Irish Tales / Ирландские сказки. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Комментарии, словарь Е. Г. Тигонен

© КАРО, 2012

Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Neary

There was once upon a time two farmers, and their names were Hudden and Dudden. They had poultry in their yards, sheep on the uplands, and scores of cattle in the meadow-land alongside the river. But for all that they weren’t happy. For just between their two farms there lived a poor man by the name of Donald O’Neary. He had a hovel over his head[1] and a strip of grass that was barely enough to keep his one cow, Daisy, from starving, and, though she did her best, it was but seldom that Donald got a drink of milk or a roll of butter from Daisy. You would think there was little here to make Hudden and Dudden jealous, but so it is, the more one has the more one wants, and Donald’s neighbours lay awake of nights scheming how they might get hold of his little strip of grassland. Daisy, poor thing, they never thought of; she was just a bag of bones.

One day Hudden met Dudden, and they were soon grumbling as usual, and all to the tune of, ‘If only we could get that vagabond Donald O’Neary out of the country.’

‘Let’s kill Daisy,’ said Hudden at last; ‘if that doesn’t make him clear out, nothing will.’

No sooner said than agreed, and it wasn’t dark before Hudden and Dudden crept up to the little shed where lay poor Daisy trying her best to chew the cud, though she hadn’t had as much grass in the day as would cover your hand. And when Donald came to see if Daisy was all snug for the night, the poor beast had only time to lick his hand once before she died.

Well, Donald was a shrewd fellow, and downhearted though he was, began to think if he could get any good out of Daisy’s death. He thought and he thought, and the next day you could have seen him trudging off early to the fair, Daisy’s hide over his shoulder, every penny he had jingling in his pockets. Just before he got to the fair, he made several slits in the hide, put a penny in each slit, walked into the best inn of the town as bold as if it belonged to him, and, hanging the hide up to a nail in the wall, sat down.

‘Some of your best whiskey,’ says he to the landlord. But the landlord didn’t like his looks. ‘Is it fearing I won’t pay you, you are?’ says Donald. ‘Why, I have a hide here that gives me all the money I want.’ And with that he hit it a whack with his stick and out hopped a penny. The landlord opened his eyes, as you may fancy.

‘What’ll you take for that hide?’

‘It’s not for sale, my good man.’

‘Will you take a gold piece?’

‘It’s not for sale, I tell you. Hasn’t it kept me and mine for years?’ and with that Donald hit the hide another whack and out jumped a second penny.

Well, the long and the short of it[2] was that Donald let the hide go, and, that very evening, who but he should walk up to Hudden’s door?

‘Good evening, Hudden. Will you lend me your best pair of scales?’

Hudden stared and Hudden scratched his head, but he lent the scales.

When Donald was safe at home, he pulled out his pocketful of bright gold and began to weigh each piece in the scales. But Hudden had put a lump of butter at the bottom, and so the last piece of gold stuck fast to the scales when he took them back to Hudden.

If Hudden had stared before, he stared ten times more now, and no sooner was Donald’s back turned, than he was off as hard as he could pelt to Dudden’s.

‘Good evening, Dudden. That vagabond, bad luck to him – ’

‘You mean Donald O’Neary?’

‘And who else should I mean? He’s back here weighing out sackfuls of gold.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Here are my scales that he borrowed, and here’s a gold piece still sticking to them.’

Off they went together, and they came to Donald’s door. Donald had finished making the last pile of ten gold pieces. And he couldn’t finish because a piece had stuck to the scales.

In they walked without an ‘If you please’ or ‘By your leave’[3].

‘Well, I never![4]’ That was all they could say.

‘Good evening, Hudden; good-evening, Dudden. Ah! You thought you had played me a fine trick, but you never did me a better turn in all your lives. When I found poor Daisy dead, I thought to myself, ‘Well, her hide may fetch something’; and it did. Hides are worth their weight in gold in the market just now.’

Hudden nudged Dudden, and Dudden winked at Hudden.

‘Good evening, Donald O’Neary.’

‘Good evening, kind friends.’

The next day there wasn’t a cow or a calf that belonged to Hudden or Dudden but her hide was going to the fair in Hudden’s biggest cart drawn by Dudden’s strongest pair of horses.

When they came to the fair, each one took a hide over his arm, and there they were walking through the fair, bawling out at the top of their voices, ‘Hides to sell! Hides to sell!’

Out came the tanner.

‘How much for your hides, my good men?’

‘Their weight in gold.’

‘It’s early in the day to come out of the tavern.’ That was all the tanner said, and back he went to his yard.

‘Hides to sell! Fine fresh hides to sell!’

Out came the cobbler.

‘How much for your hides, my men?’

‘Their weight in gold.’

‘Is it making game of me you are! Take that for your pains,’ and the cobbler dealt Hudden a blow that made him stagger.

Up the people came running from one end of the fair to the other. ‘What’s the matter? What’s the matter?’ cried they.

‘Here are a couple of vagabonds selling hides at their weight in gold,’ said the cobbler.

‘Hold ’em fast; hold ’em fast!’ bawled the innkeeper, who was the last to come up, he was so fat. ‘I’ll wager it’s one of the rogues who tricked me out of thirty gold pieces yesterday for a wretched hide.’

It was more kicks than halfpence that Hudden and Dudden got before they were well on their way home again, and they didn’t run the slower because all the dogs of the town were at their heels[5].

Well, as you may fancy, if they loved Donald little before, they loved him less now.

‘What’s the matter, friends?’ said be, as he saw them tearing along, their hats knocked in, and their coats torn off, and their faces black and blue. ‘Is it fighting you’ve been? Or mayhap you met the police, in luck to them?’

‘We’ll police you, you vagabond. It’s mighty smart you thought yourself, deluding us with your lying tales.’

‘Who deluded you? Didn’t you see the gold with your own two eyes?’

But it was no use talking. Pay for it he must, and should. There was a meal-sack handy, and into it Hud-den and Dudden popped Donald O’Neary, tied him up tight, ran a pole through the knot, and off they started for the Brown Lake of the Bog, each with a pole-end on his shoulder, and Donald O’Neary between.

But the Brown Lake was far, the road was dusty, Hudden and Dudden were sore and weary, and parched with thirst. There was an inn by the roadside.

‘Let’s go in,’ said Hudden; ‘I’m dead beat[6]. It’s heavy he is for the little he had to eat.’

If Hudden was willing, so was Dudden. As for Donald, you may be sure his leave wasn’t asked, but he was lumped down at the inn door for all the world as if[7] he had been a sack of potatoes.

‘Sit still, you vagabond,’ said Dudden; ‘if we don’t mind waiting, you needn’t.’

Donald held his peace, but after a while he heard the glasses clink, and Hudden singing away at the top of his voice.

‘I won’t have her, I tell you; I won’t have her!’ said Donald. But nobody heeded what he said.

‘I won’t have her, I tell you; I won’t have her!’ said Donald, and this time he said it louder; but nobody heeded what he said.

‘I won’t have her, I tell you; I won’t have her!’ said Donald; and this time he said it as loud as he could.

‘And who won’t you have, may I be so bold as to ask?’ said a farmer, who had just come up with a drove of cattle and was turning in for a glass.

‘It’s the king’s daughter. They are bothering the life out of me to marry her.’

‘You’re the lucky fellow. I’d give something to be in your shoes.’

‘Do you see that now! Wouldn’t it be a fine thing for a farmer to be marrying a princess, all dressed in gold and jewels?’

‘Jewels, do you say? Ah, now, couldn’t you take me with you?’

‘Well, you’re an honest fellow, and as I don’t care for the king’s daughter, though she’s as beautiful as the day, and is covered with jewels from top to toe, you shall have her. Just undo the cord, and let me out; they tied me up tight, as they knew I’d run away from her.’

Out crawled Donald, in crept the farmer.

‘Now lie still, and don’t mind the shaking; it’s only rumbling over the palace steps you’ll be. And maybe they’ll abuse you for a vagabond, who won’t have the king’s daughter; but you needn’t mind that. Ah! It’s a deal I’m giving up for you, sure as it is that I don’t care for the princess.’

‘Take my cattle in exchange,’ said the farmer; and you may guess it wasn’t long before Donald was at their tails driving them homewards.

Out came Hudden and Dudden, and the one took one end of the pole, and the other the other.

‘I’m thinking he’s heavier,’ said Hudden.

‘Ah, never mind,’ said Dudden; ‘it’s only a step now to the Brown Lake.’

‘I’ll have her now! I’ll have her now!’ bawled the farmer, from inside the sack.

‘By my faith[8], and you shall though,’ said Hudden, and he laid his stick across the sack.

‘I’ll have her! I’ll have her!’ bawled the farmer, louder than ever.

‘Well, here you are,’ said Dudden, for they were now come to the Brown Lake, and, unslinging the sack, they pitched it plump into the lake.

‘You’ll not be playing your tricks on us any longer,’ said Hudden.

‘True for you,’ said Dudden. ‘Ah, Donald, my boy, it was an ill day when you borrowed my scales.’

Off they went, with a light step and an easy heart, but when they were near home, who should they see but Donald O’Neary, and all around him the cows were grazing, and the calves were kicking up their heels and butting their heads together.

‘Is it you, Donald?’ said Dudden. ‘Faith, you’ve been quicker than we have.’

‘True for you, Dudden, and let me thank you kindly; the turn was good, if the will was ill[9]. You’ll have heard, like me, that the Brown Lake leads to the Land of Promise. I always put it down as lies, but it is just as true as my word. Look at the cattle.’

Hudden stared, and Dudden gaped; but they couldn’t get over the cattle; fine fat cattle they were too.

‘It’s only the worst I could bring up with me,’ said Donald O’Neary; ‘the others were so fat, there was no driving them. Faith, too, it’s little wonder they didn’t care to leave, with grass as far as you could see, and as sweet and juicy as fresh butter.’

‘Ah, now, Donald, we haven’t always been friends,’ said Dudden, ‘but, as I was just saying, you were ever a decent lad, and you’ll show us the way, won’t you?’

‘I don’t see that I’m called upon to do that; there is a power more cattle down there. Why shouldn’t I have them all to myself?’

‘Faith, they may well say, the richer you get, the harder the heart. You always were a neighbourly lad, Donald. You wouldn’t wish to keep the luck all to yourself?’

‘True for you, Hudden, though ’tis a bad example you set me. But I’ll not be thinking of old times. There is plenty for all there, so come along with me.’

Off they trudged, with a light heart and an eager step. When they came to the Brown Lake, the sky was full of little white clouds, and, if the sky was full, the lake was as full.

‘Ah now! Look, there they are,’ cried Donald, as he pointed to the clouds in the lake.

‘Where? Where?’ cried Hudden and, ‘Don’t be greedy!’ cried Dudden, as he jumped his hardest to be up first with the fat cattle. But if he jumped first, Hudden wasn’t long behind.

They never came back. Maybe they got too fat, like the cattle. As for Donald O’Neary, he had cattle and sheep all his days to his heart’s content.

The Story of Deirdre

There was a man in Ireland once who was called Malcolm Harper. The man was a right good man, and he had a goodly-share of this world’s goods. He had a wife, but no family. What did Malcolm hear but that a soothsayer had come home to the place, and as the man was a right good man, he wished that the soothsayer might come near them. Whether it was that he was invited or that he came of himself, the soothsayer came to the house of Malcolm.

‘Are you doing any soothsaying?’ says Malcolm.

‘Yes, I am doing a little. Are you in need of soothsaying?’

‘Well, I do not mind taking soothsaying from you, if you had soothsaying for me, and you would be willing to do it.’

‘Well, I will do soothsaying for you. What kind of soothsaying do you want?’

‘Well, the soothsaying I wanted was that you would tell me my lot or what will happen to me, if you can give me knowledge of it.’

‘Well, I am going out, and when I return, I will tell you.’

And the soothsayer went forth out of the house and he was not long outside when he returned.

‘Well,’ said the soothsayer, ‘I saw in my second sight that it is on account of a daughter of yours that the greatest amount of blood shall be shed that has ever been shed in Erin since time and race began. And the three most famous heroes that ever were found will lose their heads on her account.’

After a time, a daughter was born to Malcolm; he did not allow a living being to come to his house, only himself and the nurse. He asked this woman, ‘Will you yourself bring up the child to keep her in hiding far away where eye will not see a sight of her nor ear hear a word about her?’

The woman said she would, so Malcolm got three men, and he took them away to a large mountain, distant and far from reach without the knowledge or notice of anyone. He caused there a hillock, round and green, to be dug out of the middle, and the hole thus made to be covered carefully over so that a little company could dwell there together. This was done.

Deirdre and her foster-mother dwelt in the bothy mid the hills without the knowledge or the suspicion of any living person about them and without anything occurring, until Deirdre was sixteen years of age. Deirdre grew like the white sapling, straight and trim as the rash on the moss. She was the creature of fairest form, of loveliest aspect, and of gentlest nature that existed between earth and heaven in all Ireland – whatever colour of hue she had before, there was nobody that looked into her face but she would blush fiery red over it.

The woman that had charge of her, gave Deirdre every information and skill of which she herself had knowledge and skill. There was not a blade of grass growing from root, nor a bird singing in the wood, nor a star shining from heaven but Deirdre had a name for it. But one thing, she did not wish her to have either part or parley with any single living man of the rest of the world. But on a gloomy winter night, with black, scowling clouds, a hunter of game was wearily travelling the hills, and what happened but that he missed the trail of the hunt, and lost his course and companions. A drowsiness came upon the man as he wearily wandered over the hills, and he lay down by the side of the beautiful green knoll in which Deirdre lived, and he slept. The man was faint from hunger and wandering, and benumbed with cold, and a deep sleep fell upon him. When he lay down beside the green hill where Deirdre was, a troubled dream came to the man, and he thought that he enjoyed the warmth of a fairy broch, the fairies being inside playing music. The hunter shouted out in his dream, if there was anyone in the broch, to let him in for the Holy One’s sake[10]. Deirdre heard the voice and said to her foster mother, ‘O foster-mother, what cry is that?’

‘It is nothing at all, Deirdre – merely the birds of the air astray and seeking each other. But let them go past to the bosky glade. There is no shelter or house for them here.’

‘Oh, foster-mother, the bird asked to get inside for the sake of the God of the Elements, and you yourself tell me that anything that is asked in His name we ought to do. If you will not allow the bird that is being benumbed with cold, and done to death with hunger, to be let in, I do not think much of your language or your faith. But since I give credence to your language and to your faith, which you taught me, I will myself let in the bird.’ And Deirdre arose and drew the bolt from the leaf of the door, and she let in the hunter. She placed a seat in the place for sitting, food in the place for eating, and drink in the place for drinking for the man who came to the house.

‘Oh, for this life and raiment, you man that came in, keep restraint on your tongue[11]!’ said the old woman. ‘It is not a great thing for you to keep your mouth shut and your tongue quiet when you get a home and shelter of a hearth on a gloomy winter’s night.’

‘Well;’ said the hunter, ‘I may do that – keep my mouth shut and my tongue quiet, since I came to the house and received hospitality from you; but by the hand of thy father and grandfather, and by your own two hands, if some other of the people of the world saw this beauteous creature you have here hid away, they would not long leave her with you, I swear.’

‘What men are these you refer to?’ said Deirdre.

‘Well, I will tell you, young woman,’ said the hunter. ‘They art Naois, son of Uisnech, and Allen and Arden his two brothers.’

‘What like are these men when seen, if we were to see them?’ said Deirdre.

‘Why, the aspect and form of the men when seen are these,’ said the hunter. ‘They have the colour of the raven on their hair, their skin like swan on the wave in whiteness, and their cheeks as the blood of the brindled red calf, and their speed and their leap are those of the salmon of the torrent and the deer of the grey mountainside. And Naois is head and shoulders over the rest of the people of Erin.’

‘However they are,’ said the nurse, ‘be you off from here and take another road. And, king of Light and Sun! In good sooth and certainty, little are my thanks for yourself or for her that let you in!’

The hunter went away, and went straight to the palace of King Connachar. He sent word into the king that he wished to speak to him if he pleased. The king answered the message and came out to speak to the man.

‘What is the reason of your journey?’ said the king to the hunter.

‘I have only to tell you, O king,’ said the hunter, ‘that I saw the fairest creature that ever was born in Erin, and I came to tell you of it.’

‘Who is this beauty and where is she to be seen, when she was not seen before till you saw her, if you did see her?’

‘Well, I did see her,’ said the hunter. ‘But, if I did, no man else can see her unless he get directions from me as to where she is dwelling.’

‘And will you direct me to where she dwells? And the reward of your directing me will be as good as the reward of your message,’ said the king.

‘Well, I will direct you, O king, although it is likely that this will not be what they want,’ said the hunter.

Connachar, king of Ulster, sent for his nearest kinsmen, and he told them of his intent. Though early rose the song of the birds mid the rocky caves and the music of the birds in the grove, earlier than that did Connachar, king of Ulster, arise, with his little troop of dear friends, in the delightful twilight of the fresh and gentle May; the dew was heavy on each bush and flower and stem, as they went to bring Deirdre forth from the green knoll where she stayed. Many a youth was there who had a lithe leaping and lissom step when they started whose step was faint, failing, and faltering when they reached the bothy on account of the length of the way and roughness of the road.

‘Yonder, now, down in the bottom of the glen is the bothy where the woman dwells, but I will not go nearer than this to the old woman,’ said the hunter.

Connachar with his band of kinsfolk went down to the green knoll where Deirdre dwelt and he knocked at the door of the bothy. The nurse replied, ‘No less than a king’s command and a king’s army could put me out of my bothy tonight. And I should be obliged to you, were you to tell who it is that wants me to open my bothy door.’

‘It is I, Connachar, king of Ulster.’ When the poor woman heard who was at the door, she rose with haste and let in the king and all that could get in of his retinue.

When the king saw the woman that was before him that he had been in quest of, he thought he never saw in the course of the day nor in the dream of night a creature so fair as Deirdre and he gave his full heart’s weight of love to her. Deirdre was raised on the topmost of the heroes’ shoulders and she and her foster-mother were brought to the court of King Connachar of Ulster.

With the love that Connachar had for her, he wanted to marry Deirdre right off there and then[12], will she nill she marry him. But she said to him, ‘I would be obliged to you if you will give me the respite of a year and a day.’

He said, ‘I will grant you that, hard though it is, if you will give me your unfailing promise that you will marry me at the year’s end.’ And she gave the promise. Connachar got for her a woman-teacher and merry modest maidens fair that would lie down and rise with her, that would play and speak with her. Deirdre was clever in maidenly duties and wifely understanding, and Connachar thought he never saw with bodily eye a creature that pleased him more.

Deirdre and her women companions were one day out on the hillock behind the house enjoying the scene, and drinking in the sun’s heat. What did they see coming but three men a-journeying[13].

Deirdre was looking at the men that were coming, and wondering at them. When the men neared them, Deirdre remembered the language of the huntsman, and she said to herself that these were the three sons of Uisnech, and that this was Naois, he having what was above the bend of the two shoulders above the men of Erin all. The three brothers went past without taking any notice of them, without even glancing at the young girls on the hillock. What happened but that love for Naois struck the heart of Deirdre, so that she could not but follow after him. She girded up her raiment and went after the men that went past the base of the knoll, leaving her women attendants there. Allen and Arden had heard of the woman that Connachar, king of Ulster, had with him, and they thought that, if Naois, their brother, saw her, he would have her himself, more especially as she was not married to the king. They perceived the woman coming, and called on one another to hasten their step as they had a long distance to travel, and the dusk of night was coming on. They did so. She cried, ‘Naois, son of Uisnech, will you leave me?’

‘What piercing, shrill cry is that – the most melodious my ear ever heard, and the shrillest that ever struck my heart of all the cries I ever heard?’

‘It is anything else but the wail of the wave-swans of Connachar,’ said his brothers.

‘No! Yonder is a woman’s cry of distress,’ said Naois, and he swore he would not go farther until he saw from whom the cry came, and Naois turned back. Naois and Deirdre met, and Deirdre kissed Naois three times, and a kiss each to his brothers. With the confusion that she was in, Deirdre went into a crimson blaze of fire, and her colour came and went as rapidly as the movement of the aspen by the stream side. Naois thought he never saw a fairer creature, and Naois gave Deirdre the love that he never gave to thing, to vision, or to creature but to herself.

Then Naois placed Deirdre on the topmost height of his shoulder, and told his brothers to keep up their pace[14], and they kept up their pace. Naois thought that it would not be well for him to remain in Erin on account of the way in which Connachar, king of Ulster, his uncle’s son, had gone against him because of the woman, though he had not married her; and he turned back to Alba, that is, Scotland. He reached the side of Loch Ness and made his habitation there. He could kill the salmon of the torrent from out his own door, and the deer of the grey gorge from out his window. Naois and Deirdre and Allen and Arden dwelt in a tower, and they were happy so long a time as they were there.

By this time the end of the period came at which Deirdre had to marry Connachar, king of Ulster. Connachar made up his mind to take Deirdre away by the sword whether she was married to Naois or not. So he prepared a great and gleeful feast. He sent word far and wide through Erin all to his kinspeople to come to the feast. Connachar thought to himself that Naois would not come though he should bid him; and the scheme that arose in his mind was to send for his father’s brother, Ferchar Mae Ro, and to send him on an embassy to Naois. He did so; and Connachar said to Ferchar, ‘Tell Naois, son of Uisnech, that I am setting forth a great and gleeful feast to my friends and kinspeople throughout the wide extent of Erin all, and that I shall not have rest by day nor sleep by night if he and Allen and Arden be not partakers of the feast.’