The Playboy of the Western World, by J. M. Synge

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A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

by J. M. Synge

Contents

PREFACE

In writing THEPLAYBOY OF THEWESTERNWORLD, as in my other plays, I have usedone or two words only that I have not heard among the country people ofIreland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could read the newspapers. Acertain number of the phrases I employ I have heard also from herds andfishermen along the coast from Kerry to Mayo, or from beggar-women andballad-singers nearer Dublin; and I am glad to acknowledge how much I owe tothe folk imagination of these fine people. Anyone who has lived in realintimacy with the Irish peasantry will know that the wildest sayings and ideasin this play are tame indeed, compared with the fancies one may hear in anylittle hillside cabin in Geesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All art is acollaboration; and there is little doubt that in the happy ages of literature,striking and beautiful phrases were as ready to the story-teller’s or theplaywright’s hand, as the rich cloaks and dresses of his time. It isprobable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took his ink-horn and sat down tohis work he used many phrases that he had just heard, as he sat at dinner, fromhis mother or his children. In Ireland, those of us who know the people havethe same privilege. When I was writing The Shadow of the Glen, someyears ago, I got more aid than any learning could have given me from a chink inthe floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear whatwas being said by the servant girls in the kitchen. This matter, I think, is ofimportance, for in countries where the imagination of the people, and thelanguage they use, is rich and living, it is possible for a writer to be richand copious in his words, and at the same time to give the reality, which isthe root of all poetry, in a comprehensive and natural form. In the modernliterature of towns, however, richness is found only in sonnets, or prosepoems, or in one or two elaborate books that are far away from the profound andcommon interests of life. One has, on one side, Mallarmé and Huysmans producingthis literature; and on the other, Ibsen and Zola dealing with the reality oflife in joyless and pallid words. On the stage one must have reality, and onemust have joy; and that is why the intellectual modern drama has failed, andpeople have grown sick of the false joy of the musical comedy, that has beengiven them in place of the rich joy found only in what is superb and wild inreality. In a good play every speech should be as fully flavoured as a nut orapple, and such speeches cannot be written by anyone who works among people whohave shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for a few years more, we have apopular imagination that is fiery and magnificent, and tender; so that those ofus who wish to write start with a chance that is not given to writers in placeswhere the springtime of the local life has been forgotten, and the harvest is amemory only, and the straw has been turned into bricks.

J. M. S.

January21st, 1907.

PERSONS

CHRISTOPHER MAHON.
OLD MAHON, his father, a squatter.
MICHAEL JAMES FLAHERTY (called MICHAEL JAMES), a publican.
MARGARET FLAHERTY (called PEGEEN MIKE), his daughter.
SHAWN KEOUGH, her cousin, a young farmer.
WIDOW QUIN, a woman of about thirty.
PHILLY CULLEN and JIMMY FARRELL, small farmers.
SARA TANSEY, SUSAN BRADY, and HONOR BLAKE, village girls.
A BELLMAN.
SOME PEASANTS.

The action takes place near a village, on a wild coast of Mayo. The first Actpasses on an evening of autumn, the other two Acts on the following day.

THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD

ACT I.

SCENE: Country public-house or shebeen, very rough and untidy. There is a sortof counter on the right with shelves, holding many bottles and jugs, just seenabove it. Empty barrels stand near the counter. At back, a little to left ofcounter, there is a door into the open air, then, more to the left, there is asettle with shelves above it, with more jugs, and a table beneath a window. Atthe left there is a large open fire-place, with turf fire, and a small doorinto inner room. Pegeen, a wild-looking but fine girl, of about twenty, iswriting at table. She is dressed in the usual peasant dress.

PEGEEN.
slowly as she writes.—Six yards of stuff for to make a yellowgown. A pair of lace boots with lengthy heels on them and brassy eyes. A hat issuited for a wedding-day. A fine tooth comb. To be sent with three barrels ofporter in Jimmy Farrell’s creel cart on the evening of the coming Fair toMister Michael James Flaherty. With the best compliments of this season.Margaret Flaherty.

SHAWN KEOGH.
a fat and fair young man comes in as she signs, looks round awkwardly, whenhe sees she is alone.—Where’s himself?

PEGEEN.
without looking at him.—He’s coming. (She directs theletter.) To Mister Sheamus Mulroy, Wine and Spirit Dealer, Castlebar.

SHAWN.
uneasily.—I didn’t see him on the road.

PEGEEN.
How would you see him (licks stamp and puts it on letter) and it darknight this half hour gone by?

SHAWN.
turning towards the door again.—I stood a while outside wonderingwould I have a right to pass on or to walk in and see you, Pegeen Mike(comes to fire), and I could hear the cows breathing, and sighing in thestillness of the air, and not a step moving any place from this gate to thebridge.

PEGEEN.
putting letter in envelope.—It’s above at the cross-roads heis, meeting Philly Cullen; and a couple more are going along with him to KateCassidy’s wake.

SHAWN.
looking at her blankly.—And he’s going that length in thedark night?

PEGEEN.
impatiently.—He is surely, and leaving me lonesome on the scruffof the hill. (She gets up and puts envelope on dresser, then winds theclock.) Isn’t it long the nights are now, Shawn Keogh, to be leavinga poor girl with her own self counting the hours to the dawn of day?

SHAWN.
with awkward humour.—If it is, when we’re wedded in a shortwhile you’ll have no call to complain, for I’ve little will to bewalking off to wakes or weddings in the darkness of the night.

PEGEEN.
with rather scornful good humour.—You’re making mightycertain, Shaneen, that I’ll wed you now.

SHAWN.
Aren’t we after making a good bargain, the way we’re only waitingthese days on Father Reilly’s dispensation from the bishops, or the Courtof Rome.

PEGEEN.
looking at him teasingly, washing up at dresser.—It’s awonder, Shaneen, the Holy Father’d be taking notice of the likes of you;for if I was him I wouldn’t bother with this place where you’llmeet none but Red Linahan, has a squint in his eye, and Patcheen is lame in hisheel, or the mad Mulrannies were driven from California and they lost in theirwits. We’re a queer lot these times to go troubling the Holy Father onhis sacred seat.

SHAWN.
scandalized.—If we are, we’re as good this place as another,maybe, and as good these times as we were for ever.

PEGEEN.
with scorn.—As good, is it? Where now will you meet the like ofDaneen Sullivan knocked the eye from a peeler, or Marcus Quin, God rest him,got six months for maiming ewes, and he a great warrant to tell stories of holyIreland till he’d have the old women shedding down tears about theirfeet. Where will you find the like of them, I’m saying?

SHAWN.
timidly.—If you don’t it’s a good job, maybe; for(with peculiar emphasis on the words) Father Reilly has small conceit tohave that kind walking around and talking to the girls.

PEGEEN.
impatiently, throwing water from basin out of the door.—Stoptormenting me with Father Reilly (imitating his voice) when I’masking only what way I’ll pass these twelve hours of dark, and not takemy death with the fear. (Looking out of door.)

SHAWN.
timidly.—Would I fetch you the widow Quin, maybe?

PEGEEN.
Is it the like of that murderer? You’ll not, surely.

SHAWN.
going to her, soothingly.—Then I’m thinking himself willstop along with you when he sees you taking on, for it’ll be a longnight-time with great darkness, and I’m after feeling a kind of fellowabove in the furzy ditch, groaning wicked like a maddening dog, the wayit’s good cause you have, maybe, to be fearing now.

PEGEEN.
turning on him sharply.—What’s that? Is it a man you seen?

SHAWN.
retreating.—I couldn’t see him at all; but I heard himgroaning out, and breaking his heart. It should have been a young man from hiswords speaking.

PEGEEN.
going after him.—And you never went near to see was he hurted orwhat ailed him at all?

SHAWN.
I did not, Pegeen Mike. It was a dark, lonesome place to be hearing the like ofhim.

PEGEEN.
Well, you’re a daring fellow, and if they find his corpse stretched abovein the dews of dawn, what’ll you say then to the peelers, or the Justiceof the Peace?

SHAWN.
thunderstruck.—I wasn’t thinking of that. For the love ofGod, Pegeen Mike, don’t let on I was speaking of him. Don’t tellyour father and the men is coming above; for if they heard that story,they’d have great blabbing this night at the wake.

PEGEEN.
I’ll maybe tell them, and I’ll maybe not.

SHAWN.
They are coming at the door, Will you whisht, I’m saying?

PEGEEN.
Whisht yourself.

[She goes behind counter. Michael James, fat jovial publican, comes infollowed by Philly Cullen, who is thin and mistrusting, and Jimmy Farrell, whois fat and amorous, about forty-five.]

MEN.
together.—God bless you. The blessing of God on this place.

PEGEEN.
God bless you kindly.

MICHAEL.
to men who go to the counter.—Sit down now, and take your rest.(Crosses to Shawn at the fire.) And how is it you are, Shawn Keogh? Areyou coming over the sands to Kate Cassidy’s wake?

SHAWN.
I am not, Michael James. I’m going home the short cut to my bed.

PEGEEN.
speaking across the counter.—He’s right too, and have you noshame, Michael James, to be quitting off for the whole night, and leavingmyself lonesome in the shop?

MICHAEL.
good-humouredly.—Isn’t it the same whether I go for thewhole night or a part only? and I’m thinking it’s a queer daughteryou are if you’d have me crossing backward through the Stooks of the DeadWomen, with a drop taken.

PEGEEN.
If I am a queer daughter, it’s a queer father’d be leaving melonesome these twelve hours of dark, and I piling the turf with the dogsbarking, and the calves mooing, and my own teeth rattling with the fear.

JIMMY.
flatteringly.—What is there to hurt you, and you a fine, hardygirl would knock the head of any two men in the place?

PEGEEN.
working herself up.—Isn’t there the harvest boys with theirtongues red for drink, and the ten tinkers is camped in the east glen, and thethousand militia—bad cess to them!—walking idle through the land.There’s lots surely to hurt me, and I won’t stop alone in it, lethimself do what he will.

MICHAEL.
If you’re that afeard, let Shawn Keogh stop along with you. It’sthe will of God, I’m thinking, himself should be seeing to you now.[They all turn on Shawn.]

SHAWN.
in horrified confusion.—I would and welcome, Michael James, butI’m afeard of Father Reilly; and what at all would the Holy Father andthe Cardinals of Rome be saying if they heard I did the like of that?

MICHAEL.
with contempt.—God help you! Can’t you sit in by the hearthwith the light lit and herself beyond in the room? You’ll do that surely,for I’ve heard tell there’s a queer fellow above, going mad orgetting his death, maybe, in the gripe of the ditch, so she’d be saferthis night with a person here.

SHAWN.
with plaintive despair.—I’m afeard of Father Reilly,I’m saying. Let you not be tempting me, and we near married itself.

PHILLY.
with cold contempt.—Lock him in the west room. He’ll staythen and have no sin to be telling to the priest.

MICHAEL.
to Shawn, getting between him and the door.—Go up now.

SHAWN.
at the top of his voice.—Don’t stop me, Michael James. Letme out of the door, I’m saying, for the love of the Almighty God. Let meout (trying to dodge past him). Let me out of it, and may God grant youHis indulgence in the hour of need.

MICHAEL.
loudly.—Stop your noising, and sit down by the hearth. [Giveshim a push and goes to counter laughing.]

SHAWN.
turning back, wringing his hands.—Oh, Father Reilly and the saintsof God, where will I hide myself to-day? Oh, St. Joseph and St. Patrick and St.Brigid, and St. James, have mercy on me now! [Shawn turns round, sees doorclear, and makes a rush for it.]

MICHAEL.
catching him by the coattail.—You’d be going, is it?

SHAWN.
screaming.—Leave me go, Michael James, leave me go, you old Pagan,leave me go, or I’ll get the curse of the priests on you, and of thescarlet-coated bishops of the courts of Rome. [With a sudden movement hepulls himself out of his coat, and disappears out of the door, leaving his coatin Michael’s hands.]

MICHAEL.
turning round, and holding up coat.—Well, there’s the coatof a Christian man. Oh, there’s sainted glory this day in the lonesomewest; and by the will of God I’ve got you a decent man, Pegeen,you’ll have no call to be spying after if you’ve a score of younggirls, maybe, weeding in your fields.

PEGEEN.
taking up the defence of her property.—What right have you to bemaking game of a poor fellow for minding the priest, when it’s your ownthe fault is, not paying a penny pot-boy to stand along with me and give mecourage in the doing of my work? [She snaps the coat away from him, and goesbehind counter with it.]

MICHAEL.
taken aback.—Where would I get a pot-boy? Would you have me sendthe bell-man screaming in the streets of Castlebar?

SHAWN.
opening the door a chink and putting in his head, in a smallvoice.—Michael James!

MICHAEL.
imitating him.—What ails you?

SHAWN.
The queer dying fellow’s beyond looking over the ditch. He’s comeup, I’m thinking, stealing your hens. (Looks over his shoulder.)God help me, he’s following me now (he runs into room), and ifhe’s heard what I said, he’ll be having my life, and I going homelonesome in the darkness of the night. (For a perceptible moment they watchthe door with curiosity. Some one coughs outside. Then Christy Mahon, a slightyoung man, comes in very tired and frightened and dirty.)

CHRISTY.
in a small voice.—God save all here!

MEN.
God save you kindly.

CHRISTY.
going to the counter.—I’d trouble you for a glass of porter,woman of the house. [He puts down coin.]

PEGEEN.
serving him.—You’re one of the tinkers, young fellow, isbeyond camped in the glen?

CHRISTY.
I am not; but I’m destroyed walking.

MICHAEL.
patronizingly.—Let you come up then to the fire. You’relooking famished with the cold.

CHRISTY.
God reward you. (He takes up his glass and goes a little way across to theleft, then stops and looks about him.) Is it often the police do be cominginto this place, master of the house?

MICHAEL.
If you’d come in better hours, you’d have seen “Licensed forthe sale of Beer and Spirits, to be consumed on the premises,” written inwhite letters above the door, and what would the polis want spying on me, andnot a decent house within four miles, the way every living Christian is a bonafide, saving one widow alone?

CHRISTY.
with relief.—It’s a safe house, so. [He goes over to thefire, sighing and moaning. Then he sits down, putting his glass beside him andbegins gnawing a turnip, too miserable to feel the others staring at him withcuriosity.]

MICHAEL.
going after him.—Is it yourself fearing the polis? You’rewanting, maybe?

CHRISTY.
There’s many wanting.

MICHAEL.
Many surely, with the broken harvest and the ended wars. (He picks up somestockings, etc., that are near the fire, and carries them away furtively.)It should be larceny, I’m thinking?

CHRISTY.
dolefully.—I had it in my mind it was a different word and abigger.

PEGEEN.
There’s a queer lad. Were you never slapped in school, young fellow, thatyou don’t know the name of your deed?

CHRISTY.
bashfully.—I’m slow at learning, a middling scholar only.

MICHAEL.
If you’re a dunce itself, you’d have a right to know thatlarceny’s robbing and stealing. Is it for the like of that you’rewanting?

CHRISTY.
with a flash of family pride.—And I the son of a strong farmer(with a sudden qualm), God rest his soul, could have bought up the wholeof your old house a while since, from the butt of his tailpocket, and not havemissed the weight of it gone.

MICHAEL.
impressed.—If it’s not stealing, it’s maybe somethingbig.

CHRISTY.
flattered.—Aye; it’s maybe something big.

JIMMY.
He’s a wicked-looking young fellow. Maybe he followed after a young womanon a lonesome night.

CHRISTY.
shocked.—Oh, the saints forbid, mister; I was all times a decentlad.

PHILLY.
turning on Jimmy.—You’re a silly man, Jimmy Farrell. He saidhis father was a farmer a while since, and there’s himself now in a poorstate. Maybe the land was grabbed from him, and he did what any decent manwould do.

MICHAEL.
to Christy, mysteriously.—Was it bailiffs?

CHRISTY.
The divil a one.

MICHAEL.
Agents?

CHRISTY.
The divil a one.

MICHAEL.
Landlords?

CHRISTY.
peevishly.—Ah, not at all, I’m saying. You’d see thelike of them stories on any little paper of a Munster town. But I’m notcalling to mind any person, gentle, simple, judge or jury, did the like of me.[They all draw nearer with delighted curiosity.]

PHILLY.
Well, that lad’s a puzzle—the world.

JIMMY.
He’d beat Dan Davies’ circus, or the holy missioners making sermonson the villainy of man. Try him again, Philly.

PHILLY.
Did you strike golden guineas out of solder, young fellow, or shilling coinsitself?

CHRISTY.
I did not, mister, not sixpence nor a farthing coin.

JIMMY.
Did you marry three wives maybe? I’m told there’s a sprinkling havedone that among the holy Luthers of the preaching north.

CHRISTY.
shyly.—I never married with one, let alone with a couple or three.

PHILLY.
Maybe he went fighting for the Boers, the like of the man beyond, was judged tobe hanged, quartered and drawn. Were you off east, young fellow, fightingbloody wars for Kruger and the freedom of the Boers?

CHRISTY.
I never left my own parish till Tuesday was a week.

PEGEEN.
coming from counter.—He’s done nothing, so. (ToChristy.) If you didn’t commit murder or a bad, nasty thing, or falsecoining, or robbery, or butchery, or the like of them, there isn’tanything that would be worth your troubling for to run from now. You didnothing at all.

CHRISTY.
his feelings hurt.—That’s an unkindly thing to be saying toa poor orphaned traveller, has a prison behind him, and hanging before, andhell’s gap gaping below.

PEGEEN.
with a sign to the men to be quiet.—You’re only saying it.You did nothing at all. A soft lad the like of you wouldn’t slit thewindpipe of a screeching sow.

CHRISTY.
offended.—You’re not speaking the truth.

PEGEEN.
in mock rage.—Not speaking the truth, is it? Would you have meknock the head of you with the butt of the broom?

CHRISTY.
twisting round on her with a sharp cry of horror.—Don’tstrike me. I killed my poor father, Tuesday was a week, for doing the like ofthat.

PEGEEN.
with blank amazement.—Is it killed your father?

CHRISTY.
subsiding.—With the help of God I did surely, and that the HolyImmaculate Mother may intercede for his soul.

PHILLY.
retreating with Jimmy.—There’s a daring fellow.

JIMMY.
Oh, glory be to God!

MICHAEL.
with great respect.—That was a hanging crime, mister honey. Youshould have had good reason for doing the like of that.

CHRISTY.
in a very reasonable tone.—He was a dirty man, God forgive him,and he getting old and crusty, the way I couldn’t put up with him at all.

PEGEEN.
And you shot him dead?

CHRISTY.
shaking his head.—I never used weapons. I’ve no license, andI’m a law-fearing man.

MICHAEL.
It was with a hilted knife maybe? I’m told, in the big world it’sbloody knives they use.

CHRISTY.
loudly, scandalized.—Do you take me for a slaughter-boy?

PEGEEN.
You never hanged him, the way Jimmy Farrell hanged his dog from the license,and had it screeching and wriggling three hours at the butt of a string, andhimself swearing it was a dead dog, and the peelers swearing it had life?

CHRISTY.
I did not then. I just riz the loy and let fall the edge of it on the ridge ofhis skull, and he went down at my feet like an empty sack, and never let agrunt or groan from him at all.

MICHAEL.
making a sign to Pegeen to fill Christy’s glass.—And whatway weren’t you hanged, mister? Did you bury him then?

CHRISTY.
considering.—Aye. I buried him then. Wasn’t I digging spudsin the field?

MICHAEL.
And the peelers never followed after you the eleven days that you’re out?

CHRISTY.
shaking his head.—Never a one of them, and I walking forwardfacing hog, dog, or divil on the highway of the road.

PHILLY.
nodding wisely.—It’s only with a common week-day kind of amurderer them lads would be trusting their carcase, and that man should be agreat terror when his temper’s roused.

MICHAEL.
He should then. (To Christy.) And where was it, mister honey, that youdid the deed?

CHRISTY.
looking at him with suspicion.—Oh, a distant place, master of thehouse, a windy corner of high, distant hills.

PHILLY.
nodding with approval.—He’s a close man, and he’sright, surely.

PEGEEN.
That’d be a lad with the sense of Solomon to have for a pot-boy, MichaelJames, if it’s the truth you’re seeking one at all.

PHILLY.
The peelers is fearing him, and if you’d that lad in the house thereisn’t one of them would come smelling around if the dogs itself werelapping poteen from the dungpit of the yard.

JIMMY.
Bravery’s a treasure in a lonesome place, and a lad would kill hisfather, I’m thinking, would face a foxy divil with a pitchpike on theflags of hell.

PEGEEN.
It’s the truth they’re saying, and if I’d that lad in thehouse, I wouldn’t be fearing the loosed kharki cut-throats, or thewalking dead.

CHRISTY.
swelling with surprise and triumph.—Well, glory be to God!

MICHAEL.
with deference.—Would you think well to stop here and be pot-boy,mister honey, if we gave you good wages, and didn’t destroy you with theweight of work?

SHAWN.
coming forward uneasily.—That’d be a queer kind to bringinto a decent quiet household with the like of Pegeen Mike.

PEGEEN.
very sharply.—Will you whisht? Who’s speaking to you?

SHAWN.
retreating.—A bloody-handed murderer the like of....

PEGEEN.
snapping at him.—Whisht I am saying; we’ll take no foolingfrom your like at all. (To Christy with a honeyed voice.) And you, youngfellow, you’d have a right to stop, I’m thinking, for we’d doour all and utmost to content your needs.

CHRISTY.
overcome with wonder.—And I’d be safe in this place from thesearching law?

MICHAEL.
You would, surely. If they’re not fearing you, itself, the peelers inthis place is decent droughty poor fellows, wouldn’t touch a cur dog andnot give warning in the dead of night.

PEGEEN.
very kindly and persuasively.—Let you stop a short while anyhow.Aren’t you destroyed walking with your feet in bleeding blisters, andyour whole skin needing washing like a Wicklow sheep.

CHRISTY.
looking round with satisfaction.—It’s a nice room, and ifit’s not humbugging me you are, I’m thinking that I’ll surelystay.

JIMMY.
jumps up.—Now, by the grace of God, herself will be safe thisnight, with a man killed his father holding danger from the door, and let youcome on, Michael James, or they’ll have the best stuff drunk at the wake.

MICHAEL.
going to the door with men.—And begging your pardon, mister, whatname will we call you, for we’d like to know?

CHRISTY.
Christopher Mahon.

MICHAEL.
Well, God bless you, Christy, and a good rest till we meet again when thesun’ll be rising to the noon of day.

CHRISTY.
God bless you all.

MEN.
God bless you. [They go out except Shawn, who lingers at door.]

SHAWN.
to Pegeen.—Are you wanting me to stop along with you and keep youfrom harm?

PEGEEN.
gruffly.—Didn’t you say you were fearing Father Reilly?

SHAWN.
There’d be no harm staying now, I’m thinking, and himself in ittoo.

PEGEEN.
You wouldn’t stay when there was need for you, and let you step offnimble this time when there’s none.

SHAWN.
Didn’t I say it was Father Reilly....

PEGEEN.
Go on, then, to Father Reilly (in a jeering tone), and let him put youin the holy brotherhoods, and leave that lad to me.

SHAWN.
If I meet the Widow Quin....

PEGEEN.
Go on, I’m saying, and don’t be waking this place with your noise.(She hustles him out and bolts the door.) That lad would wear thespirits from the saints of peace. (Bustles about, then takes off her apronand pins it up in the window as a blind. Christy watching her timidly. Then shecomes to him and speaks with bland good-humour.) Let you stretch out now bythe fire, young fellow. You should be destroyed travelling.

CHRISTY.
shyly again, drawing off his boots.—I’m tired, surely,walking wild eleven days, and waking fearful in the night. [He holds up oneof his feet, feeling his blisters, and looking at them with compassion.]

PEGEEN.
standing beside him, watching him with delight.—You should havehad great people in your family, I’m thinking, with the little, smallfeet you have, and you with a kind of a quality name, the like of whatyou’d find on the great powers and potentates of France and Spain.

CHRISTY.
with pride.—We were great surely, with wide and windy acres ofrich Munster land.

PEGEEN.
Wasn’t I telling you, and you a fine, handsome young fellow with a noblebrow?

CHRISTY.
with a flash of delighted surprise.—Is it me?

PEGEEN.
Aye. Did you never hear that from the young girls where you come from in thewest or south?

CHRISTY.
with venom.—I did not then. Oh, they’re bloody liars in thenaked parish where I grew a man.

PEGEEN.
If they are itself, you’ve heard it these days, I’m thinking, andyou walking the world telling out your story to young girls or old.

CHRISTY.
I’ve told my story no place till this night, Pegeen Mike, and it’sfoolish I was here, maybe, to be talking free, but you’re decent people,I’m thinking, and yourself a kindly woman, the way I wasn’t fearingyou at all.

PEGEEN.
filling a sack with straw.—You’ve said the like of that,maybe, in every cot and cabin where you’ve met a young girl on your way.

CHRISTY.
going over to her, gradually raising his voice.—I’ve said itnowhere till this night, I’m telling you, for I’ve seen none thelike of you the eleven long days I am walking the world, looking over a lowditch or a high ditch on my north or my south, into stony scattered fields, orscribes of bog, where you’d see young, limber girls, and fine prancingwomen making laughter with the men.

PEGEEN.
If you weren’t destroyed travelling, you’d have as much talk andstreeleen, I’m thinking, as Owen Roe O’Sullivan or the poets of theDingle Bay, and I’ve heard all times it’s the poets are your like,fine fiery fellows with great rages when their temper’s roused.

CHRISTY.
drawing a little nearer to her.—You’ve a power of rings, Godbless you, and would there be any offence if I was asking are you single now?

PEGEEN.
What would I want wedding so young?

CHRISTY.
with relief.—We’re alike, so.

PEGEEN.
she puts sack on settle and beats it up.—I never killed my father.I’d be afeard to do that, except I was the like of yourself with blindrages tearing me within, for I’m thinking you should have had greattussling when the end was come.

CHRISTY.
expanding with delight at the first confidential talk he has ever had with awoman.—We had not then. It was a hard woman was come over the hill,and if he was always a crusty kind when he’d a hard woman setting him on,not the divil himself or his four fathers could put up with him at all.

PEGEEN.
with curiosity.—And isn’t it a great wonder that onewasn’t fearing you?

CHRISTY.
very confidentially.—Up to the day I killed my father, therewasn’t a person in Ireland knew the kind I was, and I there drinking,waking, eating, sleeping, a quiet, simple poor fellow with no man giving meheed.

PEGEEN.
getting a quilt out of the cupboard and putting it on the sack.—Itwas the girls were giving you heed maybe, and I’m thinking it’smost conceit you’d have to be gaming with their like.

CHRISTY.
shaking his head, with simplicity.—Not the girls itself, and Iwon’t tell you a lie. There wasn’t anyone heeding me in that placesaving only the dumb beasts of the field. [He sits down at fire.]

PEGEEN.
with disappointment.—And I thinking you should have been livingthe like of a king of Norway or the Eastern world. [She comes and sitsbeside him after placing bread and mug of milk on the table.]

CHRISTY.
laughing piteously.—The like of a king, is it? And I aftertoiling, moiling, digging, dodging from the dawn till dusk with never a sightof joy or sport saving only when I’d be abroad in the dark night poachingrabbits on hills, for I was a divil to poach, God forgive me, (verynaïvely) and I near got six months for going with a dung fork and stabbinga fish.

PEGEEN.
And it’s that you’d call sport, is it, to be abroad in the darknesswith yourself alone?

CHRISTY.
I did, God help me, and there I’d be as happy as the sunshine of St.Martin’s Day, watching the light passing the north or the patches of fog,till I’d hear a rabbit starting to screech and I’d go running inthe furze. Then when I’d my full share I’d come walking down whereyou’d see the ducks and geese stretched sleeping on the highway of theroad, and before I’d pass the dunghill, I’d hear himself snoringout, a loud lonesome snore he’d be making all times, the while he wassleeping, and he a man ’d be raging all times, the while he was waking,like a gaudy officer you’d hear cursing and damning and swearing oaths.

PEGEEN.
Providence and Mercy, spare us all!

CHRISTY.
It’s that you’d say surely if you seen him and he after drinkingfor weeks, rising up in the red dawn, or before it maybe, and going out intothe yard as naked as an ash tree in the moon of May, and shying clods againstthe visage of the stars till he’d put the fear of death into the banbhsand the screeching sows.

PEGEEN.
I’d be well-nigh afeard of that lad myself, I’m thinking. Andthere was no one in it but the two of you alone?

CHRISTY.
The divil a one, though he’d sons and daughters walking all great statesand territories of the world, and not a one of them, to this day, but would saytheir seven curses on him, and they rousing up to let a cough or sneeze, maybe,in the deadness of the night.

PEGEEN.
nodding her head.—Well, you should have been a queer lot. I nevercursed my father the like of that, though I’m twenty and more years ofage.

CHRISTY.
Then you’d have cursed mine, I’m telling you, and he a man nevergave peace to any, saving when he’d get two months or three, or be lockedin the asylums for battering peelers or assaulting men (with depression)the way it was a bitter life he led me till I did up a Tuesday and halve hisskull.

PEGEEN.
putting her hand on his shoulder.—Well, you’ll have peace inthis place, Christy Mahon, and none to trouble you, and it’s near time afine lad like you should have your good share of the earth.

CHRISTY.
It’s time surely, and I a seemly fellow with great strength in me andbravery of.... [Someone knocks.]

CHRISTY.
clinging to Pegeen.—Oh, glory! it’s late for knocking, andthis last while I’m in terror of the peelers, and the walking dead.[Knocking again.]

PEGEEN.
Who’s there?

VOICE.
outside.Me.

PEGEEN.
Who’s me?

VOICE.
The Widow Quin.

PEGEEN.
jumping up and giving him the bread and milk.—Go on now with yoursupper, and let on to be sleepy, for if she found you were such a warrant totalk, she’d be stringing gabble till the dawn of day. [He takes breadand sits shyly with his back to the door.]

PEGEEN.
opening door, with temper.—What ails you, or what is ityou’re wanting at this hour of the night?

WIDOW QUIN.
coming in a step and peering at Christy.—I’m after meetingShawn Keogh and Father Reilly below, who told me of your curiosity man, andthey fearing by this time he was maybe roaring, romping on your hands withdrink.

PEGEEN.
pointing to Christy.—Look now is he roaring, and he stretched awaydrowsy with his supper and his mug of milk. Walk down and tell that to FatherReilly and to Shaneen Keogh.

WIDOW QUIN.
coming forward.—I’ll not see them again, for I’vetheir word to lead that lad forward for to lodge with me.

PEGEEN.
in blank amazement.—This night, is it?

WIDOW QUIN.
going over.—This night. “It isn’t fitting,” saysthe priesteen, “to have his likeness lodging with an orphanedgirl.” (To Christy.) God save you, mister!

CHRISTY.
shyly.—God save you kindly.

WIDOW QUIN.
looking at him with half-amazed curiosity.—Well, aren’t youa little smiling fellow? It should have been great and bitter torments didrouse your spirits to a deed of blood.

CHRISTY.
doubtfully.—It should, maybe.

WIDOW QUIN.
It’s more than “maybe” I’m saying, and it’dsoften my heart to see you sitting so simple with your cup and cake, and youfitter to be saying your catechism than slaying your da.

PEGEEN.
at counter, washing glasses.—There’s talking whenany’d see he’s fit to be holding his head high with the wonders ofthe world. Walk on from this, for I’ll not have him tormented and hedestroyed travelling since Tuesday was a week.

WIDOW QUIN.
peaceably.—We’ll be walking surely when his supper’sdone, and you’ll find we’re great company, young fellow, whenit’s of the like of you and me you’d hear the penny poets singingin an August Fair.

CHRISTY.
innocently.—Did you kill your father?

PEGEEN.
contemptuously.—She did not. She hit himself with a worn pick, andthe rusted poison did corrode his blood the way he never overed it, and diedafter. That was a sneaky kind of murder did win small glory with the boysitself. [She crosses to Christy’s left.]

WIDOW QUIN.
with good-humour.—If it didn’t, maybe all knows a widowwoman has buried her children and destroyed her man is a wiser comrade for ayoung lad than a girl, the like of you, who’d go helter-skeltering afterany man would let you a wink upon the road.

PEGEEN.
breaking out into wild rage.—And you’ll say that, WidowQuin, and you gasping with the rage you had racing the hill beyond to look onhis face.

WIDOW QUIN.
laughing derisively.—Me, is it? Well, Father Reilly has cutenessto divide you now. (She pulls Christy up.) There’s greattemptation in a man did slay his da, and we’d best be going, youngfellow; so rise up and come with me.

PEGEEN.
seizing his arm.—He’ll not stir. He’s pot-boy in thisplace, and I’ll not have him stolen off and kidnapped whilehimself’s abroad.

WIDOW QUIN.
It’d be a crazy pot-boy’d lodge him in the shebeen where he worksby day, so you’d have a right to come on, young fellow, till you see mylittle houseen, a perch off on the rising hill.

PEGEEN.
Wait till morning, Christy Mahon. Wait till you lay eyes on her leaky thatch isgrowing more pasture for her buck goat than her square of fields, and shewithout a tramp itself to keep in order her place at all.

WIDOW QUIN.
When you see me contriving in my little gardens, Christy Mahon, you’llswear the Lord God formed me to be living lone, and that there isn’t mymatch in Mayo for thatching, or mowing, or shearing a sheep.

PEGEEN.
with noisy scorn.—It’s true the Lord God formed you tocontrive indeed. Doesn’t the world know you reared a black lamb at yourown breast, so that the Lord Bishop of Connaught felt the elements of aChristian, and he eating it after in a kidney stew? Doesn’t the worldknow you’ve been seen shaving the foxy skipper from France for athreepenny bit and a sop of grass tobacco would wring the liver from a mountaingoat you’d meet leaping the hills?

WIDOW QUIN.
with amusement.—Do you hear her now, young fellow? Do you hear theway she’ll be rating at your own self when a week is by?

PEGEEN.
to Christy.—Don’t heed her. Tell her to go into her pigstyand not plague us here.

WIDOW QUIN.
I’m going; but he’ll come with me.

PEGEEN.
shaking him.—Are you dumb, young fellow?

CHRISTY.
timidly, to Widow Quin.—God increase you; but I’m pot-boy inthis place, and it’s here I’d liefer stay.

PEGEEN.
triumphantly.—Now you have heard him, and go on from this.

WIDOW QUIN.
looking round the room.—It’s lonesome this hour crossing thehill, and if he won’t come along with me, I’d have a right maybe tostop this night with yourselves. Let me stretch out on the settle, Pegeen Mike;and himself can lie by the hearth.

PEGEEN.
short and fiercely.—Faith, I won’t. Quit off or I will sendyou now.

WIDOW QUIN.
gathering her shawl up.—Well, it’s a terror to be aged ascore. (To Christy.) God bless you now, young fellow, and let you bewary, or there’s right torment will await you here if you go romancingwith her like, and she waiting only, as they bade me say, on a sheepskinparchment to be wed with Shawn Keogh of Killakeen.

CHRISTY.
going to Pegeen as she bolts the door.—What’s thatshe’s after saying?

PEGEEN.
Lies and blather, you’ve no call to mind. Well, isn’t Shawn Keoghan impudent fellow to send up spying on me? Wait till I lay hands on him. Lethim wait, I’m saying.

CHRISTY.
And you’re not wedding him at all?

PEGEEN.
I wouldn’t wed him if a bishop came walking for to join us here.

CHRISTY.
That God in glory may be thanked for that.

PEGEEN.
There’s your bed now. I’ve put a quilt upon you I’m afterquilting a while since with my own two hands, and you’d best stretch outnow for your sleep, and may God give you a good rest till I call you in themorning when the cocks will crow.

CHRISTY.
as she goes to inner room.—May God and Mary and St. Patrick blessyou and reward you, for your kindly talk. (She shuts the door behind her. Hesettles his bed slowly, feeling the quilt with immensesatisfaction.)—Well, it’s a clean bed and soft with it, andit’s great luck and company I’ve won me in the end oftime—two fine women fighting for the likes of me—till I’mthinking this night wasn’t I a foolish fellow not to kill my father inthe years gone by.

CURTAIN.

ACT II.

SCENE as before. Brilliant morning light. Christy, looking bright andcheerful, is cleaning a girl’s boots.

CHRISTY.
to himself, counting jugs on dresser.—Half a hundred beyond. Tenthere. A score that’s above. Eighty jugs. Six cups and a broken one. Twoplates. A power of glasses. Bottles, a school-master’d be hard set tocount, and enough in them, I’m thinking, to drunken all the wealth andwisdom of the County Clare. (He puts down the boot carefully.)There’s her boots now, nice and decent for her evening use, andisn’t it grand brushes she has? (He puts them down and goes by degreesto the looking-glass.) Well, this’d be a fine place to be my wholelife talking out with swearing Christians, in place of my old dogs and cat, andI stalking around, smoking my pipe and drinking my fill, and never aday’s work but drawing a cork an odd time, or wiping a glass, or rinsingout a shiny tumbler for a decent man. (He takes the looking-glass from thewall and puts it on the back of a chair; then sits down in front of it andbegins washing his face.) Didn’t I know rightly I was handsome,though it was the divil’s own mirror we had beyond, would twist a squintacross an angel’s brow; and I’ll be growing fine from this day, theway I’ll have a soft lovely skin on me and won’t be the like of theclumsy young fellows do be ploughing all times in the earth and dung. (Hestarts.) Is she coming again? (He looks out.) Stranger girls. Godhelp me, where’ll I hide myself away and my long neck naked to theworld? (He looks out.) I’d best go to the room maybe tillI’m dressed again. [He gathers up his coat and the looking-glass, andruns into the inner room. The door is pushed open, and Susan Brady looks in,and knocks on door.]

SUSAN.
There’s nobody in it. [Knocks again.]

NELLY.
pushing her in and following her, with Honor Blake and SaraTansey.—It’d be early for them both to be out walking the hill.

SUSAN.
I’m thinking Shawn Keogh was making game of us and there’s no suchman in it at all.

HONOR.
pointing to straw and quilt.—Look at that. He’s beensleeping there in the night. Well, it’ll be a hard case if he’sgone off now, the way we’ll never set our eyes on a man killed hisfather, and we after rising early and destroying ourselves running fast on thehill.

NELLY.
Are you thinking them’s his boots?

SARA.
taking them up.—If they are, there should be his father’strack on them. Did you never read in the papers the way murdered men do bleedand drip?

SUSAN.
Is that blood there, Sara Tansey?

SARAH
smelling it.—That’s bog water, I’m thinking, butit’s his own they are surely, for I never seen the like of them for whitymud, and red mud, and turf on them, and the fine sands of the sea. Thatman’s been walking, I’m telling you. [She goes down right,putting on one of his boots.]

SUSAN
going to window.—Maybe he’s stolen off to Belmullet with theboots of Michael James, and you’d have a right so to follow after him,Sara Tansey, and you the one yoked the ass cart and drove ten miles to set youreyes on the man bit the yellow lady’s nostril on the northern shore.[She looks out.]

SARA.
running to window with one boot on.—Don’t be talking, and wefooled to-day. (Putting on other boot.) There’s a pair do fit mewell, and I’ll be keeping them for walking to the priest, whenyou’d be ashamed this place, going up winter and summer with nothingworth while to confess at all.

HONOR.
who has been listening at the door.—Whisht! there’s someoneinside the room. (She pushes door a chink open.) It’s a man.(Sara kicks off boots and puts them where they were. They all stand in aline looking through chink.)

SARA.
I’ll call him. Mister! Mister! (He puts in his head.) Is Pegeenwithin?

CHRISTY.
coming in as meek as a mouse, with the looking-glass held behind hisback.—She’s above on the cnuceen, seeking the nanny goats, theway she’d have a sup of goat’s milk for to colour my tea.

SARA.
And asking your pardon, is it you’s the man killed his father?

CHRISTY.
sidling toward the nail where the glass was hanging.—I am, Godhelp me!

SARA.
taking eggs she has brought.—Then my thousand welcomes to you, andI’ve run up with a brace of duck’s eggs for your food today.Pegeen’s ducks is no use, but these are the real rich sort. Hold out yourhand and you’ll see it’s no lie I’m telling you.

CHRISTY.
coming forward shyly, and holding out his left hand.—They’rea great and weighty size.

SUSAN.
And I run up with a pat of butter, for it’d be a poor thing to have youeating your spuds dry, and you after running a great way since you did destroyyour da.

CHRISTY.
Thank you kindly.

HONOR.
And I brought you a little cut of cake, for you should have a thin stomach onyou, and you that length walking the world.

NELLY.
And I brought you a little laying pullet—boiled and all she is—wascrushed at the fall of night by the curate’s car. Feel the fat of thatbreast, Mister.

CHRISTY.
It’s bursting, surely. [He feels it with the back of his hand, inwhich he holds the presents.]

SARA.
Will you pinch it? Is your right hand too sacred for to use at all? (Sheslips round behind him.) It’s a glass he has. Well, I never seen tothis day a man with a looking-glass held to his back. Them that kills theirfathers is a vain lot surely. (Girls giggle.)

CHRISTY.
smiling innocently and piling presents on glass.—I’m verythankful to you all to-day....

WIDOW QUIN.
coming in quickly, at door.—Sara Tansey, Susan Brady, Honor Blake!What in glory has you here at this hour of day?

GIRLS.
giggling.—That’s the man killed his father.

WIDOW QUIN.
coming to them.—I know well it’s the man; and I’mafter putting him down in the sports below for racing, leaping, pitching, andthe Lord knows what.

SARA.
exuberantly.—That’s right, Widow Quin. I’ll bet mydowry that he’ll lick the world.

WIDOW QUIN.
If you will, you’d have a right to have him fresh and nourished in placeof nursing a feast. (Taking presents.) Are you fasting or fed, youngfellow?

CHRISTY.
Fasting, if you please.

WIDOW QUIN.
loudly.—Well, you’re the lot. Stir up now and give him hisbreakfast. (To Christy.) Come here to me (she puts him on benchbeside her while the girls make tea and get his breakfast) and let you tellus your story before Pegeen will come, in place of grinning your ears off likethe moon of May.

CHRISTY.
beginning to be pleased.—It’s a long story; you’d bedestroyed listening.

WIDOW QUIN.
Don’t be letting on to be shy, a fine, gamey, treacherous lad the like ofyou. Was it in your house beyond you cracked his skull?

CHRISTY.
shy but flattered.—It was not. We were digging spuds in his cold,sloping, stony, divil’s patch of a field.

WIDOW QUIN.
And you went asking money of him, or making talk of getting a wife would drivehim from his farm?

CHRISTY.
I did not, then; but there I was, digging and digging, and “You squintingidiot,” says he, “let you walk down now and tell the priestyou’ll wed the Widow Casey in a score of days.”

WIDOW QUIN.
And what kind was she?

CHRISTY.
with horror.—A walking terror from beyond the hills, and she twoscore and five years, and two hundredweights and five pounds in the weighingscales, with a limping leg on her, and a blinded eye, and she a woman of notedmisbehaviour with the old and young.

GIRLS.
clustering round him, serving him.—Glory be!

WIDOW QUIN.
And what did he want driving you to wed with her? [She takes a bit of thechicken.]

CHRISTY.
eating with growing satisfaction.—He was letting on I was wantinga protector from the harshness of the world, and he without a thought the wholewhile but how he’d have her hut to live in and her gold to drink.

WIDOW QUIN.
There’s maybe worse than a dry hearth and a widow woman and your glass atnight. So you hit him then?

CHRISTY.
getting almost excited.—I did not. “I won’t wedher,” says I, “when all know she did suckle me for six weeks when Icame into the world, and she a hag this day with a tongue on her has the crowsand seabirds scattered, the way they wouldn’t cast a shadow on her gardenwith the dread of her curse.”

WIDOW QUIN.
teasingly.—That one should be right company.

SARA.
eagerly.—Don’t mind her. Did you kill him then?

CHRISTY.
“She’s too good for the like of you,” says he, “and goon now or I’ll flatten you out like a crawling beast has passed under adray.” “You will not if I can help it,” says I. “Goon,” says he, “or I’ll have the divil making garters of yourlimbs tonight.” “You will not if I can help it,” says I.[He sits up, brandishing his mug.]

SARA.
You were right surely.

CHRISTY.
impressively.—With that the sun came out between the cloud and thehill, and it shining green in my face. “God have mercy on yoursoul,” says he, lifting a scythe; “or on your own,” says I,raising the loy.

SUSAN.
That’s a grand story.

HONOR.
He tells it lovely.

CHRISTY.
flattered and confident, waving bone.—He gave a drive with thescythe, and I gave a lep to the east. Then I turned around with my back to thenorth, and I hit a blow on the ridge of his skull, laid him stretched out, andhe split to the knob of his gullet. [He raises the chicken bone to hisAdam’s apple.]

GIRLS.
together.—Well, you’re a marvel! Oh, God bless you!You’re the lad surely!

SUSAN.
I’m thinking the Lord God sent him this road to make a second husband tothe Widow Quin, and she with a great yearning to be wedded, though all dreadher here. Lift him on her knee, Sara Tansey.

WIDOW QUIN.
Don’t tease him.

SARA.
going over to dresser and counter very quickly, and getting two glasses andporter.—You’re heroes surely, and let you drink a supeen withyour arms linked like the outlandish lovers in the sailor’s song. (Shelinks their arms and gives them the glasses.) There now. Drink a health tothe wonders of the western world, the pirates, preachers, poteen-makers, withthe jobbing jockies; parching peelers, and the juries fill their stomachsselling judgments of the English law. [Brandishing the bottle.]

WIDOW QUIN.
That’s a right toast, Sara Tansey. Now Christy. [They drink with theirarms linked, he drinking with his left hand, she with her right. As they aredrinking, Pegeen Mike comes in with a milk can and stands aghast. They allspring away from Christy. He goes down left. Widow Quin remains seated.]

PEGEEN.
angrily, to Sara.—What is it you’re wanting?

SARA.
twisting her apron.—An ounce of tobacco.

PEGEEN.
Have you tuppence?

SARA.
I’ve forgotten my purse.

PEGEEN.
Then you’d best be getting it and not fooling us here. (To the WidowQuin, with more elaborate scorn.) And what is it you’re wanting,Widow Quin?

WIDOW QUIN.
insolently.—A penn’orth of starch.

PEGEEN.
breaking out.—And you without a white shift or a shirt in yourwhole family since the drying of the flood. I’ve no starch for the likeof you, and let you walk on now to Killamuck.

WIDOW QUIN.
turning to Christy, as she goes out with the girls.—Well,you’re mighty huffy this day, Pegeen Mike, and, you young fellow, let younot forget the sports and racing when the noon is by. (They go out.)

PEGEEN.
imperiously.—Fling out that rubbish and put them cups away.(Christy tidies away in great haste). Shove in the bench by the wall.(He does so.) And hang that glass on the nail. What disturbed it at all?

CHRISTY.
very meekly.—I was making myself decent only, and this a finecountry for young lovely girls.

PEGEEN.
sharply.—Whisht your talking of girls. [Goes to counterright.]

CHRISTY.
Wouldn’t any wish to be decent in a place....

PEGEEN.
Whisht I’m saying.

CHRISTY.
looks at her face for a moment with great misgivings, then as a last effort,takes up a loy, and goes towards her, with feigned assurance.—It waswith a loy the like of that I killed my father.

PEGEEN.
still sharply.—You’ve told me that story six times since thedawn of day.

CHRISTY.
reproachfully.—It’s a queer thing you wouldn’t care tobe hearing it and them girls after walking four miles to be listening to menow.

PEGEEN.
turning round astonished.—Four miles.

CHRISTY.
apologetically.—Didn’t himself say there were only bonafides living in the place?

PEGEEN.
It’s bona fides by the road they are, but that lot came over the riverlepping the stones. It’s not three perches when you go like that, and Iwas down this morning looking on the papers the post-boy does have in his bag.(With meaning and emphasis.) For there was great news this day,Christopher Mahon. (She goes into room left.)

CHRISTY.
suspiciously.—Is it news of my murder?

PEGEEN.
inside.—Murder, indeed.

CHRISTY.
loudly.—A murdered da?

PEGEEN.
coming in again and crossing right.—There was not, but a storyfilled half a page of the hanging of a man. Ah, that should be a fearful end,young fellow, and it worst of all for a man who destroyed his da, for the likeof him would get small mercies, and when it’s dead he is, they’dput him in a narrow grave, with cheap sacking wrapping him round, and pour downquicklime on his head, the way you’d see a woman pouring any frish-frashfrom a cup.

CHRISTY.
very miserably.—Oh, God help me. Are you thinking I’m safe?You were saying at the fall of night, I was shut of jeopardy and I here withyourselves.

PEGEEN.
severely.—You’ll be shut of jeopardy no place if you gotalking with a pack of wild girls the like of them do be walking abroad withthe peelers, talking whispers at the fall of night.

CHRISTY.
with terror.—And you’re thinking they’d tell?

PEGEEN.
with mock sympathy.—Who knows, God help you.

CHRISTY.
loudly.—What joy would they have to bring hanging to the likes ofme?

PEGEEN.
It’s queer joys they have, and who knows the thing they’d do, ifit’d make the green stones cry itself to think of you swaying andswiggling at the butt of a rope, and you with a fine, stout neck, God blessyou! the way you’d be a half an hour, in great anguish, getting yourdeath.

CHRISTY.
getting his boots and putting them on.—If there’s thatterror of them, it’d be best, maybe, I went on wandering like Esau orCain and Abel on the sides of Neifin or the Erris plain.

PEGEEN.
beginning to play with him.—It would, maybe, for I’ve heardthe Circuit Judges this place is a heartless crew.

CHRISTY.
bitterly.—It’s more than Judges this place is a heartlesscrew. (Looking up at her.) And isn’t it a poor thing to bestarting again and I a lonesome fellow will be looking out on women and girlsthe way the needy fallen spirits do be looking on the Lord?

PEGEEN.
What call have you to be that lonesome when there’s poor girls walkingMayo in their thousands now?

CHRISTY.
grimly.—It’s well you know what call I have. It’s wellyou know it’s a lonesome thing to be passing small towns with the lightsshining sideways when the night is down, or going in strange places with a dognosing before you and a dog nosing behind, or drawn to the cities whereyou’d hear a voice kissing and talking deep love in every shadow of theditch, and you passing on with an empty, hungry stomach failing from yourheart.

PEGEEN.
I’m thinking you’re an odd man, Christy Mahon. The oddest walkingfellow I ever set my eyes on to this hour to-day.

CHRISTY.
What would any be but odd men and they living lonesome in the world?

PEGEEN.
I’m not odd, and I’m my whole life with my father only.

CHRISTY.
with infinite admiration.—How would a lovely handsome woman thelike of you be lonesome when all men should be thronging around to hear thesweetness of your voice, and the little infant children should be pesteringyour steps I’m thinking, and you walking the roads.

PEGEEN.
I’m hard set to know what way a coaxing fellow the like of yourselfshould be lonesome either.

CHRISTY.
Coaxing?

PEGEEN.
Would you have me think a man never talked with the girls would have the wordsyou’ve spoken to-day? It’s only letting on you are to be lonesome,the way you’d get around me now.

CHRISTY.
I wish to God I was letting on; but I was lonesome all times, and bornlonesome, I’m thinking, as the moon of dawn. [Going to door.]

PEGEEN.
puzzled by his talk.—Well, it’s a story I’m notunderstanding at all why you’d be worse than another, Christy Mahon, andyou a fine lad with the great savagery to destroy your da.

CHRISTY.
It’s little I’m understanding myself, saving only that myheart’s scalded this day, and I going off stretching out the earthbetween us, the way I’ll not be waking near you another dawn of the yeartill the two of us do arise to hope or judgment with the saints of God, and nowI’d best be going with my wattle in my hand, for hanging is a poor thing(turning to go), and it’s little welcome only is left me in thishouse to-day.

PEGEEN.
sharply.—Christy! (He turns round.) Come here to me. (Hegoes towards her.) Lay down that switch and throw some sods on the fire.You’re pot-boy in this place, and I’ll not have you mitch off fromus now.

CHRISTY.
You were saying I’d be hanged if I stay.

PEGEEN.
quite kindly at last.—I’m after going down and reading thefearful crimes of Ireland for two weeks or three, and there wasn’t a wordof your murder. (Getting up and going over to the counter.)They’ve likely not found the body. You’re safe so with ourselves.

CHRISTY.
astonished, slowly.—It’s making game of me you were(following her with fearful joy), and I can stay so, working at yourside, and I not lonesome from this mortal day.

PEGEEN.
What’s to hinder you from staying, except the widow woman or the younggirls would inveigle you off?

CHRISTY.
with rapture.—And I’ll have your words from this day fillingmy ears, and that look is come upon you meeting my two eyes, and I watching youloafing around in the warm sun, or rinsing your ankles when the night is come.

PEGEEN.
kindly, but a little embarrassed.—I’m thinking you’llbe a loyal young lad to have working around, and if you vexed me a while sincewith your leaguing with the girls, I wouldn’t give a thraneen for a ladhadn’t a mighty spirit in him and a gamey heart. [Shawn Keogh runs incarrying a cleeve on his back, followed by the Widow Quin.]

SHAWN.
to Pegeen.—I was passing below, and I seen your mountainy sheepeating cabbages in Jimmy’s field. Run up or they’ll be burstingsurely.

PEGEEN.
Oh, God mend them! [She puts a shawl over her head and runs out.]

CHRISTY.
looking from one to the other. Still in high spirits.—I’dbest go to her aid maybe. I’m handy with ewes.

WIDOW QUIN.
closing the door.—She can do that much, and there is Shaneen haslong speeches for to tell you now. [She sits down with an amused smile.]

SHAWN.
taking something from his pocket and offering it to Christy.—Doyou see that, mister?

CHRISTY.
looking at it.—The half of a ticket to the Western States!

SHAWN.
trembling with anxiety.—I’ll give it to you and my new hat(pulling it out of hamper); and my breeches with the double seat(pulling it off); and my new coat is woven from the blackest shearingsfor three miles around (giving him the coat); I’ll give you thewhole of them, and my blessing, and the blessing of Father Reilly itself,maybe, if you’ll quit from this and leave us in the peace we had tilllast night at the fall of dark.

CHRISTY.
with a new arrogance.—And for what is it you’re wanting toget shut of me?

SHAWN.
looking to the Widow for help.—I’m a poor scholar withmiddling faculties to coin a lie, so I’ll tell you the truth, ChristyMahon. I’m wedding with Pegeen beyond, and I don’t think well ofhaving a clever fearless man the like of you dwelling in her house.

CHRISTY.
almost pugnaciously.—And you’d be using bribery for tobanish me?

SHAWN.
in an imploring voice.—Let you not take it badly, mister honey;isn’t beyond the best place for you where you’ll have golden chainsand shiny coats and you riding upon hunters with the ladies of the land. [Hemakes an eager sign to the Widow Quin to come to help him.]

WIDOW QUIN.
coming over.—It’s true for him, and you’d best quitoff and not have that poor girl setting her mind on you, for there’sShaneen thinks she wouldn’t suit you though all is saying thatshe’ll wed you now. [Christy beams with delight.]

SHAWN.
in terrified earnest.—She wouldn’t suit you, and she withthe divil’s own temper the way you’d be strangling one another in ascore of days. (He makes the movement of strangling with his hands.)It’s the like of me only that she’s fit for, a quiet simple fellowwouldn’t raise a hand upon her if she scratched itself.

WIDOW QUIN.
putting Shawn’s hat on Christy.—Fit them clothes on youanyhow, young fellow, and he’d maybe loan them to you for the sports.(Pushing him towards inner door.) Fit them on and you can give youranswer when you have them tried.

CHRISTY.
beaming, delighted with the clothes.—I will then. I’d likeherself to see me in them tweeds and hat. (He goes into room and shuts thedoor.)

SHAWN.
in great anxiety.—He’d like herself to see them. He’llnot leave us, Widow Quin. He’s a score of divils in him the wayit’s well nigh certain he will wed Pegeen.

WIDOW QUIN.
jeeringly.—It’s true all girls are fond of courage and dohate the like of you.

SHAWN.
walking about in desperation.—Oh, Widow Quin, what’ll I bedoing now? I’d inform again him, but he’d burst from Kilmainham andhe’d be sure and certain to destroy me. If I wasn’t so God-fearing,I’d near have courage to come behind him and run a pike into his side.Oh, it’s a hard case to be an orphan and not to have your father thatyou’re used to, and you’d easy kill and make yourself a hero in thesight of all. (Coming up to her.) Oh, Widow Quin, will you find me somecontrivance when I’ve promised you a ewe?

WIDOW QUIN.
A ewe’s a small thing, but what would you give me if I did wed him anddid save you so?

SHAWN.
with astonishment.—You?

WIDOW QUIN.
Aye. Would you give me the red cow you have and the mountainy ram, and theright of way across your rye path, and a load of dung at Michaelmas, andturbary upon the western hill?

SHAWN.
radiant with hope.—I would surely, and I’d give you thewedding-ring I have, and the loan of a new suit, the way you’d have himdecent on the wedding-day. I’d give you two kids for your dinner, and agallon of poteen, and I’d call the piper on the long car to your weddingfrom Crossmolina or from Ballina. I’d give you....

WIDOW QUIN.
That’ll do so, and let you whisht, for he’s coming now again.[Christy comes in very natty in the new clothes. Widow Quin goes to himadmiringly.]

WIDOW QUIN.
If you seen yourself now, I’m thinking you’d be too proud to speakto us at all, and it’d be a pity surely to have your like sailing fromMayo to the Western World.

CHRISTY.
as proud as a peacock.—I’m not going. If this is a poorplace itself, I’ll make myself contented to be lodging here. [WidowQuin makes a sign to Shawn to leave them.]

SHAWN.
Well, I’m going measuring the race-course while the tide is low, soI’ll leave you the garments and my blessing for the sports to-day. Godbless you! [He wriggles out.]

WIDOW QUIN.
admiring Christy.—Well, you’re mighty spruce, young fellow.Sit down now while you’re quiet till you talk with me.

CHRISTY.
swaggering.—I’m going abroad on the hillside for to seekPegeen.

WIDOW QUIN.
You’ll have time and plenty for to seek Pegeen, and you heard me sayingat the fall of night the two of us should be great company.

CHRISTY.
From this out I’ll have no want of company when all sorts is bringing metheir food and clothing (he swaggers to the door, tightening his belt),the way they’d set their eyes upon a gallant orphan cleft his father withone blow to the breeches belt. (He opens door, then staggers back.)Saints of glory! Holy angels from the throne of light!

WIDOW QUIN.
going over.—What ails you?

CHRISTY.
It’s the walking spirit of my murdered da!

WIDOW QUIN.
looking out.—Is it that tramper?

CHRISTY.
wildly.—Where’ll I hide my poor body from that ghost ofhell? [The door is pushed open, and old Mahon appears on threshold. Christydarts in behind door.]

WIDOW QUIN.
in great amazement.—God save you, my poor man.

MAHON.
gruffly.—Did you see a young lad passing this way in the earlymorning or the fall of night?

WIDOW QUIN.
You’re a queer kind to walk in not saluting at all.

MAHON.
Did you see the young lad?

WIDOW QUIN.
stiffly.—What kind was he?

MAHON.
An ugly young streeler with a murderous gob on him, and a little switch in hishand. I met a tramper seen him coming this way at the fall of night.

WIDOW QUIN.
There’s harvest hundreds do be passing these days for the Sligo boat. Forwhat is it you’re wanting him, my poor man?

MAHON.
I want to destroy him for breaking the head on me with the clout of a loy.(He takes off a big hat, and shows his head in a mass of bandages andplaster, with some pride.) It was he did that, and amn’t I a greatwonder to think I’ve traced him ten days with that rent in my crown?

WIDOW QUIN.
taking his head in both hands and examining it with extremedelight.—That was a great blow. And who hit you? A robber maybe?

MAHON.
It was my own son hit me, and he the divil a robber, or anything else, but adirty, stuttering lout.

WIDOW QUIN.
letting go his skull and wiping her hands in herapron.—You’d best be wary of a mortified scalp, I think theycall it, lepping around with that wound in the splendour of the sun. It was abad blow surely, and you should have vexed him fearful to make him strike thatgash in his da.

MAHON.
Is it me?

WIDOW QUIN.
amusing herself.—Aye. And isn’t it a great shame when theold and hardened do torment the young?

MAHON.
raging.—Torment him is it? And I after holding out with thepatience of a martyred saint till there’s nothing but destruction on, andI’m driven out in my old age with none to aid me.

WIDOW QUIN.
greatly amused.—It’s a sacred wonder the way that wickednesswill spoil a man.

MAHON.
My wickedness, is it? Amn’t I after saying it is himself has medestroyed, and he a liar on walls, a talker of folly, a man you’d seestretched the half of the day in the brown ferns with his belly to the sun.

WIDOW QUIN.
Not working at all?

MAHON.
The divil a work, or if he did itself, you’d see him raising up ahaystack like the stalk of a rush, or driving our last cow till he broke herleg at the hip, and when he wasn’t at that he’d be fooling overlittle birds he had—finches and felts—or making mugs at his ownself in the bit of glass we had hung on the wall.

WIDOW QUIN.
looking at Christy.—What way was he so foolish? It was runningwild after the girls maybe?

MAHON.
with a shout of derision.—Running wild, is it? If he seen a redpetticoat coming swinging over the hill, he’d be off to hide in thesticks, and you’d see him shooting out his sheep’s eyes between thelittle twigs and the leaves, and his two ears rising like a hare looking outthrough a gap. Girls, indeed!

WIDOW QUIN.
It was drink maybe?

MAHON.
And he a poor fellow would get drunk on the smell of a pint. He’d a queerrotten stomach, I’m telling you, and when I gave him three pulls from mypipe a while since, he was taken with contortions till I had to send him in theass cart to the females’ nurse.

WIDOW QUIN.
clasping her hands.—Well, I never till this day heard tell of aman the like of that!

MAHON.
I’d take a mighty oath you didn’t surely, and wasn’t he thelaughing joke of every female woman where four baronies meet, the way the girlswould stop their weeding if they seen him coming the road to let a roar at him,and call him the looney of Mahon’s.

WIDOW QUIN.
I’d give the world and all to see the like of him. What kind was he?

MAHON.
A small low fellow.

WIDOW QUIN.
And dark?

MAHON.
Dark and dirty.

WIDOW QUIN.
considering.—I’m thinking I seen him.

MAHON.
eagerly.—An ugly young blackguard.

WIDOW QUIN.
A hideous, fearful villain, and the spit of you.

MAHON.
What way is he fled?

WIDOW QUIN.
Gone over the hills to catch a coasting steamer to the north or south.

MAHON.
Could I pull up on him now?

WIDOW QUIN.
If you’ll cross the sands below where the tide is out, you’ll be init as soon as himself, for he had to go round ten miles by the top of the bay.(She points to the door). Strike down by the head beyond and then followon the roadway to the north and east. (Mahon goes abruptly.)

WIDOW QUIN.
shouting after him.—Let you give him a good vengeance when youcome up with him, but don’t put yourself in the power of the law, forit’d be a poor thing to see a judge in his black cap reading out hissentence on a civil warrior the like of you. [She swings the door to andlooks at Christy, who is cowering in terror, for a moment, then she bursts intoa laugh.]

WIDOW QUIN.
Well, you’re the walking Playboy of the Western World, and that’sthe poor man you had divided to his breeches belt.

CHRISTY.
looking out; then, to her.—What’ll Pegeen say when she hearsthat story? What’ll she be saying to me now?

WIDOW QUIN.
She’ll knock the head of you, I’m thinking, and drive you from thedoor. God help her to be taking you for a wonder, and you a little schemermaking up the story you destroyed your da.

CHRISTY.
turning to the door, nearly speechless with rage, half tohimself.—To be letting on he was dead, and coming back to his life,and following after me like an old weazel tracing a rat, and coming in herelaying desolation between my own self and the fine women of Ireland, and he akind of carcase that you’d fling upon the sea....

WIDOW QUIN.
more soberly.—There’s talking for a man’s one onlyson.

CHRISTY.
breaking out.—His one son, is it? May I meet him with one toothand it aching, and one eye to be seeing seven and seventy divils in the twistsof the road, and one old timber leg on him to limp into the scalding grave.(Looking out.) There he is now crossing the strands, and that the LordGod would send a high wave to wash him from the world.

WIDOW QUIN.
scandalised.—Have you no shame? (putting her hand on hisshoulder and turning him round.) What ails you? Near crying, is it?

CHRISTY.
in despair and grief.—Amn’t I after seeing the love-light ofthe star of knowledge shining from her brow, and hearing words would put youthinking on the holy Brigid speaking to the infant saints, and now she’llbe turning again, and speaking hard words to me, like an old woman with aspavindy ass she’d have, urging on a hill.

WIDOW QUIN.
There’s poetry talk for a girl you’d see itching and scratching,and she with a stale stink of poteen on her from selling in the shop.

CHRISTY.
impatiently.—It’s her like is fitted to be handlingmerchandise in the heavens above, and what’ll I be doing now, I ask you,and I a kind of wonder was jilted by the heavens when a day was by. [Thereis a distant noise of girls’ voices. Widow Quin looks from window andcomes to him, hurriedly.]

WIDOW QUIN.
You’ll be doing like myself, I’m thinking, when I did destroy myman, for I’m above many’s the day, odd times in great spirits,abroad in the sunshine, darning a stocking or stitching a shift; and odd timesagain looking out on the schooners, hookers, trawlers is sailing the sea, and Ithinking on the gallant hairy fellows are drifting beyond, and myself longyears living alone.

CHRISTY.
interested.—You’re like me, so.

WIDOW QUIN.
I am your like, and it’s for that I’m taking a fancy to you, and Iwith my little houseen above where there’d be myself to tend you, andnone to ask were you a murderer or what at all.

CHRISTY.
And what would I be doing if I left Pegeen?

WIDOW QUIN.
I’ve nice jobs you could be doing, gathering shells to make a whitewashfor our hut within, building up a little goose-house, or stretching a new skinon an old curragh I have, and if my hut is far from all sides, it’s thereyou’ll meet the wisest old men, I tell you, at the corner of my wheel,and it’s there yourself and me will have great times whispering andhugging....

VOICES.
outside, calling far away.—Christy! Christy Mahon! Christy!

CHRISTY.
Is it Pegeen Mike?

WIDOW QUIN.
It’s the young girls, I’m thinking, coming to bring you to thesports below, and what is it you’ll have me to tell them now?

CHRISTY.
Aid me for to win Pegeen. It’s herself only that I’m seeking now.(Widow Quin gets up and goes to window.) Aid me for to win her, andI’ll be asking God to stretch a hand to you in the hour of death, andlead you short cuts through the Meadows of Ease, and up the floor of Heaven tothe Footstool of the Virgin’s Son.

WIDOW QUIN.
There’s praying.

VOICES.
nearer.—Christy! Christy Mahon!

CHRISTY.
with agitation.—They’re coming. Will you swear to aid andsave me for the love of Christ?

WIDOW QUIN.
looks at him for a moment.—If I aid you, will you swear to give mea right of way I want, and a mountainy ram, and a load of dung at Michaelmas,the time that you’ll be master here?

CHRISTY.
I will, by the elements and stars of night.

WIDOW QUIN.
Then we’ll not say a word of the old fellow, the way Pegeen won’tknow your story till the end of time.

CHRISTY.
And if he chances to return again?

WIDOW QUIN.
We’ll swear he’s a maniac and not your da. I could take an oath Iseen him raving on the sands to-day. [Girls run in.]

SUSAN.
Come on to the sports below. Pegeen says you’re to come.

SARA TANSEY.
The lepping’s beginning, and we’ve a jockey’s suit to fitupon you for the mule race on the sands below.

HONOR.
Come on, will you?

CHRISTY.
I will then if Pegeen’s beyond.

SARA.
She’s in the boreen making game of Shaneen Keogh.

CHRISTY.
Then I’ll be going to her now. [He runs out followed by thegirls.]

WIDOW QUIN.
Well, if the worst comes in the end of all, it’ll be great game to seethere’s none to pity him but a widow woman, the like of me, has buriedher children and destroyed her man. [She goes out.]

CURTAIN.

ACT III.

SCENE as before. Later in the day. Jimmy comes in, slightly drunk.

JIMMY.
calls.—Pegeen! (Crosses to inner door.) Pegeen Mike!(Comes back again into the room.) Pegeen! (Philly comes in in thesame state. To Philly.) Did you see herself?

PHILLY.
I did not; but I sent Shawn Keogh with the ass cart for to bear him home.(Trying cupboards which are locked.) Well, isn’t he a nasty man toget into such staggers at a morning wake? and isn’t herself thedivil’s daughter for locking, and she so fussy after that young gaffer,you might take your death with drought and none to heed you?

JIMMY.
It’s little wonder she’d be fussy, and he after bringing bankruptruin on the roulette man, and the trick-o’-the-loop man, and breaking thenose of the cockshot-man, and winning all in the sports below, racing, lepping,dancing, and the Lord knows what! He’s right luck, I’m telling you.

PHILLY.
If he has, he’ll be rightly hobbled yet, and he not able to say ten wordswithout making a brag of the way he killed his father, and the great blow hehit with the loy.

JIMMY.
A man can’t hang by his own informing, and his father should be rotten bynow. [Old Mahon passes window slowly.]

PHILLY.
Supposing a man’s digging spuds in that field with a long spade, andsupposing he flings up the two halves of that skull, what’ll be said thenin the papers and the courts of law?

JIMMY.
They’d say it was an old Dane, maybe, was drowned in the flood. (OldMahon comes in and sits down near door listening.) Did you never hear tellof the skulls they have in the city of Dublin, ranged out like blue jugs in acabin of Connaught?

PHILLY.
And you believe that?

JIMMY.
pugnaciously.—Didn’t a lad see them and he after coming fromharvesting in the Liverpool boat? “They have them there,” says he,“making a show of the great people there was one time walking the world.White skulls and black skulls and yellow skulls, and some with full teeth, andsome haven’t only but one.”

PHILLY.
It was no lie, maybe, for when I was a young lad there was a graveyard beyondthe house with the remnants of a man who had thighs as long as your arm. He wasa horrid man, I’m telling you, and there was many a fine Sunday I’dput him together for fun, and he with shiny bones, you wouldn’t meet thelike of these days in the cities of the world.

MAHON.
getting up.—You wouldn’t is it? Lay your eyes on that skull,and tell me where and when there was another the like of it, is splintered onlyfrom the blow of a loy.

PHILLY.
Glory be to God! And who hit you at all?

MAHON.
triumphantly.—It was my own son hit me. Would you believe that?

JIMMY.
Well, there’s wonders hidden in the heart of man!

PHILLY.
suspiciously.—And what way was it done?

MAHON.
wandering about the room.—I’m after walking hundreds andlong scores of miles, winning clean beds and the fill of my belly four times inthe day, and I doing nothing but telling stories of that naked truth. (Hecomes to them a little aggressively.) Give me a supeen and I’ll tellyou now. (Widow Quin comes in and stands aghast behind him. He is facingJimmy and Philly, who are on the left.)

JIMMY.
Ask herself beyond. She’s the stuff hidden in her shawl.

WIDOW QUIN.
coming to Mahon quickly.—you here, is it? You didn’t go farat all?

MAHON.
I seen the coasting steamer passing, and I got a drought upon me and a crampingleg, so I said, “The divil go along with him,” and turned again.(Looking under her shawl.) And let you give me a supeen, for I’mdestroyed travelling since Tuesday was a week.

WIDOW QUIN.
getting a glass, in a cajoling tone.—Sit down then by the fire andtake your ease for a space. You’ve a right to be destroyed indeed, withyour walking, and fighting, and facing the sun (giving him poteen from astone jar she has brought in). There now is a drink for you, and may it beto your happiness and length of life.

MAHON.
taking glass greedily and sitting down by fire.—God increase you!

WIDOW QUIN.
taking men to the right stealthily.—Do you know what? Thatman’s raving from his wound to-day, for I met him a while since telling arambling tale of a tinker had him destroyed. Then he heard of Christy’sdeed, and he up and says it was his son had cracked his skull. O isn’tmadness a fright, for he’ll go killing someone yet, and he thinkingit’s the man has struck him so?

JIMMY.
entirely convinced.—It’s a fright, surely. I knew a partywas kicked in the head by a red mare, and he went killing horses a great while,till he eat the insides of a clock and died after.

PHILLY.
with suspicion.—Did he see Christy?

WIDOW QUIN.
He didn’t. (With a warning gesture.) Let you not be putting him inmind of him, or you’ll be likely summoned if there’s murder done.(Looking round at Mahon.) Whisht! He’s listening. Wait now tillyou hear me taking him easy and unravelling all. (She goes to Mahon.)And what way are you feeling, mister? Are you in contentment now?

MAHON.
slightly emotional from his drink.—I’m poorly only, forit’s a hard story the way I’m left to-day, when it was I did tendhim from his hour of birth, and he a dunce never reached his second book, theway he’d come from school, many’s the day, with his legs lamedunder him, and he blackened with his beatings like a tinker’s ass.It’s a hard story, I’m saying, the way some do have their next andnighest raising up a hand of murder on them, and some is lonesome getting theirdeath with lamentation in the dead of night.

WIDOW QUIN.
not knowing what to say.—To hear you talking so quiet, who’dknow you were the same fellow we seen pass to-day?

MAHON.
I’m the same surely. The wrack and ruin of three score years; andit’s a terror to live that length, I tell you, and to have your sonsgoing to the dogs against you, and you wore out scolding them, and skelpingthem, and God knows what.

PHILLY.
to Jimmy.—He’s not raving. (To Widow Quin.) Will youask him what kind was his son?

WIDOW QUIN.
to Mahon, with a peculiar look.—Was your son that hit you a lad ofone year and a score maybe, a great hand at racing and lepping and licking theworld?

MAHON.
turning on her with a roar of rage.—Didn’t you hear me sayhe was the fool of men, the way from this out he’ll know theorphan’s lot with old and young making game of him and they swearing,raging, kicking at him like a mangy cur. [A great burst of cheering outside,someway off.]

MAHON.
putting his hands to his ears.—What in the name of God do theywant roaring below?

WIDOW QUIN.
with the shade of a smile.—They’re cheering a young lad, thechampion Playboy of the Western World. [More cheering.]

MAHON.
going to window.—It’d split my heart to hear them, and Iwith pulses in my brain-pan for a week gone by. Is it racing they are?

JIMMY.
looking from door.—It is then. They are mounting him for the mulerace will be run upon the sands. That’s the playboy on the winkered mule.

MAHON.
puzzled.—That lad, is it? If you said it was a fool he was,I’d have laid a mighty oath he was the likeness of my wandering son(uneasily, putting his hand to his head.) Faith, I’m thinkingI’ll go walking for to view the race.

WIDOW QUIN.
stopping him, sharply.—You will not. You’d best take theroad to Belmullet, and not be dilly-dallying in this place where thereisn’t a spot you could sleep.

PHILLY.
coming forward.—Don’t mind her. Mount there on the bench andyou’ll have a view of the whole. They’re hurrying before the tidewill rise, and it’d be near over if you went down the pathway through thecrags below.

MAHON.
mounts on bench, Widow Quin beside him.—That’s a right viewagain the edge of the sea. They’re coming now from the point. He’sleading. Who is he at all?

WIDOW QUIN.
He’s the champion of the world, I tell you, and there isn’t ahop’orth isn’t falling lucky to his hands to-day.

PHILLY.
looking out, interested in the race.—Look at that. They’repressing him now.

JIMMY.
He’ll win it yet.

PHILLY.
Take your time, Jimmy Farrell. It’s too soon to say.

WIDOW QUIN.
shouting.—Watch him taking the gate. There’s riding.

JIMMY.
cheering.—More power to the young lad!

MAHON.
He’s passing the third.

JIMMY.
He’ll lick them yet!

WIDOW QUIN.
He’d lick them if he was running races with a score itself.

MAHON.
Look at the mule he has, kicking the stars.

WIDOW QUIN.
There was a lep! (catching hold of Mahon in her excitement.) He’sfallen! He’s mounted again! Faith, he’s passing them all!

JIMMY.
Look at him skelping her!

PHILLY.
And the mountain girls hooshing him on!

JIMMY.
It’s the last turn! The post’s cleared for them now!

MAHON.
Look at the narrow place. He’ll be into the bogs! (With a yell.)Good rider! He’s through it again!

JIMMY.
He’s neck and neck!

MAHON.
Good boy to him! Flames, but he’s in! [Great cheering, in which alljoin.]

MAHON.
with hesitation.—What’s that? They’re raising him up.They’re coming this way. (With a roar of rage and astonishment.)It’s Christy! by the stars of God! I’d know his way of spitting andhe astride the moon. [He jumps down and makes for the door, but Widow Quincatches him and pulls him back.]

WIDOW QUIN.
Stay quiet, will you. That’s not your son. (To Jimmy.) Stop him,or you’ll get a month for the abetting of manslaughter and be fined aswell.

JIMMY.
I’ll hold him.

MAHON.
struggling.—Let me out! Let me out, the lot of you! till I have myvengeance on his head to-day.

WIDOW QUIN.
shaking him, vehemently.—That’s not your son. That’s aman is going to make a marriage with the daughter of this house, a place withfine trade, with a license, and with poteen too.

MAHON.
amazed.—That man marrying a decent and a moneyed girl! Is it madyous are? Is it in a crazy-house for females that I’m landed now?

WIDOW QUIN.
It’s mad yourself is with the blow upon your head. That lad is the wonderof the Western World.

MAHON.
I seen it’s my son.

WIDOW QUIN.
You seen that you’re mad. (Cheering outside.) Do you hear themcheering him in the zig-zags of the road? Aren’t you after saying thatyour son’s a fool, and how would they be cheering a true idiot born?

MAHON.
getting distressed.—It’s maybe out of reason that thatman’s himself. (Cheering again.) There’s none surely will gocheering him. Oh, I’m raving with a madness that would fright the world!(He sits down with his hand to his head.) There was one time I seen tenscarlet divils letting on they’d cork my spirit in a gallon can; and onetime I seen rats as big as badgers sucking the life blood from the butt of mylug; but I never till this day confused that dribbling idiot with a likely man.I’m destroyed surely.

WIDOW QUIN.
And who’d wonder when it’s your brain-pan that is gaping now?

MAHON.
Then the blight of the sacred drought upon myself and him, for I never went madto this day, and I not three weeks with the Limerick girls drinking myselfsilly, and parlatic from the dusk to dawn. (To Widow Quin, suddenly.) Ismy visage astray?

WIDOW QUIN.
It is then. You’re a sniggering maniac, a child could see.

MAHON.
getting up more cheerfully.—Then I’d best be going to theunion beyond, and there’ll be a welcome before me, I tell you (withgreat pride), and I a terrible and fearful case, the way that there I wasone time, screeching in a straightened waistcoat, with seven doctors writingout my sayings in a printed book. Would you believe that?

WIDOW QUIN.
If you’re a wonder itself, you’d best be hasty, for them ladscaught a maniac one time and pelted the poor creature till he ran out, ravingand foaming, and was drowned in the sea.

MAHON.
with philosophy.—It’s true mankind is the divil when yourhead’s astray. Let me out now and I’ll slip down the boreen, andnot see them so.

WIDOW QUIN.
showing him out.—That’s it. Run to the right, and not a onewill see. [He runs off.]

PHILLY.
wisely.—You’re at some gaming, Widow Quin; but I’llwalk after him and give him his dinner and a time to rest, and I’ll seethen if he’s raving or as sane as you.

WIDOW QUIN.
annoyed.—If you go near that lad, let you be wary of your head,I’m saying. Didn’t you hear him telling he was crazed at times?

PHILLY.
I heard him telling a power; and I’m thinking we’ll have rightsport, before night will fall. [He goes out.]

JIMMY.
Well, Philly’s a conceited and foolish man. How could that madman havehis senses and his brain-pan slit? I’ll go after them and see him turn onPhilly now. [He goes; Widow Quin hides poteen behind counter. Then hubbuboutside.]

VOICES.
There you are! Good jumper! Grand lepper! Darlint boy! He’s the racer!Bear him on, will you! [Christy comes in, in Jockey’s dress, withPegeen Mike, Sara, and other girls and men.]

PEGEEN.
to crowd.—Go on now and don’t destroy him and he drenchingwith sweat. Go along, I’m saying, and have your tug-of-warring tillhe’s dried his skin.

CROWD.
Here’s his prizes! A bagpipes! A fiddle was played by a poet in the yearsgone by! A flat and three-thorned blackthorn would lick the scholars out ofDublin town!

CHRISTY.
taking prizes from the men.—Thank you kindly, the lot of you. Butyou’d say it was little only I did this day if you’d seen me awhile since striking my one single blow.

TOWN CRIER.
outside, ringing a bell.—Take notice, last event of this day!Tug-of-warring on the green below! Come on, the lot of you! Great achievementsfor all Mayo men!

PEGEEN.
Go on, and leave him for to rest and dry. Go on, I tell you, for he’ll dono more. (She hustles crowd out; Widow Quin following them.)

MEN.
going.—Come on then. Good luck for the while!

PEGEEN.
radiantly, wiping his face with her shawl.—Well, you’re thelad, and you’ll have great times from this out when you could win thatwealth of prizes, and you sweating in the heat of noon!

CHRISTY.
looking at her with delight.—I’ll have great times if I winthe crowning prize I’m seeking now, and that’s your promise thatyou’ll wed me in a fortnight, when our banns is called.

PEGEEN.
backing away from him.—You’ve right daring to go ask methat, when all knows you’ll be starting to some girl in your owntownland, when your father’s rotten in four months, or five.

CHRISTY.
indignantly.—Starting from you, is it? (He follows her.) Iwill not, then, and when the airs is warming in four months, or five,it’s then yourself and me should be pacing Neifin in the dews of night,the times sweet smells do be rising, and you’d see a little shiny newmoon, maybe, sinking on the hills.

PEGEEN.
looking at him playfully.—And it’s that kind of apoacher’s love you’d make, Christy Mahon, on the sides of Neifin,when the night is down?

CHRISTY.
It’s little you’ll think if my love’s a poacher’s, oran earl’s itself, when you’ll feel my two hands stretched aroundyou, and I squeezing kisses on your puckered lips, till I’d feel a kindof pity for the Lord God is all ages sitting lonesome in his golden chair.

PEGEEN.
That’ll be right fun, Christy Mahon, and any girl would walk her heartout before she’d meet a young man was your like for eloquence, or talk,at all.

CHRISTY.
encouraged.—Let you wait, to hear me talking, till we’reastray in Erris, when Good Friday’s by, drinking a sup from a well, andmaking mighty kisses with our wetted mouths, or gaming in a gap or sunshine,with yourself stretched back unto your necklace, in the flowers of the earth.

PEGEEN.
in a lower voice, moved by his tone.—I’d be nice so, is it?

CHRISTY.
with rapture.—If the mitred bishops seen you that time,they’d be the like of the holy prophets, I’m thinking, do bestraining the bars of Paradise to lay eyes on the Lady Helen of Troy, and sheabroad, pacing back and forward, with a nosegay in her golden shawl.

PEGEEN.
with real tenderness.—And what is it I have, Christy Mahon, tomake me fitting entertainment for the like of you, that has such poet’stalking, and such bravery of heart?

CHRISTY.
in a low voice.—Isn’t there the light of seven heavens inyour heart alone, the way you’ll be an angel’s lamp to me from thisout, and I abroad in the darkness, spearing salmons in the Owen, or theCarrowmore?

PEGEEN.
If I was your wife, I’d be along with you those nights, Christy Mahon,the way you’d see I was a great hand at coaxing bailiffs, or coiningfunny nick-names for the stars of night.

CHRISTY.
You, is it? Taking your death in the hailstones, or in the fogs of dawn.

PEGEEN.
Yourself and me would shelter easy in a narrow bush, (with a qualm ofdread) but we’re only talking, maybe, for this would be a poor,thatched place to hold a fine lad is the like of you.

CHRISTY.
putting his arm round her.—If I wasn’t a good Christian,it’s on my naked knees I’d be saying my prayers and paters to everyjackstraw you have roofing your head, and every stony pebble is paving thelaneway to your door.

PEGEEN.
radiantly.—If that’s the truth, I’ll be burningcandles from this out to the miracles of God that have brought you from thesouth to-day, and I, with my gowns bought ready, the way that I can wed you,and not wait at all.

CHRISTY.
It’s miracles, and that’s the truth. Me there toiling a long while,and walking a long while, not knowing at all I was drawing all times nearer tothis holy day.

PEGEEN.
And myself, a girl, was tempted often to go sailing the seas till I’dmarry a Jew-man, with ten kegs of gold, and I not knowing at all there was thelike of you drawing nearer, like the stars of God.

CHRISTY.
And to think I’m long years hearing women talking that talk, to allbloody fools, and this the first time I’ve heard the like of your voicetalking sweetly for my own delight.

PEGEEN.
And to think it’s me is talking sweetly, Christy Mahon, and I the frightof seven townlands for my biting tongue. Well, the heart’s a wonder; and,I’m thinking, there won’t be our like in Mayo, for gallant lovers,from this hour, to-day. (Drunken singing is heard outside.)There’s my father coming from the wake, and when he’s had his sleepwe’ll tell him, for he’s peaceful then. [They separate.]

MICHAEL.
singing outside—
    The jailor and the turnkey
    They quickly ran us down,
    And brought us back as prisoners
    Once more to Cavan town.

[He comes in supported by Shawn.]

    There we lay bewailing
    All in a prison bound....

[He sees Christy. Goes and shakes him drunkenly by the hand, while Pegeenand Shawn talk on the left.]

MICHAEL.
to Christy.—The blessing of God and the holy angels on your head,young fellow. I hear tell you’re after winning all in the sports below;and wasn’t it a shame I didn’t bear you along with me to KateCassidy’s wake, a fine, stout lad, the like of you, for you’d neversee the match of it for flows of drink, the way when we sunk her bones atnoonday in her narrow grave, there were five men, aye, and six men, stretchedout retching speechless on the holy stones.

CHRISTY.
uneasily, watching Pegeen.—Is that the truth?

MICHAEL.
It is then, and aren’t you a louty schemer to go burying your poor fatherunbeknownst when you’d a right to throw him on the crupper of a Kerrymule and drive him westwards, like holy Joseph in the days gone by, the way wecould have given him a decent burial, and not have him rotting beyond, and nota Christian drinking a smart drop to the glory of his soul?

CHRISTY.
gruffly.—It’s well enough he’s lying, for the likes ofhim.

MICHAEL.
slapping him on the back.—Well, aren’t you a hardenedslayer? It’ll be a poor thing for the household man where you go sniffingfor a female wife; and (pointing to Shawn) look beyond at that shy anddecent Christian I have chosen for my daughter’s hand, and I aftergetting the gilded dispensation this day for to wed them now.

CHRISTY.
And you’ll be wedding them this day, is it?

MICHAEL.
drawing himself up.—Aye. Are you thinking, if I’m drunkitself, I’d leave my daughter living single with a little frisky rascalis the like of you?

PEGEEN.
breaking away from Shawn.—Is it the truth the dispensation’scome?

MICHAEL.
triumphantly.—Father Reilly’s after reading it in gallousLatin, and “It’s come in the nick of time,” says he;“so I’ll wed them in a hurry, dreading that young gafferwho’d capsize the stars.”

PEGEEN.
fiercely.—He’s missed his nick of time, for it’s thatlad, Christy Mahon, that I’m wedding now.

MICHAEL.
loudly with horror.—You’d be making him a son to me, and hewet and crusted with his father’s blood?

PEGEEN.
Aye. Wouldn’t it be a bitter thing for a girl to go marrying the like ofShaneen, and he a middling kind of a scarecrow, with no savagery or fine wordsin him at all?

MICHAEL.
gasping and sinking on a chair.—Oh, aren’t you a heathendaughter to go shaking the fat of my heart, and I swamped and drownded with theweight of drink? Would you have them turning on me the way that I’d beroaring to the dawn of day with the wind upon my heart? Have you not a word toaid me, Shaneen? Are you not jealous at all?

SHANEEN.
In great misery.—I’d be afeard to be jealous of a man didslay his da.

PEGEEN.
Well, it’d be a poor thing to go marrying your like. I’m seeingthere’s a world of peril for an orphan girl, and isn’t it a greatblessing I didn’t wed you, before himself came walking from the west orsouth?

SHAWN.
It’s a queer story you’d go picking a dirty tramp up from thehighways of the world.

PEGEEN.
playfully.—And you think you’re a likely beau to go strayingalong with, the shiny Sundays of the opening year, when it’s sooner on abullock’s liver you’d put a poor girl thinking than on the lily orthe rose?

SHAWN.
And have you no mind of my weight of passion, and the holy dispensation, andthe drift of heifers I am giving, and the golden ring?

PEGEEN.
I’m thinking you’re too fine for the like of me, Shawn Keogh ofKillakeen, and let you go off till you’d find a radiant lady with drovesof bullocks on the plains of Meath, and herself bedizened in the diamondjewelleries of Pharaoh’s ma. That’d be your match, Shaneen. So Godsave you now! [She retreats behind Christy.]

SHAWN.
Won’t you hear me telling you...?

CHRISTY.
with ferocity.—Take yourself from this, young fellow, orI’ll maybe add a murder to my deeds to-day.

MICHAEL.
springing up with a shriek.—Murder is it? Is it mad yous are?Would you go making murder in this place, and it piled with poteen for ourdrink to-night? Go on to the foreshore if it’s fighting you want, wherethe rising tide will wash all traces from the memory of man. [Pushing Shawntowards Christy.]

SHAWN.
shaking himself free, and getting behind Michael.—I’ll notfight him, Michael James. I’d liefer live a bachelor, simmering inpassions to the end of time, than face a lepping savage the like of him hasdescended from the Lord knows where. Strike him yourself, Michael James, oryou’ll lose my drift of heifers and my blue bull from Sneem.

MICHAEL.
Is it me fight him, when it’s father-slaying he’s bred to now?(Pushing Shawn.) Go on you fool and fight him now.

SHAWN.
coming forward a little.—Will I strike him with my hand?

MICHAEL.
Take the loy is on your western side.

SHAWN.
I’d be afeard of the gallows if I struck him with that.

CHRISTY.
taking up the loy.—Then I’ll make you face the gallows orquit off from this. [Shawn flies out of the door.]

CHRISTY.
Well, fine weather be after him, (going to Michael, coaxingly) andI’m thinking you wouldn’t wish to have that quaking blackguard inyour house at all. Let you give us your blessing and hear her swear her faithto me, for I’m mounted on the spring-tide of the stars of luck, the wayit’ll be good for any to have me in the house.

PEGEEN.
at the other side of Michael.—Bless us now, for I swear to GodI’ll wed him, and I’ll not renege.

MICHAEL.
standing up in the centre, holding on to both of them.—It’sthe will of God, I’m thinking, that all should win an easy or a cruelend, and it’s the will of God that all should rear up lengthy familiesfor the nurture of the earth. What’s a single man, I ask you, eating abit in one house and drinking a sup in another, and he with no place of hisown, like an old braying jackass strayed upon the rocks? (To Christy.)It’s many would be in dread to bring your like into their house for toend them, maybe, with a sudden end; but I’m a decent man of Ireland, andI liefer face the grave untimely and I seeing a score of grandsons growing uplittle gallant swearers by the name of God, than go peopling my bedside withpuny weeds the like of what you’d breed, I’m thinking, out ofShaneen Keogh. (He joins their hands.) A daring fellow is the jewel ofthe world, and a man did split his father’s middle with a single clout,should have the bravery of ten, so may God and Mary and St. Patrick bless you,and increase you from this mortal day.

CHRISTY andPEGEEN.
Amen, O Lord!

[Hubbub outside. Old Mahon rushes in, followed by all the crowd, and WidowQuin. He makes a rush at Christy, knocks him down, and begins to beat him.]

PEGEEN.
dragging back his arm.—Stop that, will you. Who are you at all?

MAHON.
His father, God forgive me!

PEGEEN.
drawing back.—Is it rose from the dead?

MAHON.
Do you think I look so easy quenched with the tap of a loy? [Beats Christyagain.]

PEGEEN.
glaring at Christy.—And it’s lies you told, letting on youhad him slitted, and you nothing at all.

CHRISTY.
clutching Mahon’s stick.—He’s not my father.He’s a raving maniac would scare the world. (Pointing to WidowQuin.) Herself knows it is true.

CROWD.
You’re fooling Pegeen! The Widow Quin seen him this day, and you likelyknew! You’re a liar!

CHRISTY.
dumbfounded.—It’s himself was a liar, lying stretched outwith an open head on him, letting on he was dead.

MAHON.
Weren’t you off racing the hills before I got my breath with the start Ihad seeing you turn on me at all?

PEGEEN.
And to think of the coaxing glory we had given him, and he after doing nothingbut hitting a soft blow and chasing northward in a sweat of fear. Quit off fromthis.

CHRISTY.
piteously.—You’ve seen my doings this day, and let you saveme from the old man; for why would you be in such a scorch of haste to spur meto destruction now?

PEGEEN.
It’s there your treachery is spurring me, till I’m hard set tothink you’re the one I’m after lacing in my heart-stringshalf-an-hour gone by. (To Mahon.) Take him on from this, for I think badthe world should see me raging for a Munster liar, and the fool of men.

MAHON.
Rise up now to retribution, and come on with me.

CROWD.
jeeringly.—There’s the playboy! There’s the ladthought he’d rule the roost in Mayo. Slate him now, mister.

CHRISTY.
getting up in shy terror.—What is it drives you to torment mehere, when I’d asked the thunders of the might of God to blast me if Iever did hurt to any saving only that one single blow.

MAHON.
loudly.—If you didn’t, you’re a poor good-for-nothing,and isn’t it by the like of you the sins of the whole world arecommitted?

CHRISTY.
raising his hands.—In the name of the Almighty God....

MAHON.
Leave troubling the Lord God. Would you have him sending down droughts, andfevers, and the old hen and the cholera morbus?

CHRISTY.
to Widow Quin.—Will you come between us and protect me now?

WIDOW QUIN.
I’ve tried a lot, God help me, and my share is done.

CHRISTY.
looking round in desperation.—And I must go back into my tormentis it, or run off like a vagabond straying through the unions with the dusts ofAugust making mudstains in the gullet of my throat, or the winds of Marchblowing on me till I’d take an oath I felt them making whistles of myribs within?

SARA.
Ask Pegeen to aid you. Her like does often change.

CHRISTY.
I will not then, for there’s torment in the splendour of her like, andshe a girl any moon of midnight would take pride to meet, facing southwards onthe heaths of Keel. But what did I want crawling forward to scorch myunderstanding at her flaming brow?

PEGEEN.
to Mahon, vehemently, fearing she will break into tears.—Take himon from this or I’ll set the young lads to destroy him here.

MAHON.
going to him, shaking his stick.—Come on now if you wouldn’thave the company to see you skelped.

PEGEEN.
half laughing, through her tears.—That’s it, now the worldwill see him pandied, and he an ugly liar was playing off the hero, and thefright of men.

CHRISTY.
to Mahon, very sharply.—Leave me go!

CROWD.
That’s it. Now Christy. If them two set fighting, it will lick the world.

MAHON.
making a grab at Christy.—Come here to me.

CHRISTY.
more threateningly.—Leave me go, I’m saying.

MAHON.
I will maybe, when your legs is limping, and your back is blue.

CROWD.
Keep it up, the two of you. I’ll back the old one. Now the playboy.

CHRISTY.
in low and intense voice.—Shut your yelling, for if you’reafter making a mighty man of me this day by the power of a lie, you’resetting me now to think if it’s a poor thing to be lonesome, it’sworse maybe to go mixing with the fools of earth. [Mahon makes a movementtowards him.]

CHRISTY.
almost shouting.—Keep off ... lest I do show a blow unto the lot ofyou would set the guardian angels winking in the clouds above. [He swingsround with a sudden rapid movement and picks up a loy.]

CROWD.
half frightened, half amused.—He’s going mad! Mindyourselves! Run from the idiot!

CHRISTY.
If I am an idiot, I’m after hearing my voice this day saying words wouldraise the topknot on a poet in a merchant’s town. I’ve won yourracing, and your lepping, and....

MAHON.
Shut your gullet and come on with me.

CHRISTY.
I’m going, but I’ll stretch you first. [He runs at old Mahonwith the loy, chases him out of the door, followed by crowd and Widow Quin.There is a great noise outside, then a yell, and dead silence for a moment.Christy comes in, half dazed, and goes to fire.]

WIDOW QUIN.
coming in, hurriedly, and going to him.—They’re turningagain you. Come on, or you’ll be hanged, indeed.

CHRISTY.
I’m thinking, from this out, Pegeen’ll be giving me praises thesame as in the hours gone by.

WIDOW QUIN.
impatiently.—Come by the back-door. I’d think bad to haveyou stifled on the gallows tree.

CHRISTY.
indignantly.—I will not, then. What good’d be my life-time,if I left Pegeen?

WIDOW QUIN.
Come on, and you’ll be no worse than you were last night; and you with adouble murder this time to be telling to the girls.

CHRISTY.
I’ll not leave Pegeen Mike.

WIDOW QUIN.
impatiently.—Isn’t there the match of her in every parishpublic, from Binghamstown unto the plain of Meath? Come on, I tell you, andI’ll find you finer sweethearts at each waning moon.

CHRISTY.
It’s Pegeen I’m seeking only, and what’d I care if youbrought me a drift of chosen females, standing in their shifts itself, maybe,from this place to the Eastern World?

SARA.
runs in, pulling off one of her petticoats.—They’re going tohang him. (Holding out petticoat and shawl.) Fit these upon him, and lethim run off to the east.

WIDOW QUIN.
He’s raving now; but we’ll fit them on him, and I’ll takehim, in the ferry, to the Achill boat.

CHRISTY.
struggling feebly.—Leave me go, will you? when I’m thinkingof my luck to-day, for she will wed me surely, and I a proven hero in the endof all. [They try to fasten petticoat round him.]

WIDOW QUIN.
Take his left hand, and we’ll pull him now. Come on, young fellow.

CHRISTY.
suddenly starting up.—You’ll be taking me from her?You’re jealous, is it, of her wedding me? Go on from this. [Hesnatches up a stool, and threatens them with it.]

WIDOW QUIN.
going.—It’s in the mad-house they should put him, not injail, at all. We’ll go by the back-door, to call the doctor, andwe’ll save him so. [She goes out, with Sara, through inner room. Mencrowd in the doorway. Christy sits down again by the fire.]

MICHAEL.
in a terrified whisper.—Is the old lad killed surely?

PHILLY.
I’m after feeling the last gasps quitting his heart. [They peer in atChristy.]

MICHAEL.
with a rope.—Look at the way he is. Twist a hangman’s knoton it, and slip it over his head, while he’s not minding at all.

PHILLY.
Let you take it, Shaneen. You’re the soberest of all that’s here.

SHAWN.
Is it me to go near him, and he the wickedest and worst with me? Let you takeit, Pegeen Mike.

PEGEEN.
Come on, so. [She goes forward with the others, and they drop the doublehitch over his head.]

CHRISTY.
What ails you?

SHAWN.
triumphantly, as they pull the rope tight on his arms.—Come on tothe peelers, till they stretch you now.

CHRISTY.
Me?

MICHAEL.
If we took pity on you, the Lord God would, maybe, bring us ruin from the lawto-day, so you’d best come easy, for hanging is an easy and a speedy end.

CHRISTY.
I’ll not stir. (To Pegeen.) And what is it you’ll say to me,and I after doing it this time in the face of all?

PEGEEN.
I’ll say, a strange man is a marvel, with his mighty talk; butwhat’s a squabble in your back-yard, and the blow of a loy, have taughtme that there’s a great gap between a gallous story and a dirty deed.(To men.) Take him on from this, or the lot of us will be likely put ontrial for his deed to-day.

CHRISTY.
with horror in his voice.—And it’s yourself will send meoff, to have a horny-fingered hangman hitching his bloody slip-knots at thebutt of my ear.

MEN.
pulling rope.—Come on, will you? [He is pulled down on thefloor.]

CHRISTY.
twisting his legs round the table.—Cut the rope, Pegeen, andI’ll quit the lot of you, and live from this out, like the madmen ofKeel, eating muck and green weeds, on the faces of the cliffs.

PEGEEN.
And leave us to hang, is it, for a saucy liar, the like of you? (Tomen.) Take him on, out from this.

SHAWN.
Pull a twist on his neck, and squeeze him so.

PHILLY.
Twist yourself. Sure he cannot hurt you, if you keep your distance from histeeth alone.

SHAWN.
I’m afeard of him. (To Pegeen.) Lift a lighted sod, will you, andscorch his leg.

PEGEEN.
blowing the fire, with a bellows.—Leave go now, young fellow, orI’ll scorch your shins.

CHRISTY.
You’re blowing for to torture me (His voice rising and growingstronger.) That’s your kind, is it? Then let the lot of you be wary,for, if I’ve to face the gallows, I’ll have a gay march down, Itell you, and shed the blood of some of you before I die.

SHAWN.
in terror.—Keep a good hold, Philly. Be wary, for the love of God.For I’m thinking he would liefest wreak his pains on me.

CHRISTY.
almost gaily.—If I do lay my hands on you, it’s the wayyou’ll be at the fall of night, hanging as a scarecrow for the fowls ofhell. Ah, you’ll have a gallous jaunt I’m saying, coaching outthrough Limbo with my father’s ghost.

SHAWN.
to Pegeen.—Make haste, will you? Oh, isn’t he a holy terror,and isn’t it true for Father Reilly, that all drink’s a curse thathas the lot of you so shaky and uncertain now?

CHRISTY.
If I can wring a neck among you, I’ll have a royal judgment looking onthe trembling jury in the courts of law. And won’t there be crying out inMayo the day I’m stretched upon the rope with ladies in their silks andsatins snivelling in their lacy kerchiefs, and they rhyming songs and balladson the terror of my fate? [He squirms round on the floor and bitesShawn’s leg.]

SHAWN.
shrieking.—My leg’s bit on me. He’s the like of a maddog, I’m thinking, the way that I will surely die.

CHRISTY.
delighted with himself.—You will then, the way you can shake outhell’s flags of welcome for my coming in two weeks or three, forI’m thinking Satan hasn’t many have killed their da in Kerry, andin Mayo too. [Old Mahon comes in behind on all fours and looks onunnoticed.]

MEN.
to Pegeen.—Bring the sod, will you?

PEGEEN.
coming over.—God help him so. (Burns his leg.)

CHRISTY.
kicking and screaming.—O, glory be to God! [He kicks loose fromthe table, and they all drag him towards the door.]

JIMMY.
seeing old Mahon.—Will you look what’s come in? [They alldrop Christy and run left.]

CHRISTY.
scrambling on his knees face to face with old Mahon.—Are youcoming to be killed a third time, or what ails you now?

MAHON.
For what is it they have you tied?

CHRISTY.
They’re taking me to the peelers to have me hanged for slaying you.

MICHAEL.
apologetically.—It is the will of God that all should guard theirlittle cabins from the treachery of law, and what would my daughter be doing ifI was ruined or was hanged itself?

MAHON.
grimly, loosening Christy.—It’s little I care if you put abag on her back, and went picking cockles till the hour of death; but my sonand myself will be going our own way, and we’ll have great times fromthis out telling stories of the villainy of Mayo, and the fools is here. (ToChristy, who is freed.) Come on now.

CHRISTY.
Go with you, is it? I will then, like a gallant captain with his heathen slave.Go on now and I’ll see you from this day stewing my oatmeal and washingmy spuds, for I’m master of all fights from now. (Pushing Mahon.)Go on, I’m saying.

MAHON.
Is it me?

CHRISTY.
Not a word out of you. Go on from this.

MAHON.
walking out and looking back at Christy over his shoulder.—Glorybe to God! (With a broad smile.) I am crazy again! [Goes.]

CHRISTY.
Ten thousand blessings upon all that’s here, for you’ve turned me alikely gaffer in the end of all, the way I’ll go romancing through aromping lifetime from this hour to the dawning of the judgment day. [He goesout.]

MICHAEL.
By the will of God, we’ll have peace now for our drinks. Will you drawthe porter, Pegeen?

SHAWN.
going up to her.—It’s a miracle Father Reilly can wed us inthe end of all, and we’ll have none to trouble us when his vicious biteis healed.

PEGEEN.
hitting him a box on the ear.—Quit my sight. (Putting her shawlover her head and breaking out into wild lamentations.) Oh my grief,I’ve lost him surely. I’ve lost the only Playboy of the WesternWorld.

CURTAIN.

THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD was first produced by the National TheatreSociety, Ltd., at the Abbey Theatre, on Saturday, 26th January, 1907, under thedirection of W. G. Fay.

Christopher Mahon, W. G. FAY
Old Mahon, his father, a squatter, A. POWER.
Michael James Flaherty (called “Michael James”), a publican, ARTHURSINCLAIR.
Margaret Flaherty (called “Pegeen Mike”), his daughter, MARIEO’NEILL.
Shawn Keogh, her second cousin, a young farmer, F. J. FAY.

small farmers,
Philly O’Cullen, J. A. O’ROURKE.
Jimmy Farrell, J. M. KERRIGAN.

Widow Quin, SARA ALLGOOD

village girls,
Sara Tansey, BRIGIT O’DEMPSEY
Susan Brady, ALICE O’SULLIVAN
Honor Blake, MARY CRAIG.

Peasants,
HARRY YOUNG.
U. WRIGHT.

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