Deirdre of the Sorrows

by J. M. Synge

LAVARCHAM.
— impressively. — It’s a hard thing, surely; but let you take my word and swear Naisi, by the earth, and the sun over it, and the four quarters of the moon, he’ll not go back to Emain — for good faith or bad faith — the time Conchubor’s keeping the high throne of Ireland. . . . It’s that would save you, surely.

DEIRDRE.
— without hope. — There’s little power in oaths to stop what’s coming, and little power in what I’d do, Lavarcham, to change the story of Conchubor and Naisi and the things old men foretold.

LAVARCHAM.
— aggressively. — Was there little power in what you did the night you dressed in your finery and ran Naisi off along with you, in spite of Conchubor and the big nobles did dread the blackness of your luck? It was power enough you had that night to bring distress and anguish; and now I’m pointing you a way to save Naisi, you’ll not stir stick or straw to aid me.

DEIRDRE.
— a little haughtily. — Let you not raise your voice against me, Lavarcham, if you have will itself to guard Naisi.

LAVARCHAM.
— breaking out in anger. — Naisi is it? I didn’t care if the crows were stripping his thigh-bones at the dawn of day. It’s to stop your own despair and wailing, and you waking up in a cold bed, without the man you have your heart on, I am raging now. (Starting up with temper.) Yet there is more men than Naisi in it; and maybe I was a big fool thinking his dangers, and this day, would fill you up with dread.

DEIRDRE.
— sharply. — Let you end; such talking is a fool’s only, when it’s well you know if a thing harmed Naisi it isn’t I would live after him. (With distress.) It’s well you know it’s this day I’m dreading seven years, and I fine nights watching the heifers walking to the haggard with long shadows on the grass; (with emotion) or the time I’ve been stretched in the sunshine, when I’ve heard Ainnle and Ardan stepping lightly, and they saying: Was there ever the like of Deirdre for a happy and sleepy queen?

LAVARCHAM.
— not fully pacified. — And yet you’ll go, and welcome is it, if Naisi chooses?

DEIRDRE.
I’ve dread going or staying, Lavarcham. It’s lonesome this place, having happiness like ours, till I’m asking each day will this day match yesterday, and will tomorrow take a good place beside the same day in the year that’s gone, and wondering all times is it a game worth playing, living on until you’re dried and old, and our joy is gone for ever.

LAVARCHAM.
If it’s that ails you, I tell you there’s little hurt getting old, though young girls and poets do be storming at the shapes of age. (Passionately.) There’s little hurt getting old, saving when you’re looking back, the way I’m looking this day, and seeing the young you have a love for breaking up their hearts with folly. (Going to Deirdre.) Take my word and stop Naisi, and the day’ll come you’ll have more joy having the senses of an old woman and you with your little grandsons shrieking round you, than I’d have this night putting on the red mouth and the white arms you have, to go walking lonesome byways with a gamey king.

DEIRDRE.
It’s little joy of a young woman, or an old woman, I’ll have from this day, surely. But what use is in our talking when there’s Naisi on the foreshore, and Fergus with him?