The Playboy of the Western World and Other Plays (3 page)

NORA. It is, stranger. He's after dying on me, God forgive him, and there I am now with a hundred sheep beyond on the hills, and no turf drawn for the winter.

TRAMP
(looking closely at the dead man). It's a queer
look is on him for a man that's dead.

NORA
(half-humorously).
He was always queer, stranger, and I suppose them that's queer and they living men will be queer bodies after.

TRAMP. Isn't it a great wonder you're letting him lie there, and he is not tidied, or laid out itself?

NORA (
coming to the bed
). I was afeard, stranger, for he put a black curse on me this morning if I‘Id touch his body the time he'ld die sudden, or let any one touch it except his sister only, and it's ten miles away she lives in the big glen over the hill.

TRAMP
(looking at her and nodding slowly).
It's a queer story he wouldn't let his own wife touch him, and he dying quiet in his bed.

NORA. He was an old man, and an odd man, stranger, and it's always up on the hills he was thinking thoughts in the dark mist.
(She pulls back a bit of the sheet.)
Lay your hand on him now, and tell me if it's cold he is surely.

TRAMP. Is it getting the curse on me you‘ld be, woman of the house? I wouldn't lay my hand on him for the Lough Nahanagan and it filled with gold.

NORA
(looking uneasily at the body).
Maybe cold would be no sign of death with the like of him, for he was always cold, every day since I knew him,—and every night, stranger,—(
she covers up his face and comes away from the bed);
but I'm thinking it's dead he is surely, for he's complaining a while back of a pain in his heart, and this morning, the time he was going off to Brittas for three days or four, he was taken with a sharp turn. Then he went into his bed and he was saying it was destroyed he was, the time the shadow was going up through the glen, and when the sun set on the bog beyond he made a great lep, and let a great cry out of him, and stiffened himself out the like of a dead sheep.

TRAMP
(crosses himself).
God rest his soul.

NORA
(pouring him out a glass of whisky).
Maybe that would do you better than the milk of the sweetest cow in County Wicklow.

TRAMP. The Almighty God reward you, and may it be to your good health.

 

NORA
(giving him a pipe and tobacco).
I've no pipes saving his own, stranger, but they're sweet pipes to smoke.

 

TRAMP. Thank you kindly, lady of the house.

NORA. Sit down now, stranger, and be taking your rest.

TRAMP
(filling a pipe and looking about the room
). I've walked a great way through the world, lady of the house, and seen great wonders, but I never seen a wake till this day with fine spirits, and good tobacco, and the best of pipes, and no one to taste them but a woman only.

NORA. Didn't you hear me say it was only after dying on me he was when the sun went down, and how would I go out into the glen and tell the neighbours, andIalone woman with no house near me?

TRAMP
(drinking).
There's no offence, lady of the house?

NORA. No offence in life, stranger. How would the like of you, passing in the dark night, know the lonesome way I was with no house near me at all?

TRAMP
(sitting down).
I know rightly.
(He lights his pipe so that there is a sharp light beneath his haggard face.)
And I was thinking, and I coming in through the door, that it's many a lone woman would be afeard of the like of me in the dark night, in a place wouldn't be as lonesome as this place, where there aren't two living souls would see the little light you have shining from the glass.

NORA
(slowly).
I'm thinking many would be afeard, but I never knew what way I'd be afeard of beggar or bishop or any man of you at all.
(She looks towards the window and lowers her voice.)
It's other things than the like of you, stranger, would make a person afeard.

TRAMP
(looking round with a half-shudder).
It is surely, God help us all!

NORA
(looking at him for a moment with curiosity).
You're saying that, stranger, as if you were easy afeard.

TRAMP
(speaking mournfully).
Is it myself, lady of the house, that does be walking round in the long nights, and crossing the hills when the fog is on them, the time a little stick would seem as big as your arm, and a rabbit as big as a bay horse, and a stack of turf as big as a towering church in the city of Dublin? If myself was easily afeard, I'm telling you, it's long ago I‘ld have been locked into the Richmond Asylum, or maybe have run up into the back hills with nothing on me but an old shirt, and been eaten with crows the like of Patch Darcy—the Lord have mercy on him—in the year that's gone.

NORA
(with interest).
You knew Darcy?

TRAMP. Wasn't I the last one heard his living voice in the whole world?

NORA. There were great stories of what was heard at that time, but would any one believe the things they do be saying in the glen?

TRAMP. It was no lie, lady of the house.... I was passing below on a dark night the like of this night, and the sheep were lying under the ditch and every one of them coughing, and choking, like an old man, with the great rain and the fog. Then I heard a thing talking—queer talk, you wouldn't believe at all, and you out of your dreams,—and “Merciful God,” says I, “if I begin hearing the like of that voice out of the thick mist, I'm destroyed surely.” Then I run, and I run, and I run, till I was below in Rathvanna. I got drunk that night, I got drunk in the morning, and drunk the day after,—I was coming from the races beyond—and the third day they found Darcy.... Then I knew it was himself I was after hearing, and I wasn't afeard any more.

NORA
(speaking sorrowfully and slowly).
God spare Darcy, he‘ld always look in here and he passing up or passing down, and it's very lonesome I was after him a long while
(she looks over at the bed and lowers her voice, speaking very clearly),
and then I got happy again—if it's ever happy we are, stranger,—for I got used to being lonesome.

 

NORA. Was there any one on the last bit of the road, stranger, and you coming from Aughrim?

TRAMP. There was a young man with a drift of mountain ewes, and he running after them this way and that.

NORA
(with a half-smile).
Far down, stranger?

TRAMP. A piece only.

 

NORA. Maybe, if you're not easy afeard, you‘ld stay here a short while alone with himself.

TRAMP. I would surely. A man that's dead can do no hurt.

NORA
(speaking with a sort of constraint).
I'm going a little back to the west, stranger, for himself would go there one night and another and whistle at that place, and then the young man you're after seeing—a kind of a farmer has come up from the sea to live in a cottage beyond—would walk round to see if there was a thing we‘ld have to be done, and I'm wanting him this night, the way he can go down into the glen when the sun goes up and tell the people that himself is dead.

TRAMP
(looking at the body in the sheet).
It's myself will go for him, lady of the house, and let you not be destroying yourself with the great rain.

NORA. You wouldn't find your way, stranger, for there's a small path only, and it running up between two sluigs where an ass and cart would be drowned.
(She puts a shawl over her head.)
Let you be making yourself easy, and saying a prayer for his soul, and it's not long I'll be coming again.

TRAMP
(moving uneasily).
Maybe if you'd a piece of a grey thread and a sharp needle—there's great safety in a needle, lady of the house—I‘ld be putting a little stitch here and there in my old coat, the time I'll be praying for his soul, and it going up naked to the saints of God.

NORA
(takes a needle and thread from the front of her dress and gives it to him).
There's the needle, stranger, and I'm thinking you won't be lonesome, and you used to the back hills, for isn't a dead man itself more company than to be sitting alone, and hearing the winds crying, and you not knowing on what thing your mind would stay?

TRAMP
(slowly).
It's true, surely, and the Lord have mercy on us all!

 

(NORA goes out. The TRAMP
begins stitching one of the tags in his coat, saying the “De Profundis” under his breath. In an instant the sheet is drawn slowly down, and
DAN BURKE
looks out. The
TRAMP
moves uneasily, then looks up, and springs to his feet with a movement of terror.)

DAN
(with a hoarse voice).
Don't be afeard, stranger; a man that's dead can do no hurt.

TRAMP
(trembling).
I meant no harm, your honour; and won't you leave me easy to be saying a little prayer for your soul?

 

DAN
(sitting up in his bed and speaking fiercely).
Ah, the devil mend her.... Do you hear that, stranger? Did ever you hear another woman could whistle the like of that with two fingers in her mouth?
(He looks at the table hurriedly.)
I'm destroyed with the drouth, and let you bring me a drop quickly before herself will come back.

TRAMP
(doubtfully).
Is it not dead you are?

DAN. How would I be dead, and I as dry as a baked bone, stranger?

TRAMP
(pouring out the whisky).
What will herself say if she smells the stuff on you, for I'm thinking it's not for nothing you're letting on to be dead?

DAN. It is not, stranger, but she won't be coming near me at all, and it's not long now I'll be letting on, for I've a cramp in my back, and my hip's asleep on me, and there's been the devil's own fly itching my nose. It's near dead I was wanting to sneeze, and you blathering about the rain, and Darcy
(bitterly)—
the devil choke him—and the towering church.
(Crying out impatiently.)
Give me that whisky. Would you have herself come back before I taste a drop at all?

(TRAMP
gives him the glass.)

DAN
(after drinking).
Go over now to that cupboard, and bring me a black stick you'll see in the west corner by the wall.

TRAMP
(taking a stick from the cupboard).
Is it that?

DAN. It is, stranger; it's a long time I'm keeping that stick for I've a bad wife in the house.

TRAMP
(with a queer look).
Is it herself, master of the house, and she a grand woman to talk?

DAN. It's herself, surely, it's a bad wife she is—a bad wife for an old man, and I'm getting old, God help me, though I've an arm to me still.
(He takes the stick in his hand.)
Let you wait now a short while, and it's a great sight you'll see in this room in two hours or three.
(He stops to listen.)
Is that somebody above?

TRAMP
(listening).
There's a voice speaking on the path.

DAN. Put that stick here in the bed and smooth the sheet the way it was lying.
(He covers himself up hastily.)
Be falling to sleep now and don't let on you know anything, or I'll be having your life. I wouldn't have told you at all but it's destroyed with the drouth I was.

TRAMP
(covering his head.)
Have no fear, master of the house. What is it I know of the like of you that I‘ld be saying a word or putting out my hand to stay you at all?

DAN
(under the sheet, querulously.)
Stranger.

TRAMP
(quickly).
Whisht, whisht. Be quiet I'm telling you, they're coming now at the door.

(NORA
comes in with
MICHEAL DARA,
a tall, innocent young man behind her.)

NORA. I wasn't long at all, stranger, for I met himself on the path.

TRAMP. You were middling long, lady of the house.

NORA. There was no sign from himself?

TRAMP. No sign at all, lady of the house.

NORA (to MICHEAL). Go over now and pull down the sheet, and look on himself, Micheal Dara, and you'll see it's the truth I'm telling you.

MICHEAL. I will not, Nora, I do be afeard of the dead.

 

 

(He sits down on a stool next the table facing the
TRAMP. NORA
puts the kettle on a lower hook of the pot-hooks, and piles turf under it.)

NORA
(turning to
TRAMP). Will you drink a sup of tea with myself and the young man, stranger, or
(speaking more persuasively)
will you go into the little room and stretch yourself a short while on the bed, I'm thinking it's destroyed you are walking the length of that way in the great rain.

TRAMP. Is it to go away and leave you, and you having a wake, lady of the house? I will not surely.
(He takes a drink from his glass which he has beside him.)
And it's none of your tea I'm asking either.

(He goes on stitching.
NORA
makes the tea.)

 

MICHEAL
(after looking at the
TRAMP
rather scornfully for a moment).
That's a poor coat you have, God help you, and I'm thinking it's a poor tailor you are with it.

TRAMP. If it's a poor tailor I am, I'm thinking it's a poor herd does be running back and forward after a little handful of ewes the way I seen yourself running this day, young fellow, and you coming from the fair.