Deirdre of the Sorrows | Page 2

the
mats and hangings and the silver skillets I sent up for Deirdre?
LAVARCHAM. The mats and hangings are in this press, Conchubor.
She wouldn't wish to be soiling them, she said, running out and in with
mud and grasses on her feet, and it raining since the night of Samhain.
The silver skillets and the golden cups we have beyond locked in the
chest.
CONCHUBOR. Bring them out and use them from this day.
LAVARCHAM. We'll do it, Conchubor.
CONCHUBOR -- getting up and going to frame. -- Is this hers?
LAVARCHAM -- pleased to speak of it. -- It is, Conchubor. All say
there isn't her match at fancying figures and throwing purple upon
crimson, and she edging them all times with her greens and gold.
CONCHUBOR -- a little uneasily. -- Is she keeping wise and busy
since I passed before, and growing ready for her life in Emain?
LAVARCHAM -- dryly. -- That is a question will give small pleasure
to yourself or me. (Making up her mind to speak out.) If it's the truth I'll

tell you, she's growing too wise to marry a big king and she a score
only. Let you not be taking it bad, Conchubor, but you'll get little good
seeing her this night, for with all my talking it's wilfuller she's growing
these two months or three.
CONCHUBOR -- severely, but relieved things are no worse. -- Isn't it a
poor thing you're doing so little to school her to meet what is to come?
LAVARCHAM. I'm after serving you two score of years, and I'll tell
you this night, Conchubor, she's little call to mind an old woman when
she has the birds to school her, and the pools in the rivers where she
goes bathing in the sun. I'll tell you if you seen her that time, with her
white skin, and her red lips, and the blue water and the ferns about her,
you'd know, maybe, and you greedy itself, it wasn't for your like she
was born at all.
CONCHUBOR. It's little I heed for what she was born; she'll be my
comrade, surely.
[He examines her workbox.
LAVARCHAM -- sinking into sadness again. -- I'm in dread so they
were right saying she'd bring destruction on the world, for it's a poor
thing when you see a settled man putting the love he has for a young
child, and the love he has for a full woman, on a girl the like of her; and
it's a poor thing, Conchubor, to see a High King, the way you are this
day, prying after her needles and numbering her lines of thread.
CONCHUBOR -- getting up. -- Let you not be talking too far and you
old itself. (Walks across room and back.) Does she know the troubles
are foretold?
LAVARCHAM -- in the tone of the earlier talk. -- I'm after telling her
one time and another, but I'd do as well speaking to a lamb of ten
weeks and it racing the hills. . . . It's not the dread of death or troubles
that would tame her like.
CONCHUBOR -- he looks out. -- She's coming now, and let you walk

in and keep Fergus till I speak with her a while.
LAVARCHAM -- going left. -- If I'm after vexing you itself, it'd be
best you weren't taking her hasty or scolding her at all.
CONCHUBOR -- very stiffly. -- I've no call to. I'm well pleased she's
light and airy.
LAVARCHAM -- offended at his tone. -- Well pleased is it? (With a
snort of irony) It's a queer thing the way the likes of me do be telling
the truth, and the wise are lying all times.
[She goes into room on left. Conchubor arranges himself before a
mirror for a moment, then goes a little to the left and waits. Deirdre
comes in poorly dressed, with a little bag and a bundle of twigs in her
arms. She is astonished for a moment when she sees Conchubor; then
she makes a courtesy to him, and goes to the hearth without any
embarrassment.
CONCHUBOR. The gods save you, Deirdre. I have come up bringing
you rings and jewels from Emain Macha.
DEIRDRE. The gods save you.
CONCHUBOR. What have you brought from the hills?
DEIRDRE -- quite self-possessed. -- A bag of nuts, and twigs for our
fires at the dawn of day.
CONCHUBOR -- showing annoyance in spite of himself. -- And it's
that way you're picking up the manners will fit you to be Queen of
Ulster?
DEIRDRE -- made a little defiant by his tone. -- I have no wish to be a
queen.
CONCHUBOR -- almost sneeringly. -- You'd wish to be dressing in
your duns and grey,