XIX


I generalized a great deal and was ashamed of it. I thought that
it was my business in life to bean artist and a poet, and that
there could be no business comparable to that. I refused to read
books, and even to meet people who excited me to generalization,
but all to no purpose. I said my prayers much as in childhood,
though without the old regularity of hour and place, and I began
to pray that my imagination might somehow be rescued from
abstraction, and become as pre-occupied with life as had been the
imagination of Chaucer. For ten or twelve years more I suffered
continual remorse, and only became content when my abstractions
had composed themselves into picture and dramatization. My very
remorse helped to spoil my early poetry, giving it an element of
sentimentality through my refusal to permit it any share of an
intellect which I considered impure. Even in practical life I only
very gradually began to use generalizations, that have since
become the foundation of all I have done, or shall do, in Ireland.
For all I know, all men may have been as timid; for I am persuaded
that our intellects at twenty contain all the truths we shall ever
find, but as yet we do not know truths that belong to us from
opinions caught up in casual irritation or momentary phantasy. As
life goes on we discover that certain thoughts sustain us in
defeat, or give us victory, whether over ourselves or others, & it
is these thoughts, tested by passion, that we call convictions.
Among subjective men (in all those, that is, who must spin a web
out of their own bowels) the victory is an intellectual daily
recreation of all that exterior fate snatches away, and so that
fate's antithesis; while what I have called 'The mask' is an
emotional antithesis to all that comes out of their internal
nature. We begin to live when we have conceived life as a tragedy.

XX


A conviction that the world was now but a bundle of fragments
possessed me without ceasing. I had tried this conviction on 'The
Rhymers,' thereby plunging into greater silence an already too
silent evening. 'Johnson,' I was accustomed to say, 'you are the
only man I know whose silence has beak & claw.' I had lectured on
it to some London Irish society, and I was to lecture upon it
later on in Dublin, but I never found but one interested man, an
official of the Primrose League, who was also an active member of
the Fenian Brotherhood. 'I am an extreme conservative apart from
Ireland,' I have heard him explain; and I have no doubt that
personal experience made him share the sight of any eye that saw
the world in fragments. I had been put into a rage by the
followers of Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran and Bastien-Lepage,
who not only asserted the unimportance of subject, whether in art
or literature, but the independence of the arts from one another.
Upon the other hand I delighted in every age where poet and artist
confined themselves gladly to some inherited subject matter known
to the whole people, for I thought that in man and race alike
there is something called 'unity of being,' using that term as
Dante used it when he compared beauty in the _Convito_ to a
perfectly proportioned human body. My father, from whom I had
learned the term, preferred a comparison to a musical instrument
so strong that if we touch a string all the strings murmur
faintly. There is not more desire, he had said, in lust than in
true love; but in true love desire awakens pity, hope, affection,
admiration, and, given appropriate circumstance, every emotion
possible to man. When I began, however, to apply this thought to
the State and to argue for a law-made balance among trades and
occupations, my father displayed at once the violent free-trader
and propagandist of liberty. I thought that the enemy of this
unity was abstraction, meaning by abstraction not the distinction
but the isolation of occupation, or class or faculty--

  'Call down the hawk from the air
  Let him be hooded, or caged,
  Till the yellow eye has grown mild,
  For larder and spit are bare,
  The old cook enraged,
  The scullion gone wild.'

I knew no mediaeval cathedral, and Westminster, being a part of
abhorred London, did not interest me; but I thought constantly of
Homer and Dante and the tombs of Mausolus and Artemisa, the great
figures of King and Queen and the lesser figures of Greek and
Amazon, Centaur and Greek. I thought that all art should be a
Centaur finding in the popular lore its back and its strong legs.
I got great pleasure too from remembering that Homer was sung, and
from that tale of Dante hearing a common man sing some stanza from
'The Divine Comedy,' and from Don Quixote's meeting with some
common man that sang Ariosto. Morris had never seemed to care for
any poet later than Chaucer; and though I preferred Shakespeare to
Chaucer I begrudged my own preference. Had not Europe shared one
mind and heart, until both mind and heart began to break into
fragments a little before Shakespeare's birth? Music and verse
began to fall apart when Chaucer robbed verse of its speed that he
might give it greater meditation, though for another generation or
so minstrels were to sing his long elaborated 'Troilus and
Cressida;' painting parted from religion in the later Renaissance
that it might study effects of tangibility undisturbed; while,
that it might characterise, where it had once personified, it
renounced, in our own age, all that inherited subject matter which
we have named poetry. Presently I was indeed to number character
itself among the abstractions, encouraged by Congreve's saying
that 'passions are too powerful in the fair sex to let humour,' or
as we say character, 'have its course.' Nor have we fared better
under the common daylight, for pure reason has notoriously made
but light of practical reason, and has been made but light of in
its turn, from that morning when Descartes discovered that he
could think better in his bed than out of it; nor needed I
original thought to discover, being so late of the school of
Morris, that machinery had not separated from handicraft wholly
for the world's good; nor to notice that the distinction of
classes had become their isolation. If the London merchants of our
day competed together in writing lyrics they would not, like the
Tudor merchants, dance in the open street before the house of the
victor; nor do the great ladies of London finish their balls on
the pavement before their doors as did the great Venetian ladies
even in the eighteenth century, conscious of an all enfolding
sympathy. Doubtless because fragments broke into even smaller
fragments we saw one another in a light of bitter comedy, and in
the arts, where now one technical element reigned and now another,
generation hated generation, and accomplished beauty was snatched
away when it had most engaged our affections. One thing I did not
foresee, not having the courage of my own thought--the growing
murderousness of the world.

  Turning and turning in the widening gyre
  The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
  Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
  Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
  The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
  The best lack all conviction, while the worst
  Are full of passionate intensity.

XXI


The Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran, Bastien-Lepage coven asserted
that an artist or a poet must paint or write in the style of his
own day, and this with 'The Fairy Queen,' and 'Lyrical Ballads,'
and Blake's early poems in its ears, and plain to the eyes, in
book or gallery, those great masterpieces of later Egypt, founded
upon that work of the Ancient Kingdom already further in time from
later Egypt than later Egypt is from us. I knew that I could
choose my style where I pleased, that no man can deny to the human
mind any power, that power once achieved; and yet I did not wish
to recover the first simplicity. If I must be but a shepherd
building his hut among the ruins of some fallen city, I might take
porphyry or shaped marble, if it lay ready to my hand, instead of
the baked clay of the first builders. If Chaucer's personages had
disengaged themselves from Chaucer's crowd, forgotten their common
goal and shrine, and after sundry magnifications become, each in
his turn, the centre of some Elizabethan play, and a few years
later split into their elements, and so given birth to romantic
poetry, I need not reverse the cinematograph. I could take those
separated elements, all that abstract love and melancholy, and
give them a symbolical or mythological coherence. Not Chaucer's
rough-tongued riders, but some procession of the Gods! a
pilgrimage no more but perhaps a shrine! Might I not, with health
and good luck to aid me, create some new 'Prometheus Unbound,'
Patrick or Columbcille, Oisin or Fion, in Prometheus's stead, and,
instead of Caucasus, Croagh-Patrick or Ben Bulben? Have not all
races had their first unity from a polytheism that marries them to
rock and hill? We had in Ireland imaginative stories, which the
uneducated classes knew and even sang, and might we not make those
stories current among the educated classes, re-discovering for the
work's sake what I have called 'the applied arts of literature,'
the association of literature, that is, with music, speech and
dance; and at last, it might be, so deepen the political passion
of the nation that all, artist and poet, craftsman and day
labourer would accept a common design? Perhaps even these images,
once created and associated with river and mountain, might move of
themselves, and with some powerful even turbulent life, like those
painted horses that trampled the rice fields of Japan.

XXII


I used to tell the few friends to whom I could speak these secret
thoughts that I would make the attempt in Ireland but fail, for
our civilisation, its elements multiplying by divisions like
certain low forms of life, was all powerful; but in reality I had
the wildest hopes. To-day I add to that first conviction, to that
first desire for unity, this other conviction, long a mere opinion
vaguely or intermittently apprehended: Nations, races and
individual men are unified by an image, or bundle of related
images, symbolical or evocative of the state of mind, which is of
all states of mind not impossible, the most difficult to that man,
race or nation; because only the greatest obstacle that can be
contemplated without despair rouses the will to full intensity. A
powerful class by terror, rhetoric, and organised sentimentality,
may drive their people to war, but the day draws near when they
cannot keep them there; and how shall they face the pure nations
of the East when the day comes to do it with but equal arms? I had
seen Ireland in my own time turn from the bragging rhetoric and
gregarious humour of O'Connell's generation and school, and offer
herself to the solitary and proud Parnell as to her anti-self,
buskin following hard on sock; and I had begun to hope, or to
half-hope, that we might be the first in Europe to seek unity as
deliberately as it had been sought by theologian, poet, sculptor,
architect from the eleventh to the thirteenth century. Doubtless
we must seek it differently, no longer considering it convenient
to epitomise all human knowledge, but find it we well might, could
we first find philosophy and a little passion.

XXIII


It was the death of Parnell that convinced me that the moment had
come for work in Ireland, for I knew that for a time the
imagination of young men would turn from politics. There was a
little Irish patriotic society of young people, clerks, shop-boys,
shop-girls, and the like, called the Southwark Irish Literary
Society. It had ceased to meet because each member of the
committee had lectured so many times that the girls got the
giggles whenever he stood up. I invited the committee to my
father's house at Bedford Park and there proposed a new
organisation. After a few months spent in founding, with the help
of T. W. Rolleston, who came to that first meeting and had a
knowledge of committee work I lacked, the Irish Literary Society,
which soon included every London Irish author and journalist, I
went to Dublin and founded there a similar society.

W. B. Yeats.

  Here ends 'Four Years,' written by
  William Butler Yeats. Four hundred
  copies of this book have been
  printed and published by Elizabeth
  C. Yeats on paper made in Ireland,
  at the Cuala Press, Churchtown,
  Dundrum, in the County of Dublin,
  Ireland. Finished on All Hallows'
  Eve, in the year nineteen hundred
  and twenty one.

Dramatis Personae

A WISE MAN
A FOOL
SOME PUPILS
AN ANGEL
THE WISE MAN'S WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN


SCENE: A large room with a door at the back and another at the side
opening to an inner room. A desk and a chair in the middle. An
hour-glass on a bracket near the door. A creepy stool near it. Some
benches. The WISE MAN sitting at his desk.

WISE MAN [turning over the pages of a book]. Where is that passage
I am to explain to my pupils to-day? Here it is, and the book says
that it was written by a beggar on the walls of Babylon: "There are
two living countries, the one visible and the one invisible; and
when it is winter with us it is summer in that country; and when
the November winds are up among us it is lambing-time there." I
wish that my pupils had asked me to explain any other passage, for
this is a hard passage. [The FOOL comes in and stands at the door,
holding out his hat. He has a pair of shears in the other hand.] It
sounds to me like foolishness; and yet that cannot be, for the
writer of this book, where I have found so much knowledge,
would not have set it by itself on this page, and surrounded it
with so many images and so many deep colors and so much fine
gilding, if it had been foolishness.

FOOL. Give me a penny.

WISE MAN. [Turns to another page.] Here he has written: "The
learned in old times forgot the visible country." That I
understand, but I have taught my learners better.

FOOL. Won't you give me a penny?

WISE MAN. What do you want? The words of the wise Saracen will not
teach you much.

FOOL. Such a great wise teacher as you are will not refuse a penny
to a Fool.

WISE MAN. What do you know about wisdom?

FOOL. Oh, I know! I know what I have seen.

WISE MAN. What is it you have seen?

FOOL. When I went by Kilcluan where the bells used to be ringing at
the break of every day, I could hear nothing but the people snoring
in their houses. When I went by Tubbervanach where the young men
used to be climbing the hill to the blessed well, they were sitting
at the crossroads playing cards. When I went by Carrigoras where
the friars used to be fasting and serving the poor, I saw them
drinking wine and obeying their wives. And when I asked what
misfortune had brought all these changes, they said it was no
misfortune, but it was the wisdom they had learned from your
teaching.

WISE MAN. Run round to the kitchen, and my wife will give you
something to eat.

FOOL. That is foolish advice for a wise man to give.

WISE MAN. Why, Fool?

FOOL. What is eaten is gone. I want pennies for my bag. I must buy
bacon in the shops, and nuts in the market, and strong drink for
the time when the sun is weak. And I want snares to catch the
rabbits and the squirrels and the bares, and a pot to cook them in.

WISE MAN. Go away. I have other things to think of now than giving
you pennies.

FOOL. Give me a penny and I will bring you luck. Bresal the
Fisherman lets me sleep among the nets in his loft in the
winter-time because he says I bring him luck; and in the
summer-time the wild creatures let me sleep near their nests
and their holes. It is lucky even to look at me or to touch me,
but it is much more lucky to give me a penny. [Holds out his
hand.] If I wasn't lucky, I'd starve.

WISE MAN. What have you got the shears for?

FOOL. I won't tell you. If I told you, you would drive them away.

WISE MAN. Whom would I drive away?

FOOL. I won't tell you.

WISE MAN. Not if I give you a penny?

FOOL. No.

WISE MAN. Not if I give you two pennies.

FOOL. You will be very lucky if you give me two pennies, but I
won't tell you.

WISE MAN. Three pennies?

FOOL. Four, and I will tell you!

WISE MAN. Very well, four. But I will not call you Teigue the Fool
any longer.

FOOL. Let me come close to you where nobody will hear me. But first
you must promise you will not drive them away. [WISE MAN nods.]
Every day men go out dressed in black and spread great black nets
over the hill, great black nets.

WISE MAN. Why do they do that?

FOOL. That they may catch the feet of the angels. But every
morning, just before the dawn, I go out and cut the nets with my
shears, and the angels fly away.

WISE MAN. Ah, now I know that you are Teigue the Fool. You have
told me that I am wise, and I have never seen an angel.

FOOL. I have seen plenty of angels.

WISE MAN. Do you bring luck to the angels too.

FOOL. Oh, no, no! No one could do that. But they are always there
if one looks about one; they are like the blades of grass.

WISE MAN. When do you see them?

FOOL. When one gets quiet; then something wakes up inside one,
something happy and quiet like the stars--not like the seven that
move, but like the fixed stars.          [He points upward.]

WISE MAN. And what happens then?

FOOL. Then all in a minute one smells summer flowers, and tall
people go by, happy and laughing, and their clothes are the color
of burning sods.

WISE MAN. Is it long since you have seen them, Teigue the Fool?

FOOL. Not long, glory be to God! I saw one coming behind me just
now. It was not laughing, but it had clothes the color of burning
sods, and there was something shining about its head.

WISE MAN. Well, there are your four pennies. You, a fool, say
"Glory be to God," but before I came the wise men said it. Run away
now. I must ring the bell for my scholars.

FOOL. Four pennies! That means a great deal of luck. Great teacher,
I have brought you plenty of luck!   [He goes out shaking the bag.]

WISE MAN. Though they call him Teigue the Fool, he is not more
foolish than everybody used to be, with their dreams and their
preachings and their three worlds; but I have overthrown their
three worlds with the seven sciences. [He touches the books with
his hands.] With Philosophy that was made for the lonely star, I
have taught them to forget Theology; with Architecture, I have
hidden the ramparts of their cloudy heaven; with Music, the fierce
planets' daughter whose hair is always on fire, and with Grammar
that is the moon's daughter, I have shut their ears to the
imaginary harpings and speech of the angels; and I have made
formations of battle with Arithmetic that have put the hosts of
heaven to the rout. But, Rhetoric and Dialectic, that have been
born out of the light star and out of the amorous star, you have
been my spearman and my catapult! Oh! my swift horseman! Oh! my
keen darting arguments, it is because of you that I have overthrown
the hosts of foolishness! [An ANGEL, in a dress the color of
embers, and carrying a blossoming apple bough in his hand and with
a gilded halo about his head, stands upon the threshold.] Before I
came, men's minds were stuffed with folly about a heaven where
birds sang the hours, and about angels that came and stood upon
men's thresholds. But I have locked the visions into heaven and
turned the key upon them. Well, I must consider this passage about
the two countries. My mother used to say something of the kind. She
would say that when our bodies sleep our souls awake, and that
whatever withers here ripens yonder, and that harvests are snatched
from us that they may feed invisible people. But the meaning of the
book must be different, for only fools and women have thoughts like
that; their thoughts were never written upon the walls of Babylon.
[He sees the ANGEL.] What are you? Who are you? I think I saw some
that were like you in my dreams when I was a child--that bright
thing, that dress that is the color of embers! But I have done with
dreams, I have done with dreams.

ANGEL. I am the Angel of the Most High God.

WISE MAN. Why have you come to me?

ANGEL. I have brought you a message.

WISE MAN. What message have yon got for me?

ANGEL. You will die within the hour. You will die when the last
grains have fallen in this glass.     [He turns the hour-glass.]

WISE MAN. My time to die has not come. I have my pupils. I have a
young wife and children that I cannot leave. Why must I die?

ANGEL. You must die because no souls have passed over the threshold
of heaven since you came into this country. The threshold is
grassy, and the gates are rusty, and the angels that keep watch
there are lonely.

WISE MAN. Where will death bring me to?

ANGEL. The doors of heaven will not open to you, for you have
denied the existence of heaven; and the doors of purgatory will not
open to you, for you have denied the existence of purgatory.

WISE MAN. But I have also denied the existence of hell!

ANGEL. Hell is the place of those who deny.

WISE MAN [kneeling]. I have indeed denied everything and have
taught others to deny. I have believed in nothing but what my
senses told me. But, oh! beautiful Angel, forgive me, forgive me!

ANGEL. You should have asked forgiveness long ago.

WISE MAN. Had I seen your face as I see it now, oh! beautiful
Angel, I would have believed, I would have asked forgiveness.
Maybe you do not know how easy it is to doubt. Storm, death, the
grass rotting, many sicknesses, those are the messengers that came
to me. Oh! why are you silent? You carry the pardon of the Most
High; give it to me! I would kiss your hands if I were not afraid--
no, no, the hem of your dress!

ANGEL. You let go undying hands too long ago to take hold of them now.

WISE MAN. You cannot understand. You live in that country people
only see in their dreams. You live in a country that we can only
dream about. Maybe it is as hard for you to understand why we
disbelieve as it is for us to believe. Oh! what have I said! You
know everything! Give me time to undo what I have done. Give me a
year--a month--a day--an hour! Give me this hour's end, that I may
undo what I have done!

ANGEL. You cannot undo what you have done. Yet I have this power
with my message. If you can find one that believes before the
hour's end, you shall come to heaven after the years of purgatory.
For, from one fiery seed, watched over by those that sent me, the
harvest can come again to heap the golden threshing-floor. But now
farewell, for I am weary of the weight of time.

WISE MAN. Blessed be the Father, blessed be the Son, blessed be the
Spirit, blessed be the Messenger They have sent!

ANGEL [at the door and pointing at the hour-glass]. In a little
while the uppermost glass will be empty.        [Goes out.]

WISE MAN. Everything will be well with me. I will call my pupils;
they only say they doubt. [Pulls the bell.] They will be here in a
moment. I hear their feet outside on the path. They want to please
me; they pretend that they disbelieve. Belief is too old to be
overcome all in a minute. Besides, I can prove what I once
disproved. [Another pull at the bell.] They are coming now. I will
go to my desk. I will speak quietly, as if nothing had happened.

[He stands at the desk with a fixed look in his eyes.]

[Enter PUPILS and the FOOL.]

FOOL. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Who is that pulling at my
bag? King's son, do not pull at my bag.

A YOUNG MAN. Did your friends the angels give you that bag? Why
don't they fill your bag for you?

FOOL. Give me pennies! Give me some pennies!

A YOUNG MAN. Let go his cloak, it is coming to pieces. What do you
want pennies for, with that great bag at your waist?

FOOL. I want to buy bacon in the shops, and nuts in the market, and
strong drink for the time when the sun is weak, and snares to catch
rabbits and the squirrels that steal the nuts, and hares, and a
great pot to cook them in.

A YOUNG MAN. Why don't your friends tell you where buried treasures
are?

ANOTHER. Why don't they make you dream about treasures? If one
dreams three times, there is always treasure.

FOOL [holding out his hat]. Give me pennies! Give me pennies!

[They throw pennies into his hat. He is standing close to the
door, that he may hold out his hat to each newcomer.]

A YOUNG MAN. Master, will you have Teigue the Fool for a scholar?

ANOTHER YOUNG MAN. Teigue, will you give us pennies if we teach you
lessons? No, be goes to school for nothing on the mountains. Tell
us what you learn on the mountains, Teigue?

WISE MAN. Be silent all. [He has been standing silent, looking
away.] Stand still in your places, for there is something I would
have you tell me.

[A moment's pause. They all stand round in their places.
TEIGUE still stands at the door.]

WISE MAN. Is there any one amongst you who believes in God? In
heaven? Or in purgatory? Or in hell?

ALL THE YOUNG MEN. No one; Master! No one!

WISE MAN. I knew you would all say that; but do not be afraid. I
will not be angry. Tell me the truth. Do you not believe?

A YOUNG MAN. We once did, but you have taught us to know better.

WISE MAN. Oh! teaching, teaching does not go very deep! The heart
remains unchanged under it all. You believe just as yon always did,
and you are afraid to tell me.

A YOUNG MAN. No, no, master.

WISE MAN. If you tell me that you believe I shall be glad and not
angry.

A YOUNG MAN. [To his neighbor.] He wants somebody to dispute with.

HIS NEIGHBOR. I knew that from the beginning.

A YOUNG MAN. That is not the subject for to-day; you were going to
talk about the words the beggar wrote upon the walls of Babylon.

WISE MAN. If there is one amongst you that believes, he will be my
best friend. Surely there is one amongst you. [They are all
silent.] Surely what you learned at your mother's knees has not
been so soon forgotten.

A YOUNG MAN. Master, till you came, no teacher in this land was
able to get rid of foolishness and ignorance. But every one has
listened to you, every one has learned the truth. You have had your
last disputation.

ANOTHER. What a fool you made of that monk in the market-place! He
had not a word to say.

WISE MAN. [Comes from his desk and stands among them in the middle
of the room.] Pupils, dear friends, I have deceived you all this
time. It was I myself who was ignorant. There is a God. There is a
heaven. There is fire that passes, and there is fire that lasts for
ever.

[TEIGUE, through all this, is sitting on a stool by the door,
reckoning on his fingers what he will buy with his money.]

A YOUNG MAN [to another]. He will not be satisfied till we dispute
with him. [To the WISE MAN.] Prove it, master. Have you seen them?

WISE MAN [in a low, solemn voice]. Just now, before you came in,
some one came to the door, and when I looked up I saw an angel
standing there.

A YOUNG MAN. You were in a dream. Anybody can see an angel in his
dreams.

WISE MAN. Oh, my God! it was not a dream. I was awake, waking as I
am now. I tell you I was awake as I am now.

A YOUNG MAN. Some dream when they are awake, but they are the
crazy, and who would believe what they say? Forgive me, master, but
that is what you taught me to say. That is what you said to the
monk when he spoke of the visions of the saints and the martyrs.

ANOTHER YOUNG MAN. You see how well we remember your teaching.

WISE MAN. Out, out from my sight! I want some one with belief. I
must find that grain the Angel spoke of before I die. I tell you I
must find it, and you answer me with arguments. Out with you, or I
will beat you with my stick! [The young men laugh.]

A YOUNG MAN. How well he plays at faith! He is like the monk when
he had nothing more to say.

WISE MAN. Out, out, or I will lay this stick about your shoulders!
Out with you, though you are a king's son!

[They begin to hurry out.]

A YOUNG MAN. Come, come; he wants us to find some one who will
dispute with him.                               [All go out.]

WISE MAN [alone. He goes to the door at the side]. I will call
my wife. She will believe; women always believe. [He opens the door
and calls.] Bridget! Bridget! [BRIDGET comes in wearing her apron,
her sleeves turned up from her floury arms.] Bridget, tell me the
truth; do not say what you think will please me. Do you sometimes
say your prayers?

BRIDGET. Prayers! No, you taught me to leave them off long ago. At
first I was sorry, but I am glad now, for I am sleepy in the
evenings.

WISE MAN. But do you not believe in God?

BRIDGET. Oh, a good wife only believes what her husband tells her!

WISE MAN. But sometimes when you are alone, when I am in the school
and the children asleep, do you not think about the saints, about
the things you used to believe in? What do you think of when you
are alone?

BRIDGET [considering]. I think about nothing. Sometimes I wonder if
the pig is fattening well, or I go out to see if the crows are
picking up the chickens' food.

WISE MAN. Oh, what can I do! Is there nobody who believes? I must
go and find somebody! [He goes toward the door but with his eyes
fixed on the hour-glass.] I cannot go out; I cannot leave that!

BRIDGET. You want somebody to get up argument with.

WISE MAN. Oh, look out of the door and tell me if there is anybody
there in the street. I cannot leave this glass; somebody might
shake it! Then the sand would fall quickly.

BRIDGET. I don't understand what you are saying. [Looks out.] There
is a crowd of people talking to your pupils.

WISE MAN. Oh, run out, Bridget, and see if they have found somebody
that believes!

BRIDGET [wiping her arms in her apron and pulling down her
sleeves]. It's a hard thing to be married to a man of learning
that must be always having arguments. [Goes out and shouts through
the kitchen door.] Don't be meddling with the bread, children,
while I'm out.

WISE MAN. [Kneels down.] "Salvum me fac, Deus--salvum--salvum. ..."
I have forgotten it all. It is thirty years since I said a prayer.
I must pray in the common tongue, like a clown begging in the
market like Teigue the Fool! [He prays.] Help me, Father, Son, and
Spirit!

[BRIDGET enters, followed by the FOOL, who is holding out his hat
to her.]

FOOL. Give me something; give me a penny to buy bacon in the shops,
and nuts in the market, and strong drink for the time when the sun
grows weak.

BRIDGET. I have no pennies. [To the WISE MAN.] Your pupils cannot
find anybody to argue with you. There is nobody in the whole
country who had enough belief to fill a pipe with since you put
down the monk. Can't you be quiet now and not always be wanting to
have arguments? It must be terrible to have a mind like that.

WISE MAN. I am lost! I am lost!

BRIDGET. Leave me alone now; I have to make the bread for you and
the children.

WISE MAN. Out of this, woman, out of this, I say! [BRIDGET goes
through the kitchen door.] Will nobody find a way to help me! But
she spoke of my children. I had forgotten them. They will believe.
It is only those who have reason that doubt; the young are full of
faith. Bridget, Bridget, send my children to me!

BRIDGET [inside]. Your father wants you, run to him now.

[The two children came in. They stand together a little way from
the threshold of the kitchen door, looking timidly at their
father.]

WISE MAN. Children, what do you believe? Is there a heaven? Is
there a hell? Is there a purgatory?

FIRST CHILD. We haven't forgotten, father.

THE OTHER CHILD. Oh, no, father. [They both speak together as if in
school.] There is no heaven; there is no hell; there is nothing
we cannot see.

FIRST CHILD. Foolish people used to think that there were, but you
are very learned and you have taught us better.

WISE MAN. You are just as bad as the others, just as bad as the
others! Out of the room with you, out of the room! [The children
begin to cry and run away.] Go away, go away! I will teach you
better--no, I will never teach you again. Go to your mother--no,
she will not be able to teach them. ... Help them, O God! [Alone.]
The grains are going very quickly. There is very little sand in the
uppermost glass. Somebody will come for me in a moment; perhaps he
is at the door now! All creatures that have reason doubt. O that
the grass and the planets could speak! Somebody has said that they
would wither if they doubted. O speak to me, O grass blades! O
fingers of God's certainty, speak to me. You are millions and you
will not speak. I dare not know the moment the messenger will come
for me. I will cover the glass. [He covers it and brings it to the
desk, and the FOOL, is sitting by the door fiddling with some
flowers which he has stuck in his hat. He has begun to blow a
dandelion head.] What are you doing?

FOOL. Wait a moment. [He blows.] Four, five, six.

WISE MAN. What are you doing that for?

FOOL. I am blowing at the dandelion to find out what time it is.

WISE MAN. You have heard everything! That is why you want to find
out what hour it is! You are waiting to see them coming through the
door to carry me away. [FOOL goes on blowing.] Out through the door
with you! I will have no one here when they come. [He seizes the
FOOL by the shoulders, and begins to force him out through the
door, then suddenly changes his mind.] No, I have something to ask
you. [He drags him back into the room.] Is there a heaven? Is there
a hell? Is there a purgatory?

FOOL. So you ask me now. I thought when you were asking your
pupils, I said to myself, if he would ask Teigue the Fool, Teigue
could tell him all about it, for Teigue has learned all about it
when he has been cutting the nets.

WISE MAN. Tell me; tell me!

FOOL. I said, Teigue knows everything. Not even the owls and the
hares that milk the cows have Teigue's wisdom. But Teigue will not
speak; he says nothing.

WISE MAN. Tell me, tell me! For under the cover the grains are
falling, and when they are all fallen I shall die; and my soul will
be lost if I have not found somebody that believes! Speak, speak!

FOOL [looking wise]. No, no, I won't tell you what is in my mind,
and I won't tell you what is in my bag. You might steal away my
thoughts. I met a bodach on the road yesterday, and he said,
"Teigue, tell me how many pennies are in your bag. I will wager
three pennies that there are not twenty pennies in your bag; let me
put in my hand and count them." But I pulled the strings tighter,
like this; and when I go to sleep every night I hide the bag where
no one knows.

WISE MAN. [Goes toward the hour-glass as if to uncover it.] No, no,
I have not the courage! [He kneels.] Have pity upon me, Fool, and
tell me!

FOOL. Ah! Now, that is different. I am not afraid of you now. But I
must come near you; somebody in there might hear what the Angel
said.

WISE MAN. Oh, what did the Angel tell you?

FOOL. Once I was alone on the hills, and an Angel came by and he
said, "Teigue the Fool, do not forget the Three Fires: the Fire
that punishes, the Fire that purifies, and the Fire wherein the
soul rejoices for ever!"

WISE MAN. He believes! I am saved! Help me. The sand has run out.
I am dying. ... [FOOL helps him to his chair.] I am going from the
country of the seven wandering stars, and I am going to the country
of the fixed stars! Ring the bell. [FOOL rings the bell.] Are they
coming ? Ah! now I hear their feet. ... I will speak to them. I
understand it all now. One sinks in on God: we do not see the
truth; God sees the truth in us. I cannot speak, I am too weak.
Tell them, Fool, that when the life and the mind are broken, the
truth comes through them like peas through a broken peascod. But
no, I will pray--yet I cannot pray. Pray Fool, that they may be
given a sign and save their souls alive. Your prayers are better
than mine.

[FOOL bows his head. WISE MAN'S head sinks on his arm on the books.
PUPILS enter.]

A YOUNG MAN. Look at the Fool turned bell-ringer!

ANOTHER. What have you called us in for, Teigue? What are you going
to tell us?

ANOTHER. No wonder he has had dreams! See, he is fast asleep now.
[Goes over and touches the WISE MAN.] Oh, he is dead!

FOOL. Do not stir! He asked for a sign that you might be saved.
[All are silent for a moment.] Look what has come from his mouth. ...
a little winged thing ... a little shining thing. It has gone to
the door. [The ANGEL appears in the doorway, stretches out her
hands and closes them again.] The Angel has taken it in her hands...
she will open her hands in the Garden of Paradise.

[They all kneel.]

            O Rose, thou art sick.
                     William blake




MAURTEEN BRUIN
BRIDGET BRUIN
SHAWN BRUIN
MARY BRUIN
FATHER HART
A FAERY CHILD



The Scene is laid in the Barony of Kilmacowen, in the County of
Sligo, and at a remote time.




                        The Land of Heart's Desire


SCENE.--A room with a hearth on the floor in the middle of a deep
alcove to the Right. There are benches in the alcove and a table;
and a crucifix on the wall. The alcove is full of a glow of
light from the fire. There is an open door facing the audience to
the Left, and to the left of this a bench. Through the door one
can see the forest. It is night, but the moon or a late sunset
glimmers through the trees and carries the eye far off into a
vague, mysterious World.

MAURTEEN BRUIN, SHAWN BRUIN, and BRIDGET BRUIN sit in the alcove
at the table or about the fire. They are dressed in the costume
of some remote time, and near them sits an old priest, FATHER
HART. He may be dressed as a friar. There is food and drink
upon the table. MARY BRUIN stands by the door reading a book. If
she looks up she can see through the door into the wood.

BRIDGET. Because I bid her clean the pots for supper
She took that old book down out of the thatch;
She has been doubled over it ever since.
We should be deafened by her groans and moans
Had she to work as some do, Father Hart;
Get up at dawn like me and mend and scour;
Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you,
The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.

SHAWN. Mother, you are too cross.

BRIDGET. You've married her,
And fear to vex her and so take her part.

MAURTEEN (to FATHER HART)
It is but right that youth should side with youth
She quarrels with my wife a bit at times,
And is too deep just now in the old book
But do not blame her greatly; she will grow
As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree
When but the moons of marriage dawn and die
For half a score of times.

FATHER HART. Their hearts are wild,
As be the hearts of birds, till children come.

BRIDGET. She would not mind the kettle, milk the cow,
Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.

SHAWN. Mother, if only--

MAURTEEN. Shawn, this is half empty;
Go, bring up the best bottle that we have.

FATHER HART. I never saw her read a book before,
What can it be?

MAURTEEN (to SHAWN)
What are you waiting for?
You must not shake it when you draw the cork
it's precious wine, so take your time about it.

(SHAWN goes.)

(To priest)  There was a Spaniard wrecked at Ocris Head,
When I was young, and I have still some bottles.
He cannot bear to hear her blamed; the book
Has lain up in the thatch these fifty years;
My father told me my grandfather wrote it,
And killed a heifer for the binding of it--
But supper's spread, and we can talk and eat.
It was little good he got out of the book,
Because it filled his house with rambling fiddlers,
And rambling ballad-makers and the like.
The griddle-bread is there in front of you.
Colleen, what is the wonder in that book,
That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I
Or had my father read or written books
There was no stocking stuffed with yellow guineas
To come when I am dead to Shawn and you.

FATHER HART. You should not fill your head with foolish dreams.
What are you reading?

MARY. How a Princess Edane,
A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard
A voice singing on a May Eve like this,
And followed half awake and half asleep,
Until she came into the Land of Faery,
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
And she is still there, busied with a dance
Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood,
Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.

MAURTEEN. Persuade the colleen to put down the book;
My grandfather would mutter just such things,
And he was no judge of a dog or a horse,
And any idle boy could blarney him;
just speak your mind.

FATHER HART. Put it away, my colleen;
God spreads the heavens above us like great wings
And gives a little round of deeds and days,
And then come the wrecked angels and set snares,
And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams,
Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes
Half shuddering and half joyous from God's peace;
And it was some wrecked angel, blind with tears,
Who flattered Edane's heart with merry words.
My colleen, I have seen some other girls
Restless and ill at ease, but years went by
And they grew like their neighbours and were glad
In minding children, working at the churn,
And gossiping of weddings and of wakes;
For life moves out of a red flare of dreams
Into a common light of common hours,
Until old age bring the red flare again.

MAURTEEN. That's true--but she's too young to know it's true.

BRIDGET. She's old enough to know that it is wrong
To mope and idle.

MAURTEEN. I've little blame for her;
She's dull when my big son is in the fields,
And that and maybe this good woman's tongue
Have driven her to hide among her dreams
Like children from the dark under the bed-clothes.

BRIDGET. She'd never do a turn if I were silent.

MAURTEEN. And maybe it is natural upon May Eve
To dream of the good people. But tell me, girl,
If you've the branch of blessed quicken wood
That women hang upon the post of the door
That they may send good luck into the house?
Remember they may steal new-married brides
After the fall of twilight on May Eve,
Or what old women mutter at the fire
Is but a pack of lies.

FATHER HART. It may be truth
We do not know the limit of those powers
God has permitted to the evil spirits
For some mysterious end. You have done right.

(to MARY);

It's well to keep old innocent customs up.

(MARY BRUIN has taken a bough of quicken wood from a seat and
hung it on a nail in the doorpost. A girl child strangely
dressed, perhaps in faery green, comes out of the wood and takes
it away.)

MARY. I had no sooner hung it on the nail
Before a child ran up out of the wind;
She has caught it in her hand and fondled it;
Her face is pale as water before dawn.

FATHER HART. Whose child can this be?

MAURTEEN. No one's child at all.
She often dreams that some one has gone by,
When there was nothing but a puff of wind.

MARY.
They have taken away the blessed quicken wood,
They will not bring good luck into the house;
Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them,
For are not they, likewise, children of God?

FATHER HART. Colleen, they are the children of the fiend,
And they have power until the end of Time,
When God shall fight with them a great pitched battle
And hack them into pieces.

MARY. He will smile,
Father, perhaps, and open His great door.

FATHER HART. Did but the lawless angels see that door
They would fall, slain by everlasting peace;
And when such angels knock upon our doors,
Who goes with them must drive through the same storm.

(A thin old arm comes round the door-post and knocks and
beckons. It is clearly seen in the silvery light. MARY BRUIN
goes to door and stands in it for a moment. MAURTEEN BRUIN is busy
filling FATHER HART's plate. BRIDGET BRUIN stirs the fire.)

MARY (coming to table)
There's somebody out there that beckoned me
And raised her hand as though it held a cup,
And she was drinking from it, so it may be
That she is thirsty.

(She takes milk from the table and carries it to the door.)

FATHER HART. That will be the child
That you would have it was no child at all.

BRIDGET. And maybe, Father, what he said was true;
For there is not another night in the year
So wicked as to-night.

MAURTEEN. Nothing can harm us
While the good Father's underneath our roof.

MARY. A little queer old woman dressed in green.

BRIDGET. The good people beg for milk and fire
Upon May Eve--woe to the house that gives,
For they have power upon it for a year.

MAURTEEN. Hush, woman, hush!

BRIDGET.  She's given milk away.
I knew she would bring evil on the house.

MAURTEEN. Who was it?

MARY. Both the tongue and face were strange.

MAURTEEN. Some strangers came last week to Clover Hill;
She must be one of them.

BRIDGET. I am afraid.

FATHER HART. The Cross will keep all evil from the house
While it hangs there.

MAURTEEN. Come, sit beside me, colleen,
And put away your dreams of discontent,
For I would have you light up my last days,
Like the good glow of the turf; and when I die
You'll be the wealthiest hereabout, for, colleen,
I have a stocking full of yellow guineas
Hidden away where nobody can find it.

BRIDGET. You are the fool of every pretty face,
And I must spare and pinch that my son's wife
May have all kinds of ribbons for her head.

MAURTEEN. Do not be cross; she is a right good girl!
The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart.
My colleen, have not Fate and Time and Change
Done well for me and for old Bridget there?
We have a hundred acres of good land,
And sit beside each other at the fire.
I have this reverend Father for my friend,
I look upon your face and my son's face--
We've put his plate by yours--and here he comes,
And brings with him the only thing we have lacked,
Abundance of good wine.

(SHAWN comes in.)

Stir Up the fire,
And put new turf upon it till it blaze;
To watch the turf-smoke coiling from the fire,
And feel content and wisdom in your heart,
This is the best of life; when we are young
We long to tread a way none trod before,
But find the excellent old way through love,
And through the care of children, to the hour
For bidding Fate and Time and Change goodbye.

(MARY takes a sod of turf from the fire and goes out through the
door. SHAWN follows her and meets her coming in.)

SHAWN. What is it draws you to the chill o' the wood?
There is a light among the stems of the trees
That makes one shiver.

MARY. A little queer old man
Made me a sign to show he wanted fire
To light his pipe.

BRIDGET. You've given milk and fire
Upon the unluckiest night of the year and brought,
For all you know, evil upon the house.
Before you married you were idle and fine
And went about with ribbons on your head;
And now--no, Father, I will speak my mind
She is not a fitting wife for any man--

SHAWN. Be quiet, Mother!

MAURTEEN. You are much too cross.

MARY. What do I care if I have given this house,
Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue,
Into the power of faeries

BRIDGET. You know well
How calling the good people by that name,
Or talking of them over much at all,
May bring all kinds of evil on the house.

MARY. Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house!
Let me have all the freedom I have lost;
Work when I will and idle when I will!
Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame.

FATHER HART. You cannot know the meaning of your words.

MARY. Father, I am right weary of four tongues:
A tongue that is too crafty and too wise,
A tongue that is too godly and too grave,
A tongue that is more bitter than the tide,
And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love,
Of drowsy love and my captivity.

(SHAWN BRUIN leads her to a seat at the left of the door.)

SHAWN. Do not blame me; I often lie awake
Thinking that all things trouble your bright head.
How beautiful it is--your broad pale forehead
Under a cloudy blossoming of hair!
Sit down beside me here--these are too old,
And have forgotten they were ever young.

MARY. O, you are the great door-post of this house,
And I the branch of blessed quicken wood,
And if I could I'd hang upon the post,
Till I had brought good luck into the house.

(She would put her arms about him, but looks shyly at the priest
and lets her arms fall.)

FATHER HART. My daughter, take his hand--by love alone
God binds us to Himself and to the hearth,
That shuts us from the waste beyond His peace
From maddening freedom and bewildering light.

SHAWN. Would that the world were mine to give it you,
And not its quiet hearths alone, but even
All that bewilderment of light and freedom.
If you would have it.

MARY. I would take the world
And break it into pieces in my hands
To see you smile watching it crumble away.

SHAWN. Then I would mould a world of fire and dew
With no one bitter, grave or over wise,

And nothing marred or old to do you wrong,
And crowd the enraptured quiet of the sky
With candles burning to your lonely face.

MARY/ Your looks are all the candles that I need.

SHAWN. Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun,
Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn,
Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew,
But now the indissoluble sacrament
Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold
With my warm heart for ever; the sun and moon
Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll
But your white spirit still walk by my spirit.

(A Voice singing in the wood.)

MAURTEEN. There's some one singing. Why, it's but a child.
It sang, "The lonely of heart is withered away."
A strange song for a child, but she sings sweetly.
Listen, Listen!

(Goes to door.)

MARY. O, cling close to me,
Because I have said wicked things to-night.

THE VOICE. The wind blows out of the gates of the day,
The wind blows over the lonely of heart,
And the lonely of heart is withered away.
While the faeries dance in a place apart,
Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,
Tossing their milk-white arms in the air
For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing
Of a land where even the old are fair,
And even the wise are merry of tongue
But I heard a reed of Coolaney say,
When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung
The lonely of heart is withered away

MAURTEEN. Being happy, I would have all others happy,
So I will bring her in out of the cold.

(He brings in the faery child.)

THE CHILD. I tire of winds and waters and pale lights.

MAURTEEN. And that's no wonder, for when night has fallen
The wood's a cold and a bewildering place,
But you are welcome here.

 THE CHILD. I am welcome here.
For when I tire of this warm little house
There is one here that must away, away.


MAURTEEN. O, listen to her dreamy and strange talk.
Are you not cold?
THE CHILD. I will crouch down beside you,
For I have run a long, long way this night.

BRIDGET. You have a comely shape.

MAURTEEN. Your hair is wet.

BRIDGET. I'll warm your chilly feet.

MAURTEEN. You have come indeed
A long, long way--for I have never seen
Your pretty face--and must be tired and hungry,
Here is some bread and wine.

THE CHILD. The wine is bitter.
Old mother, have you no sweet food for me?

BRIDGET. I have some honey.

(She goes into the next room.)

MAURTEEN. You have coaxing ways,
The mother was quite cross before you came.

(BRIDGET returns with the honey and fills
Porringer with milk.)

BRIDGET. She is the child of gentle people; look
At her white hands and at her pretty dress.
I've brought you some new milk, but wait a while
And I will put it to the fire to warm,
For things well fitted for poor folk like us
Would never please a high-born child like you.

THE CHILD. From dawn, when you must blow the fire ablaze,
You work your fingers to the bone, old mother.
The young may lie in bed and dream and hope,
But you must work your fingers to the bone
Because your heart is old.

BRIDGET. The young are idle.

THE CHILD. Your memories have made you wise, old father;
The young must sigh through many a dream and hope,
But you are wise because your heart is old.

(BRIDGET gives her more bread and honey.)

MAURTEEN. O, who would think to find so young a girl
Loving old age and wisdom?

THE CHILD. No more, mother.

MAURTEEN. What a small bite! The milk is ready now.

(Hands it to her.)

What a small sip!

THE CHILD. Put on my shoes, old mother.
Now I would like to dance now I have eaten,
The reeds are dancing by Coolaney lake,
And I would like to dance until the reeds
And the white waves have danced themselves asleep.

(BRIDGET puts  on the shoes, and the CHILD is about to dance, but
suddenly sees the crucifix and shrieks and covers her eyes.)

What is that ugly thing on the black cross?

FATHER HART. You cannot know how naughty your words are!
That is our Blessed Lord.

THE CHILD. Hide it away,

BRIDGET. I have begun to be afraid again.

THE CHILD. Hide it away!

MAURTEEN. That would be wickedness!

BRIDGET. That would be sacrilege!

THE CHILD. The tortured thing
Hide it away!

MAURTEEN. Her parents are to blame.

FATHER HART. That is the image of the Son of God.

THE CHILD (caressing him) Hide it away, hide it away!

MAURTEEN. No, no.

FATHER HART. Because you are so young and like a bird,
That must take fright at every stir of the leaves,
I will go take it down.

THE CHILD. Hide it away!
And cover it out of sight and out of mind!

(FATHER HART takes crucifix from wall and carries it
towards inner room.)

FATHER HART. Since you have come into this barony,
I will instruct you in our blessed faith
And being so keen witted you'll soon learn.

(To the others.)

We must be tender to all budding things,
Our Maker let no thought of Calvary
Trouble the morning stars in their first song.

(Puts crucifix in inner room.)

THE CHILD. Here is level ground for dancing; I will dance.

(Sings.)

"The wind blows out of the gates of the day,
The wind blows over the lonely of heart,
And the lonely of heart is withered away."

(She dances.)

MARY (to SHAWN). just now when she came near I thought I heard
Other small steps beating upon the floor,
And a faint music blowing in the wind,
Invisible pipes giving her feet the tune.

SHAWN. I heard no steps but hers.

MARY. I hear them now,
The unholy powers are dancing in the house.

MAURTEEN. Come over here, and if you promise me
Not to talk wickedly of holy things
I will give you something.

THE CHILD. Bring it me, old father.

MAURTEEN. Here are some ribbons that I bought in the town
For my son's wife--but she will let me give them
To tie up that wild hair the winds have tumbled.

THE CHILD. Come, tell me, do you love me?

MAURTEEN. Yes, I love you.

THE CHILD. Ah, but you love this fireside. Do you love me?

FATHER HART. When the Almighty puts so great a share
Of His own ageless youth into a creature,
To look is but to love.

THE CHILD. But you love Him?

BRIDGET. She is blaspheming.

THE CHILD. And do you love me too

MARY. I do not know.

THE CHILD. You love that young man there,
Yet I could make you ride upon the winds,
Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame.

MARY. Queen of Angels and kind saints defend us!
Some dreadful thing will happen. A while ago
She took away the blessed quicken wood.

FATHER HART. You fear because of her unmeasured prattle;
She knows no better.  Child, how old are you?

THE CHILD. When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin,
My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken
My mother carries me in her golden arms;
I'll soon put on my womanhood and marry
The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell
When I was born for the first time? I think
I am much older than the eagle cock
That blinks and blinks on Ballygawley Hill,
And he is the oldest thing under the moon.

FATHER HART. O she is of the faery people.

THE CHILD. One called,
I sent my messengers for milk and fire,
She called again and after that I came.

(All except SHAWN and MARY BRUIN gather behind the priest
for protection.)

SHAWN (rising) Though you have made all these obedient,
You have not charmed my sight and won from me
A wish or gift to make you powerful;
I'll turn you from the house.

FATHER HART. No, I will face her.

THE CHILD. Because you took away the crucifix
I am so mighty that there's none can pass,
Unless I will it, where my feet have danced
Or where I've whirled my finger-tops.

(SHAWN tries to approach her and cannot.)

MAURTEEN. Look, look!
There something stops him--look how he moves his hands
As though he rubbed them on a wall of glass!

FATHER HART. I will confront this mighty spirit alone.
Be not afraid, the Father is with us,
The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents,
The adoring Magi in their coats of mail,
And He who died and rose on the third day
And all the nine angelic hierarchies.

(The CHILD kneels upon the settle beside MARY and puts her arms
about her.)

Cry, daughter, to the Angels and the Saints.

THE CHILD. You shall go with me, newly-married bride,

And gaze upon a merrier multitude.
White-armed Nuala, Aengus of the Birds,
Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him
Who is the ruler of the Western Host,
Finvarra, and their Land of Heart's Desire,
Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,
But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song.
I kiss you and the world begins to fade.

SHAWN. Awake out of that trance--and cover up
Your eyes and ears.

FATHER HART. She must both look and listen,
For only the soul's choice can save her now.
Come over to me, daughter; stand beside me;
Think of this house and of your duties in it.

THE CHILD. Stay and come with me, newly-married bride,
For if you hear him you grow like the rest;
Bear children, cook, and bend above the churn,
And wrangle over butter, fowl, and eggs,
Until at last, grown old and bitter of tongue,
You're crouching there and shivering at the grave.

FATHER HART. Daughter, I point you out the way to Heaven.

THE CHILD. But I can lead you, newly-married bride,
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue,
And where kind tongues bring no captivity;
For we are but obedient to the thoughts
That drift into the mind at a wink of the eye.

FATHER HART. . By the dear Name of the One crucified,
I bid you, Mary Bruin, come to me.

THE CHILD. I keep you in the name of your own heart.

FATHER HART. It is because I put away the crucifix
That I am nothing, and my power is nothing,
I'll bring it here again.

MAURTEEN (clinging to him) No!

BRIDGET. Do not leave us.

FATHER HART. O, let me go before it is too late;
It is my sin alone that brought it all.

(Singing outside.)

THE CHILD. I hear them sing, "Come, newly-married bride,
Come, to the woods and waters and pale lights."

MARY. I will go with you.

FATHER HART. She is lost, alas!

THE CHILD (standing by the door)
But clinging mortal hope must fall from you,
For we who ride the winds, run on the waves,
And dance upon the mountains are more light
Than dewdrops on the banner of the dawn.

MARY. O, take me with you.

SHAWN. Beloved, I will keep you.
I've more than words, I have these arms to hold you,
Nor all the faery host, do what they please,
Shall ever make me loosen you from these arms.

MARY. Dear face! Dear voice!

THE CHILD. Come, newly-married bride.

MARY. I always loved her world--and yet--and yet--

THE CHILD. White bird, white bird, come with me, little bird.

MARY. She calls me!

THE CHILD. Come with me, little bird.

(Distant dancing figures appear in the wood.)

MARY. I can hear songs and dancing.

SHAWN. Stay with me.

MARY. I think that I would stay--and yet--and yet--

THE CHILD. Come, little bird, with crest of gold.'

MARY (very soft,) And yet--

THE CHILD. Come, little bird with silver feet!

(MARY BRUIN dies, and the CHILD goes.)

SHAWN. She is dead!

BRIDGET. Come from that image; body and soul are gone
You have thrown your arms about a drift of leaves,
Or bole of an ash-tree changed into her image.

FATHER HART. Thus do the spirits of evil snatch their prey,
Almost out of the very hand of God;
And day by day their power is more and more,
And men and women leave old paths, for pride
Comes knocking with thin knuckles on the heart.

(Outside there are dancing figures, and it may be a white bird,
and many voices singing.)

"The wind blows out of the gates of the day,
The wind blows over the lonely of heart,
And the lonely of heart is withered away;
While the faeries dance in a place apart,
Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,
Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;
For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing
Of a land where even the old are fair,
And even the wise are merry of tongue;
But I heard a reed of Coolaney say--
When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung,
The lonely of heart is withered away."'

Note


This little play was produced at the Avenue Theatre in the spring
of 1894, with the following cast:

    Maurteen Bruin, Mr. James Welch;
    Shawn Bruin, Mr. A. E. W. Mason;
    Father Hart, Mr. G. R. Foss;
    Bridget Bruin, Miss Charlotte Morland;
    Maire Bruin, Miss Winifred Fraser:
    A Faery Child, Miss Dorothy Paget.

It ran for a little over six weeks. It was revived in America in
1901, when it was taken on tour by Mrs. Lemoyne. It has been
played two or three times professionally since then in America
and a great many times in England and America by amateurs. Till
lately it was not part of the repertory of the Abbey Theatre, for
I had grown to dislike it without knowing what I disliked in it.
This winter, however, I have made many revisions and now it plays
well enough to give me pleasure. It is printed in this book in
the new form, which was acted for the first time on February 22,
1912, at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin. At the Abbey Theatre, where
the platform of the stage comes out in front of the curtain, the
curtain falls before the priest's last words. He remains outside
the curtain and the words are spoken to the audience like an
epilogue.

W. B. YEATS.
ABBEY THEATRE, DUBLIN.
March, 1912.

 O blessed and happy he, who knowing the mysteries of the gods,
sanctifies his life, and purifies his soul, celebrating orgies in the
mountains with holy purifications.--_Euripides._



I


It is now more than ten years since I met, for the last time, Michael
Robartes, and for the first time and the last time his friends and
fellow students; and witnessed his and their tragic end, and endured
those strange experiences, which have changed me so that my writings
have grown less popular and less intelligible, and driven me almost
to the verge of taking the habit of St. Dominic. I had just published
Rosa Alchemica, a little work on the Alchemists, somewhat in the
manner of Sir Thomas Browne, and had received many letters from
believers in the arcane sciences, upbraiding what they called my
timidity, for they could not believe so evident sympathy but the
sympathy of the artist, which is half pity, for everything which has
moved men's hearts in any age. I had discovered, early in my
researches, that their doctrine was no merely chemical phantasy, but
a philosophy they applied to the world, to the elements and to man
himself; and that they sought to fashion gold out of common metals
merely as part of an universal transmutation of all things into some
divine and imperishable substance; and this enabled me to make my
little book a fanciful reverie over the transmutation of life into
art, and a cry of measureless desire for a world made wholly of
essences.

I was sitting dreaming of what I had written, in my house in one of
the old parts of Dublin; a house my ancestors had made almost famous
through their part in the politics of the city and their friendships
with the famous men of their generations; and was feeling an unwonted
happiness at having at last accomplished a long-cherished design, and
made my rooms an expression of this favourite doctrine. The
portraits, of more historical than artistic interest, had gone; and
tapestry, full of the blue and bronze of peacocks, fell over the
doors, and shut out all history and activity untouched with beauty
and peace; and now when I looked at my Crevelli and pondered on the
rose in the hand of the Virgin, wherein the form was so delicate and
precise that it seemed more like a thought than a flower, or at the
grey dawn and rapturous faces of my Francesca, I knew all a
Christian's ecstasy without his slavery to rule and custom; when I
pondered over the antique bronze gods and goddesses, which I had
mortgaged my house to buy, I had all a pagan's delight in various
beauty and without his terror at sleepless destiny and his labour
with many sacrifices; and I had only to go to my bookshelf, where
every book was bound in leather, stamped with intricate ornament, and
of a carefully chosen colour: Shakespeare in the orange of the glory
of the world, Dante in the dull red of his anger, Milton in the blue
grey of his formal calm; and I could experience what I would of human
passions without their bitterness and without satiety. I had gathered
about me all gods because I believed in none, and experienced every
pleasure because I gave myself to none, but held myself apart,
individual, indissoluble, a mirror of polished steel: I looked in the
triumph of this imagination at the birds of Hera, glowing in the
firelight as though they were wrought of jewels; and to my mind, for
which symbolism was a necessity, they seemed the doorkeepers of my
world, shutting out all that was not of as affluent a beauty as their
own; and for a moment I thought as I had thought in so many other
moments, that it was possible to rob life of every bitterness except
the bitterness of death; and then a thought which had followed this
thought, time after time, filled me with a passionate sorrow. All
those forms: that Madonna with her brooding purity, those rapturous
faces singing in the morning light, those bronze divinities with
their passionless dignity, those wild shapes rushing from despair to
despair, belonged to a divine world wherein I had no part; and every
experience, however profound, every perception, however exquisite,
would bring me the bitter dream of a limitless energy I could never
know, and even in my most perfect moment I would be two selves, the
one watching with heavy eyes the other's moment of content. I had
heaped about me the gold born in the crucibles of others; but the
supreme dream of the alchemist, the transmutation of the weary heart
into a weariless spirit, was as far from me as, I doubted not, it had
been from him also. I turned to my last purchase, a set of alchemical
apparatus which, the dealer in the Rue le Peletier had assured me,
once belonged to Raymond Lully, and as I joined the _alembic_ to
the _athanor_ and laid the _lavacrum maris_ at their side,
I understood the alchemical doctrine, that all beings, divided from
the great deep where spirits wander, one and yet a multitude, are
weary; and sympathized, in the pride of my connoisseurship, with the
consuming thirst for destruction which made the alchemist veil under
his symbols of lions and dragons, of eagles and ravens, of dew and of
nitre, a search for an essence which would dissolve all mortal
things. I repeated to myself the ninth key of Basilius Valentinus, in
which he compares the fire of the last day to the fire of the
alchemist, and the world to the alchemist's furnace, and would have
us know that all must be dissolved before the divine substance,
material gold or immaterial ecstasy, awake. I had dissolved indeed
the mortal world and lived amid immortal essences, but had obtained
no miraculous ecstasy. As I thought of these things, I drew aside the
curtains and looked out into the darkness, and it seemed to my
troubled fancy that all those little points of light filling the sky
were the furnaces of innumerable divine alchemists, who labour
continually, turning lead into gold, weariness into ecstasy, bodies
into souls, the darkness into God; and at their perfect labour my
mortality grew heavy, and I cried out, as so many dreamers and men of
letters in our age have cried, for the birth of that elaborate
spiritual beauty which could alone uplift souls weighted with so many
dreams.

II


My reverie was broken by a loud knocking at the door, and I wondered
the more at this because I had no visitors, and had bid my servants
do all things silently, lest they broke the dream of my inner life.
Feeling a little curious, I resolved to go to the door myself, and,
taking one of the silver candlesticks from the mantlepiece, began to
descend the stairs. The servants appeared to be out, for though the
sound poured through every corner and crevice of the house there was
no stir in the lower rooms. I remembered that because my needs were
so few, my part in life so little, they had begun to come and go as
they would, often leaving me alone for hours. The emptiness and
silence of a world from which I had driven everything but dreams
suddenly overwhelmed me, and I shuddered as I drew the bolt. I found
before me Michael Robartes, whom I had not seen for years, and whose
wild red hair, fierce eyes, sensitive, tremulous lips and rough
clothes, made him look now, just as they used to do fifteen years
before, something between a debauchee, a saint, and a peasant. He had
recently come to Ireland, he said, and wished to see me on a matter
of importance: indeed, the only matter of importance for him and for
me. His voice brought up before me our student years in Paris, and
remembering the magnetic power ne had once possessed over me, a
little fear mingled with much annoyance at this irrelevant intrusion,
as I led the way up the wide staircase, where Swift had passed joking
and railing, and Curran telling stories and quoting Greek, in simpler
days, before men's minds, subtilized and complicated by the romantic
movement in art and literature, began to tremble on the verge of some
unimagined revelation. I felt that my hand shook, and saw that the
light of the candle wavered and quivered more than it need have upon
the Maenads on the old French panels, making them look like the first
beings slowly shaping in the formless and void darkness. When the
door had closed, and the peacock curtain, glimmering like many-
coloured flame, fell between us and the world, I felt, in a way I
could not understand, that some singular and unexpected thing was
about to happen. I went over to the mantlepiece, and finding that a
little chainless bronze censer, set, upon the outside, with pieces of
painted china by Orazio Fontana, which I had filled with antique
amulets, had fallen upon its side and poured out its contents, I
began to gather the amulets into the bowl, partly to collect my
thoughts and partly with that habitual reverence which seemed to me
the due of things so long connected with secret hopes and fears. 'I
see,' said Michael Robartes, 'that you are still fond of incense, and
I can show you an incense more precious than any you have ever seen,'
and as he spoke he took the censer out of my hand and put the amulets
in a little heap between the _athanor_ and the _alembic_. I
sat down, and he sat down at the side of the fire, and sat there for
awhile looking into the fire, and holding the censer in his hand. 'I
have come to ask you something,' he said, 'and the incense will fill
the room, and our thoughts, with its sweet odour while we are
talking. I got it from an old man in Syria, who said it was made from
flowers, of one kind with the flowers that laid their heavy purple
petals upon the hands and upon the hair and upon the feet of Christ
in the Garden of Gethsemane, and folded Him in their heavy breath,
until he cried against the cross and his destiny.' He shook some dust
into the censer out of a small silk bag, and set the censer upon the
floor and lit the dust which sent up a blue stream of smoke, that
spread out over the ceiling, and flowed downwards again until it was
like Milton's banyan tree. It filled me, as incense often does, with
a faint sleepiness, so that I started when he said, 'I have come to
ask you that question which I asked you in Paris, and which you left
Paris rather than answer.'

He had turned his eyes towards me, and I saw them glitter in the
firelight, and through the incense, as I replied: 'You mean, will I
become an initiate of your Order of the Alchemical Rose? I would not
consent in Paris, when I was full of unsatisfied desire, and now that
I have at last fashioned my life according to my desire, am I likely
to consent?'

'You have changed greatly since then,' he answered. 'I have read your
books, and now I see you among all these images, and I understand you
better than you do yourself, for I have been with many and many
dreamers at the same cross-ways. You have shut away the world and
gathered the gods about you, and if you do not throw yourself at
their feet, you will be always full of lassitude, and of wavering
purpose, for a man must forget he is miserable in the bustle and
noise of the multitude in this world and in time; or seek a mystical
union with the multitude who govern this world and time.' And then he
murmured something I could not hear, and as though to someone I could
not see.

For a moment the room appeared to darken, as it used to do when he
was about to perform some singular experiment, and in the darkness
the peacocks upon the doors seemed to glow with a more intense
colour. I cast off the illusion, which was, I believe, merely caused
by memory, and by the twilight of incense, for I would not
acknowledge that he could overcome my now mature intellect; and I
said: 'Even if I grant that I need a spiritual belief and some form
of worship, why should I go to Eleusis and not to Calvary?' He leaned
forward and began speaking with a slightly rhythmical intonation, and
as he spoke I had to struggle again with the shadow, as of some older
night than the night of the sun, which began to dim the light of the
candles and to blot out the little gleams upon the corner of picture-
frames and on the bronze divinities, and to turn the blue of the
incense to a heavy purple; while it left the peacocks to glimmer and
glow as though each separate colour were a living spirit. I had
fallen into a profound dream-like reverie in which I heard him
speaking as at a distance. 'And yet there is no one who communes with
only one god,' he was saying, 'and the more a man lives in
imagination and in a refined understanding, the more gods does he
meet with and talk with, and the more does he come under the power of
Roland, who sounded in the Valley of Roncesvalles the last trumpet of
the body's will and pleasure; and of Hamlet, who saw them perishing
away, and sighed; and of Faust, who looked for them up and down the
world and could not find them; and under the power of all those
countless divinities who have taken upon themselves spiritual bodies
in the minds of the modern poets and romance writers, and under the
power of the old divinities, who since the Renaissance have won
everything of their ancient worship except the sacrifice of birds and
fishes, the fragrance of garlands and the smoke of incense. The many
think humanity made these divinities, and that it can unmake them
again; but we who have seen them pass in rattling harness, and in
soft robes, and heard them speak with articulate voices while we lay
in deathlike trance, know that they are always making and unmaking
humanity, which is indeed but the trembling of their lips.'

He had stood up and begun to walk to and fro, and had become in my
waking dream a shuttle weaving an immense purple web whose folds had
begun to fill the room. The room seemed to have become inexplicably
silent, as though all but the web and the weaving were at an end in
the world. 'They have come to us; they have come to us,' the voice
began again; 'all that have ever been in your reverie, all that you
have met with in books. There is Lear, his head still wet with the
thunder-storm, and he laughs because you thought yourself an
existence who are but a shadow, and him a shadow who is an eternal
god; and there is Beatrice, with her lips half parted in a smile, as
though all the stars were about to pass away in a sigh of love; and
there is the mother of the God of humility who cast so great a spell
over men that they have tried to unpeople their hearts that he might
reign alone, but she holds in her hand the rose whose every petal is
a god; and there, O swiftly she comes! is Aphrodite under a twilight
falling from the wings of numberless sparrows, and about her feet are
the grey and white doves.' In the midst of my dream I saw him hold
out his left arm and pass his right hand over it as though he stroked
the wings of doves. I made a violent effort which seemed almost to
tear me in two, and said with forced determination: 'You would sweep
me away into an indefinite world which fills me with terror; and yet
a man is a great man just in so far as he can make his mind reflect
everything with indifferent precision like a mirror.' I seemed to be
perfectly master of myself, and went on, but more rapidly: 'I command
you to leave me at once, for your ideas and phantasies are but the
illusions that creep like maggots into civilizations when they begin
to decline, and into minds when they begin to decay.' I had grown
suddenly angry, and seizing the _alembic_ from the table, was
about to rise and strike him with it, when the peacocks on the door
behind him appeared to grow immense; and then the _alembic_ fell
from my fingers and I was drowned in a tide of green and blue and
bronze feathers, and as I struggled hopelessly I heard a distant
voice saying: 'Our master Avicenna has written that all life proceeds
out of corruption.' The glittering feathers had now covered me
completely, and I knew that I had struggled for hundreds of years,
and was conquered at last. I was sinking into the depth when the
green and blue and bronze that seemed to fill the world became a sea
of flame and swept me away, and as I was swirled along I heard a
voice over my head cry, 'The mirror is broken in two pieces,' and
another voice answer, 'The mirror is broken in four pieces,' and a
more distant voice cry with an exultant cry, 'The mirror is broken
into numberless pieces'; and then a multitude of pale hands were
reaching towards me, and strange gentle faces bending above me, and
half wailing and half caressing voices uttering words that were
forgotten the moment they were spoken. I was being lifted out of the
tide of flame, and felt my memories, my hopes, my thoughts, my will,
everything I held to be myself, melting away; then I seemed to rise
through numberless companies of beings who were, I understood, in
some way more certain than thought, each wrapped in his eternal
moment, in the perfect lifting of an arm, in a little circlet of
rhythmical words, in dreaming with dim eyes and half-closed eyelids.
And then I passed beyond these forms, which were so beautiful they
had almost ceased to be, and, having endured strange moods,
melancholy, as it seemed, with the weight of many worlds, I passed
into that Death which is Beauty herself, and into that Loneliness
which all the multitudes desire without ceasing. All things that had
ever lived seemed to come and dwell in my heart, and I in theirs; and
I had never again known mortality or tears, had I not suddenly fallen
from the certainty of vision into the uncertainty of dream, and
become a drop of molten gold falling with immense rapidity, through a
night elaborate with stars, and all about me a melancholy exultant
wailing. I fell and fell and fell, and then the wailing was but the
wailing of the wind in the chimney, and I awoke to find myself
leaning upon the table and supporting my head with my hands. I saw
the _alembic_ swaying from side to side in the distant corner it
had rolled to, and Michael Robartes watching me and waiting. 'I will
go wherever you will,' I said, 'and do whatever you bid me, for I
have been with eternal things.' 'I knew,' he replied, 'you must need
answer as you have answered, when I heard the storm begin. You must
come to a great distance, for we were commanded to build our temple
between the pure multitude by the waves and the impure multitude of
men.'