same year for the opening of the Abbey Theatre, of which he was one of the advisers. Whenever the Irish Players visited England, he traveled with them. In 1909 came the operation that ended his life.

[Footnote 42: For a list of Synge's other plays, see E. A. Boyd, _The Contemporary Drama of Ireland_, Boston, 1917.]

Synge's book, _The Aran Islands_, which is a record of his various visits to these three islands lying about thirty miles off the coast of County Galway, is full of material that throws light on the setting and characterization of _Riders to the Sea_. The central incident in this play was suggested to Synge while he was sojourning on Inishmaan, the middle island of the Aran group, by a tale that he heard of a man whose body had been washed up on a distant coast, and who had been identified as belonging to the Islands, because of his characteristic garments. When on Inishmaan, Synge himself lived in just such a cottage as that which is the background for the tragedy of Maurya's sons. He wrote of this cottage, "The kitchen itself, where I will spend most of my time, is full of beauty and distinction. The red dresses of the women who cluster round the fire on their stools give a glow of almost Eastern richness, and the walls have been toned by the surf-smoke to a soft brown that blends with the gray earth-color of the floor. Many sorts of fishing-tackle, and the nets and oilskins of the men, are hung up on the walls or among the open rafters." And the following passage from his _Aran Islands_ is an eloquent description of the atmosphere there: "A week of smoking fog has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.

"The slaty limestone has grown black with the water that is dripping on it, and wherever I turn there is the same gray obsession twining and wreathing itself among the narrow fields, and the same wail from the wind that shrieks and whistles in the loose rubble of the walls."

Mr. Masefield, in his recollections of Synge, reports also the following conversation between himself and the Irish playwright: Synge saying, "They [the islanders] asked me to fiddle to them so that they might dance," and Mr. Masefield asking, "Do you play, then?" and Synge answering, "I fiddle a little. I try to learn something different for them every time. The last time I learned to do conjuring tricks. They'd get tired of me if I didn't bring something new. I'm thinking of learning the penny whistle before I go again."

A later visitor[43] to the Aran Islands, Miss B. N. Hedderman, a district nurse, gives further evidences of the simplicity of those people from whom the characters of _Riders to the Sea_ were drawn. She tells of a man who owned a house with two comfortable rooms in it, one of which he leveled ruthlessly because he had dreamed that it hindered the passage of the "good people." The illustrations in her little book showing cottage interiors and peasant costumes will be found useful by groups who are planning to produce _Riders to the Sea_. But the best guide to the costumes and social life of the West of Ireland is J. B. Yeats.[44]

[Footnote 43: B. N. Hedderman, _Glimpses of My Life in Aran_, Bristol, 1917.]

[Footnote 44: J. B. Yeats, _Life in the West of Ireland_, Dublin and London, 1912. The color prints and line drawings in this book are very beautiful. Cf. also J. M. Synge, _The Aran Islands_. With drawings by Jack B. Yeats, Dublin and London, 1907.]

The _Drama Calendar_ of December 13, 1920, offers the following suggestion for a musical setting for the play: "The attention of Little Theatre directors is called to a musical prelude to Synge's _Riders to the Sea_, arranged by Henry F. Gilbert from the Symphonic Prologue, which was played at the Worcester Musical Festival this fall. This original arrangement of the material is intended to build the mood which the play sustains, and is simply orchestrated for seven instruments. Every Little Theatre should be able to gather such an orchestra. Here is an opportunity to give continuity to a program of one-acts; music answers a question which is one of the hardest the director has to solve: how a mood which is to be created and sustained in the brief space of twenty minutes shall not be too fleeting."

RIDERS TO THE SEA

_A PLAY IN ONE ACT_

_First performed at the Molesworth Hall, Dublin, February 25, 1904._

CHARACTERS

MAURYA, _an old woman._ BARTLEY, _her son._ CATHLEEN, _her daughter._ NORA, _a younger daughter._ MEN AND WOMEN.

_SCENE._--_An Island off the West of Ireland._

_Cottage kitchen, with nets, oil-skins, spinning wheel, some new boards standing by the wall, etc. CATHLEEN, a girl of about twenty, finishes kneading cake, and puts it down in the pot-oven by the fire; then wipes her hands, and begins to spin at the wheel. NORA, a young girl, puts her head in at the door._

NORA [_in a low voice_]. Where is she?

CATHLEEN. She's lying down, God help her, and may be sleeping, if she's able. [_NORA comes in softly, and takes a bundle from under her shawl._]

CATHLEEN [_spinning the wheel rapidly_]. What is it you have?

NORA. The young priest is after bringing them. It's a shirt and a plain stocking were got off a drowned man in Donegal. [_CATHLEEN stops her wheel with a sudden movement, and leans out to listen._]

NORA. We're to find out if it's Michael's they are, some time herself will be down looking by the sea.

CATHLEEN. How would they be Michael's, Nora? How would he go the length of that way to the far north?