The Aran Islands. J. M. Synge

have seen Frenchmen, and Danes, and Germans,’ said one man, ‘and there does be a power of Irish books along with them, and they reading them better than ourselves. Believe me there are few rich men now in the world who are not studying the Gaelic.’

      They sometimes ask me the French for simple phrases, and when they have listened to the intonation for a moment most of them are able to reproduce it with admirable precision.

      When I was going out this morning to walk round the island with Michael, the boy who is teaching me Irish, I met an old man making his way down to the cottage. He was dressed in miserable black clothes which seemed to have come from the mainland, and was so bent with rheumatism that, at a little distance, he looked more like a spider than a human being.

      Michael told me it was Pat Dirane, the story-teller old Mourteen had spoken of on the other island. I wished to turn back, as he appeared to be on his way to visit me, but Michael would not hear of it.

      ‘He will be sitting by the fire when we come in,’ he said, ‘let you not be afraid, there will be time enough to be talking to him by and by.’

      He was right. As I came down into the kitchen some hours later, old Pat was still in the chimney-corner, blinking with the turf-smoke.

      He spoke English with remarkable aptness and fluency, due, I believe, to the months he spent in the English provinces working at the harvest when he was a young man.

      After a few formal compliments he told me how he had been crippled by an attack of the ‘old hin’ (i.e. the influenza), and had been complaining ever since in addition to his rheumatism.

      While the old woman was cooking my dinner, he asked me if I liked stories and offered to tell one in English, though he added it would be much better if I could follow the Gaelic. Then he began:

      There were two farmers in County Clare. One had a son, and the other, a fine rich man, had a daughter.

      The young man was wishing to marry the girl, and his father told him to try and get her if he thought well, though a power of gold would be wanting to get the like of her.

      ‘I will try,’ said the young man.

      He put all his gold into a bag. Then he went over to the other farm and threw in the gold in front of him.

      ‘Is that all gold?’ said the father of the girl.

      ‘All gold,’ said O’Conor (the young man’s name was O’Conor).

      ‘It will not weigh down my daughter,’ said the father.

      ‘We’ll see that,’ said O’Conor.

      Then they put them in the scales, the daughter in one side and the gold in the other. The girl went down against the ground, so O’Conor took his bag and went out on the road.

      As he was going along he came to where there was a little man, and he standing with his back against the wall.

      ‘Where are you going with the bag?’ said the little man.

      ‘Going home,’ said O’Conor.

      ‘Is it gold you might be wanting?’ said the man.

      ‘It is, surely,’ said O’Conor.

      ‘I’ll give you what you are wanting,’ said the man, ‘and we can bargain in this way – you’ll pay me back in a year the gold I give you, or you’ll pay me with five pounds cut off your own flesh.’

      That bargain was made between them. The man gave a bag of gold to O’Conor, and he went back with it, and was married to the young woman.

      They were rich people, and he built her a grand castle on the cliffs of Clare, with a window that looked out straightly over the wild ocean.

      One day when he went up with his wife to look out over the wild ocean, he saw a ship coming in on the rocks, and no sails on her at all. She was wrecked on the rocks, and it was tea that was in her, and fine silk.

      O’Conor and his wife went down to look at the wreck, and when the lady O’Conor saw the silk she said she wished a dress of it.

      They got the silk from the sailors, and when the Captain came up to get the money for it, O’Conor asked him to come again and take his dinner with them. They had a grand dinner, and they drank after it, and the Captain was tipsy. While they were still drinking, a letter came to O’Conor, and it was in the letter that a friend of his was dead, and that he would have to go away on a long journey. As he was getting ready, the Captain came to him.

      ‘Are you fond of your wife?’ said the Captain.

      ‘I am fond of her,’ said O’Conor.

      ‘Will you make me a bet of twenty guineas no man comes near her while you’ll be away on the journey?’ said the Captain.

      ‘I will bet it,’ said O’Conor; and he went away.

      There was an old hag who sold small things on the road near the castle, and the lady O’Conor allowed her to sleep up in her room in a big box. The Captain went down on the road to the old hag.

      ‘For how much will you let me sleep one night in your box?’ said the Captain.

      ‘For no money at all would I do such a thing,’ said the hag. ‘For ten guineas?’ said the Captain.

      ‘Not for ten guineas,’ said the hag.

      ‘For twelve guineas?’ said the Captain.

      ‘Not for twelve guineas,’ said the hag.

      ‘For fifteen guineas?’ said the Captain.

      ‘For fifteen I will do it,’ said the hag.

      Then she took him up and hid him in the box. When night came the lady O’Conor walked up into her room, and the Captain watched her through a hole that was in the box. He saw her take off her two rings and put them on a kind of a board that was over her head like a chimney-piece, and take off her clothes, except her shift, and go up into her bed.

      As soon as she was asleep the Captain came out of his box, and he had some means of making a light, for he lit the candle. He went over to the bed where she was sleeping without disturbing her at all, or doing any bad thing, and he took the two rings off the board, and blew out the light, and went down again into the box.

      He paused for a moment, and a deep sigh of relief rose from the men and women who had crowded in while the story was going on, till the kitchen was filled with people.

      As the Captain was coming out of his box, the girls, who had appeared to know no English, stopped their spinning and held their breath with expectation.

      The old man went on:

      When O’Conor came back the Captain met him, and told him that he had been a night in his wife’s room, and gave him the two rings.

      O’Conor gave him the twenty guineas of the bet. Then he went up into the castle, and he took his wife up to look out of the window over the wild ocean. While she was looking he pushed her from behind, and she fell down over the cliff into the sea.

      An old woman was on the shore and she saw her falling. She went down then to the surf and pulled her out all wet and in great disorder, and she took the wet clothes off of her, and put on some old rags belonging to herself.

      When O’Conor had pushed his wife from the window he went away into the land.

      After a while the lady O’Conor went out searching for him, and when she had gone here and there a long time in the country, she heard that he was reaping in a field with sixty men.

      She came to the field and she wanted to go in, but the gate-man would not open the gate for her. Then the owner came by and she told him her story. He brought her in, and her husband was there, reaping, but he never gave any sign of knowing her. She showed him to the owner, and he made the man come out and go with his wife.

      Then the lady O’Conor took him out on