Three Plays: The Fiddler's House, The Land, Thomas Muskerry Part 1

Three Plays.

by Padraic Colum.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I have been asked to say something about the intentions and ideas that underlie the three short plays in this volume.

These plays were conceived in the early days of the Irish National Theatre. I had been one of the group that formed the National Theatre Society and I wrote plays for players who were my colleagues and my instructors; I wrote them for a small, barely-furnished stage in a small theatre; I wrote them, too, for an audience that was tremendously interested in every expression of national character.

"The Land" was written to celebrate the redemption of the soil of Ireland--an event made possible by the Land Act of 1903. This event, as it represented the pa.s.sing of Irish acres from an alien landlordism, was considered to be of national importance. "The Land"

also dealt with a movement that ran counter to the rooting of the Celtic people in the soil--emigration--the emigration to America of the young and the fit. In "The Land" I tried to show that it was not altogether an economic necessity that was driving young men and women out of the Irish rural districts; the lack of life and the lack of freedom there had much to do with emigration.

"The Land" touched upon a typical conflict, the conflict between the individual and that which, in Ireland, has much authority, the family group. This particular conflict was shown again in "The Fiddler's House." where the life, not of the actual peasants, but of rural people with artistic and aristocratic traditions, was shown.

I tried to show the same conflict working out more tragically in the play of middle-cla.s.s life, "Thomas Muskerry." Here I went above the peasant and the wandering artist and came to the official. I had intended to make plays about the merchant, the landowner, the political and the intellectual leader and so write a chapter in an Irish Human Comedy. But while I was thinking of the play that is third in this volume my connection with the National Theatre Society was broken off. "Thomas Muskerry" was produced in the Abbey Theatre after I had ceased to be a member of the group that had founded it.

PADRAIC COLUM NEW YORK _August, 1916_

_THE FIDDLER'S HOUSE_

_CHARACTERS_

CONN HOURICAN, a Fiddler.

MAIRE (Mary) [1] HOURICAN, his daughter.

ANNE HOURICAN, a younger daughter.

BRIAN MACCONNELL, a younger farmer.

JAMES MOYNIHAN, a farmer's son.

The action pa.s.ses in the Houricans' house in the Irish Midlands.

[Footnote 1: The name is p.r.o.nounced as if written "Maurya."]

ACT I

SCENE: _The interior of a farmer's cottage; the kitchen. The entrance is at the back right. To the left is the fire-place, an open hearth, with a fire of peat. There is a room door to the right, a pace below the entrance; and another room door below the fire-place.

Between the room door and the entrance there is a row of wooden pegs, on which men's coats hang. Below this door is a dresser containing pretty delpht. There is a small window at back, a settle bed folded into a high bench; a small mirror hangs right of the window. A backed chair and some stools are about the hearth. A table to the right with cloth and tea things on it. The cottage looks pretty and comfortable. It is towards the close of an Autumn day_.

_James Moynihan has finished tea; Anne Hourican is at the back, seated on the settle knitting, and watching James. James Moynihan is about twenty-eight. He has a good forehead, but his face is indeterminate. He has been working in the fields, and is dressed in trousers, shirt, and heavy boots. Anne Hourican is a pretty, dark-haired girl of about nineteen_.

_James Moynihan rises_.

ANNE And so you can't stay any longer, James?

JAMES _(with a certain solemnity)_ No, Anne. I told my father I'd be back while there was light, and I'm going back. _(He goes to the rack, takes his coat, and puts it on him)_ Come over to our house to-night, Anne. I'll be watching the girls coming in, and thinking on yourself; there's none of them your match for grace and favour. My father wanted me to see a girl in Arvach. She has three hundred pounds, besides what the priest, her uncle, will leave her. "Father," says I, "listen to me now. Haven't I always worked for you like a steady, useful boy?" "You have," says he. "Did I ever ask you for anything unreasonable?" says I. "No," says he. "Well then," says I, "don't ask me to do unreasonable things. I'm fond of Anne Hourican, and not another girl will I marry. What's money, after all?" says I, "there's gold on the whin-bushes if you only knew it." And he had to leave it at that.

ANNE You always bring people around.

JAMES The quiet, reasonable way is the way that people like.

ANNE Still, with all, I'm shy of going into your house.

JAMES Don't doubt but there'll be a welcome before you; come round with Maire.

_Anne rises, and comes to him. She has graceful, bird-like movements._

ANNE _(putting her hands on James' shoulders)_ Maybe we won't have a chance of seeing each other after all.

_James Moynihan kisses her reverently_

JAMES Sit down now, Anne, because there's something I want to show you. Do you ever see "The Shamrock"?

ANNE Very seldom.

_James and Anne go to the settle; they sit down_.

JAMES There be good pieces in it sometimes. There's a poem of mine in it this week.

ANNE Of yours, James? Printed, do you mean?

JAMES Ay, printed. _(He takes a paper out of his pocket, and opens it)_ It's a poem to yourself, though your name doesn't come into it.

_(Gives paper)_ Let no one see it, Anne, at least not for the present.

And now, good-bye.

_Goes to the door. Anne continues reading the verse eagerly. At the door James turns and recites_:--

When lights are failing, and skies are paling, And leaves are sailing a-down the air, O, it's then that love lifts my heart above My roving thoughts and my petty care; And though the gloom be like the tomb, Where there's no room for my love and me, O, still I'll find you, and still I'll bind you, My wild sweet rose of Aughnalee!

That's the first stanza. Good-bye.

_James goes out. Anne continues reading, then she leaves the paper down with a sigh_.

ANNE O, it's lovely! _(She takes the paper up again, rises and goes to the door. She remains looking out. Some one speaks to her)_ No, Brian, Maire's not back yet. Ay, I'll engage she'll give you a call when she does come back. _(Anne turns back. She opens drawer in the dresser and puts paper in. She begins to clear table, putting the delpht back on dresser. To herself, anxiously)_ I hope Maire won't forget to call at the mill. _(Room door right opens, and Conn Hourican comes down. Conn Hourican is a man of about fifty, with clear-cut, powerful features, his face is clean-shaven, his expression vehement. His dress is old-fashioned. He wears knee-breeches, a frieze coat rather long, a linen shirt with a little linen collar and a black string for bow. He carries a slick and moves about restlessly)_

ANNE Had Maire any talk of going to the mill, father?

CONN I heard nothing of it.

ANNE I hope she'll mind of it. We must get the meal there, and not be going to the shop so often.

CONN I suppose we must.