Deirdre of the Sorrows Part 1

Deirdre of the Sorrows.

by J. M. Synge.

ACT I.

Lavarcham's house on Slieve Fuadh.

DEIRDRE OF THE SORROWS

ACT I

Lavarcham's house on Slieve Fuadh. There is a door to inner room on the left, and a door to open air on the right. Window at back and a frame with a half-finished piece of tapestry. There are also a large press and heavy oak chest near the back wall. The place is neat and clean but bare. Lavarcham, woman of fifty, is working at tapestry frame. Old Woman comes in from left.

OLD WOMAN. She hasn't come yet, is it, and it falling to the night?

LAVARCHAM. She has not. . . (Con- cealing her anxiety.) It's dark with the clouds are coming from the west and south, but it isn't later than the common.

OLD WOMAN. It's later, surely, and I hear tell the Sons of Usna, Naisi and his brothers, are above chasing hares for two days or three, and the same awhile since when the moon was full.

LAVARCHAM -- more anxiously. -- The G.o.ds send they don't set eyes on her -- (with

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a sign of helplessness) yet if they do itself, it wasn't my wish brought them or could send them away.

OLD WOMAN -- reprovingly. -- If it wasn't, you'd do well to keep a check on her, and she turning a woman that was meant to be a queen.

LAVARCHAM. Who'd check her like was meant to have her pleasure only, the way if there were no warnings told about her you'd see troubles coming when an old king is taking her, and she without a thought but for her beauty and to be straying the hills.

OLD WOMAN. The G.o.ds help the lot of us. . . . Shouldn't she be well pleased getting the like of Conchubor, and he middling settled in his years itself? I don't know what he wanted putting her this wild place to be breaking her in, or putting myself to be roast- ing her supper and she with no patience for her food at all. [She looks out.

LAVARCHAM. Is she coming from the glen?

OLD WOMAN. She is not. But whisht -- there's two men leaving the furze -- (crying out) it's Conchubor and Fergus along with him. Conchubor'll be in a blue stew this night and herself abroad.

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LAVARCHAM -- settling room hastily. -- Are they close by?

OLD WOMAN. Crossing the stream, and there's herself on the hillside with a load of twigs. Will I run out and put her in order before they'll set eyes on her at all?

LAVARCHAM. You will not. Would you have him see you, and he a man would be jealous of a hawk would fly between her and the rising sun. (She looks out.) Go up to the hearth and be as busy as if you hadn't seen them at all.

OLD WOMAN -- sitting down to polish vessel. -- There'll be trouble this night, for he should be in his tempers from the way he's stepping out, and he swinging his hands.

LAVARCHAM -- wearied with the whole matter. -- It'd be best of all, maybe, if he got in tempers with herself, and made an end quickly, for I'm in a poor way between the pair of them (going back to tapestry frame.) There they are now at the door.

[Conchubor and Fergus come in.

CONCHUBOR AND FERGUS. The G.o.ds save you.

LAVARCHAM -- getting up and courtesy- ing. -- The G.o.ds save and keep you kindly, and stand between you and all harm for ever.

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CONCHUBOR -- looking around. -- Where is Deirdre?

LAVARCHAM -- trying to speak with in- difference. -- Abroad upon Slieve Fuadh. She does be all times straying around picking flowers or nuts, or sticks itself; but so long as she's gathering new life I've a right not to heed her, I'm thinking, and she taking her will.

[Fergus talks to Old Woman.

CONCHUBOR -- stiffly. -- A night with thunder coming is no night to be abroad.

LAVARCHAM -- more uneasily. -- She's used to every track and pathway, and the lightning itself wouldn't let down its flame to singe the beauty of her like.

FERGUS -- cheerfully. -- She's right, Con- chubor, and let you sit down and take your ease, (he takes a wallet from under his cloak) and I'll count out what we've brought, and put it in the presses within.

[He goes into the inner room with the Old Woman.

CONCHUBOR -- sitting down and look- ing about. -- Where are the mats and hangings and the silver skillets I sent up for Deirdre?

LAVARCHAM. The mats and hangings are in this press, Conchubor. She wouldn't wish to be soiling them, she said, running out

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and in with mud and gra.s.ses on her feet, and it raining since the night of Samhain. The silver skillets and the golden cups we have beyond locked in the chest.

CONCHUBOR. Bring them out and use them from this day.

LAVARCHAM. We'll do it, Conchubor.

CONCHUBOR -- getting up and going to frame. -- Is this hers?

LAVARCHAM -- pleased to speak of it. -- It is, Conchubor. All say there isn't her match at fancying figures and throwing purple upon crimson, and she edging them all times with her greens and gold.

CONCHUBOR -- a little uneasily. -- Is she keeping wise and busy since I pa.s.sed before, and growing ready for her life in Emain?

LAVARCHAM -- dryly. -- That is a ques- tion will give small pleasure to yourself or me.

(Making up her mind to speak out.) If it's the truth I'll tell you, she's growing too wise to marry a big king and she a score only. Let you not be taking it bad, Conchubor, but you'll get little good seeing her this night, for with all my talking it's wilfuller she's growing these two months or three.

CONCHUBOR -- severely, but relieved things are no worse. -- Isn't it a poor thing

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you're doing so little to school her to meet what is to come?

LAVARCHAM. I'm after serving you two score of years, and I'll tell you this night, Conchubor, she's little call to mind an old woman when she has the birds to school her, and the pools in the rivers where she goes bathing in the sun. I'll tell you if you seen her that time, with her white skin, and her red lips, and the blue water and the ferns about her, you'd know, maybe, and you greedy itself, it wasn't for your like she was born at all.

CONCHUBOR. It's little I heed for what she was born; she'll be my comrade, surely.

[He examines her workbox.

LAVARCHAM -- sinking into sadness again. -- I'm in dread so they were right say- ing she'd bring destruction on the world, for it's a poor thing when you see a settled man putting the love he has for a young child, and the love he has for a full woman, on a girl the like of her; and it's a poor thing, Conchubor, to see a High King, the way you are this day, prying after her needles and numbering her lines of thread.

CONCHUBOR -- getting up. -- Let you not be talking too far and you old itself.

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(Walks across room and back.) Does she know the troubles are foretold?

LAVARCHAM -- in the tone of the earlier talk. -- I'm after telling her one time and another, but I'd do as well speaking to a lamb of ten weeks and it racing the hills. . . . It's not the dread of death or troubles that would tame her like.

CONCHUBOR -- he looks out. -- She's coming now, and let you walk in and keep Fergus till I speak with her a while.

LAVARCHAM -- going left. -- If I'm after vexing you itself, it'd be best you weren't taking her hasty or scolding her at all.

CONCHUBOR -- very stiffly. -- I've no call to. I'm well pleased she's light and airy.

LAVARCHAM -- offended at his tone. -- Well pleased is it? (With a snort of irony) It's a queer thing the way the likes of me do be telling the truth, and the wise are lying all times.

[She goes into room on left. Conchubor arranges himself before a mirror for a moment, then goes a little to the left and waits. Deirdre comes in poorly dressed, with a little bag and a bundle of twigs in her arms. She is astonished for a moment when she sees Conchu-

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bor; then she makes a courtesy to him, and goes to the hearth without any embarra.s.sment.

CONCHUBOR. The G.o.ds save you, Deirdre. I have come up bringing you rings and jewels from Emain Macha.

DEIRDRE. The G.o.ds save you.

CONCHUBOR. What have you brought from the hills?

DEIRDRE -- quite self-possessed. -- A bag of nuts, and twigs for our fires at the dawn of day.

CONCHUBOR -- showing annoyance in spite of himself. -- And it's that way you're picking up the manners will fit you to be Queen of Ulster?

DEIRDRE -- made a little defiant by his tone. -- I have no wish to be a queen.

CONCHUBOR -- almost sneeringly. -- You'd wish to be dressing in your duns and grey, and you herding your geese or driving your calves to their shed -- like the common lot scattered in the glens.