The Master

%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; %ISOdia; ]> The Master An electronic edition Pádraic H. Pearse Electronic edition compiled by Pádraig Bambury University College, Cork First draft, revised and corrected. Proof corrections by Pádraig Bambury 8008 CELT: Corpus of Electronic Texts: a project of University College, Cork

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This text is a translation from Irish. Select editions P.H. Pearse, An sgoil: a direct method course in Irish (Dublin: Maunsel, 1913). P.H. Pearse, How does she stand? : three addresses (The Bodenstown series no. 1) (Dublin: Irish Freedom Press, 1915). P.H. Pearse, From a hermitage (The Bodenstown series no. 2)(Dublin: Irish Freedom Press, 1915). P.H. Pearse, The murder machine (The Bodenstown series no. 3) (Dublin: Whelan, 1916). Repr. U.C.C.: Department of Education, 1959. P.H. Pearse, Ghosts (Tracts for the Times) (Dublin: Whelan, 1916. P.H. Pearse, The Spiritual Nation (Tracts for the Times) (Dublin: Whelan, 1916. P.H. Pearse, The Sovereign People (Tracts for the Times) (Dublin: Whelan, 1916. P.H. Pearse, The Separatist Idea (Tracts for the Times) (Dublin: Whelan, 1916. Pádraic Colum, E.J. Harrington O'Brien (ed), Poems of the Irish revolutionary brotherhood, Thomas MacDonagh, P.H. Pearse (Pádraic MacPiarais), Joseph Mary Plunkett, Sir Roger Casement. (New and enl. ed.) (Boston: Small, Maynard & Company, 1916). First edition, July, 1916; second edition, enlarged, September, 1916. Michael Henry Gaffney, The stories of Pádraic Pearse (Dublin [etc.]: The Talbot Press Ltd. 1935). Contains ten plays by M.H. Gaffney based upon stories by Pádraic Pearse, and three plays by Pádraic Pearse edited by M.H. Gaffney. Proinsias Mac Aonghusa, Liam Ó Reagain (ed), The best of Pearse (1967). Seamus Ó Buachalla (ed), The literary writings of Patrick Pearse: writings in English (Dublin: Mercier, 1979). Seamus Ó Buachalla, A significant Irish educationalist: the educational writings of P.H. Pearse (Dublin: Mercier, 1980). Seamus Ó Buachalla (ed), The letters of P. H. Pearse (Gerrards Cross, Bucks.: Smythe, 1980). Pádraic Mac Piarais (ed), Bodach an chóta lachtna (Baile Átha Cliath: Chonnradh na Gaedhilge, 1906). Pádraic Mac Piarais, Bruidhean chaorthainn: sgéal Fiannaídheachta (Baile Átha Cliath: Chonnradh na Gaedhilge, 1912). Pádraic Pearse, Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse (Dublin: Phoenix Publishing Co. ? 1910 1919). 4 vols. v. 1. Political writings and speeches. - v. 2. Plays, stories, poems. - v. 3. Songs of the Irish rebels and specimens from an Irish anthology. Some aspects of Irish literature. Three lectures on Gaelic topics. - v. 4. The story of a success, edited by Desmond Ryan, and The man called Pearse, by Desmond Ryan. Pádraic Pearse, Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse (Dublin; Belfast: Phoenix, ? 1916 1917). 5 vols. [v. 1] Plays, stories, poems.—[v. 2.] Political writings and speeches.—[v. 3] Story of a success. Man called Pearse.—[v. 4] Songs of the Irish rebels. Specimens from an Irish anthology. Some aspects of irish literature.—[v. 5] Scrivinni. Pádraic Pearse, Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse … (New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company 1917). 3rd ed. Translated by Joseph Campbell, introduction by Patrick Browne. Pádraic Pearse, Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse. 6th ed. (Dublin: Phoenix, 1924 1917) v. 1. Political writings and speeches — v. 2. Plays, stories, poems. Pádraic Pearse, Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse (Dublin: Phoenix Pub. Co., 1924). 5 vols. [v. 1] Songs of the Irish rebels and specimens from an Irish anthology. Some aspects of Irish literature. Three lectures on Gaelic topics. — [v. 2] Plays, stories, poems. — [v. 3] Scríbinní. — [v. 4] The story of a success [being a record of St. Enda's College] The man called Pearse / by Desmond Ryan. — [v. 5] Political writings and speeches. Pádraic Pearse, Short stories of Pádraic Pearse (Cork: Mercier Press, 1968 1976 1989). (Iosagan, Eoineen of the birds, The roads, The black chafer, The keening woman). Pádraic Pearse, Political writing and speeches (Irish prose writings, 20) (Tokyo: Hon-no-tomosha, 1992). Originally published: Dublin: Maunsel & Roberts, 1922. Pádraic Pearse, Political writings and speeches (Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse) (Dublin and London: Maunsel & Roberts Ltd., 1922). Pádraic Pearse, Political writings and Speeches (Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse) (Dublin: Phoenix 1916). 6th ed. (Dublin [etc.]: Phoenix, 1924). Pádraic Pearse, Plays Stories Poems (Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse) (Dublin, London: Maunsel & Company Ltd., 1917). 5th ed. 1922. Also pubd. by Talbot Press, Dublin, 1917, repr. 1966. Repr. New York: AMS Press, 1978. Pádraic Pearse, Filíocht Ghaeilge Pádraig Mhic Phiarais (Áth Cliath: Clóchomhar, 1981) Leabhair thaighde ; an 35u iml. Pádraic Pearse, Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse (New York: Stokes, 1918). Contains The Singer, The King, The Master, Íosagán. Pádraic Pearse, Songs of the Irish rebels and specimens from an Irish anthology: some aspects of Irish literature : three lectures on Gaelic topics (Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse) (Dublin: The Phoenix Publishing Co. 1910). Pádraic Pearse, Songs of the Irish rebels (Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse) (Dublin: Phoenix Pub. Co., 1917). Pádraic Pearse, Songs of the Irish rebels, and Specimens from an Irish anthology (Collected works of Pádraic H. Pearse) (Dublin: Maunsel, 1918). Pádraic Pearse, The story of a success (The complete works of P. H. Pearse) (Dublin: Phoenix Pub. Co., 1917) . Pádraic Pearse, Scríbinní (The complete works of P. H. Pearse) (Dublin: Phoenix Pub. Co., 1917). Julius Pokorny, Die Seele Irlands: Novellen und Gedichte aus dem Irisch-Galischen des Patrick Henry Pearse und Anderer zum ersten Male ins Deutsche übertragen (Halle a.S.: Max Niemeyer 1922) James Simmons, Ten Irish poets: an anthology of poems by George Buchanan, John Hewitt, Pádraic Fiacc, Pearse Hutchinson, James Simmons, Michael Hartnett, Eilean Ní Chuilleanáin, Michael Foley, Frank Ormsby & Tom Mathews (Cheadle: Carcanet Press, 1974). Cathal Ó hAinle (ed), Gearrscéalta an Phiarsaigh (Dublin: Helicon, 1979). Ciarán Ó Coigligh (ed), Filíocht Ghaeilge: Phádraig Mhic Phiarais (Baile Átha Cliath: Clóchomhar, 1981). Pádraig Mac Piarais, et al., Une île et d'autres îles: poèmes gaeliques XXeme siècle (Quimper: Calligrammes, 1984). Select bibliography Pádraic Mac Piarais: Pearse from documents (Dublin: Co-ordinating committee for Educational Services, 1979). Facsimile documents. National Library of Ireland. facsimile documents. Xavier Carty, In bloody protest—the tragedy of Patrick Pearse (Dublin: Able 1978). Helen Louise Clark, Pádraic Pearse: a Gaelic idealist (1933). (Thesis (M.A.)—Boston College, 1933). Mary Maguire Colum, St. Enda's School, Rathfarnham, Dublin. Founded by Pádraic H. Pearse. (New York: Save St. Enda's Committee 1917). Pádraic H. Pearse ([s.l.: s.n., C. F. Connolly) 1920). Elizabeth Katherine Cussen, Irish motherhood in the drama of William Butler Yeats, John Millington Synge, and Pádraic Pearse: a comparative study. (1934) Thesis (M.A.)—Boston College, 1934. Ruth Dudley Edwards, Patrick Pearse: the triumph of failure (London: Gollancz, 1977). Stefan Fodor, Douglas Hyde, Eoin MacNeill, and Pádraic Pearse of the Gaelic League: a study in Irish cultural nationalism and separatism, 1893-1916 (1986). Thesis (M.A.)—Southern Illinois University at Carbondale, 1986. James Hayes, Patrick H. Pearse, storyteller (Dublin: Talbot, 1920). John J. Horgan, Parnell to Pearse: some recollections and reflections (Dublin: Browne & Nolan, 1948). Louis N. Le Roux, La vie de Patrice Pearse (Rennes: Imprimerie Commerciale de Bretagne, 1932). Translated into English by Desmond Ryan (Dublin: Talbot, 1932). Proinsias Mac Aonghusa, Quotations from P.H. Pearse, (Dublin: Mercier, 1979). Mary Benecio McCarty (Sister), Pádraic Henry Pearse: an educator in the Gaelic tradition (1939) (Thesis (M.A.)—Marquette University, 1939). Hedley McCay, Pádraic Pearse; a new biography (Cork: Mercier Press, 1966). John Bernard Moran, Sacrifice as exemplified by the life and writings of Pádraic Pearse is true to the Christian and Irish ideals; that portrayed in the Irish plays of Sean O'Casey is futile (1939). Submitted to Dept. of English. Thesis (M.A.)—Boston College, 1939. Sean Farrell Moran, Patrick Pearse and the politics of redemption: the mind of the Easter rising, 1916 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America, 1994). P.S. O'Hegarty, A bibliography of books written by P. H. Pearse (s.l.: 1931). Máiread O'Mahony, The political thought of Padraig H. Pearse: pragmatist or idealist (1994). Theses—M.A. (NUI, University College Cork). Daniel J. O'Neill, The Irish revolution and the cult of the leader: observations on Griffith, Moran, Pearse and Connolly (Boston: Northeastern U.P., 1988). Mary Brigid Pearse (ed), The home-life of Padraig Pearse as told by himself, his family and friends (Dublin: Browne & Nolan 1934). Repr. Cork, Mercier 1979. Maureen Quill, Pádraic H. Pearse—his philosophy of Irish education (1996). Theses—M.A. (NUI, University College Cork). Desmond Ryan, The man called Pearse (Dublin: Maunsel, 1919). Nicholas Joseph Wells, The meaning of love and patriotism as seen in the plays, poems, and stories of Pádraic Pearse (1931). (Thesis (M.A.)—Boston College, 1931). The edition used in the digital edition Pádraic Pearse The Master Plays Stories Poems Dublin Talbot Press 1966 69–100

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By Pádraic Henry Pearse (1879-1916). 1915 The text is in English. Some words and phrases are in Irish. 2010-11-03 Beatrix Färber ed. Header modified; new wordcount made; conversion script run; new SGML and HTML versions created. 2007-12-12 Beatrix Färber ed. Note on translation/copyright inserted. 2005-08-25 Julianne Nyhan ed. Normalised language codes and edited langUsage for XML conversion 2005-08-04T14:42:58+0100 Peter Flynn ed. Converted to XML 1998-05-26 Margaret Lantry ed. Text parsed using NSGMLS. 1998-05-21 Pádraig Bambury ed. Text proofed (2). 1998-05-11 Margaret Lantry ed. Header revised; text parsed using NSGMLS. 1998-03-31 Pádraig Bambury ed. Text proofed (1); structural mark-up inserted. 1998-02-19 Margaret Lantry ed. Header created. 1998-03-04 Pádraig Bambury ed. Text captured by scanning.

CHARACTERS CIARAN, the Master Pupils: IOLLANN BEAG ART BREASAL MAINE RONAN CEALLACH DAIRE, the King MESSENGER THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL

THE MASTER A little cloister in a woodland. The subdued sunlight of a forest place comes through the arches. On the left, one arch gives a longer vista where the forest opens and the sun shines upon a far hill. In the centre of the cloister two or three steps lead to an inner place, as it were a little chapel or cell. Art, Breasal, and Maine are busy with a game of jackstones about the steps. They play silently. Ronan enters from the left. RONAN.

Where is the Master?

ART.

He has not left his cell yet.

RONAN.

He is late. Who is with him, Art?

ART.

I was with him till a while ago. When he had finished his thanksgiving he told me he had one other little prayer to say which he could not leave over. He said it was for a soul that was in danger. I left him on his knees and came out into the sunshine.

MAINE.

Aye, you knew that Breasal and I were here with the jackstones.

BREASAL.

I served his Mass yesterday, and he stayed praying so long after it that I fell asleep. I did not stir till he laid his hand upon my shoulder. Then I started up and said I, Is that you, little mother? He laughed and said he, No, Breasal, it's no one so good as your mother.

RONAN.

He is merry and gentle this while back, although he prays and fasts longer than he used to. Little Iollann says he tells him the merriest stories.

BREASAL.

He is fond of little Iollann.

MAINE.

Aye; when Iollann is late, or when he is inattentive, the Master pretends not to notice it.

BREASAL.

Well, Iollann is only a little lad.

MAINE.

He is more like a little maid, with his fair cheek that reddens when the Master speaks to him.

ART.

Faith, you wouldn't call him a little maid when you'd see him strip to swim a river.

RONAN.

Or when you'd see him spring up to meet the ball in a hurley match.

MAINE.

He has, certainly, many accomplishments.

BREASAL.

He has a high, manly heart.

MAINE.

He has a beautiful white body, and, therefore, you all love him; aye, the Master and all. We have no woman here and so we make love to our little Iollann.

RONAN. (laughing)

Why, I thrashed him ere-yesterday for putting magories down my neck!

MAINE.

Men sometimes thrash their women, Ronan. It is one of the ways of loving.

ART.

Maine, you have been listening to some satirist making satires. There was once a Maine that was called Maine Honey-mouth. You will be called Maine Bitter-Tongue.

MAINE.

Well, I've won this game of jackstones. Will you play another?

CEALLACH. (enters hastily)

Lads, do you know what I have seen?

ART.

What is it, Ceallach?

CEALLACH.

A host of horsemen riding through the dark of the wood. A grim host, with spears.

MAINE.

The King goes hunting.

CEALLACH.

My grief for the noble deer that the King hunts!

BREASAL.

What deer is that?

CEALLACH.

Our Master, Ciaran.

RONAN.

I heard one of the captains say that the cell was to be surrounded.

ART.

But why does the King come against Ciaran?

CEALLACH.

It is the Druids that have incited him. They say that Ciaran is over-turning the ancient law of the people.

MAINE.

The King has ordered him to leave the country.

BREASAL.

Aye, there was a King's Messenger here the other day who spoke long to the Master.

ART.

It is since then that the Master has been praying so long every day.

RONAN.

Is he afraid that the King will kill him?

ART.

No, it is for a soul that is in danger that he prays. Is it the King's soul that is in danger?

MAINE.

Hush, the Master is coming.

CIARAN. (comes out from the inner place; pupils rise)

Are all here?

BREASAL.

Iollann Beag has not come yet.

CIARAN.

Not yet?

CEALLACH.

Master, the King's horsemen are in the wood.

CIARAN.

I hope no evil has chanced to little Iollann.

MAINE.

What evil could chance to him?

CEALLACH.

Master, the King is seeking you in the wood.

CIARAN.

Does he not know where my cell is?

BREASAL.

The King has been stirred up against you, Master, rise and fly before the horsemen surround the cell.

CIARAN.

No, if the King seeks me he will find me here … I wish little Iollann were come. (The voice of Iollann Beag is heard singing. All listen.) That is his voice.

ART.

He always comes singing.

MAINE.

Aye, he sings profane songs in the very church porch.

RONAN.

Which is as bad as if one were to play with jackstones on the church steps.

CIARAN.

I am glad little Iollann has come safe.

Iollann Beag comes into the cloister singing. IOLLANN BEAG. (sings)

We watch the wee ladybird fly far away, With an óró and an iero and an úmbó éró.

ART.

Hush, Iollann. You are in God's place.

IOLLANN BEAG.

Does God not like music? Why then did he make the finches and the chafers?

MAINE.

Your song is profane.

IOLLANN BEAG.

I didn't know.

CIARAN.

Nay, Maine, no song is profane unless there be profanity in the heart. But why do you come so late, Iollann Beag?

IOLLANN BEAG.

There was a high oak tree that I had never climbed. I went up to its top, and swung myself to the top of the next tree. I saw the tops of all the trees like the green waves of the sea.

CIARAN.

Little truant!

IOLLANN BEAG.

I am sorry, Master.

CIARAN.

Nay, I am not vext with you. But you must not climb tall trees again at lesson time. We have been waiting for you. Let us begin our lesson, lads.

He sits down. CEALLACH.

Dear Master, I ask you to fly from this place ere the King's horsemen close you in.

CIARAN.

My boy, you must not tempt me. He is a sorry champion who forsakes his place of battle. This is my place of battle. You would not have me do a coward thing?

ART.

But the King has many horsemen. It is not cowardly for one to fly before a host.

CIARAN.

Has not the high God captains and legions? What are the King's horsemen to the heavenly riders?

CEALLACH.

O my dear Master! —

RONAN.

Let be, Ceallach. You cannot move him.

CIARAN.

Of what were we to speak to-day?

They have sat down around him. ART.

You said you would speak of the friends of Our Lord.

CIARAN.

Aye, I would speak of friendship and kindly fellowship. Is it not a sad thing that every good fellowship is broken up? No league that is made among men has more than its while, its little, little while. Even that little league of twelve in Galilee was broken full soon. The shepherd was struck and the sheep of the flock scattered. The hardest thing Our dear Lord had to bear was the scattering of His friends.

IOLLANN BEAG.

Were none faithful to Him?

CIARAN.

One man only and a few women.

IOLLANN BEAG.

Who was the man?

CEALLACH.

I know! It was John, the disciple that He loved.

CIARAN.

Aye, John of the Bosom they call him, for he was Iosa's bosom friend. Can you tell me the names of any others of His friends?

ART.

There was James, his brother.

RONAN.

There was Lazarus, for whom He wept.

BREASAL.

There was Mary, the poor woman that loved Him.

MAINE.

There was her sister Martha, who busied herself to make Him comfortable; and the other Mary.

CEALLACH.

Mary and Martha; but that other Mary is only a name.

CIARAN.

Nay, she was the mother of the sons of Zebedee. She stands for all lowly, hidden women, all the nameless women of the world who are just the mothers of their children. And so we name her one of the three great Marys, with poor Mary that sinned, and with Mary of the Sorrows, the greatest of the Marys. What other friends can you tell me of?

IOLLANN BEAG.

There was John the Baptist, His little playmate.

CIARAN.

That is well said. Those two Johns were good comrades to Iosa.

RONAN.

There was Thomas.

CIARAN.

Poor, doubting Thomas. I am glad you did not leave him out.

MAINE.

There was Judas who betrayed Him.

ART.

There was Peter who—

IOLLANN BEAG.

Aye, good Peter of the Sword!

CIARAN.

Nay, Iollann, it is Paul that carries a sword.

IOLLANN BEAG.

Peter should have a sword, too. I will not have him cheated of his sword! It was a good blow he struck!

BREASAL.

Yet the Lord rebuked him for it.

IOLLANN BEAG.

The Lord did wrong to rebuke him. He was always down on Peter.

CIARAN.

Peter was fiery, and the Lord was very gentle.

IOLLANN BEAG.

But when He wanted a rock to build His church on He had to go to Peter. No John of the Bosom then, but the old swordsman. Paul must yield his sword to Peter. I do not like that Paul.

CIARAN.

Paul said many hard things and many dark things. When you understand him, Iollann, you will like him.

MAINE.

Let him not arrogate a sword merely because his head was cut off, and Iollann will tolerate him.

CIARAN.

Who has brought me a poem to-day? You were to bring me poems of Christ's friends.

BREASAL.

I have made a Song for Mary Magdalene. Shall I say it to you?

CIARAN.

Do, Breasal.

BREASAL. (chants)

O woman of the gleaming hair (Wild hair that won men's gaze to thee), Weary thou turnest from the common stare, For the shuiler Christ is calling thee. O woman, of the snowy side, Many a lover hath lain with thee, Yet left thee sad at the morning tide; But thy lover Christ shall comfort thee. O woman with the wild thing's heart, Old sin hath set a snare for thee; In the forest ways forspent thou art, But the hunter Christ shall pity thee. O woman spendthrift of thyself, Spendthrift of all the love in thee, Sold unto sin for little pelf, The captain Christ shall ransom thee. O woman that no lover's kiss (Tho' many a kiss was given thee) Could slake thy love, is it not for this The hero Christ shall die for thee?

CIARAN.

That is a good song, Breasal. What you have said is true, that love is a very great thing. I do not think faith will be denied to him that loves. Iollann was to make me a song to-day, too.

IOLLANN BEAG.

I have made only a little rann. I couldn't think of rhymes for a big song.

CIARAN.

What do you call your rann?

IOLLANN BEAG.

It is the Rann of the Little Playmate. It is a rann that John the Baptist made when he was on the way to Iosa's house one day.

CIARAN.

Sing it to us, Iollann.

IOLLANN: (sings)

Young Iosa plays with me every day (With an óró and an iero) Tig and Pookeen and Hide-in-the-Hay (With an óró and an iero.) We race in the river with otters gray, We climb the tall trees where red squirrels play, We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away, (With an óró and an iero and an imbó éro). A knocking is heard.

CIARAN.

Run and open the postern, Iollann.

CEALLACH.

Master, this may be the King's people.

CIARAN.

If it be, Iollann will let them in.

Iollann Beag goes to the door. CEALLACH.

Why have good men such pride?

A King's Messenger appears upon the threshold. Iollann Beag holds the curtain of the door while the Messenger speaks. THE MESSENGER

Who in this house is Ciaran?

CIARAN.

I am Ciaran.

THE MESSENGER

I bring you greeting from the King.

CIARAN.

Take back to him my greeting.

THE MESSENGER

The King has come to make the hunting of this wood.

CIARAN.

It is the King s privilege to hunt the woods of the cantred.

THE MESSENGER

Not far from here is a green-glade of the forest in which the King with his nobles and good men, his gillies and his runners, has sat down to meat.

CIARAN.

May it be a merry sitting for them.

THE MESSENGER

It has seemed to the King an unroyal thing to taste of the cheer of this greenwood while he is at enmity with you; for he has remembered the old saying that friendship is more welcome at meat than ale or music. Therefore, he has sent me to say to you that he has put all enmity out of his heart, and that in token thereof he invites you to share his forest feast, such as it is, you and your pupils.

CIARAN.

The King is kind. I would like well to come to him, but my rule forbids me to leave this house.

THE MESSENGER.

The King will take badly any refusal. It is not usual to refuse a King's invitation.

CIARAN.

When I came to this place, after journeying many long roads of land and sea, I said to myself: I will abide here henceforth, this shall be the sod of my death. And I made a vow to live in this little cloister alone, or with a few pupils, I who had been restless and a wanderer, and a seeker after difficult things; the King will not grudge me the loneliness of my cloister.

THE MESSENGER

I will say all this to the King. These lads will come with me?

CIARAN.

Will ye go to the King's feast, lads?

BREASAL.

May we go, Master.

CIARAN.

I will not gainsay you.

MAINE.

It will be a great thing to sit at the King's table.

CEALLACH.

Master, it may turn aside the King's displeasure for your not going if we go in your name. We may, perchance, bring the King here, and peace will be bound between you.

CIARAN

May God be near you in the places to which you go.

CEALLACH.

I am loath to leave you alone, Master.

CIARAN

Little Iollann will stay with me. Will you not, little Iollann.

Iollann Beag looks yearningly towards the Messenger and the others as if he would fain go; then he turns to Ciaran. IOLLANN BEAG.

I will.

CIARAN. (caressing him)

That is my good little lad.

ART.

We will bring you back some of the King's mead, Iollann.

IOLLANN BEAG.

Bring me some of his apples and his hazel-nuts.

RONAN.

We will, and, maybe, a roast capon, or a piece of venison.

They all go out laughing. Ceallach turns back in the door. CEALLACH.

Good-bye, Master.

CIARAN.

May you go safe, lad. (To Iollann). You are my whole school now, Iollann.

IOLLANN. (sitting down at his knee)

Do you think the King will come here?

CIARAN.

Yes, I think he will come.

IOLLANN.

I would like to see him. Is he a great, tall man?

CIARAN.

I have not seen him for a long time; not since he and I were lads.

IOLLAN

Were you friends?

CIARAN.

We were fostered together.

IOLLANN.

Is he a wicked King?

CIARAN.

No; he has ruled this country well. His people love him. They have gone into many perilous places with him, and he has never failed them.

IOLLAN

Why then does he hate you? Why do Ceallach and the others fear that he may do you harm?

CIARAN.

For twenty years Daire and I have stood over against each other. When we were at school we were rivals for the first place. I was first in all manly games; Daire was first in learning. Everyone said Ciaran will be a great warrior and Daire will be a great poet or a great teacher. And yet it has not been so. I was nearly as good as he in learning, and he was nearly as good as I in manly feats. I said that I would be his master in all things, and he said that he would be my master. And we strove one against the other.

IOLLANN BEAG.

Why did you want to be his master?

CIARAN.

I do not know. I thought that I should be happy if I were first and Daire only second. But Daire was always first. I sought out difficult things to do that I might become a better man than he: I went into far countries and won renown among strange peoples, but very little wealth and no happiness; I sailed into seas that no man before me had sailed into, and saw islands that only God and the angels had seen before me; I learned outland tongues and read the books of many peoples and their old lore; and when I came back to my own country I found that Daire was its king, and that all men loved him. Me they had forgotten.

IOLLANN BEAG.

Were you sad when you came home and found that you were forgotten?

CIARAN.

No, I was glad. I said, This is a hard thing that I have found to do, to live lonely and unbeloved among my own kin. Daire has not done anything as hard as this. In one of the cities that I had sailed to I had heard of the true, illustrious God, and of men who had gone out from warm and pleasant houses, and from the kindly faces of neighbours to live in desert places, where God walked alone and terrible; and I said that I would do that hard thing, though I would fain have stayed in my father's house. And so I came into this wilderness, where I have lived for seven years. For a few years I was alone; then pupils began to come to me. By-and-bye the druids gave out word that I was teaching new things and breaking established custom; and the King has forbade my teaching, and I have not desisted, and so he and I stand opposed as of old.

IOLLANN BEAG.

You will win this time, little Master.

CIARAN.

I think so; I hope so, dear. (Aside.) I would I could say I know so. This seems to me the hardest thing I have tried to do. Can a soldier fight for a cause of which he is not sure? Can a teacher die for a thing he does not believe? Forgive me, Lord! It is my weakness that cries out. I believe, I believe; help my unbelief. (To Iollann Beag.) Why do you think I shall win this time, Iollann,—I who have always lost?

IOLLANN BEAG.

Because God's great angels will fight for you. Will they not?

CIARAN.

Yes, I think they will. All that old chivalry stands harnessed in Heaven.

IOLLANN BEAG.

Will they not come if you call them?

CIARAN.

Yes, they will come. (aside.) Is it a true thing I tell this child or do I lie to him? Will they come at my call? Will they come at my call? My spirit reaches out and finds Heaven empty. The great halls stand horseless and riderless. I have called to you, O riders, and I have not heard the thunder of your coming. The multitudinous, many-voiced sea and the green, quiet earth have each its children, but where are the sons of Heaven? Where in all this temple of the world, this dim and wondrous temple, does its God lurk?

IOLLANN BEAG.

And would they come if I were to call them—old Peter, and the Baptist John, and Michael and his riders?

CIARAN.

We are taught that if one calls them with faith they will come.

IOLLANN BEAG.

Could I see them and speak to them?

CIARAN.

If it were necessary for any dear purpose of God's, as to save a soul that were in peril, we are taught that they would come in bodily presence, and that one could see them and speak to them.

IOLLANN BEAG.

If the soul of any dear friend of mine be ever in peril I will call upon them. I will say, Baptist John, Baptist John, attend him. Good Peter of the Sword, strike valiantly. Young Michael, stand near with all the heroes of Heaven!

CIARAN. (aside)

If the soul of any dear friend of his were in peril! The peril is near! The peril is near!

A knock at the postern; Iollann Beag looks towards Ciaran. CIARAN.

Run, Iollann, and see who knocks. (Iollann Beag goes out.) I have looked back over the journey of my life as a man at evening might look back from a hill on the roads he had travelled since morning. I have seen with a great clearness as if I had left this green, dim wood and climbed to the top of that far hill I have seen from me for seven years now, yet never climbed. And I see that all my wayfaring has been in vain. A man may not escape from that which is in himself. A man shall not find his quest unless he kill the dearest thing he has. I thought that I was sacrificing everything, but I have not sacrificed the old pride of my heart. I chose self-abnegation, not out of humility, but out of pride: and God, that terrible hidden God, has punished me by withholding from me His most precious gift of faith. Faith comes to the humble only … Nay, Lord, I believe: this is but a temptation. Thou, too, wast tempted. Thou, too, wast forsaken. O valiant Christ, give me Thy strength! My need is great.

Iollann Beag returns. IOLLANN BEAG.

There is a warrior at the door, Master, that asks a shelter. He says he has lost his way in the wood.

CIARAN.

Bid him to come in Iollann. (Iollann Beag goes to the door again.) I, too, have lost my way. I am like one that has trodden intricate forest paths that have crossed and recrossed and never led him to any homestead; or like a mariner that has voyaged on a shoreless sea yearning for a glimpse of green earth, yet never descrying it. If I could find some little place to rest, if I could but lie still at last after so much wayfaring, after such clamour of loud- voiced winds, methinks that would be to find God; for is not God quiet, is not God peace? But always I go on with a cry as of baying winds or of vociferous hounds about me … They say the King hunts me to-day: but the King is not so terrible a hunter as the desires and the doubts of a man's heart. The King I can meet unafraid, but who is not afraid of himself? (Daire enters, wrapped in a long mantle, and stands a little within the threshold: Iollann Beag behind him. Ciaran looks fixedly at him; then speaks.) You have hunted well to-day, O Daire!

DAIRE.

I am famed as a hunter.

CIARAN.

When I was a young man I said, I will strive with the great untamed elements, with the ancient, illimitable sea and the anarchic winds; you, in the manner of Kings, have warred with timid, furtive creatures, and it has taught you only cruelty and craft.

DAIRE.

What has your warfare taught you? I do not find you changed, Ciaran. Your old pride but speaks a new language. … I am, as you remind me, only a King; but I have been a good King. Have you been a good teacher?

CIARAN.

My pupils must answer.

DAIRE.

Where are your pupils?

CIARAN.

True; they are not here.

DAIRE.

They are at an ale-feast in my tent … (Coming nearer to Ciaran.) I have not come to taunt you, Ciaran. Nor should you taunt me. You seem to me to have spent your life pursuing shadows that fled before you; yea, pursuing ghosts over wide spaces and through the devious places of the world: and I pity you for the noble manhood you have wasted. I seem to you to have spent my life busy with the little, vulgar tasks and the little, vulgar pleasures of a King: and you pity me because I have not adventured, because I have not been tried, because I have not suffered as you have. It should be sufficient triumph for each of us that each pities the other.

CIARAN.

You speak gently, Daire; and you speak wisely. You were always wise. And yet, methinks, you are wrong. There is a deeper antagonism between you and me than you are aware of. It is not merely that the little things about you, the little, foolish, mean, discordant things of a man's life, have satisfied you, and that I have been discontent, seeking things remote and holy and perilous—

DAIRE.

Ghosts, ghosts!

CIARAN.

Nay, they alone are real; or, rather, it alone is real. For though its names be many, its substance is one. One man will call it happiness, another will call it beauty, a third will call it holiness, a fourth will call it rest. I have sought it under all its names.

DAIRE.

What is it that you have sought?

CIARAN.

I have sought truth.

DAIRE.

And have you found truth? (Ciaran lows his head in dejection.) Ciaran, was it worth your while to give up all goodly life to follow that mocking phantom? I do not say that a man should not renounce ease. I have not loved ease. But I have loved power, and victory, and life, and men, and women, and the gracious sun. He who renounces these things to follow a phantom across a world has given his all for nothing.

CIARAN.

Is not the mere quest often worth while, even if the thing quested be never found?

DAIRE.

And so you have not found your quest?

CIARAN.

You lay subtle traps for me in your speeches, Daire. It was your way at school when we disputed.

DAIRE.

Kings must be subtle. It is by craft we rule … Ciaran, for the shadow you have pursued I offer you a substance; in place of vain journeying I invite you to rest …If you make your peace with me you shall be the second man in my kingdom.

CIARAN. (in scorn and wrath)

The second man!

DAIRE.

There speaks your old self, Ciaran. I did not mean to wound you. I am the King, chosen by the people to rule and lead. I could not, even if I would, place you above me; but I will place you at my right hand.

CIARAN.

You would bribe me with this petty honour?

DAIRE.

No. I would gain you for the service of your people. What other service should a man take upon him?

CIARAN.

I told you that you did not understand the difference between you and me. May one not serve the people by bearing testimony in their midst to a true thing even as by feeding them with bread?

DAIRE.

Again you prate of truth. Are you fond enough to think that what has not imposed even upon your pupils will impose upon me?

CIARAN.

My pupils believe. You must not wrong them, Daire.

DAIRE.

Are you sure of them?

CIARAN.

Yes, I am sure. (Aside.) Yet sometimes I thought that that gibing Maine did not believe. It may be—

DAIRE.

Where are your pupils? Why are they not here to stand by you in your bitter need?

CIARAN.

You enticed them from me by guile.

DAIRE.

I invited them; they came. You could not keep them, Ciaran. Think you my young men would have left me, in similar case? Their bodies would have been my bulwark against a host.

CIARAN.

You hint unspeakable things.

DAIRE.

I do but remind you that you have to-day no disciples; (smiling) except, perhaps, this little lad. Come, I will win him from you with an apple.

CIARAN.

You shall not tempt him!

DAIRE. (laughing)

Ciaran, you stand confessed: you have no faith in your disciples; methinks you have no faith in your religion.

CIARAN.

You are cruel, Daire. You were not so cruel when we were lads.

DAIRE.

You have come into my country preaching to my people newthings, incredible things, things you dare not believe yourself. I will not have this lie preached to men. If your religion be true, you must give me a sign of its truth.

CIARAN.

It is true, it is true!

DAIRE.

Give me a sign. Nay, show me that you yourself believe. Call upon your God to reveal Himself. I do not trust these skulking gods.

CIARAN.

Who am I to ask that great Mystery to unveil Its face? Who are you that a miracle should be wrought for you?

DAIRE.

This is not an answer. So priests ever defend their mysteries. I will not be put off as one would put off a child that asks questions. Lo, here I bare my sword against God; lo, here I lift up my shield. Let one of his great captains come down to answer the challenge!

CIARAN.

This the bragging of a fool.

DAIRE.

Nor does that answer me. Ciaran, you are in my power. My young men surround this house. Yours are at an ale-feast.

CIARAN.

O wise and far-seeing King! You have planned all well.

DAIRE.

There is a watcher at every door of your house. There a tracker on every path of the forest. The wild boar crouches in his lair for fear of the men that fill this wood. Three rings of champions ring round the tent in which your pupils feast. Your God had need to show Himself a God!

CIARAN.

Nay, slay me, Daire. I will bear testimony with my life.

DAIRE.

What will that prove? Men die for false things, for ridiculous things, for evil things. What vile cause has not its heroes? Though you were to die here with joy and laughter you would not prove your cause a true one. Ciaran, let God send down an angel to stand between you and me.

CIARAN.

Do you think that to save my poor life Omnipotence will display Itself?

DAIRE.

Who talks of your life? It is your soul that is at stake, and mine, and this little boy's, and the souls of all this nation, born and unborn.

CIARAN. (aside)

He speaks true.

DAIRE.

Nay, I will put you to the proof. (To Iollann.) Come hither, child. (Iollann Beag approaches.) He is daintily fashioned, Ciaran, this last little pupil of yours. I swear to you that he shall die unless your God sends down an angel to rescue him. Kneel boy. (Iollann Beag kneels.) Speak now, if God has ears to hear.

He raises his sword. CIARAN. (aside)

I dare not speak. My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?

IOLLANN BEAG.

Fear not, little Master, I remember the word you taught me … Young Michael, stand near me!

The figure of a mighty Warrior, winged, and clothed in light, seems to stand beside the boy. Ciaran bends on one knee. DAIRE.

Who art thou, O Soldier?

MICHAEL.

I am he that waiteth at the portal. I am he that hasteneth. I am he that rideth before the squadron. I am he that holdeth a shield over the retreat of man's host when Satan cometh in war. I am he that turneth and smiteth. I am he that is Captain of the Host of God.

Daire bends slowly on one knee. CIARAN.

The Seraphim and the Cherubim stand horsed. I hear the thunder of their coming …O Splendour!

He falls forward, dead. CURTAIN