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diff --git a/1328-0.txt b/1328-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca133b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/1328-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1295 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1328 *** + +This etext was prepared by Judy Boss + + + +cover + + + + The Tinker’s Wedding + + + +A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS + + + + by J. M. Synge + + + +Contents + + + PREFACE. + THE TINKER’S WEDDING + PERSONS. + ACT I. + ACT II. + + + +PREFACE. + +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. + + + +THE TINKER’S WEDDING + +PERSONS + +MICHAEL BYRNE, a tinker. +MARY BYRNE, an old woman, his mother. +SARAH CASEY, a young tinker woman. +A PRIEST. + + + +ACT I. + +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.”_ + +CURTAIN + + + +ACT II. + +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._ + +CURTAIN + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tinker’s Wedding, by J. M. Synge + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1328 *** |