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 grey 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’d 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. |
| The Old Man |
Looking at the boards. Are there nails with them? |
| Cathleen |
There are not, Colum; we didn’t think of the nails. |
| Another Man |
It’s a great wonder she wouldn’t think of the nails, and all the coffins she’s seen made already. |
| Cathleen |
It’s getting old she is, and broken. |
|
Maurya stands up again very slowly and spreads out the pieces of Michael’s clothes beside the body, sprinkling them with the last of the Holy Water. |
| Nora |
In a whisper to Cathleen. She’s quiet now and easy; but the day Michael was drowned you could hear her crying out from this to the spring well. It’s fonder she was of Michael, and would anyone have thought that? |
| Cathleen |
Slowly and clearly. An old woman will be soon tired with anything she will do, and isn’t it nine days herself is after crying and keening, and making great sorrow in the house? |
| Maurya |
Puts the empty cup mouth downwards on the table, and lays her hands together on Bartley’s feet. They’re all together this time, and the end is come. May the Almighty God have mercy on Bartley’s soul, and on Michael’s soul, and on the souls of Sheamus and Patch, and Stephen and Shawn bending her head; and may He have mercy on my soul, Nora, and on the soul of everyone is left living in the world. |
|
She pauses, and the keen rises a little more loudly from the women, then sinks away. |
| Maurya |
Continuing. Michael has a clean burial in the far north, by the grace of the Almighty God. Bartley will have a fine coffin out of the white boards, and a deep grave surely. What more can we want than that? No man at all can be living forever, and we must be satisfied. |
|
She kneels down again and the curtain falls slowly. |
The Tinker’s Wedding
A Comedy in Two Acts
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 pharmacopoeia 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 blackberries 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 humour, 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,
