Chapter IX: Part 9

The first performance of _Welsh Honeymoon_ was given by the American Drama Society in Boston in February, 1916. It has also been produced by the Boston Women's City Club, the Vagabond Players in Baltimore, the Hull House Players in Chicago, and the Prince Street Players in Rochester.

WELSH HONEYMOON[39]

CHARACTERS

VAVASOUR JONES.
CATHERINE JONES, _his wife_.
EILIR MORRIS, _nephew of Vavasour Jones_.
MRS. MORGAN, _the baker_.
HOWELL HOWELL, _the milliner_.

[Footnote 39: PRONUNCIATION OF WELSH NAMES

1 _ch_ has, roughly, the same sound as in German or in
the Scotch _loch_.
2 _dd_ = English _th_, roughly, in brea_th_e.
3 _e_ has, roughly, the sound of _ai_ in d_ai_ry.
4 _f_ = English _v_.
5 _ff_ = English sharp _f_.
6 _ll_ represents a sound intermediate between _the_ and _fl_.
7 _w_ as a consonant is pronounced as in English; as a
vowel = _oo_.
8 _y_ is sometimes like _u_ in b_u_t, but sometimes like _ee_
in gr_ee_n.

NOTE: _The author will gladly answer questions about
pronunciation, costuming, etc., etc._]

_PLACE._--_Beddgelert, a little village in North Wales._

_A Welsh kitchen. At back, in center, a deep ingle, with two hobs and fire bars fixed between, on either side settles. On the left-hand side near the fire a church; on the right, in a pile, some peat ready for use. Above the fireplace is a mantel on which are set some brass candlesticks, a deep copper cheese bowl, and two pewter plates. Near the left settle is a three-legged table set with teapot, cups and saucers for two, a plate of bread and butter, a plate of jam, and a creamer. At the right and to the right of the door, is a tall, highly polished, oaken grandfather's clock, with a shining brass face; to the left of the door is a tridarn. The tridarn dresser is lined with bright blue paper and filled with luster china. The floor is of beaten clay, whitewashed around the edges; from the rafters of the peaked ceiling hang flitches of bacon, hams, and bunches of onions and herbs. On the hearth is a copper kettle singing gaily; and on either side of the fireplace are latticed windows opening into the kitchen. Through the door to the right, when open, may be seen the flagstones and cottages of a Welsh village street; through latticed windows the twinkling of many village lights._

_It is about half after eleven on Allhallows' Eve in the village of Beddgelert._

_At rise of curtain, the windows of kitchen are closed; the fire is burning brightly, and two candles are lighted on the mantelpiece. VAVASOUR JONES, about thirty-five years old, dressed in a striped vest, a short, heavy blue coat, cut away in front, and with swallowtails behind, and trimmed with brass buttons, and somewhat tight trousers down to his boot tops, is standing by the open door at the right, looking out anxiously on to the glittering, rain-wet flagstone street and calling after someone._

VAVASOUR[40] [_calling_]. Kats, Kats, mind ye come home soon from Pally Hughes's!

[Footnote 40: The _a_'s are broad throughout, i. e., Kats is
pronounced Kaats; Vavasour is Vavasoor: _ou_ is oo.]

CATHERINE [_from a distance_]. Aye, I'm no wantin' to go, but I must. Good-by!

VAVASOUR. Good-by! Kats, ye mind about comin' home? [_There is no reply, and VAVASOUR looks still further into the rain-wet street. He calls loudly and desperately._] Kats, Kats darlin', I cannot let you go without tellin' ye that--Kats, do ye hear? [_There is still no reply and after one more searching of the street, VAVASOUR closes the door and sits down on the end of the nearest settle._]

VAVASOUR. Dear, dear, she's gone, an' I may never see her again, an' I'm to blame, an' she didn't know whatever that in the night--[_Loud knocking on the closed door; VAVASOUR jumps and stands irresolute._] The devil, it can't be comin' for her already? [_The knocking grows louder._]

VOICE [_calling_]. Catherine, Vavasour, are ye in?

VAVASOUR [_opening the door_]. Aye, come in, whoever ye are. [_MRS. MORGAN, the Baker, dressed in a scarlet whittle and freshly starched white cap beneath her tall Welsh beaver hat, enters, shaking the rain from her cloak._]

MRS. MORGAN. Where's Catherine?

VAVASOUR. She's gone, Mrs. Morgan.

MRS. MORGAN. Gone? Are ye no goin'? Not goin' to Pally Hughes's on Allhallows' Eve?

VAVASOUR [_shaking his head and looking very white_]. Nay, I'm no feelin' well.

MRS. MORGAN. Aye, I see ye're ill?

VAVASOUR. Well, I'm not ill, but I'm not well. Not well at all, Mrs. Morgan.

MRS. MORGAN. We'll miss ye, but I must hurryin' on whatever; I'm late now. Good-night!

VAVASOUR [_speaking drearily_]. Good-night! [_He closes the door and returns to the settle, where he sits down by the pile of peat and drops his head in his hand. Then he starts up nervously for no apparent cause and opens one of the lattice windows. With an exclamation of fear, he slams it to and throws his weight against the door. Calling and holding hard to the door._] Ye've no cause to come here! Ye old death's head, get away! [_Outside there is loud pounding on the door and a voice shouting for admittance. VAVASOUR is obliged to fall back as the door is gradually forced open, and a head is thrust in, a white handkerchief tied over it._]

HOWELL HOWELL [_seeing the terror-stricken face of VAVASOUR_]. Well, man, what ails ye; did ye think I was a ghost? [_HOWELL HOWELL, the Milliner, in highlows and a plum-colored coat, a handkerchief on his hat, enters, stamping off the rain and closing the door. He carefully wipes off his plum-colored sleeves and speaks indignantly._] Well, man, are ye crazy, keepin' me out in the rain that way? Where's Catherine?

VAVASOUR [_stammering_]. She's at P-p-p-ally Hughes's.

HOWELL HOWELL. Are ye no goin'?

VAVASOUR. Nay, Howell Howell, I'm no goin'.

HOWELL HOWELL. An' dressed in your best? What's the matter? Have ye been drinkin' whatever?

VAVASOUR [_wrathfully_]. Drinkin'! I'd better be drinkin' when neighbors go walkin' round the village on Allhallows' Eve with their heads done up in white.

HOWELL HOWELL. Aye, well, I can't be spoilin' the new hat I have, that I cannot. A finer beaver there has never been in my shop. [_He takes off the handkerchief, hangs it where the heat of the fire will dry it a bit, and then, removing the beaver, shows it to VAVASOUR, turning it this way and that._]

VAVASOUR [_absent-mindedly_]. Aye, grand, grand, man!

HOWELL HOWELL. What are ye gazin' at the clock for?

VAVASOUR [_guiltily_]. I'm no lookin' at anything.

HOWELL HOWELL. Well, indeed, I must be goin', or I shall be late at Pally Hughes's. Good-night.

VAVASOUR. Good-night. [_He closes the door and stands before the clock, studying it. While he is studying its face the door opens slowly, and the tumbled, curly head of a lad about eighteen years of age peers in. The door continues slowly to open. VAVASOUR unconscious all the while._] 'Tis ten now. Ten, eleven, twelve; that's three hours left, 'tis; nay, nay, 'tis only two hours left, after all, an' then--

EILIR MORRIS [_bounding in and shutting the door behind him with a bang_]. Boo! Whoo--o--o!

VAVASOUR [_his face blanched, dropping limply on to the settle_]. The devil!

EILIR MORRIS [_troubled_]. Uch, the pity, Uncle! I didn't think, an' ye're ill!

VAVASOUR. Tut, tut, 'tis no matter, an' I'm not ill--not ill at all, but Eilir, lad, ye're kin, an'--could ye promise never to tell?

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?

NORA. The young priest says he's known the like of it. "If it's Michael's they are," says he, "you can tell herself he's got a clean burial by the grace of God, and if they're not his, let no one say a word about them, for she'll be getting her death," says he, "with crying and lamenting." [_The door which NORA half closed is blown open by a gust of wind._]

CATHLEEN [_looking out anxiously_]. Did you ask him would he stop Bartley going this day with the horses to the Galway fair?

NORA. "I won't stop him," says he, "but let you not be afraid. Herself does be saying prayers half through the night, and the Almighty God won't leave her destitute," says he, "with no son living."

CATHLEEN. Is the sea bad by the white rocks, Nora?

NORA. Middling bad, God help us. There's a great roaring in the west, and it's worse it'll be getting when the tide's turned to the wind. [_She goes over to the table with the bundle._] Shall I open it now?

CATHLEEN. Maybe she'd wake up on us, and come in before we'd done. [_Coming to the table._] It's a long time we'll be, and the two of us crying.

NORA [_goes to the inner door and listens_]. She's moving about on the bed. She'll be coming in a minute.

CATHLEEN. Give me the ladder, and I'll put them up in the turf-loft, the way she won't know of them at all, and maybe when the tide turns she'll be going down to see would he be floating from the east. [_They put the ladder against the gable of the chimney; CATHLEEN goes up a few steps and hides the bundle in the turf-loft. MAURYA comes from the inner room._]

MAURYA [_looking up at CATHLEEN and speaking querulously._] Isn't it turf enough you have for this day and evening?

CATHLEEN. There's a cake baking at the fire for a short space [_throwing down the turf_] and Bartley will want it when the tide turns if he goes to Connemara. [_NORA picks up the turf and puts it round the pot-oven._]

MAURYA [_sitting down on a stool at the fire_]. He won't go this day with the wind rising from the south and west. He won't go this day, for the young priest will stop him surely.

NORA. He'll not stop him, mother, and I heard Eamon Simon and Stephen Pheety and Colum Shawn saying he would go.

MAURYA. Where is he itself?

NORA. He went down to see would there be another boat sailing in the week, and I'm thinking it won't be long till he's here now, for the tide's turning at the green head, and the hooker's tacking from the east.

CATHLEEN. I hear someone passing the big stones.

NORA [_looking out_]. He's coming now, and he in a hurry.

BARTLEY [_comes in and looks round the room. Speaking sadly and quietly_]. Where is the bit of new rope, Cathleen, was bought in Connemara?

CATHLEEN [_coming down_]. Give it to him, Nora; it's on a nail by the white boards. I hung it up this morning, for the pig with the black feet was eating it.

NORA [_giving him a rope_]. Is that it, Bartley?

MAURYA. You'd do right to leave that rope, Bartley, hanging by the boards. [_BARTLEY takes the rope._] It will be wanting in this place, I'm telling you, if Michael is washed up to-morrow morning, or the next morning, or any morning in the week, for it's a deep grave we'll make him by the grace of God.

BARTLEY [_beginning to work with the rope_]. I've no halter the way I can ride down on the mare, and I must go now quickly. This is the one boat going for two weeks or beyond it, and the fair will be a good fair for horses I heard them saying below.

MAURYA. It's a hard thing they'll be saying below if the body is washed up and there's no man in it to make the coffin, and I after giving a big price for the finest white boards you'd find in Connemara. [_She looks round at the boards._]

BARTLEY. How would it be washed up, and we after looking each day for nine days, and a strong wind blowing a while back from the west and south?

MAURYA. If it wasn't found itself, that wind is raising the sea, and there was a star up against the moon, and it rising in the night. If it was a hundred horses, or a thousand horses you had itself, what is the price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?

BARTLEY [_working at the halter, to CATHLEEN_]. Let you go down each day, and see the sheep aren't jumping in on the rye, and if the jobber comes you can sell the pig with the black feet if there is a good price going.

MAURYA. How would the like of her get a good price for a pig?

BARTLEY [_to CATHLEEN_]. If the west wind holds with the last bit of the moon let you and Nora get up weed enough for another cock for the kelp. It's hard set we'll be from this day with no one in it but one man to work.

MAURYA. It's hard set we'll be surely the day you're drownd'd with the rest. What way will I live and the girls with me, and I an old woman looking for the grave? [_BARTLEY lays down the halter, takes off his old coat, and puts on a newer one of the same flannel._]

BARTLEY [_to NORA_]. Is she coming to the pier?

NORA [_looking out_]. She's passing the green head and letting fall her sails.

BARTLEY [_getting his purse and tobacco_]. I'll have half an hour to go down, and you'll see me coming again in two days, or in three days, or maybe in four days if the wind is bad.

MAURYA [_turning round to the fire, and putting her shawl over her head_]. Isn't it a hard and cruel man won't hear a word from an old woman, and she holding him from the sea?

CATHLEEN. It's the life of a young man to be going on the sea, and who would listen to an old woman with one thing and she saying it over?

BARTLEY [_taking the halter_]. I must go now quickly. I'll ride down on the red mare, and the gray pony'll run behind me.... The blessing of God on you. [_He goes out._]

MAURYA [_crying out as he is in the door_]. He's gone now, God spare us, and we'll not see him again. He's gone now, and when the black night is falling I'll have no son left me in the world.

CATHLEEN. Why wouldn't you give him your blessing and he looking round in the door? Isn't it sorrow enough is on everyone in this house without your sending him out with an unlucky word behind him, and a hard word in his ear? [_MAURYA takes up the tongs and begins raking the fire aimlessly without looking round._]

NORA [_turning towards her_]. You're taking away the turf from the cake.

CATHLEEN [_crying out_]. The Son of God forgive us, Nora, we're after forgetting his bit of bread. [_She comes over to the fire._]

NORA. And it's destroyed he'll be going till dark night, and he after eating nothing since the sun went up.

CATHLEEN [_turning the cake out of the oven_]. It's destroyed he'll be, surely. There's no sense left on any person in a house where an old woman will be talking forever. [_MAURYA sways herself on her stool._]

CATHLEEN [_cutting off some of the bread and rolling it in a cloth; to MAURYA_]. Let you go down now to the spring well and give him this and he passing. You'll see him then and the dark word will be broken, and you can say "God speed you," the way he'll be easy in his mind.

MAURYA [_taking the bread_]. Will I be in it as soon as himself?

CATHLEEN. If you go now quickly.

MAURYA [_standing up unsteadily_]. It's hard set I am to walk.

CATHLEEN [_looking at her anxiously_]. Give her the stick, Nora, or maybe she'll slip on the big stones.

NORA. What stick?

CATHLEEN. The stick Michael brought from Connemara.

MAURYA [_taking a stick NORA gives her_]. In the big world the old people do be leaving things after them for their sons and children, but in this place it is the young men do be leaving things behind for them that do be old. [_She goes out slowly. NORA goes over to the ladder._]

CATHLEEN. Wait, Nora, maybe she'd turn back quickly. She's that sorry, God help her, you wouldn't know the thing she'd do.

NORA. Is she gone round by the bush?

CATHLEEN [_looking out_]. She's gone now. Throw it down quickly, for the Lord knows when she'll be out of it again.

NORA [_getting the bundle from the loft_]. The young priest said he'd be passing to-morrow, and we might go down and speak to him below if it's Michael's they are surely.

CATHLEEN [_taking the bundle_]. Did he say what way they were found?

NORA [_coming down_]. "There were two men," says he, "and they rowing round with poteen before the cocks crowed, and the oar of one of them caught the body, and they passing the black cliffs of the north."

CATHLEEN [_trying to open the bundle_]. Give me a knife, Nora, the string's perished with the salt water, and there's a black knot on it you wouldn't loosen in a week.

NORA [_giving her a knife_]. I've heard tell it was a long way to Donegal.

CATHLEEN [_cutting the string_]. It is surely. There was a man in here a while ago--the man sold us that knife--and he said if you set off walking from the rocks beyond, it would be seven days you'd be in Donegal.

NORA. And what time would a man take, and he floating? [_CATHLEEN opens the bundle and takes out a bit of a stocking. They look at them eagerly._]

CATHLEEN [_in a low voice_]. The Lord spare us, Nora! isn't it a queer hard thing to say if it's his they are surely?

NORA. I'll get his shirt off the hook the way we can put the one flannel on the other. [_She looks through some clothes hanging in the corner._] It's not with them, Cathleen, and where will it be?

CATHLEEN. I'm thinking Bartley put it on him in the morning, for his own shirt was heavy with the salt in it. [_Pointing to the corner._] There's a bit of a sleeve was of the same stuff. Give me that and it will do. [_NORA brings it to her and they compare the flannel._]

CATHLEEN. It's the same stuff, Nora; but if it is itself aren't there great rolls of it in the shops of Galway, and isn't it many another man may have a shirt of it as well as Michael himself?

NORA [_who has taken up the stocking and counted the stitches, crying out_]. It's Michael, Cathleen, it's Michael; God spare his soul, and what will herself say when she hears this story, and Bartley on the sea?

CATHLEEN [_taking the stocking_]. It's a plain stocking.

NORA. It's the second one of the third pair I knitted, and I put up three score stitches, and I dropped four of them.

CATHLEEN [_counts the stitches_]. It's that number is in it. [_Crying out._] Ah, Nora, isn't it a bitter thing to think of him floating that way to the far north, and no one to keen him but the black hags that do be flying on the sea?

NORA [_swinging herself round, and throwing out her arms on the clothes_]. And isn't it a pitiful thing when there is nothing left of a man who was a great rower and fisher, but a bit of an old shirt and a plain stocking?

CATHLEEN [_after an instant_]. Tell me is herself coming, Nora? I hear a little sound on the path.

NORA [_looking out_]. She is, Cathleen. She's coming up to the door.

CATHLEEN. Put these things away before she'll come in. Maybe it's easier she'll be after giving her blessing to Bartley, and we won't let on we've heard anything the time he's on the sea.

NORA [_helping CATHLEEN to close the bundle_]. We'll put them here in the corner. [_They put them into a hole in the chimney corner. CATHLEEN goes back to the spinning-wheel._]

NORA. Will she see it was crying I was?

CATHLEEN. Keep your back to the door the way the light'll not be on you. [_NORA sits down at the chimney corner, with her back to the door. MAURYA comes in very slowly, without looking at the girls, and goes over to her stool at the other side of the fire. The cloth with the bread is still in her hand. The girls look at each other, and NORA points to the bundle of bread._]

CATHLEEN [_after spinning for a moment_]. You didn't give him his bit of bread? [_MAURYA begins to keen softly, without turning round._]

CATHLEEN. Did you see him riding down? [_MAURYA goes on keening._]

CATHLEEN [_a little impatiently_]. God forgive you; isn't it a better thing to raise your voice and tell what you seen, than to be making lamentation for a thing that's done? Did you see Bartley, I'm saying to you.

MAURYA [_with a weak voice_]. My heart's broken from this day.

CATHLEEN [_as before_]. Did you see Bartley?

MAURYA. I seen the fearfulest thing.

CATHLEEN [_leaves her wheel and looks out_]. God forgive you; he's riding the mare now over the green head, and the gray pony behind him.

MAURYA [_starts, so that her shawl falls back from her head and shows her white tossed hair. With a frightened voice_]. The gray pony behind him.

CATHLEEN [_coming to the fire_]. What is it ails you, at all?

MAURYA [_speaking very slowly_]. I've seen the fearfulest thing any person has seen, since the day Bride Dara seen the dead man with the child in his arms.

CATHLEEN AND NORA. Uah. [_They crouch down in front of the old woman at the fire._]

NORA. Tell us what it is you seen.

MAURYA. I went down to the spring well, and I stood there saying a prayer to myself. Then Bartley came along, and he riding on the red mare with the gray pony behind him. [_She puts up her hands, as if to hide something from her eyes._] The Son of God spare us, Nora!

CATHLEEN. What is it you seen?

MAURYA. I seen Michael himself.

CATHLEEN [_speaking softly_]. You did not, mother; it wasn't Michael you seen, for his body is after being found in the far north, and he's got a clean burial by the grace of God.

MAURYA [_a little defiantly_]. I'm after seeing him this day, and he riding and galloping. Bartley came first on the red mare; and I tried to say "God speed you," but something choked the words in my throat. He went by quickly; and "The blessing of God on you," says he, and I could say nothing. I looked up then, and I crying, at the gray pony, and there was Michael upon it--with fine clothes on him, and new shoes on his feet.

CATHLEEN [_begins to keen_]. It's destroyed we are from this day. It's destroyed, surely.

NORA. Didn't the young priest say the Almighty God wouldn't leave her destitute with no son living?

MAURYA [_in a low voice, but clearly_]. It's little the like of him knows of the sea.... Bartley will be lost now, and let you call in Eamon and make me a good coffin out of the white boards, for I won't live after them. I've had a husband, and a husband's father, and six sons in this house--six fine men, though it was a hard birth I had with every one of them and they coming to the world--and some of them were found and some of them were not found, but they're gone now the lot of them.... There were Stephen, and Shawn, were lost in the great wind, and found after in the Bay of Gregory of the Golden Mouth, and carried up the two of them on the one plank, and in by that door. [_She pauses for a moment, the girls start as if they heard something through the door that is half open behind them._]

NORA [_in a whisper_]. Did you hear that, Cathleen? Did you hear a noise in the north-east?

CATHLEEN [_in a whisper_]. There's someone after crying out by the seashore.

MAURYA [_continues without hearing anything_]. There was Sheamus and his father, and his own father again, were lost in a dark night, and not a stick or sign was seen of them when the sun went up. There was Patch after was drowned out of a curagh that turned over. I was sitting here with Bartley, and he a baby, lying on my two knees, and I seen two women, and three women, and four women coming in, and they crossing themselves, and not saying a word. I looked out then, and there were men coming after them, and they holding a thing in the half of a red sail, and water dripping out of it--it was a dry day, Nora--and leaving a track to the door. [_She pauses again with her hand stretched out towards the door. It opens softly and old women begin to come in, crossing themselves on the threshold, and kneeling down in front of the stage with red petticoats over their heads._]

MAURYA [_half in a dream, to CATHLEEN_]. Is it Patch, or Michael, or what is it at all?

CATHLEEN. Michael is after being found in the far north, and when he is found there how could he be here in this place?

MAURYA. There does be a power of young men floating round in the sea, and what way would they know if it was Michael they had, or another man like him, for when a man is nine days in the sea, and the wind blowing, it's hard set his own mother would be to say what man was it.

CATHLEEN. It's Michael, God spare him, for they're after sending us a bit of his clothes from the far north. [_She reaches out and hands MAURYA the clothes that belonged to MICHAEL. MAURYA stands up slowly, and takes them in her hands. NORA looks out._]

NORA. They're carrying a thing among them and there's water dripping out of it and leaving a track by the big stones.

CATHLEEN [_in a whisper to the women who have come in_]. Is it Bartley it is?

ONE OF THE WOMEN. It is surely, God rest his soul. [_Two younger women come in and pull out the table. Then men carry in the body of BARTLEY, laid on a plank, with a bit of a sail over it, and lay it on the table._]

CATHLEEN [_to the women, as they are doing so_]. What way was he drowned?

ONE OF THE WOMEN. The gray pony knocked him into the sea, and he was washed out where there is a great surf on the white rocks. [_MAURYA has gone over and knelt down at the head of the table. The women are keening softly and swaying themselves with a slow movement. CATHLEEN and NORA kneel at the other end of the table. The men kneel near the door._]

MAURYA [_raising her head and speaking as if she did not see the people around her_]. They're all gone now, and there isn't anything more the sea can do to me.... I'll have no call now to be up crying and praying when the wind breaks from the south, and you can hear the surf is in the east, and the surf is in the west, making a great stir with the two noises, and they hitting one on the other. I'll have no call now to be going down and getting Holy Water in the dark nights after Samhain, and I won't care what way the sea is when the other women will be keening. [_To NORA._] Give me the Holy Water, Nora, there's a small sup still on the dresser. [_NORA gives it to her._]

MAURYA [_drops MICHAEL's clothes across BARTLEY's feet, and sprinkles the Holy Water over him_]. It isn't that I haven't prayed for you, Bartley, to the Almighty God. It isn't that I haven't said prayers in the dark night till you wouldn't know what I'ld be saying; but it's a great rest I'll have now, and it's time surely. It's a great rest I'll have now, and great sleeping in the long nights after Samhain, if it's only a bit of wet flour we do have to eat, and maybe a fish that would be stinking. [_She kneels down again, crossing herself, and saying prayers under her breath._]

CATHLEEN [_to an old man_]. Maybe yourself and Eamon would make a coffin when the sun rises. We have fine white boards herself bought, God help her, thinking Michael would be found, and I have a new cake you can eat while you'll be working.