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Miss O’Neill remembered softly — “I’ve seen eggs and the corpses of animals not recently dead. In Liverpool one night when we were playing Synge’s ‘The Tinker’s Wedding’ — in Liverpool, where every night I had to give the man that played the priest a full bottle of brandy to keep his cowardice down — they tore into the masonry — at least into the molding — and threw it at us. And somebody let fly a great pocketknife, which caught one of us flat in the breast, taking the wind all out of him. But everything was not ill luck that night, for when I picked up the knife I found that one of its blades was a corkscrew, which came in handy for my brandy drinker.”
“I’ve seen worse things thrown than that, Molly.” “Have you now?”
“When first we played ‘The Playboy’ in New York they threw Ingersoll watches.”
“What was all the throwing about, anyway?” I wanted to know.
“In Dublin,” Mr. Sinclair explained, “they objected to the use of the word shift, and the objection came overseas with ‘The Playboy.’ ”
“I remember,” smiled Miss O’Neill, “a letter to Sally from a relative, who said her blood froze and her marrow jelled when she heard on the stage the word shift used for a garment which even in the privacy of her home she never referred to but as a chemise. Here is the line — let me recall it — the Playboy says: ‘I wouldn’t leave Peggeen, not if you brought me a drift of chosen females standing in their shifts itself.’ ” “That’s the line,” dropped Mr. Sinclair, “that made the Abbey Theater famous.”
“That’s the play that made the Abbey Theater