The Inheritance
From Donald Macintyre, Benbecula.
THERE was once a farmer, and he was well off. He
had three sons. When he was on the bed of death he called them to him, and he said, “My sons, I am going to leave you: let there be no disputing when I am gone. In a certain drawer, in a dresser in the inner chamber, you will find a sum of gold; divide it fairly and honestly amongst you, work the farm, and live together as you have done with me;” and shortly after the old man went away. The sons buried him; and when all was over, they went to the drawer, and when they drew it out there was nothing in it.
They stood for a while without speaking a word. Then the youngest spoke, and he said—“There is no knowing if there ever was any money at all;” the second said—“There was money surely, wherever it is now;” and the eldest said—“Our father never told a lie. There was money certainly, though I cannot understand the matter.” “Come,” said the eldest, “let us go to such an old man; he was our father’s friend; he knew him well; he was at school with him; and no man knew so much of his affairs. Let us go to consult him.”
So the brothers went to the house of the old man, and they told him all that had happened. “Stay with me,” said the old man, “and I will think over this matter. I cannot understand it; but, as you know, your father and I were very great with each other. When he had children I had sponsorship, and when I had children he had gostji. I know that your father never told a lie.” And he kept them there, and he gave them meat and drink for ten days.
Then he sent for the three young lads, and he made them sit down beside him, and he said—
“There was once a young lad, and he was poor; and he took love for the daughter of a rich neighbour, and she took love for him; but because he was so poor there could be no wedding. So at last they pledged themselves to each other, and the young man went away, and stayed in his own house. After a time there came another suitor, and because he was well off, the girl’s father made her promise to marry him, and after a time they were married. But when the bridegroom came to her, he found her weeping and bewailing; and he said, ‘What ails thee?’ The bride would say nothing for a long time; but at last she told him all about it, and how she was pledged to another man. ‘Dress thyself, said the man, ‘and follow me. So she dressed herself in the wedding clothes, and he took the horse, and put her behind him, and rode to the house of the other man, and when he got there, he struck in the door, and he called out, ‘Is there man within?’ and when the other answered, he left the bride there within the door, and he said nothing, but he returned home. ‘Then the man got up, and got a light, and who was there but the bride in her wedding dress.
“What brought thee here?” said he. ‘Such a man,’ said the bride. ‘I was married to him to-day, and when I told him of the promise we had made, he brought me here himself and left me.’
“ “Sit thou there,’ said the man; ‘art thou not married?’ So he took the horse, and he rode to the priest, and he brought him to the house, and before the priest he loosed the woman from the pledge she had given, and he gave her a line of writing that she was free, and he set her on the horse, and said, ‘Now return to thy husband.’
“So the bride rode away in the darkness in her wedding dress. She had not gone far when she came to a thick wood where three robbers stopped and seized her. ‘Aha!’ said one, ‘we have waited long, and we have got nothing, but now we have got the bride herself.’ ‘Oh,’ said she, ‘let me go: let me go to my husband; the man that I was pledged to has let me go. Here are ten pounds in gold—take them, and let me go on my journey.’ And so she begged and prayed for a long time, and told what had happened to her. At last one of the robbers, who was of a better nature than the rest, said, ‘Come, as the others have done this, I will take you home myself.” ‘Take thou the money,’ said she. ‘I will not take a penny,’ said the robber; but the other two said, ‘Give us the money, and they took the ten pounds. The woman rode home, and the robber left her at her husband’s door, and she went in, and showed him the line -the writing that the other had given her before the priest, and they were well pleased.”
“Now, said the old man, “which of all these do you think did best? So the eldest son said, “I think the man that sent the woman to him to whom she was pledged, was the honest, generous man: he did well.” The second said, “Yes, but the man to whom she was pledged did still better, when he sent her to her husband.” “Then,” said the youngest, “I don’t know myself; but perhaps the wisest of all were the robbers who got the money.” Then the old man rose up, and he said, “Thou hast thy father’s gold and silver. I have kept you here for ten days; I have watched you well. I know your father never told a lie, and thou hast stolen the money.” And so the youngest son had to confess the fact, and the money was got and divided.
I know nothing like No. 19. No. 20 begins like a German story in Grimm; but the rest is unlike anything I have read or heard. The. first part has come to me in another shape, from Ross-shire; and some men whom I met in South Uist seemed to know these incidents.
The two belong to the class referred to in the Introduction, page xxxv. as fourth. Many of the novels in Boccaccio might be ranked with the same class; they are embryo three-volume novels, which only require nursing by a good writer to become full-grown books. There are plenty of the kind throughout the Highlands, and, as it seems to me, they are genuine popular traditions, human stories, whose incidents would suit a king or a peasant equally well, Without a wide knowledge of books, it is impossible to say whence these stories came; or whether they are invented by the people. MacIntyre said he had learned those which he told me from old men like himself, in his native island; and all others whom [ I have questioned say the same of their stories.
The Three Wise Men
From Donald MacIntyre, Benbecula.
THERE was once a farmer, and he was very well off,
but he had never cast an eye on the women, though he was old enough to be married. So one day he took the horse and saddle, and rode to the house of another farmer, who had a daughter, to see if she would suit him for a wife, and when he got there the farmer asked him to come in, and gave him food and drink, and he saw the daughter, and he thought she would suit him well. So he said to the father, “I am thinking it is time for me to be married, I am going to look for a wife”—(here there was a long conversation, which I forget). So the man told his wife what the other had said, and she told her daughter to make haste and set the house in order, for that such a man was come and he was looking for a wife, and she had better show how handy she was. Well never mind, the daughter was willing enough, so she began to set the house in order, and the first thing she thought of was to make up the fire, so she ran out of the house to the peat-stack. Well, while she was bent down filling her apron with peats, what should fall but a great heap from the top of the stack on her head and shoulders. So she thought to herself, “Oh, now, if I were married to that man, and about to be a mother, and all these peats fallen on my head, [ I should now be finished and all my posterity;” and she gave a great burst. of weeping, and sat down lamenting and bewailing. The mother was longing for her daughter to come back, so she went out and found her sitting crying in the end of the peat-stack, and she said, “What is on thee?” and the daughter said, “Oh, mother, the peat-stack fell on my head, and I thought if I were now married to that man, and about to be a mother, I was done, and all my posterity;” and the mother said, “That is true for thee, my daughter; that is true, indeed,” and she sat down and cried too. Then the father was getting cold, so he too went out, wondering what kept the women, and when he found them, they told him what happened, and he said, “That would have been unfortunate indeed,” and he began to roar and cry too, The wooer at last came out himself, and found them all crying in the end of the peat-stack, and when they had told him why they were lamenting, he said, “Never you mind. It may be that this may never happen at all. Go you in-doors, and cry no more.” Then he took his horse and saddle, and rode home; and as he went, he thought, “What a fool I am to be stopping here all my life. Here I sit, and know no more of the world than a stock. I know how to grow corn, and that is all I know. I will go and see the world, and I will never come home till I find thee as wise as those were foolish whom I left crying in the peat-stack.” And so when he got home, he set everything in order, and took the horse and went away. And he travelled the Geldom and the Galldom Highlands and strange lands for many a day, and got much knowledge. At last, one fine evening he came to a pretty plot of green ground in a glen, by a river; and on it there were three men standing. They were like each other, and dressed alike. Their dress was a long coat with short brigis, and a broad belt about the middle, and caps on their heads. (What dress is that? That is the dress they used to wear here. I remember my father well; he always wore it.) So he put Failte on them (saluted them). The three men never answered a word. They looked at him, and then they bent their heads slowly towards each other —-(here the narrator bent his own head, and spoke solemnly)—and there they staid with their heads bowed for ten minutes. Then they raised their heads, and one said, “If I had without what I have within, I would give thee a night’s share;” the second said, “If I had done what is undone, I would give thee a night’s share;” and the third said, “I have nothing more than usual, come with me.” So the farmer followed the old man to his house, wondering what all this should mean. When they had gone in and sat down, he wondered still more, for his host never offered him a drink till he had told him all about his journey. Then he said, “Quicker is a drink than a tale;” and the old man gave a laugh, and struck the board, and a fine woman came and gave him a great cup of ale, and that was good. And he drank it, and thought to himself, “If I had that woman for my wife, she would be better than the one I left weeping in the peat-stack.” The old man laughed again, and he said, If two were willing that might be.” The farmer wondered that this old man should know his thoughts, and answer them, but he held his tongue. Then the old man struck the board, and a girl came in, and he thought, “If I had that one for my wife, she would be better than the girl I left howling in the peat-stack.” The old man gave another little laugh, and he said, “If three were willing that might be too,” and the girl set a small pot on the fire. The farmer looked at it, and thought, “This man must have a small company.” “Ah,” said the man, “it will go about.”
“Now,” said the farmer, * I must know what all this means. I will neither eat nor drink in this house unless you tell me. I saluted you, and you bent your heads, and never answered for ten minutes. When you did speak, I could not understand you, and now you seem to understand my thoughts.” Then the old man said, “Sit down, and I will explain it all. Our father was a very wise man. We never knew how wise he was till long after he went away. We are three brothers, and on the bed of death our father left us this pretty place, and we have it amongst us, and plenty besides. Our father made us swear that we would never talk on important matters but in whispers. When thou camest, we bent our heads and whispered, as we always do, for men cannot dispute in a whisper, and we never quarrel. My first brother had the corpse of his mother-in-law within; he was unwilling to ask a stranger to a house of sorrow. She is to be buried to-morrow—If that were out which he had within, he had given thee a night’s share. My second brother has a wife who will do nothing till she gets three blows of a stick. Then she is like other women, and a good wife; he did not like a stranger to see the blows given, and he knew she would do nothing without them—If he had done what was undone, he had given thee a night’s share. I had nothing to do more than usual. Thou didst tell thy news, and when my wife came in, I knew thy thought. If I were dead, and thou and she were willing, you might be married. So if I, and thou, and my daughter were willing, you might be married too. Now, then, said the old man, sit and eat. The little pot will go about; it will serve for us. My company eat without.” On the morrow, the old man said, “I must go to the funeral to my brother’s house, do thou stay here.” But he said, “I will not stay in any man’s house when he is away. I will go with you to the funeral.” When they came back he staid some time in the old man’s house. He married the daughter, and got a good share of the property. And, now, was not that a lucky peat-stack for the farmer.
This story and No. 19 were told to me on the 6th of September 1859, in the inn at the Sound of Benbecula, by a man whose name would sound to Saxon ears like Dolicolichyarlich; a Celt would know it for Donald MacDonald MacCharles, and his surname is MacIntyre; he is a cotter, and lives in Benbecula,
Donald is known as a good teller of tales, so I walked six miles to his house and heard him tell a long version of the tale of Conal Gulbanach,
It lasted an hour, and I hope to get it written some day; I have other versions of the same incidents. There was an audience of all the people of the village who were within reach, including Mr. Torrie, who lives there near Baile nan Cailleach, which is probably so called from an old nunnery. After the story, the same man recited a fragment of a poem about Fionn and his companions, A man returning from battle with a vast number of heads on a withy, meets a lady who questions him, he recites the history of the heads, and how their owners died. The poem was given rapidly and fluently. The story was partly told in measured prose; but it was very much spun out, and would have gained by condensation.
I told the old man that he had too many leaves on his tree, which he acknowledged to be a fair criticism. He followed me to the inn afterwards, and told me other stories; the household being assembled about the door, and in the room, and taking a warm interest in the proceedings. After a couple of glasses of hot whisky and water, my friend, who was well up in years, walked off home in the dark; and I noted down the heads of his stories in English, because my education, as respects Gaelic writing, was never completed. They are given as I got them, condensed, but unaltered, Donald says he has many more of the same kind.