And heaven's a cloudy blot; Calamity can have its fling. Red bird of March begin to crow, Up with the neck and clap the wing Red cock and crow.
THE STRANGER
We're almost at the summit and can rest. The road is a faint shadow there; and there The abbey lies amid its broken tombs. In the old days we should have heard a bell Calling the monks before day broke to pray; And when the day has broken on the ridge, The crowing of its cocks.
YOUNG MAN
Is there no house Famous for sanctity or architectural beauty In Clare or Kerry, or in all wide Connacht The enemy has not unroofed?
STRANGER
Close to the altar Broken by wind and frost and worn by time Donogh O'Brien has a tomb, a name in Latin. He wore fine clothes and knew the secrets of women But he rebelled against the King of Thomond And died in his youth.
YOUNG MAN
And why should he rebel? The King of Thomond was his rightful master. It was men like Donogh who made Ireland weak — My curse on all that troop, and when I die I'll leave my body, if I have any choice, Far from his ivy tod and his owl; have those Who, if your tale is true, work out a penance Upon the mountain-top where I am to hide, Come from the Abbey graveyard?
THE GIRL
They have not that luck, But are more lonely, those that are buried there, Warred in the heat of the blood; if they were rebels Some momentary impulse made them rebels Or the comandment of some petty king Who hated Thomond. Being but common sinners, No callers in of the alien from oversea They and their enemies of Thomond's party Mix in a brief dream battle above their bones, Or make one drove or drift in amity, Or in the hurry of the heavenly round Forget their earthly names; these are alone Being accursed.
YOUNG MAN
And if what seems is true And there are more upon the other side Than on this side of death, many a ghost Must meet them face to face and pass the word Even upon this grey and desolate hill.
YOUNG GIRL
Until this hour no ghost or living man Has spoken though seven centuries have run Since they, weary of life and of men's eyes, Flung down their bones in some forgotten place Being accursed.
YOUNG MAN
I have heard that there are souls Who, having sinned after a monstrous fashion Take on them, being dead, a monstrous image To drive the living, should they meet its face, Crazy, and be a terror to the dead.
YOUNG GIRL
But these Were comely even in their middle life And carry, now that they are dead, the image Of their first youth, for it was in that youth Their sin began.
YOUNG MAN
I have heard of angry ghosts Who wander in a wilful solitude.
THE GIRL
These have no thought but love; nor joy But that upon the instant when their penance Draws to its height and when two hearts are wrung Nearest to breaking, if hearts of shadows break, His eyes can mix with hers; nor any pang That is so bitter as that double glance, Being accursed.
YOUNG MAN
But what is this strange penance — That when their eyes have met can wring them most?
THE GIRL
Though eyes can meet, their lips can never meet.
YOUNG MAN
And yet it seems they wander side by side. But doubtless you would say that when lips meet And have not living nerves, it is no meeting.
THE GIRL
Although they have no blood or living nerves Who once lay warm and live the live-long night In one another's arms, and know their part In life, being now but of the people of dreams, Is a dreams part; although they are but shadows Hovering between a thorn tree and a stone Who have heaped up night on winged night; although No shade however harried and consumed Would change his own calamity for theirs, Their manner of life were blessed could their lips A moment meet; but when he has bent his head Close to her head or hand would slip in hand The memory of their crime flows up between And drives them apart.
YOUNG MAN
The memory of a crime — He took her from a husband's house it may be, But does the penance for a passionate sin Last for so many centuries?
THE GIRL
No, no, The man she chose, the man she was chosen by Cared little and cares little from whose house They fled towards dawn amid the flights of arrows Or that it was a husband's and a king's; And how if that were all could she lack friends On crowded roads or on the unpeopled hill? Helen herself had opened wide the door Where night by night she dreams herself awake And gathers to her breast a dreaming man.
YOUNG MAN
What crime can stay so in the memory? What crime can keep apart the lips of lovers Wandering and alone?
THE GIRL
Her king and lover Was overthrown in battle by her husband And for her sake and for his own, being blind And bitter and bitterly in love, he brought A foreign army from across the sea.
YOUNG MAN
You speak of Dermot and of Dervorgilla Who brought the Norman in?
THE GIRL
Yes, yes I spoke Of that most miserable, most accursed pair Who sold their country into slavery, and yet They were not wholly miserable and accursed If somebody of their race at last would say: 'I have forgiven them.'
YOUNG MAN
Oh, never, never Will Dermot and Dervorgilla be forgiven.
THE GIRL
If someone of their race forgave at last Lip would be pressed on lip.
YOUNG MAN
Oh, never, never Will Dermot and Dervorgilla be forgiven. You have told your story well, so well indeed I could not help but fall into the mood And for a while believe that it was true Or half believe, but better push on now. The horizon to the East is growing bright.
(They go once round stage)
So here we're on the summit. I can see The Aran Islands, Connemara Hills, And Galway in the breaking light; there too The enemy has toppled wall and roof And torn from ancient walls to boil his pot The oaken panelling that had been dear To generations of children and old men. But for that pair for whom you would have my pardon It might be now like Bayeux or like Caen Or little Italian town amid its walls For though we have neither coal nor iron ore To make us rich and cover heaven with smoke Our country, if that crime were uncommitted Had been most beautiful. Why do you dance? Why do you gaze and with so passionate eyes One on the other and then turn away Covering your eyes and weave it in a dance, Who are you? what are you? you are not natural.
THE GIRL
Seven hundred years our lips have never met.
YOUNG MAN
Why do you look so strangely at one another, So strangely and so sweetly?
THE GIRL
Seven hundred years.
YOUNG MAN
So strangely and so sweetly. All the ruin, All, all their handiwork is blown away As though the mountain air had blown it away Because their eyes have met. They cannot hear, Being folded up and hidden in their dance. The dance is changing now. They have dropped their eyes, They have covered up their eyes as though their hearts Had suddenly been broken – never, never Shall Dermot and Dervorgilla be forgiven. They have drifted in the dance from rock to rock.
