Part 16 (1/2)

MICHAEL: You shall not go, I say. I'm master here: And I won't let you shame me. I've been decent; And have always done my duty by the sheep, Working to keep a decent home together To bring a wife to: and, for all your jeers, There are worse things for a woman than a home And husband and a lawful family.

You shall not go. You say I ken my mind ...

BELL: Ay: but not mine. What should a tinker's trollop Do in the house of Michael Barrasford, But bring a blush to his children's cheeks? G.o.d help them, If they take after me, if they've a dash Of Haggard blood--for ewe's milk laced with brandy Is like to curdle: or, happen, I should say, G.o.d help their father!

MICHAEL: Mother, why should you go?

Why should you want to travel the ditch-bottom, When you've a hearth to sit by, snug and clean?

BELL: The fatted calf's to be killed for the prodigal mother?

You've not the hard heart of the young c.o.c.krobin That's got no use for parents, once he's mated: But I'm, somehow, out of place within four walls, Tied to one spot--that never wander the world.

I long for the rumble of wheels beneath me; to hear The clatter and creak of the lurching caravan; And the daylong patter of raindrops on the roof: Ay, and the gossip of nights about the campfire-- The give-and-take of tongues: mine's getting stiff For want of use, and spoiling for a fight.

MICHAEL: Nay: still as nimble and nippy as a flea!

BELL: But, I could talk, at one time! There are days When the whole world's hoddendoon and draggletailed, Drooked through and through; and blury, gurly days When the wind blows snell: but it's something to be stirring, And not shut up between four glowering walls, Like blind white faces; and you never ken What traveller your wayside fire will draw Out of the night, to tell outlandish tales, Or crack a jest, or start quarrel with you, Till the words bite hot as ginger on the tongue.

Anger's the stuff to loose a tongue grown rusty: And keep it in good fettle for all chances.

I'm sick of dozing by a dumb hearthstone-- And the peat, with never a click or crackle in it-- Famished for news.

MICHAEL: For scandal.

BELL: There's no scandal For those who can't be scandalized--just news: All's fish that comes to their net. I was made For company.

MICHAEL: And you'd go back again To that tag-rag-and-bobtail? What's the use Of a man's working to keep a decent home, When his own mother tries to drag him down?

BELL: Nay: my pernicketty, fine gentleman, But I'll not drag you down: you're free of me: I've slipt my ap.r.o.n off; and you're tied now To your wife's ap.r.o.n-strings: for menfolk seem Uneasy on the loose, and never happy Unless they're clinging to some woman's skirt.

I'm out of place in any decent house, As a kestrel in a hencoop. Ay, you're decent: But, son, remember a man's decency Depends on his braces; and it's I who've sewn Your trouser-b.u.t.tons on; so, when you fasten Your galluses, give the tinker's baggage credit.

She's done her best for you; and scrubbed and scoured, Against the grain, for all these years, to keep Your home respectable; though, in her heart, Thank G.o.d, she's never been respectable-- No dry-rot in her bones, while she's alive: Time and to spare for decency in the grave.

So, you can do your duty by the sheep, While I go hunting with the jinneyhoolets-- Birds of a feather--ay, and fleece with fleece: And when I'm a toothless, mumbling crone, you'll be So proper a gentleman, 'twill be hard to tell The shepherd from the sheep. Someone must rear The mutton and wool, to keep us warm and fed; But that's not my line: please to step this way For the fancy goods and fakish faldalals, Trinkets and toys and fairings. Son, you say, You're master here: well, that's for Ruth to settle: I'll be elsewhere. I've never knuckled down To any man: and I'll be coffin-cold Before I brook a master; so, good-night, And pleasant dreams; and a long family Of curly lambkins, bleating round the board.

RUTH: Michael, you'll never let her go alone?

She's only talking wild, because she's jealous.

Mothers are always jealous, when their sons Bring home a bride: though she needn't be uneasy: I'd never interfere ...

BELL: Too wise to put Your fingers 'twixt the cleaver and the block?

Jealous--I wonder? Anyhow, it seems, I've got a daughter, too. Alone, you say?

However long I stayed, I'd have to go Alone, at last: and I'd as lief be gone, While I can carry myself on my two pins.

Being buried with the Barrasfords is a chance I've little mind to risk a second time: I'm too much of a Haggard, to want to rise, At the last trump, among a flock of bleaters.

If I've my way, there'll be stampeding hoofs About me, startled at the crack of doom.

MICHAEL: When you've done play-acting ...

BELL: Play-acting? Ay: I'm through: Exit the villain: ring the curtain down On the happy ending--bride and bridegroom seated On either side the poor, but pious, hearth.

MICHAEL: I'd as soon argue with a weatherc.o.c.k As with a woman ...

BELL: Yet the weathervanes Are always c.o.c.ks, not hens.

MICHAEL: You shall not go.