Three Plays by Padraic Colum
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9 THREE PLAYS
THE FIDDLER'S HOUSE
THE LAND
THOMAS MUSKERRY
BY
PADRAIC COLUM
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1916
TO MY FRIEND
THOMAS HUGHES KELLY
THESE THREE IRISH PLAYS
_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 passing 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-class 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_
_CONTENTS_
AUTHOR'S NOTE
THE FIDDLER'S HOUSE
THE LAND: AN AGRARIAN COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
THOMAS MUSKERRY
_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 passes in the Houricans' house in the Irish Midlands.
[Footnote 1: The name is pronounced 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.
_He moves about restlessly_.
ANNE
And I was just thinking that one of us ought to go to Arvach on
Tuesday, and get the things there.
CONN
The mean, odious creatures!
_Anne is startled. She turns from dresser_.
ANNE
What are you thinking of, father?
CONN
That den of robbers. Well, well, I'm finished with them now;
but I'm a proud man, and a passionate man, and I'll be even with
them yet.
ANNE
There's no comfort in going into rough places.
CONN
You know nothing at all about it. Were the men in yet?
ANNE
James Moynihan was here, because he had to go away early; but
Brian MacConnell is outside still. Father, you were home late two
nights this week.
CONN
And is a man to have no life to himself? But sure you know
nothing at all about it. I'm going out now to give Brian MacConnell
a hand.
ANNE
It's hardly worth while going out now.
CONN
There's still light enough to do a bit of mowing, and you ought
to know that it isn't right to neglect the boy that's come to do a
day's work with you. _(Going to the door)_ Many's the day I put in
with the scythe in Ireland, and in England too; I did more than
stroll with the fiddle, and I saw more places than where fiddling
brought me. _(Brian MacConnell comes to the door)_ I was just going
out to you, Brian. I was telling the girl here that it's not right
to neglect the boy that's giving you a day's work out of his own
goodness.
BRIAN
I'm only coming in for a light.
CONN
As you're here now, rest yourself.
_Brian MacConnell comes in, and goes over to the hearth. He is dark
and good-looking, and has something reckless in his look. He wears
corduroy trousers, and a shirt loose at the neck. Anne comes to Brian.
Conn stands at entrance, his back turned_.
BRIAN
_(lighting his pipe with a coal)_ When do you expect Maire back?
ANNE
She'll be here soon. Shell give you a call if you're outside,
BRIAN
How is it you couldn't keep James Moynihan?
ANNE
It's because you didn't say the good word for me, I must think.
Be sure you praise me the next time you're working together.
BRIAN
Will you do as much for me?
ANNE
Indeed, I will, Brian. Myself and another are making a devotion
to Saint Anthony.
BRIAN
And what would that be for?
ANNE
That the Saint might send us good comrades.
BRIAN
I thought it was Saint Joseph did that for the girls.
ANNE
Sure we couldn't be asking the like from him. We couldn't talk
to Saint Joseph that way. We want a nice young saint to be looking at.
_Conn turns from the door_.
CONN
_(bitterly)_ It'll be a poor season, Brian MacConnell.
BRIAN
The season's not so bad, after all.
CONN
God help them that are depending on the land and the weather
for the bit they put into their heads. It's no wonder that the
people here are the sort they are, harassed, anxious people.
ANNE
The people here mind their own business, and they're a friendly
people besides.
CONN
People that would leave the best fiddler at the fair to go and
look at a bullock.
ANNE
_(to Brian)_ He's not satisfied to have this shelter, Brian.
CONN
_(to Brian)_ I'm saying, Brian, that her mother had this shelter,
and she left it to go the roads with myself.
ANNE
That God may rest my mother. It's a pity she never lived to
come back to the place. But we ought to be praising grandmother
night and day, for leaving this place to Maire.
CONN
Your grandmother did that as she did everything else.
ANNE
_(to Brian)_ Now, Brian, what would you do with a man that
would say the like?
_Anne goes outside._
CONN
_(to Brian)_ It's small blame to the girl here for thinking
something of the place; but I saw the time, Brian MacConnell, when I
could make more playing at one fair than working a whole season in
this bit of a place.
BRIAN
Girls like the shelter, Conn.
CONN
Ay, but the road for the fiddler. I'm five years settled here,
and I come to be as well known as the begging ass, and there is as
much thought about me. Fiddling, let me tell you, isn't like a boy's
whistling. It can't be kept up on nothing.
BRIAN
I understand that, Conn.
CONN
I'm getting that I can't stand the talk you hear in houses,
wars and Parliaments, and the devil knows what _ramais_.
BRIAN
There's still a welcome for the man of art, somewhere.
CONN
That somewhere's getting further and further away, Brian.
BRIAN
You were not in the town last night?
CONN
I was not, Brian. God help me, I spent the night my lone.
BRIAN
There's Sligomen in the town.
CONN
Is there, now? It would be like our times to play for them.
_(Anne comes in with some peat)_ Anne, would you bring me down my
spectacles? They're in the room, daughter. _(Anne goes to room. Conn
turns to Brian eagerly) I_ suppose the Sligomen will be in Flynn's.
BRIAN
They were there last night.
CONN
Listen, Brian, I've a reason for not going to Flynn's. Would
you believe it, Brian, Flynn spoke to me about the few shillings I
owe him?
BRIAN
That was shabby of him. He got a lot out of you in the way of
playing.
CONN
It's just like them. Besides, Maire keeps us tight enough, and
I often have to take treats from the men. They're drovers and
rambling labourers and the like, though, as you say, they've the
song and music, and the proper talk. Listen, Brian, could you leave
a few shillings on the dresser for me?
BRIAN
To be sure I will, Conn.
_Brian goes to the dresser, and puts money on a shelf_.
CONN
_(with dignity)_ Thank you, Brian. There's few I'd let put me
under a compliment; but I take it from you. Maire, as I said, is a
careful girl, but some of us must have our freedom. Besides, Brian,
the bird that sings lone sings slow. The man of art must have his
listeners. _(Conn takes the money off dresser)_ Anne, daughter,
what's keeping you there? Sure the spectacles were in my pocket the
whole time, child. _(Anne comes dawn)_ When I spoke against the
people about here, I was leaving you out of it, Brian.
BRIAN
I'm fond of tune, though it wasn't here I got fond of it.
_Brian goes to the door_.
ANNE
_(going to Brian)_ You won't be rambling again, Brian?
BRIAN
I'm settled here, Anne; I made it up with my brothers.
ANNE
They used to say that a MacConnell quarrel was a lasting quarrel.
BRIAN
Maybe we're working the bad blood out of us.
ANNE
Don't be staying out long, Brian.
BRIAN
Till Maire gives me the call.
_Brian MacConnell goes out_.
ANNE
We oughtn't to take another clay from Brian MacConnell. There's
only the patch at the back to be mown, and you could do that yourself.
CONN
You can depend on me for the mowing. I'm going up now, to go
over an oul' tune I have.
ANNE
James Moynihan would come over and stack for us.
CONN
James Moynihan is a decent boy, too.
ANNE
You won't be going out to-night, father?
CONN
Now, how's a man to know what he'll be doing?
ANNE
It leaves me very anxious.
CONN
I'll give you this advice, and it's proper advice to give to a
girl thinking of marrying. Never ask of your menkind where they're
going.
ANNE
The like of that brings bad luck on a house.
CONN
You have too much dead knowledge, and the shut fist never
caught a bird.
ANNE
I only wish you were settled down.
CONN
Sure I am settled down.
ANNE
I can't speak to you, after all.
CONN
You're a good girl, Anne, and he'll be lucky that gets you. And
don't be grieving that you're not bringing James Moynihan a fortune.
You're bringing him the decency of birth and rearing. You're like the
lone pigeon I often think--the pet that doesn't fly, and keeps near
the house.
ANNE
That's the way you always treat me, and I never can talk to you.
CONN
_(at window)_ Hush now, here's the other, your sister Maire.
She's like the wild pigeon of the woods. _(Maire Hourican comes in)_
We were discoursing on affairs, Maire. We won't be bringing Brian
MacConnell here tomorrow; there's only the bit at the back to be mown,
and I'll do that myself.
_Conn Hourican goes into the room right; soon after the fiddle is
heard. Anne goes to the settle, and takes up her knitting. Maire
takes her shawl off, and hangs it on the rack. Maire Hourican is
over twenty. She is tall, and has easy, graceful movements; her
features are fine and clear-cut; the nose is rather blunted, the
mouth firm. Her gaze is direct and clear. She has heavy auburn hair,
loose now, and falling. Maire comes down to the table, opens basket,
and takes some flowers from top. She turns to dresser and arranges
some of the flowers in a jar_.
MAIRE
We'd have no right to take another day from Brian. And when
there's no one here to-morrow, you and me could draw some of the turf.
ANNE
Your hair is loose, Maire.
_Maire goes to the mirror and fixes her hair_.
MAIRE
The wind blew it about me, and then I let it down. I came home
by the long way, just to feel young again with my hair about me.
ANNE
And did you meet any one?
MAIRE
Indeed I did. I met James Moynihan.
ANNE
James had to go early. They're building at his place.
MAIRE
Indeed they ought to let James build a house for himself. ANNE
Some day they will, Maire.
MAIRE But
we must not let some day be a far day.
ANNE
_(hesitatingly)_ I think I'll show you something.
MAIRE What is it, daughter?
_Anne rises and goes to the dresser. She opens drawer. Maire
watches her_.
MAIRE
_(waiting)_ I made a good girl out of you, anyway.
ANNE
You wouldn't let me use stroller words when we were on the road.
Do you mind of that?
MAIRE
I kept you to the mannerly ways. I have that to my credit.
ANNE
_(showing Maire the verses)_ Read that, Maire. It was James
that made it.
MAIRE
It's a song, I declare.
ANNE
No, Maire, it's a poem.
MAIRE
A poem? O, that's grand!
_She begins to read it eagerly_.
ANNE
And, Maire--
MAIRE
Well?
ANNE
James says it's about me.
MAIRE
About you? O, I wish some one would put me into a song, or into a poem;
I suppose a poem would be best. You might ask James. No, I'll coax him
myself. Ah, no I won't, Anne.
ANNE
You may keep it for a while, but don't let any one know.
MAIRE
He must be very fond of you, and I thinking him so quiet.
ANNE
_(happy)_ He has grand thoughts about me.
MAIRE
Well, you'll be seeing him to-night.
ANNE
I don't know that I'll go out to-night.
MAIRE
Sure Grace Moynihan asked us to go over.
ANNE
I'm shy of going into James'.
MAIRE
Anne, you're the only one of us that has any manners. Maybe
you're right not to go.
ANNE
I'll stay in to-night.
MAIRE
Then Brian and myself will go to Moynihan's.
ANNE
You'd get an indulgence, Maire, if you missed a dance.
MAIRE
Would it be so hard to get an indulgence? _(She takes flowers
from dresser and puts them in window)_ The house looks nice this
evening. We'll keep Brian here for a while, and then we'll go to
Moynihan's.
ANNE
Father will be going out to-night.
MAIRE
_(turning suddenly from window)_ Will he?
ANNE
He will. I think I ought to stay in. Maire, father was in only
a while before you the night before last and another night.
MAIRE
O, and I thinking things were going so well with us. He's
drinking again.
ANNE
He's going to Flynn's again.
MAIRE
Disgracing us again.
ANNE
I'll stay in to-night.
MAIRE
I'm tired of this.
ANNE
Don't say it that way, Maire.
MAIRE
What will people say of us two now?
ANNE
I'll talk to him to-night.
MAIRE
No, you're going out--you're going to Moynihan's--you're going
to see your sweetheart.
ANNE
I think you're becoming a stranger to us, Maire.
MAIRE
You're going to Moynihan's to-night, and I'm going, too. But I'm going
to settle this first. Once and for all I'm going to settle this.
_The fiddle has ceased. As Maire goes towards the room, Conn
Hourican comes down, the fiddle in his hand_.
CONN
Were you listening to the tune I was playing? Ah, that was a
real oul tune, if there was anyone that knew it. Maire, my jewel,
were you listening?
MAIRE
I heard you.
CONN
It was a real oul' tune, and while I was playing it a great
scheme came into my head. Now, listen to me, Maire; and you listen,
too, Anne. Both of you would like to see your father having what's
his due after all, honour and respect.
MAIRE
Both of us would like to see our father earn the same.
CONN
I could earn the same, ay, and gold and silver cups besides, if
I had the mind to earn them.
_He puts fiddle on table and prepares to speak impressively_.
CONN
Let ye listen to me now; I've a scheme to put before ye. When I
was going over the oul tune, I remembered that I'd heard of a Feis
[2] that's coming on soon, the Feis of Ardagh. I'm thinking of going
there. There will be great prizes for some one; I don't doubt but
I'd do at Ardagh better than I did at the Feis of Granard, where
people as high as bishops were proud and glad to know Conn Hourican
the Fiddler.
[Footnote 2: Feis, pronounced Fesh, a musical or literary gathering,
with competitions.]
ANNE
Father, you've a place to mind.
CONN
I'm tired of that kind of talk; sure I'm always thinking of the
place. Maire hasn't little notions. What do you say to it, Maire, my
girl?
MAIRE
What do I say? I say you're not a rambler now, though indeed
you behave like one.
CONN
You have something against me, Maire.
MAIRE
I have.
CONN
What has she against me, Anne?
MAIRE
All the promises you broke.
CONN
You were listening to what the town is saying.
MAIRE
What does the town know? Does it know that you stripped us of
stock and crop the year after we came here? Does it know that Anne
and myself, two girls of the roads, had to struggle ever since to
keep a shelter?
CONN
_(bitterly)_ It knows that. It couldn't help but know it, maybe.
But does it know all the promises you made and broke?
CONN
_(angrily)_ Hush now; I'll hear no more. I went my own way
always, and I'll go my own way always.
_He goes to the entrance, and remains with his back turned. Maire
goes to Anne_.
MAIRE
_(raising her voice)_ Ay, he'll go his own way always. What
was the good of working and saving here?
ANNE
Be quiet with him.
MAIRE
He'll go his own way always, and it's foolish of us to be
fretting for him night and day.
_Maire sits on stool and puts her hands across her face_.
CONN
_(turning his head)_ Fretting for me. It was too easy that I
reared you.
ANNE
God help Maire! She kept the house together at the worst, and
she is always fretting for us.
CONN
I'm oul' enough to mind myself. Let her remember that.
ANNE
It's you that ought to remember that.
CONN
_(going to Maire)_ Did I ever give the harsh word to you, child?
_No answer_.
CONN
There, there; I never could see tears in a woman's eyes; there,
there, colleen. I'm an oul' man; I won't be a trouble to you long.
MAIRE
_(rising)_ Why need you play in Flynn's? You're as good as any
that goes there.
CONN
I know that. I'm disgusted with Flynn. May hell loosen his
knees for him! I'll go in and throw his money on the counter.
MAIRE
Some one else can do that. Promise me you won't go near the
place.
CONN
You'll have me promise. I promise.
MAIRE
Take this in your hand and promise. It's a medal that belonged
to mother.
_She takes a medal from her neck_
CONN
_(taking the medal)_ I'm disgusted with Flynn. I promise you,
Maire.
MAIRE
Now you've honour and respect.
CONN
And what about Ardagh, Maire?
MAIRE
Sure, you're not the rambling fiddler any more.
CONN
That would be the good rambling. I see the trees making shadows
across the roads.
MAIRE
We'll talk about it again.
ANNE
Brian MacConnell will be coming in now. CONN I'm going out to
Brian MacConnell.
_He goes to the door_.
ANNE
Tell Brian to come in now.
_Conn Hourican goes out. There is a pause. Maire hums a tune as she
goes to the mirror_.
MAIRE
Am I looking well to-day?
ANNE
_(rather distantly)_ You're looking your best, I think.
_(Seriously)_ Maire, I didn't like the way you talked to father.
MAIRE
_(petulantly)_ What have you against it?
ANNE
You're becoming a stranger to us, Maire.
MAIRE
_(as an apology)_ I'm out often, I know, but I think as much
as ever of the house, and about you and father. You know we couldn't
let him go to the Feis at Ardagh. We couldn't let him go off like a
rambling fiddler.
ANNE
We couldn't let him go off by himself.
MAIRE
You're going to Moynihan's.
ANNE
Maybe I'll go.
MAIRE
Anne, honey, do something for me.
ANNE
What will I do?
MAIRE
You'll meet father coming up with Brian, and take him away.
ANNE
And will you tell me everything to-night?
MAIRE
Who else would I talk to but yourself, Nancy? _(Anne goes out)_
I wish Anne hadn't spoken to me like that. I feel the like of that.
_(Desperately)_ Well, I'll pray for nothing now but to look my best.
_(She goes to the fire. Brian MacConnell comes in)_ You're welcome,
Brian.
BRIAN
We didn't finish to-day. I'll come in to-morrow and finish.
MAIRE
O no, Brian, we won't take another day from you.
BRIAN
Well, what's a day after all? Many's the day and night I put
in thinking on you.
MAIRE
But did you do what I asked you to do?
BRIAN
I did. I made it up with my brothers. It was never my way
before. What I wanted I took with the strong hand; or if I mightn't
put the strong hand on it, I left it alone.
MAIRE
_(eagerly)_ Tell me what your brother said to you.
BRIAN
When I came up to the door, Hugh came out to meet me.
"What destruction are you bringing me?" he said. "There's my hand,"
says I, "and I take your offer." MAIRE Ah, that's settled. You could
settle anything, Brian. _(She goes to the settle and sits down)_ I
wonder could you settle something for us?
BRIAN
What is it, Maire?
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