Colm Sweeny, a young man, heir to his uncle’s estate
Bride, a young maid
Sister Eileen, a young nun in a nursing order, a distant cousin to Colm
Mary Costello, a madwoman
Scene: A country house in the east of Ireland, late spring or early summer at the turn of the century.
Old family library in country house; many books are in shelves round the walls. A turf fire has burnt low in the fireplace, which is on one side, with a large portrait above it. The principal door is on the right, but there is another in the back wall partly covered with a curtain and opening with two battants into the open air. Small window near the fireplace; another to the right of the end-door; both have the blinds down. A large lamp heavily shaded is burning near the table. A large bow of black crepe is resting on one of the chairs near the fire. Bride, a young maid, is kneeling down settling the turf fire. Colm comes in on the left, wearing a big coat buttoned up to his chin.
Colm: [looking round the room]. Sister Eileen has gone to bed?
Bride: She has not, your honour. She’s been in a great state fearing you were lost in the hills, and now she’s after going down the hollow field to see would there any sound of the wheels coming.
Colm. I came in the other way so she could not have heard me. [Goes to the large window] Is she long gone?
Bride. A while only.
Colm. I wonder if I could find her …
Bride: You could not, your honour, and you’d have a right to be sitting here and warming your feet, the way it’s proud and happy she’ll be to see you when she turns in from the shower is coming in the trees.
Colm [pulling up the blind]: I hope she will not miss her way. Perhaps if she sees the door open she will turn back. [He stands looking out.]
Bride [a little impatiently]. She’ll be coming in a minute I’m telling you, and let you be taking your own rest. You’re wanting it surely, for we were thinking it’s destroyed you’d be driving alone in the night and the great rain, and you not used to anything but the big towns of the world. [She pulls a chair to the fire.]
[Colm comes over to the fire, wearily. He begins taking off his coat and heavy boots. Bride lifts up the bow of crepe from his chair.]
Bride [showing it to him]. Isn’t it a fine bow she’s made with bits of rags that we found? I was watching her do it, and I’m telling you she’s a wonder surely.
Colm [with reserve]. She is clever with her fingers.
Bride. Wait till your honour sees the way she has the room beyond, with fine flowers in, and white candles, and grand clothes on the bed, and your poor uncle lying so easy with his eyes shut you’d be thinking it was an old man in his sleep. [Turning to the fire with a sigh.] Ah, it’s a long way any person would go seeking the like of Sister Eileen, and it’s very lonesome your honour’ll be tomorrow or the next day when she is gone away to the town.
Colm. She will stay for the funeral.
Bride. And what day, if myself may ask, will the funeral be?
Colm. I have settled it for Friday, but it was not easy, there were so many things to arrange.
Bride. It’s great trouble the rich do have when there is even an old man to be buried, and it was that, I’m thinking, kept you a whole evening in the town.
Colm. It kept me a good while, but I went wrong going home, and took the road through the bogs to the graveyard of Glan-na-nee.
Bride. The Lord have mercy on us! There does be no one at all passing that way but a few men do be carting turf, and isn’t it a great wonder your honour got home safe, and wasn’t lost in the hills?
Colm. I hardly knew where I was, but I found a woman there who told me my way.
Bride. It was a lonesome place for a woman, God help her, and the night coming.
Colm. She was nearly crazy I think, but she must have known the trap for she called out to me by my name and asked my uncle.
Bride [greatly interested]. And was it much she said to your honour?
Colm. At first she spoke sensibly and told me how I was to go, but when she tried to say something else she had on her mind she got so confused I could not follow her. Then the mare got frightened at a sort of cry she gave, and I had to come away.
Bride. She was a big tall woman I’m thinking, with a black shawl on her, and black hair round her face? [She begins blowing the fire with her mouth.]
Colm. Then you know who she is?
Bride. She’s Mary Costello, your honour. [She goes on blowing.]
Colm. A beggar woman?
Bride [indignantly]. Not she a beggar woman … She’s a Costello from the old Castilian family, and it’s fine people they were at one time, big wealthy nobles of the cities of Spain, and herself was the finest girl you’d find in the whole world, with nice manners, and white hands on her, for she was reared with the nuns, as it’s likely you’ve heard tell from his honour, God rest his soul.
Colm. If he ever spoke of her I do not remember it. Why should he have told me about her?
Bride. It’s a long story, and a sad pitiful story. I’d have a right to tell you one day maybe if the Lord Almighty keep us alive, but Sister Eileen will be coming now, and the two of you won’t be needing the like of that to trouble you at all.
[She stands up and sweeps up the hearth.]
Colm. Has she been long out of her mind?
Bride. A long while in and out of it. It’s ten years she was below in the Asylum, and it was a great wonder the way you’d see her in there, not lonesome at all with the great lot were coming in from all the houses in the country, and herself as well off as any lady in England, France, or Germany, walking round in the gardens with fine shoes on her feet. Ah, it was well for her in there, God help her, for she was always a nice quiet woman, and a fine woman to look at, and I’ve heard tell it was ‘Your Ladyship’ they would call her, the time they’d be making fun among themselves.
Colm. I wonder if I ever saw her before. Her face reminded me of something, or Someone, but I cannot remember where I have met it.
Bride [going up to the portrait over the fireplace]. Let you come and look here, your Honour, and I’m thinking you’ll see.
Colm [going over]. Yes, that is the woman. But it was done years ago.
Bride. Long years surely, your honour, and it’s time the whole thing was forgot, for what call has any man to be weighing his mind with the like of it and he storing sorrows till the judgement day?
[She goes over to window. Colm takes down picture and looks at it closely in the lamp-light.]
Bride [looking out]. Sister Eileen’s coming now, and I’ll be going off to my bed, for I’m thinking the two of you won’t be needing me, and it’s a right yourselves would have to be going to rest, and not sitting here talking and talking in the dark night, when people are better sleeping, and not destroying their souls, pausing and watching and they thinking over the great troubles of the world.
[She goes out, and in a moment Sister Eileen comes in quickly from the door which leads into the open air. She is pleased and relieved when she sees Colm.]
Sister Eileen. You have come back? I was afraid something had happened.
Colm. I have been in some time.
Sister Eileen. I thought I would hear the wheels, and I went right down to the lake the night is so beautiful …You have arranged everything?
Colm. I sent a number of telegrams, and waited for answers. He is to be buried on Friday at Glan-na-nee, and the coffin will come down tomorrow.
Sister Eileen. When the storm broke I was sorry you had gone; you must have got very wet on the road across the mountains.
Colm. It rained heavily on Slieve na-Ruadh, but I am nearly dry again.
Sister Eileen. I was out for a little while getting flowers for your uncle’s room, but I did not find many they were so broken with the rain.
Colm. Then you saw what a change the rain has made among the trees.
Sister Eileen. It has ended the spring. I was just thinking what a difference there is since I arrived here three months ago, with the moonlight shining everywhere on the snow.
Colm. It seems like three years since you telegraphed for me, we have made such a world for ourselves.
Sister Eileen [changing the subject]. What have you got there?
Colm. It is the picture from that corner. [He turns it round to her.] I saw her tonight at the graveyard of Glan-na-nee.
Sister Eileen. What took you out there, surely that was not your way?
Colm. I went wrong coming home, and this woman put me right. Do you know anything of the woman?
Sister Eileen. I have heard a good deal about her, perhaps more than you have.
Colm. Bride has been telling me that she was a long time in the Asylum, and that she was connected in some way with my uncle.
Sister Eileen. He wanted to marry her although she was beneath him, but when it was all arranged she broke it off because he did not believe in God.
Colm. And after that she went mad?
Sister Eileen. After that. And your uncle shut himself up. He told me it was nearly twenty years since it happened, and yet he had never spoken of it to anyone. I do not think he would have told me if it had not been for his dislike of religious orders and the clothes I wear.
Colm. You mean he told you as a warning … And yet I suppose you take her as an example to be followed.
Sister Eileen. She did what was right. No woman who was really a Christian could have done anything else …
Colm. I wish you had seen her tonight screaming and crying out over the bogs.
Sister Eileen. I do not want to see her … I have seen your uncle for three months and his death today. That is enough.
Colm. It is far from enough if it has not made you realize that in evading her impulses this woman did what was wrong and brought this misery on my uncle and herself.
Sister Eileen [giving him back the picture]. We cannot argue about it. We do not see things the same way … Has she changed a great deal since that was done?
Colm. Less than he has. [He hangs the picture up again.] He was right in thinking that their story is a warning … At the time they were about the ages we are tonight, and now one is a mad woman, and the other has been tortured to death – [Some one knocks.] Come in!
[Bride, half rolled in a shawl, as if she was not fully dressed, comes in with a telegram.]
Bride [giving it to Sister Eileen]. That has just come for you now, Sister Eileen. It came into town after Mr. Colm had gone away, and they gave it to an old man was driving out west with an ass and cart.
[Sister Eileen takes it and reads it left. Bride takes Colm right.]
Bride [whispering]. I heard from the old man he seen Mary Costello coming in great haste over the hills, so let your honour not be afeard if you hear her singing or laughing, or letting a shout maybe in the darkness of the night.
Colm. Is there nothing one can do for her?
Bride. Nothing at all your honour. It’s best to leave her alone. [She goes towards the door.]
Sister Eileen [turning to her, in a low voice]. Can someone drive me into the town tomorrow? I must go to Dublin by the first train in the morning.
Bride. We can surely, Sister Eileen. And what time will we send to meet you coming back?
Sister Eileen. I am not coming back.
Bride. Well the Lord speed you Sister Eileen, and that the Almighty God may stretch out a holy hand to preserve and prosper you, and see you safe home. [Turning to the door.] It’s lonesome you’ll be leaving the lot of us behind you, and you after bringing a kind of a new life into this house was a dark quiet place for a score of years, and will be dark again maybe from this mortal night. [She goes out left.]
Colm [with a change in his voice]. What is this talk of your leaving me tomorrow?
Sister Eileen. Someone has told the Mother Superior your uncle is dead, and she telegraphs – as she puts it – that she is short of nurses and will need me for a new case tomorrow.
Colm. Cannot you stay a little longer?
Sister Eileen. I am afraid not possibly … [Looking up at the clock.] I must soon go and pack up.
Colm. We must talk about it till I make you decide with your whole mind whether you will obey the earth, or repeat the story of the mad woman and my uncle.
Sister Eileen [severely]. If you say what I think you are wishing to say, I will have to leave you and not speak to you any more. That is all you will gain.
Colm [sternly, locking door]. You shall not go till I have said what I have to say. Then if you are weak enough to give up your share of what is best in life, you may go where you will.
Sister Eileen [piteously]. I wish you would not spoil the last night we are together.
Colm. It may not be the last …
Sister Eileen [goes over and lights candle, picks up bow of crepe]. Please open the door and let me go to bed. I have been very wrong to allow you to talk to me as I have done, but I will go back to my true life tomorrow, and I will ask to be forgiven.
Colm. And you think you will forget this place and what has been said here?
Sister Eileen. It is only those who do the will of God who are happy; that is all I know.
[A burst of hysterical laughter is heard outside, and then a sob and a scrap of singing. A moment afterwards the door is pushed open and Mary Costello comes in, dazzled with the light, and goes over left without seeing Colm or Sister Eileen. She goes over to the bureau in the corner and sees that one of the drawers is open and pounces on it. She finds a ring case, and takes out two rings and puts them on her fingers, making the stones sparkle in the lamp light; she finds a bundle of white linen, takes out a silk dress and makes a movement as if she is going to throw it over her head. Before she does so she looks around stealthily, and sees Colm and Sister Eileen. She drops the dress on the floor with a cry, picks up her shawl and runs to the door, then stops, and turns towards them.]
Mary. A nun is it? What right have the like of you to be walking out through the world and looking on us when it isn’t any harm we’re doing? What right have the nuns I’m saying to be meddling with the world? [She recognizes Colm.] I seen that man tonight, God bless him, and he driving round on the roads. [She goes up to him. Sister Eileen has involuntarily drawn close to Colm. Mary looks from one to the other with a peculiar smile.] You’re a fine handsome woman, God bless you, a fine beautiful woman I’m saying, and let you not mind them at all. [She puts her hand pleadingly on Sister Eileen’s arm.] Sure you won’t mind them, Sister, tell me out you won’t mind them at all?
Sister Eileen. Who shall I not mind?
Mary [throwing up her hands, and then clasping them together and turning half round with a shriek of laughter]. ‘Who shall I not mind?’ says she. ‘Who shall I not mind?’ It’s a long while since I was in school Sister, yet it’s well I know the like of that. It’s well I know you’ve no call to mind what the priests say, or the bishops say, or what the angels of God do be saying, for it’s little the likes of them knows of women or the seven sorrows of earth. [With anguish in her voice. She sinks her head and sees the bow of crepe in Sister Eileen’s hand.] … Who is it is dead, Mister, if that’s the token of death?
Colm. My uncle, Colm Sweeny.
Mary [indifferently]. And a long rest behind him, why would that trouble me now? I was afeard it was my little children [she looks up to Colm, and speaks piteously] – for if I was never married your honour, and have no children I do be thinking it’s alive they must be if I never had them itself … [Raising her voice to a plaintive cry.] I do see them sometimes when my head’s bad and I do be falling into my sleep … There are five children, five children that wanted to live, God help them, if the nuns and the priests with them had let me be [swaying herself with anguish.] … They’re always nice your honour, with clean faces, and nice frocks on them and little sticks in their hands. But I wouldn’t like them to begin to die on me, for I’m not like all the rest of [covering her face with her hands.] … and it’s queer things I do be seeing the time the moon is full. [She bends her head sobbing piteously.]
Sister Eileen. Don’t mind them now, Mary, there isn’t anything to frighten you here.
Mary [still sobbing]. Oh, my head’s perished with the night wind, and I do be very lonesome the time I do be going the bog road, with the rabbits running round on it and they drowned with the dew. [She looks up piteously at Sister Eileen, sees the little cross she has hanging round her neck; she takes the cross in her hand.] Will you give me the little cross you have Sister, for I’ve lost the one I had and I do be wanting the like of it to sit and hold in my hand. [Sister Eileen gives it to her.] … May the Almighty God reward you Sister, and give you five nice children before you die. [She gives her the rings.] … May his blessing be on them rings, and they going on your hand, and his blessing be on your hand and it working with the linen when the time is come. [She looks at the crucifix in her hand.] … This will be a quiet thing to be looking on, and it’ll keep me still the long evenings when the moon is low, and there do be white mists passing on the bog, the time the little children I have do be lepping, and crying out to each other, and making games in the dark night, and no Christian walking but myself only, and the white geese you’d hear a mile or maybe two mile and they making a great stir over the bog. [She moves towards the door.] … I’ll be going now I’m thinking, for I’ve a long way and this will be keeping me company in the dark lane through the wood. God save you kindly the two of you. There’s great marrying in the world but it’s late we were surely, and let yourselves not be the same. Let you mind the words I was saying, and give no heed to the priests or the bishops or the angels of God, for it’s little the like of them, I was saying, knows about women or the seven sorrows of the earth. [She goes out.]
[Sister Eileen goes over and puts the linen and other things back into the drawer.]
Colm. Another voice has cried out to you. In a few years you will be as old as she is. There will be divine nights like this night and birds crying in the heather, but nothing will reach you, as nothing my uncle at the other side of the hall. [He goes over to her.] I am not a woman and I cannot judge of all your feelings, yet I know you have a profound impulse for what is peculiar to women. You realize that the forces which lift women up to a share in the pain and passion of the world are more holy than the vows you have made. [She stands up before him motionless; he speaks more tenderly.] Before this splendour of the morning you cannot lie. You know that the spirit of life which has transfigured the world is filling you with radiance. Why will you worship the mania of the saints when your own existence is holier than they are. People renounce when they have not power to retain; you have power and courage … I implore you to use them.
Sister Eileen. I don’t know what to do … You are giving me such pain and yet …
Colm. There is the first note of the birds … When the sun comes over that ridge I will ask you to be my wife … You cannot refuse. The trees might as well refuse to grow fragrant and green when it is May, or the birds to sing before the dawn … There are the larks, and the wrens … You have half an hour. I will not touch you … I will not try to persuade you. It is quite unnecessary. The world will persuade you. The breath that drew out this forest of leaves and sent quivering voices to chant in them, is making of you also a beautiful note in the world … There is the willow warbler, you have a quarter of an hour. Will you go and put this dress about you. I am not in a humour for blasphemy.
[Sister Eileen takes the green dress and goes out without looking at him. He looks out for an instant, then packs the rest of the papers into the bureau drawer. He goes back to the window. In a moment Sister Eileen comes in behind him in a green silk dress which is cut low at the neck. She reaches the window just as the red morning light sweeps into the room.]
Sister Eileen [in a low voice]. Colm, I have come back to you.
Colm [turning towards her]. You are infinitely beautiful, and you have done a great action. It is the beauty of your spirit that has set you free, and your emancipation is more exquisite than any that is possible for men who are redeemed by logic. You cannot tell me why you have changed. That is your glory. As a moth comes out to a new sphere of odour and colour and flight, so you have come out to live in a new sphere of beautiful love … Listen to the tumult the birds are making in the trees. That is our marriage hymn. Without love this world would be a loathsome sandhill, and a soul without love is not a great deal better … Speak to me. I want to hear you, your voice will have a new cadence from today.
Sister Eileen. I have left my veil in the room where your uncle is lying … I seem to be in a dream that is wider than I am. I hope God will forgive me. I cannot help it.
Colm. How many people ask to be forgiven for the most divine instant of their lives. Let us be wiser than they are. [He takes up one of the rings.] Here is the ring that was the sorrowful heirloom of uncle. Give me your hand. I, the male power, have overcome with worship you, the soul of credulous feeling, the reader of the saints. From our harmonized discord new notes will rise. In the end we will assimilate with each other and grow senseless and old. We have incarnated God, and been a part of the world. That is enough. [He takes her hand.] In the name of the Summer, and the Sun, and the Whole World I wed you as my wife. [He puts the ring on her finger.]