DEIRDRE

MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA · MADRAS MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO DALLAS · SAN FRANCISCO

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. TORONTO

DEIRDRE

BY JAMES STEPHENS

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON 1923

COPYRIGHT

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

Do chum glóire Dé agus onóra na h-Eireann.

[Pg 1]

[Pg 2]

CHAPTER I

Once on a time Conachúr mac Nessa[1] was on a journey, and had to pass the night at the house of Felimid mac Dall, his storyteller. He was annoyed because his wife, Maeve, had not come with him, but Maeve had the knack of annoying him more than any one else was able to; so that when he thought of her his mind went intriguing and adventuring, for he was always trying to get the better of her, and was seldom without the feeling that she was getting or had just got the best of him.

For this reason he was irritable and could not look at any one with benevolence except Fergus mac Roy. But he could not look otherwise than benevolently on Fergus.

Meantime, night was at hand, and one [Pg 4] must sleep, and it is vexatious to sleep alone.

He clapped his hands, and said to the attendant who appeared:

“Is Felimid mac Dall married?”

“He is, master.”

“Give my compliments to Felimid,” said Conachúr, “and tell him that his wife is to sleep with me to-night.”

The attendant vanished and the king was left alone. That is, he was left to his thoughts, for when he was among those he was where other men might not care to follow him. In fact, the large room wherein he sat was almost uncomfortably filled with men: but they kept respectfully apart, playing chess, and speaking in low voices to one another.

The attendant returned.

“A Rí Uasal!” said he humbly.

“Well?” said Conachúr.

“The master of the house regrets that his wife cannot sleep with you to-night.”

“Here is something new,” said the king sternly.

“His wife is at this moment in childbed,” murmured the discreet servant.

[Pg 5]

“These women are always troublesome,” said the king with jovial anger. “She troubles me by withdrawing herself from my comfort, and she troubles my poor Felimid by giving him a child he could well do without.”

He looked moodily on his gentlemen. There was Cathfa,[2] the famous poet, and Conall his grandson, to be known later as Cearnach (the victorious), but already notable; bitter-tongued Bricriu, who was famous or infamous according to one’s judgement; Uisneac, who had married one of Cathfa’s three daughters, and for whose little son Naoise the queens of Ireland would weep so long as Ireland had a memory; and there was Fergus mac Roy.

Conachúr’s eye travelled loweringly from one to the other of these men until it rested on Fergus, and on him it rested lovingly, benevolently.

He looked loweringly on the others because they did not stand in any particular relation to him at the moment. He looked lovingly and mildly on Fergus because he hated Fergus and had wronged him so bitterly that he must wrong him yet more in [Pg 6] justification. His wife and Fergus mac Roy were often in his thoughts, so he looked very lovingly on them and speculated a great deal about their future.

But this night the young king was seriously out of humour, not only because of his wife’s absence, but because of many things that had happened. Three comets in succession had flashed across the sky as they drove to the Story-teller’s house. His leading chariot-horse had trod in a rabbit-hole and its leg was cracked at the fetlock; and one of his attendants had been taken with mortal vomitings, and it did not seem that he would finish until he had emptied his body of his soul.

Conachúr called to his father:

“You are a poet, and should be able to tell us the meaning of these various omens.”

“It is not hard to tell,” said the calm magician.

“Then tell it,” quoth the king testily.

As he spoke a thin wail came from somewhere in the building, and the men present turned an ear to that little sound, and then a questioning or humorous eye on each other.

[Pg 7]

“You hear,” said the poet. “A child has just been born in this house. She will bring evil to Ireland, and she will work destruction in Ulster as a ferret works destruction in a rabbit’s burrow.”

Cathfa then returned to his chess, leaving the company staring.

“You have the gift of comfortable prophecy,” said the king.

“Put an end to the prophecy by putting an end to the child,” Bricriu advised, “and then let us see how the gods manage their affairs.”

“Bricriu, my soul,” said the king, “you like troubling the waters, but to-night you seem to be afflicted with sense. Bring the creature to me.”

They carried the little morsel to him and she was laid across his knees.

“So you are to destroy my kingdom and bring evil to mighty Ireland?”

The babe reached with a tiny claw and gripped one finger of the king.

“See,” he laughed, “she places herself under my protection,” and he moved his finger to and fro, but the child held fast to it.

[Pg 8]

“Ulster is under your protection,” growled Bricriu.

The king, who did not like other men’s advice, looked at him.

“It is not soldierly, nor the act of a prince to evade fate,” said he who was to be known afterwards as the wide-eyed, majestic monarch. “Therefore, all that can happen will happen, and we shall bear all that is to be borne.”

Then he gave the child back to its trembling nurse.

Cathfa looked up from the chess-board.

“She is to be called the ‘Troubler,’” said he.

And from that day “Deirdre” was her name.

[1] Conachúr = pron. Kun-a-hoor; mac = pron. mock.

[2] Cathfa = pron. Kaffa.

[Pg 9]

CHAPTER II

When Echaid Yellow-Heel was King of Ulster, he had a daughter called Assa. She was educated apart from her father’s residence by twelve tutors, and none of these had ever trained a pupil who was so docile, so teachable, or so affectionate. She loved knowledge, and so she loved learned men and would be always in their company.

One day she went on a visit to her father’s court, and when she returned to her lessons she found that her twelve tutors had been murdered, and there was nothing to tell who had killed them.

From that moment her nature changed. She put on the dress of a female warrior, gathered a company about her, and went marauding and plundering in every direction. She was no longer called Assa (the Gentle), [Pg 10] but Nessa, or the Ungentle, was her name thenceforth.

Cathfa, the son of Ross, was then a young, powerful, and ambitious man, learning magic, or practising what he had learned, and it was he had slain the tutors, but Nessa did not know this. It may be that Cathfa had visited the tutors during her absence, and, for young magicians do not love argument, he may have killed them after a dispute.

Once, on one of her marauding expeditions, she went questing in a wilderness. At a distance there was a spring of clear water, and, while her people were preparing food, Nessa went to this spring to bathe. She was in the water when Cathfa passed, for he also was in that wilderness, and when he saw the girl’s body he loved her, for she was young and lovely. He approached, and placed himself between the girl and her dress and weapons, and he held a sword over her head.

“Spare me,” she pleaded.

“If you will be my wife I will spare you,” said Cathfa.

She agreed to that, for no other course was open to her, and they rejoined her party.

They were married, and Nessa’s father [Pg 11] gave them a bride-gift of land, called afterwards Rath Cathfa, in the country of the Picts in Crí Ross. In time a son was born to those two, namely, Conachúr mac Nessa, for it was by his mother’s name he was known, and it was for him that Cathfa made the poem beginning:

There are some who say, however, that Fachtna the Mighty had been the leman of Nessa, and that it was he was the father of Conachúr instead of Cathfa. If so, as Fachtna was the son of Maga, who was daughter of Anger mac an Og of the Brugh, then Conachúr had the blood of a god in his veins as well as the blood of a mortal, and much of his great success and of his terrible failure can be accounted for; for the gods are unlucky in love, so, too, the son of a wise mother is unlucky in love, as is also the man who is fortunate in war.

After some time Nessa left her husband, taking her son with her. It may be that she had discovered he was the murderer of her tutors. It may have been that she did not love him; it may even be that she did not [Pg 12] like being wife to a magician, or he may have grown tired of her. But she never returned to him again.

But when Conachúr was a youth Nessa was still the most beautiful woman of Ulster. The then King of Ulster, Fachtna the Mighty, died, and his young half-brother, Fergus, the son of Roy, wife of Ross the Red, son of Rury, came to the throne. Fergus was then eighteen years of age and Conachúr was sixteen, and, like Conachúr, Fergus also was known by his mother’s name instead of his father’s.

Nessa came to the Ulster court with her son, and while there Fergus fell madly in love with her, and she could in no way avoid the importunities of that monstrous youth, for Fergus was gigantic in bulk and stature.

“I shall marry you on one condition,” said Nessa.

“I agree to it beforehand,” said Fergus.

“You know the great love I bear my son, Conachúr?”

“I also love him,” said Fergus.

“His descent is kingly,” she said, “and I desire that he should be a king if it were [Pg 13] only for a year. If you resign the crown to him during our first year of marriage I will marry you.”

“I will do that,” said Fergus.

That was done, and for a year Fergus and Nessa lived happily together.

But Nessa was not entirely absorbed in love. She was still thinking of her son. During that year she arranged a marriage for Conachúr with Clothru, the daughter of the High King of Ireland, and she spent a vast treasure in working among the nobles and important people of Ulster, so that they became of her son’s party as against the party of her husband.

Indeed, her young husband had no party, for he was the least suspicious man living in the world, and, except in matters of honour or war, he would make no plans and take no trouble. Nor was Conachúr idle during his year of kingship. His ability was marvellous, and his energy as wonderful. Feuds that seemed to be endless were settled by him. Foreign affairs that threatened or hung offered him no trouble. But it was from the Judgement Seat that his fame spread most quickly.

[Pg 14]

“A fool,” said the proverb, “can give judgement, but who will give us justice?” No question was so tangled but that swift mind could pierce it; no matter was too ponderous to be weighed by him, or too light to escape his attention. He knew all, he attended to all; everything he touched was bettered, and men said that until that year Ulster had never known prosperity, or peace, or justice, but only the imitation of these. Conachúr was every man’s friend, and in a short time every man was his.

Fergus returned to a court that had forgotten him, or that was so blinded by the new prodigy that they saw nothing when they looked elsewhere. It was held that Fergus had actually resigned the kingship, or that he had given it as a dowry to his wife; and, although the young lord may have been dismayed, the representation of the nobles, and, in particular, the wit and cajolery of his wife, arranged that matter, so that he made no effort to regain his kingdom, and in a short time he was the most devoted admirer of Conachúr in the realm.

It is possible that Nessa left him then, or [Pg 15] that she died, but we do not hear of her again.

Conachúr’s married life may have been happy, but it was short. At the end of about eight months Clothru returned to Connacht on a visit to the High King, her father. We do not know what happened, but a dispute arose between Clothru and her youngest sister, Maeve.[3] Maeve struck a blow that killed Clothru, and Conachúr’s first child was born in its mother’s death agonies.

When this news came to Ulster Conachúr set out to demand reparation or vengeance, but when he beheld Maeve his ideas underwent a horrible change. He had never seen anything like this queenly creature. He had not imagined that there could be in the world a girl so wonderful as she, for she was brave and able and of a marvellous loveliness. Conachúr’s hard mind would not flinch when once his lusts were aroused. His vengeance and his desire made common cause. He married Maeve against her wish, and without her consent, and he bore her [Pg 16] back with him to Ulster, a queen, a captive, and, notwithstanding her crime, a deeply wronged woman.

Fergus mac Roy and Maeve, these were his victims, and from them there was to arise a story which would seem to the king as unending as time itself. Those two, and Deirdre!

[3] It was this Maeve, anciently spelled “Madb,” who became afterwards “Mab” the Queen of the Fairies of Spenser and Shakespeare.

[Pg 17]

CHAPTER III

Deirdre grew up in a place apart at Emania. She saw no people of any kind, except Lavarcham, the king’s “conversation-woman,” and her women servants; for always about the castle where she lived there was a guard of the oldest and ugliest swordsmen that were in Ulster. Their duty was to let nobody pass in or out of the castle grounds; for it was the king’s intention to outwit fate as he had outwitted all else that had moved in his path.

Thus she grew in gentleness and peace, hearing no voice less sweet than the voice of the birds that sang in the sunshine, or the friendly calling of the wind she played with; seeing nothing more uncomely than the gracious outline of far hills, the many-coloured sky that fled and was never gone, [Pg 18] the creatures that lived unmolested in the trees about the castle, and the wild deer that grew tame in nearby brakes. All that she knew was friendly to her and naught was rough. All that she drew nigh to stood for her approach. Naught fled from her, and she did not flee from anything.

Watching her, as she stood or sat or went, the wise Lavarcham used to lose her senses, for all that was beautiful was here gathered into one form, as in one true ray of the sun is all that is lovely of the sun. The running wind, and the wild creatures of the wood; the folk from the Shí, the Bochanachs and Bananocks, and the aerial beings that are not seen, might have stayed to look at Deirdre, but had they stayed they could not have gone again, for they would have become eyes only, and they would have perished in beauty, gazing on it.

Lavarcham was a wise woman. She could not have occupied and continued to hold her position in Conachúr’s household had she not been wise. She was known as the king’s “conversation-woman,” and she could indicate an unpleasant truth as delicately as a poet can express the dimple [Pg 19] in a lady’s chin. But her real occupation, masked by the courteous word, was that of household spy. She went to and fro in the vast palaces at Emania, and nothing passed there, whether among the nobles or the servants, that she was not privy to, or which the king was not thereafter acquainted with. She could adapt herself to any situation and to every society; and if her chatter with the kitchen-maids was jovial and in key, her conversation with a young princess or an old bard was not less balanced and elucidatory.

She had many things to teach a young girl, and she withheld no knowledge that could benefit the little one whom her heart had soon adopted as its own babe. The virtues as well as the arts were part of her experience, so that Deirdre grew in the love of chastity, of industry, and of joyfulness.

In this way and in these teachings the years went by, unnoticed as years. Day followed night, and night came after day in a timeless succession, each adding its unnoticeable little to her stature, its unseen tender curve to her limbs, its imperceptible deposit of memory to her mind.

But among the arts of which the tireless [Pg 20] Lavarcham spoke there was one she taught and retaught to Deirdre, and that art was Conachúr.

Although she had never seen the king, yet the young girl knew him as a mother knows her baby. She could have recited his babyhood, his adolescence, and now his maturity. She knew, as only Lavarcham did, why he did such a certain thing, and by what progressions this stated consummation, marvelled at by others, had been arrived at. It was of infinite interest to Deirdre, but its inevitable effect was to stamp the unseen king with a seal of time, so that, although Lavarcham insisted he was only thirty-five years of age, the young girl’s mind regarded him as one who could have been father and grandfather to a hill.

She reported to Conachúr at proper intervals as to her ward, and he, if he had wished, might have checked the passing years by his memory of the stories Lavarcham told him of Deirdre learning to walk, and walking; of Deirdre learning to talk, and talking: her teeth were counted to him as she cut them, and when she bruised her knee slipping down a bank, or when she wept for the [Pg 21] cold fledgling she found on the path, or when she refused to weep in a thunderstorm, he was acquainted with the facts, and nodded at them gravely as they were told.

She had been a round thing, all surprise and fluff, like a young duck: she became a lank anatomy, all leg and hair and stare, like a young colt: then she became a wild thing, all spring and peep and run, like a young fawn; and now she was what Lavarcham continued to report and dilate on.

But the king could not believe one half of the tale that Lavarcham told, for it seemed to him that such beauty as she reported was not credible, and he knew that women speak foolishly when they talk of beauty. He was, moreover, well satisfied with the queen who was with him then, Maeve, the lovely daughter of the High King.

[Pg 22]

CHAPTER IV

It happened at last that Maeve came to the decision which for a long time had been forming in her mind. She decided that she would not remain with the King of Ulster any longer, and, having so decided and faced all its implications, she was not long in finding an opportunity to get away from him. It is not right to say that she “found” an opportunity, for she was of those who create chance, and who do at all times everything that is in their minds.

There were many reasons why she might have been discontented as the wife of Conachúr. The similarity of their characters, their equally imperious temperaments, their equally untiring and almost identical habits of mind, rendered each an object of suspicion and endless cogitation [Pg 23] to the other. They could not rest together or apart, for each knew what, in certain circumstances, he or she would do, and unerringly credited the other with the performance of these surmised deeds. Thus leisure, which might have been profitably spent by either, was wasted by both in courteous ambuscades and counter or parallel schemes, so that the private habit of one was a perpetual cancelling of the private desires of the other, and a state of exasperation existed between them which, as it could not come to the surface and be faced or downfaced, ended by being a very poison to life.

In settling out these terms it is more proper to refer them to Maeve than to the king, for in the large conduct of his affairs he could escape from his household and forget in the Council Hall or the Judgement Seat that which his wife was given only the greater leisure to remember in her Sunny Chamber or among her servants and sycophants.

But matrimony had been poisoned for them at the very fountain, and a dear, detestable memory for Maeve was that her [Pg 24] husband had outraged her before he married her, and that he had taken her then and thereafter in her own despite.