THE WELL OF THE SAINTS |
ACT I |
ACT II |
ACT III |
THE WELL OF THE SAINTS was first produced in the Abbey Theatre in February, 1905, by the Irish National Theatre Society, under the direction of W. G. Fay, and with the following cast.
Martin Doul W. G. FAY Mary Doul EMMA VERNON Timmy GEORGE ROBERTS Molly Byrne SARA ALLGOOD Bride MAIRE NIC SHIUBHLAIGH Mat Simon P. MAC SHIUBHLAIGH The Saint F. J. FAY OTHER GIRLS AND MEN
MARTIN DOUL, weather-beaten, blind beggar
MARY DOUL, his wife, weather-beaten, ugly woman, blind also, nearly fifty
TIMMY, a middle-aged, almost elderly, but vigorous smith
MOLLY BYRNE, fine-looking girl with fair hair
BRIDE, another handsome girl
MAT SIMON
THE SAINT, a wandering friar
OTHER GIRLS AND MEN
[Roadside with big stones, etc., on the right; low loose wall at back with gap near centre; at left, ruined doorway of church with bushes beside it. Martin Doul and Mary Doul grope in on left and pass over to stones on right, where they sit.]
MARY DOUL.
What place are we now, Martin Doul?
MARTIN DOUL.
Passing the gap.
MARY DOUL.
raising her head. — The length of that! Well, the sun’s
getting warm this day if it’s late autumn itself.
MARTIN DOUL.
putting out his hands in sun. — What way wouldn’t it be warm
and it getting high up in the south? You were that length plaiting your yellow
hair you have the morning lost on us, and the people are after passing to the
fair of Clash.
MARY DOUL.
It isn’t going to the fair, the time they do be driving their cattle and
they with a litter of pigs maybe squealing in their carts, they’d give us
a thing at all. (She sits down.) It’s well you know that, but you
must be talking.
MARTIN DOUL.
sitting down beside her and beginning to shred rushes she gives him.
— If I didn’t talk I’d be destroyed in a short while
listening to the clack you do be making, for you’ve a queer cracked
voice, the Lord have mercy on you, if it’s fine to look on you are
itself.
MARY DOUL.
Who wouldn’t have a cracked voice sitting out all the year in the rain
falling? It’s a bad life for the voice, Martin Doul, though I’ve
heard tell there isn’t anything like the wet south wind does be blowing
upon us for keeping a white beautiful skin — the like of my skin —
on your neck and on your brows, and there isn’t anything at all like a
fine skin for putting splendour on a woman.
MARTIN DOUL.
teasingly, but with good humour. — I do be thinking odd times we
don’t know rightly what way you have your splendour, or asking myself,
maybe, if you have it at all, for the time I was a young lad, and had fine
sight, it was the ones with sweet voices were the best in face.
MARY DOUL.
Let you not be making the like of that talk when you’ve heard Timmy the
smith, and Mat Simon, and Patch Ruadh, and a power besides saying fine things
of my face, and you know rightly it was “the beautiful dark woman”
they did call me in Ballinatone.
MARTIN DOUL.
as before. — If it was itself I heard Molly Byrne saying at the
fall of night it was little more than a fright you were.
MARY DOUL.
sharply. — She was jealous, God forgive her, because Timmy the
smith was after praising my hair.
MARTIN DOUL.
with mock irony. — Jealous!
MARY DOUL.
Ay, jealous, Martin Doul; and if she wasn’t itself, the young and silly
do be always making game of them that’s dark, and they’d think it a
fine thing if they had us deceived, the way we wouldn’t know we were so
fine-looking at all.
[She puts her hand to her face with a complacent gesture.]
MARTIN DOUL.
a little plaintively. — I do be thinking in the long nights
it’d be a grand thing if we could see ourselves for one hour, or a minute
itself, the way we’d know surely we were the finest man and the finest
woman of the seven counties of the east (bitterly) and then the seeing
rabble below might be destroying their souls telling bad lies, and we’d
never heed a thing they’d say.
MARY DOUL.
If you weren’t a big fool you wouldn’t heed them this hour, Martin
Doul, for they’re a bad lot those that have their sight, and they do have
great joy, the time they do be seeing a grand thing, to let on they don’t
see it at all, and to be telling fool’s lies, the like of what Molly
Byrne was telling to yourself.
MARTIN DOUL.
If it’s lies she does be telling she’s a sweet, beautiful voice
you’d never tire to be hearing, if it was only the pig she’d be
calling, or crying out in the long grass, maybe after her hens. (Speaking
pensively.) It should be a fine, soft, rounded woman, I’m thinking,
would have a voice the like of that.
MARY DOUL.
sharply again, scandalized. — Let you not be minding if it’s
flat or rounded she is; for she’s a flighty, foolish woman, you’ll
hear when you’re off a long way, and she making a great noise and
laughing at the well.
MARTIN DOUL.
Isn’t laughing a nice thing the time a woman’s young?
MARY DOUL.
bitterly. — A nice thing is it? A nice thing to hear a woman
making a loud braying laugh the like of that? Ah, she’s a great one for
drawing the men, and you’ll hear Timmy himself, the time he does be
sitting in his forge, getting mighty fussy if she’ll come walking from
Grianan, the way you’ll hear his breath going, and he wringing his hands.
MARTIN DOUL.
slightly piqued. — I’ve heard him say a power of times
it’s nothing at all she is when you see her at the side of you, and yet I
never heard any man’s breath getting uneasy the time he’d be
looking on yourself.
MARY DOUL.
I’m not the like of the girls do be running round on the roads, swinging
their legs, and they with their necks out looking on the men.... Ah,
there’s a power of villainy walking the world, Martin Doul, among them
that do be gadding around with their gaping eyes, and their sweet words, and
they with no sense in them at all.
MARTIN DOUL.
sadly. — It’s the truth, maybe, and yet I’m told
it’s a grand thing to see a young girl walking the road.
MARY DOUL.
You’d be as bad as the rest of them if you had your sight, and I did
well, surely, not to marry a seeing man — it’s scores would have
had me and welcome — for the seeing is a queer lot, and you’d never
know the thing they’d do.
[A moment’s pause.]
MARTIN DOUL.
listening. — There’s some one coming on the road.
MARY DOUL.
Let you put the pith away out of their sight, or they’ll be picking it
out with the spying eyes they have, and saying it’s rich we are, and not
sparing us a thing at all.
[They bundle away the rushes. Timmy the smith comes in on left.]
MARTIN DOUL.
with a begging voice. — Leave a bit of silver for blind Martin,
your honour. Leave a bit of silver, or a penny copper itself, and we’ll
be praying the Lord to bless you and you going the way.
TIMMY.
stopping before them. — And you letting on a while back you knew
my step!
[He sits down.]
MARTIN DOUL.
with his natural voice. — I know it when Molly Byrne’s
walking in front, or when she’s two perches, maybe, lagging behind; but
it’s few times I’ve heard you walking up the like of that, as if
you’d met a thing wasn’t right and you coming on the road.
TIMMY.
hot and breathless, wiping his face. — You’ve good ears, God
bless you, if you’re a liar itself; for I’m after walking up in
great haste from hearing wonders in the fair.
MARTIN DOUL.
rather contemptuously. — You’re always hearing queer
wonderful things, and the lot of them nothing at all; but I’m thinking,
this time, it’s a strange thing surely you’d be walking up before
the turn of day, and not waiting below to look on them lepping, or dancing, or
playing shows on the green of Clash.
TIMMY.
huffed. — I was coming to tell you it’s in this place
there’d be a bigger wonder done in a short while (Martin Doul stops
working) than was ever done on the green of Clash, or the width of Leinster
itself; but you’re thinking, maybe, you’re too cute a little fellow
to be minding me at all.
MARTIN DOUL.
amused, but incredulous. — There’ll be wonders in this
place, is it?
TIMMY.
Here at the crossing of the roads.
MARTIN DOUL.
I never heard tell of anything to happen in this place since the night they
killed the old fellow going home with his gold, the Lord have mercy on him, and
threw down his corpse into the bog. Let them not be doing the like of that this
night, for it’s ourselves have a right to the crossing roads, and we
don’t want any of your bad tricks, or your wonders either, for it’s
wonder enough we are ourselves.
TIMMY.
If I’d a mind I’d be telling you of a real wonder this day, and the
way you’ll be having a great joy, maybe, you’re not thinking on at
all.
MARTIN DOUL.
interested. — Are they putting up a still behind in the rocks?
It’d be a grand thing if I’d sup handy the way I wouldn’t be
destroying myself groping up across the bogs in the rain falling.
TIMMY.
still moodily. — It’s not a still they’re bringing, or
the like of it either.
MARY DOUL.
persuasively, to Timmy. — Maybe they’re hanging a thief,
above at the bit of a tree. I’m told it’s a great sight to see a
man hanging by his neck; but what joy would that be to ourselves, and we not
seeing it at all?
TIMMY.
more pleasantly. — They’re hanging no one this day, Mary
Doul, and yet, with the help of God, you’ll see a power hanged before you
die.
MARY DOUL.
Well you’ve queer hum-bugging talk.... What way would I see a power
hanged, and I a dark woman since the seventh year of my age?
TIMMY.
Did ever you hear tell of a place across a bit of the sea, where there is an
island, and the grave of the four beautiful saints?
MARY DOUL.
I’ve heard people have walked round from the west and they speaking of
that.
TIMMY.
impressively. — There’s a green ferny well, I’m told,
behind of that place, and if you put a drop of the water out of it on the eyes
of a blind man, you’ll make him see as well as any person is walking the
world.
MARTIN DOUL.
with excitement. — Is that the truth, Timmy? I’m thinking
you’re telling a lie.
TIMMY.
gruffly. — That’s the truth, Martin Doul, and you may
believe it now, for you’re after believing a power of things
weren’t as likely at all.
MARY DOUL.
Maybe we could send us a young lad to bring us the water. I could wash a naggin
bottle in the morning, and I’m thinking Patch Ruadh would go for it, if
we gave him a good drink, and the bit of money we have hid in the thatch.
TIMMY.
It’d be no good to be sending a sinful man the like of ourselves, for
I’m told the holiness of the water does be getting soiled with the
villainy of your heart, the time you’d be carrying it, and you looking
round on the girls, maybe, or drinking a small sup at a still.
MARTIN DOUL.
with disappointment. — It’d be a long terrible way to be
walking ourselves, and I’m thinking that’s a wonder will bring
small joy to us at all.
TIMMY.
turning on him impatiently. — What is it you want with your
walking? It’s as deaf as blind you’re growing if you’re not
after hearing me say it’s in this place the wonder would be done.
MARTIN DOUL.
with a flash of anger. — If it is can’t you open the big
slobbering mouth you have and say what way it’ll be done, and not be
making blather till the fall of night.
TIMMY.
jumping up. — I’ll be going on now (Mary Doul rises),
and not wasting time talking civil talk with the like of you.
MARY DOUL.
standing up, disguising her impatience. — Let you come here to me,
Timmy, and not be minding him at all. (Timmy stops, and she gropes up to him
and takes him by the coat). You’re not huffy with myself, and let you
tell me the whole story and don’t be fooling me more.... Is it yourself
has brought us the water?
TIMMY.
It is not, surely.
MARY DOUL.
Then tell us your wonder, Timmy.... What person’ll bring it at all?
TIMMY.
relenting. — It’s a fine holy man will bring it, a saint of
the Almighty God.
MARY DOUL.
overawed. — A saint is it?
TIMMY.
Ay, a fine saint, who’s going round through the churches of Ireland, with
a long cloak on him, and naked feet, for he’s brought a sup of the water
slung at his side, and, with the like of him, any little drop is enough to cure
the dying, or to make the blind see as clear as the gray hawks do be high up,
on a still day, sailing the sky.
MARTIN DOUL.
feeling for his stick. — What place is he, Timmy? I’ll be
walking to him now.
TIMMY.
Let you stay quiet, Martin. He’s straying around saying prayers at the
churches and high crosses, between this place and the hills, and he with a
great crowd going behind — for it’s fine prayers he does be saying,
and fasting with it, till he’s as thin as one of the empty rushes you
have there on your knee; then he’ll be coming after to this place to cure
the two of you — we’re after telling him the way you are —
and to say his prayers in the church.
MARTIN DOUL.
turning suddenly to Mary Doul. — And we’ll be seeing
ourselves this day. Oh, glory be to God, is it true surely?
MARY DOUL.
very pleased, to Timmy. — Maybe I’d have time to walk down
and get the big shawl I have below, for I do look my best, I’ve heard
them say, when I’m dressed up with that thing on my head.
TIMMY.
You’d have time surely.
MARTIN DOUL.
listening. — Whisht now.... I hear people again coming by the
stream.
TIMMY.
looking out left, puzzled. — It’s the young girls I left
walking after the Saint.... They’re coming now (goes up to
entrance) carrying things in their hands, and they walking as easy as
you’d see a child walk who’d have a dozen eggs hid in her bib.
MARTIN DOUL.
listening. — That’s Molly Byrne, I’m thinking.
[Molly Byrne and Bride come on left and cross to Martin Doul, carrying water-can, Saint’s bell, and cloak.]
MOLLY.
volubly. — God bless you, Martin. I’ve holy water here, from
the grave of the four saints of the west, will have you cured in a short while
and seeing like ourselves.
TIMMY.
crosses to Molly, interrupting her. — He’s heard that. God
help you. But where at all is the Saint, and what way is he after trusting the
holy water with the likes of you?
MOLLY BYRNE.
He was afeard to go a far way with the clouds is coming beyond, so he’s
gone up now through the thick woods to say a prayer at the crosses of Grianan,
and he’s coming on this road to the church.
TIMMY.
still astonished. — And he’s after leaving the holy water
with the two of you? It’s a wonder, surely.
[Comes down left a little.]
MOLLY BYRNE.
The lads told him no person could carry them things through the briars, and
steep, slippy-feeling rocks he’ll be climbing above, so he looked round
then, and gave the water, and his big cloak, and his bell to the two of us, for
young girls, says he, are the cleanest holy people you’d see walking the
world.
[Mary Doul goes near seat.]
MARY DOUL.
sits down, laughing to herself. — Well, the Saint’s a simple
fellow, and it’s no lie.
MARTIN DOUL.
leaning forward, holding out his hands. — Let you give me the
water in my hand, Molly Byrne, the way I’ll know you have it surely.
MOLLY BYRNE.
giving it to him. — Wonders is queer things, and maybe it’d
cure you, and you holding it alone.
MARTIN DOUL.
looking round. — It does not, Molly. I’m not seeing at all.
(He shakes the can.) There’s a small sup only. Well, isn’t
it a great wonder the little trifling thing would bring seeing to the blind,
and be showing us the big women and the young girls, and all the fine things is
walking the world.
[He feels for Mary Doul and gives her the can.]
MARY DOUL.
shaking it. — Well, glory be to God.
MARTIN DOUL.
pointing to Bride. — And what is it herself has, making sounds in
her hand?
BRIDE.
crossing to Martin Doul. — It’s the Saint’s bell;
you’ll hear him ringing out the time he’ll be going up some place,
to be saying his prayers.
[Martin Doul holds out his hand; she gives it to him.]
MARTIN DOUL.
ringing it. — It’s a sweet, beautiful sound.
MARY DOUL.
You’d know, I’m thinking, by the little silvery voice of it, a
fasting holy man was after carrying it a great way at his side.
[Bride crosses a little right behind Martin Doul.]
MOLLY BYRNE.
unfolding Saint’s cloak. — Let you stand up now, Martin
Doul, till I put his big cloak on you. (Martin Doul rises, comes forward,
centre a little.) The way we’d see how you’d look, and you a
saint of the Almighty God.
MARTIN DOUL.
standing up, a little diffidently. — I’ve heard the priests
a power of times making great talk and praises of the beauty of the saints.
[Molly Byrne slips cloak round him.]
TIMMY.
uneasily. — You’d have a right to be leaving him alone,
Molly. What would the Saint say if he seen you making game with his cloak?
MOLLY BYRNE.
recklessly. — How would he see us, and he saying prayers in the
wood? (She turns Martin Doul round.) Isn’t that a fine
holy-looking saint, Timmy the smith? (Laughing foolishly.) There’s
a grand, handsome fellow, Mary Doul; and if you seen him now you’d be as
proud, I’m thinking, as the archangels below, fell out with the Almighty
God.
MARY DOUL.
with quiet confidence going to Martin Doul and feeling his cloak.
— It’s proud we’ll be this day, surely.
[Martin Doul is still ringing.]
MOLLY BYRNE.
to Martin Doul. — Would you think well to be all your life walking
round the like of that, Martin Doul, and you bell-ringing with the saints of
God?
MARY DOUL.
turning on her, fiercely. — How would he be bell-ringing with the
saints of God and he wedded with myself?
MARTIN DOUL.
It’s the truth she’s saying, and if bell-ringing is a fine life,
yet I’m thinking, maybe, it’s better I am wedded with the beautiful
dark woman of Ballinatone.
MOLLY BYRNE.
scornfully. — You’re thinking that, God help you; but
it’s little you know of her at all.
MARTIN DOUL.
It’s little surely, and I’m destroyed this day waiting to look upon
her face.
TIMMY.
awkwardly. — It’s well you know the way she is; for the like
of you do have great knowledge in the feeling of your hands.
MARTIN DOUL.
still feeling the cloak. — We do, maybe. Yet it’s little I
know of faces, or of fine beautiful cloaks, for it’s few cloaks
I’ve had my hand to, and few faces (plaintively); for the young
girls is mighty shy, Timmy the smith and it isn’t much they heed me,
though they do be saying I’m a handsome man.
MARY DOUL.
mockingly, with good humour. — Isn’t it a queer thing the
voice he puts on him, when you hear him talking of the skinny-looking girls,
and he married with a woman he’s heard called the wonder of the western
world?
TIMMY.
pityingly. — The two of you will see a great wonder this day, and
it’s no lie.
MARTIN DOUL.
I’ve heard tell her yellow hair, and her white skin, and her big eyes are
a wonder, surely.
BRIDE.
who has looked out left. — Here’s the saint coming from the
selvage of the wood.... Strip the cloak from him, Molly, or he’ll be
seeing it now.
MOLLY BYRNE.
hastily to Bride. — Take the bell and put yourself by the stones.
(To Martin Doul.) Will you hold your head up till I loosen the cloak?
(She pulls off the cloak and throws it over her arm. Then she pushes Martin
Doul over and stands him beside Mary Doul.) Stand there now, quiet, and let
you not be saying a word.
[She and Bride stand a little on their left, demurely, with bell, etc., in their hands.]
MARTIN DOUL.
nervously arranging his clothes. — Will he mind the way we are,
and not tidied or washed cleanly at all?
MOLLY BYRNE.
He’ll not see what way you are.... He’d walk by the finest woman in
Ireland, I’m thinking, and not trouble to raise his two eyes to look upon
her face.... Whisht!
[The Saint comes left, with crowd.]
SAINT.
Are these the two poor people?
TIMMY.
officiously. — They are, holy father; they do be always sitting
here at the crossing of the roads, asking a bit of copper from them that do
pass, or stripping rushes for lights, and they not mournful at all, but talking
out straight with a full voice, and making game with them that likes it.
SAINT.
to Martin Doul and Mary Doul. — It’s a hard life
you’ve had not seeing sun or moon, or the holy priests itself praying to
the Lord, but it’s the like of you who are brave in a bad time will make
a fine use of the gift of sight the Almighty God will bring to you today.
(He takes his cloak and puts it about him.) It’s on a bare
starving rock that there’s the grave of the four beauties of God, the way
it’s little wonder, I’m thinking, if it’s with bare starving
people the water should be used. (He takes the water and bell and slings
them round his shoulders.) So it’s to the like of yourselves I do be
going, who are wrinkled and poor, a thing rich men would hardly look at at all,
but would throw a coin to or a crust of bread.
MARTIN DOUL.
moving uneasily. — When they look on herself, who is a fine woman.
TIMMY.
shaking him. — Whisht now, and be listening to the Saint.
SAINT.
looks at them a moment, continues. — If it’s raggy and dirty
you are itself, I’m saying, the Almighty God isn’t at all like the
rich men of Ireland; and, with the power of the water I’m after bringing
in a little curagh into Cashla Bay, He’ll have pity on you, and put sight
into your eyes.
MARTIN DOUL.
taking off his hat. — I’m ready now, holy father.
SAINT.
taking him by the hand. — I’ll cure you first, and then
I’ll come for your wife. We’ll go up now into the church, for I
must say a prayer to the Lord. (To Mary Doul, as he moves off.) And let
you be making your mind still and saying praises in your heart, for it’s
a great wonderful thing when the power of the Lord of the world is brought down
upon your like.
PEOPLE.
pressing after him. — Come now till we watch.
BRIDE.
Come, Timmy.
SAINT.
waving them back. — Stay back where you are, for I’m not
wanting a big crowd making whispers in the church. Stay back there, I’m
saying, and you’d do well to be thinking on the way sin has brought
blindness to the world, and to be saying a prayer for your own sakes against
false prophets and heathens, and the words of women and smiths, and all
knowledge that would soil the soul or the body of a man.
[People shrink back. He goes into church. Mary Doul gropes half-way towards the door and kneels near path. People form a group at right.]
TIMMY.
Isn’t it a fine, beautiful voice he has, and he a fine, brave man if it
wasn’t for the fasting?
BRIDE.
Did you watch him moving his hands?
MOLLY BYRNE.
It’d be a fine thing if some one in this place could pray the like of
him, for I’m thinking the water from our own blessed well would do
rightly if a man knew the way to be saying prayers, and then there’d be
no call to be bringing water from that wild place, where, I’m told, there
are no decent houses, or fine-looking people at all.
BRIDE.
who is looking in at door from right. — Look at the great
trembling Martin has shaking him, and he on his knees.
TIMMY.
anxiously. — God help him... What will he be doing when he sees
his wife this day? I’m thinking it was bad work we did when we let on she
was fine-looking, and not a wrinkled, wizened hag the way she is.
MAT SIMON.
Why would he be vexed, and we after giving him great joy and pride, the time he
was dark?
MOLLY BYRNE.
sitting down in Mary Doul’s seat and tidying her hair. — If
it’s vexed he is itself, he’ll have other things now to think on as
well as his wife; and what does any man care for a wife, when it’s two
weeks or three, he is looking on her face?
MAT SIMON.
That’s the truth now, Molly, and it’s more joy dark Martin got from
the lies we told of that hag is kneeling by the path than your own man will get
from you, day or night, and he living at your side.
MOLLY BYRNE.
defiantly. — Let you not be talking, Mat Simon, for it’s not
yourself will be my man, though you’d be crowing and singing fine songs
if you’d that hope in you at all.
TIMMY.
shocked, to Molly Byrne. — Let you not be raising your voice when
the Saint’s above at his prayers.
BRIDE.
crying out. — Whisht.... Whisht.... I’m thinking he’s
cured.
MARTIN DOUL.
crying out in the church. — Oh, glory be to God....
SAINT.
solemnly. Laus Patri sit et Filio cum Spiritu Paraclito Qui Suae dono
gratiae misertus est Hiberniae....
MARTIN DOUL.
ecstatically. — Oh, glory be to God, I see now surely.... I see
the walls of the church, and the green bits of ferns in them, and yourself,
holy father, and the great width of the sky.
[He runs out half-foolish with joy, and comes past Mary Doul as she scrambles to her feet, drawing a little away from her as he goes by.]
TIMMY.
to the others. — He doesn’t know her at all.
[The Saint comes out behind Martin Doul, and leads Mary Doul into the church. Martin Doul comes on to the People. The men are between him and the Girls; he verifies his position with his stick.]
MARTIN DOUL.
crying out joyfully. — That’s Timmy, I know Timmy by the
black of his head.... That’s Mat Simon, I know Mat by the length of his
legs.... That should be Patch Ruadh, with the gamey eyes in him, and the fiery
hair. (He sees Molly Byrne on Mary Doul’s seat, and his voice changes
completely.) Oh, it was no lie they told me, Mary Doul. Oh, glory to God
and the seven saints I didn’t die and not see you at all. The blessing of
God on the water, and the feet carried it round through the land. The blessing
of God on this day, and them that brought me the Saint, for it’s grand
hair you have (she lowers her head a little confused), and soft skin,
and eyes would make the saints, if they were dark awhile and seeing again, fall
down out of the sky. (He goes nearer to her.) Hold up your head, Mary,
the way I’ll see it’s richer I am than the great kings of the east.
Hold up your head, I’m saying, for it’s soon you’ll be seeing
me, and I not a bad one at all.
[He touches her and she starts up.]
MOLLY BYRNE.
Let you keep away from me, and not be soiling my chin.
[People laugh heartily.]
MARTIN DOUL.
bewildered. — It’s Molly’s voice you have.
MOLLY BYRNE.
Why wouldn’t I have my own voice? Do you think I’m a ghost?
MARTIN DOUL.
Which of you all is herself? (He goes up to Bride.) Is it you is Mary
Doul? I’m thinking you’re more the like of what they said
(peering at her.) For you’ve yellow hair, and white skin, and
it’s the smell of my own turf is rising from your shawl.
[He catches her shawl.]
BRIDE.
pulling away her shawl. — I’m not your wife, and let you get
out of my way.
[The People laugh again.]
MARTIN DOUL.
with misgiving, to another Girl. — Is it yourself it is?
You’re not so fine-looking, but I’m thinking you’d do, with
the grand nose you have, and your nice hands and your feet.
GIRL.
scornfully. — I never seen any person that took me for blind, and
a seeing woman, I’m thinking, would never wed the like of you.
[She turns away, and the People laugh once more, drawing back a little and leaving him on their left.]
PEOPLE.
jeeringly. — Try again, Martin, try again, and you’ll be
finding her yet.
MARTIN DOUL.
passionately. — Where is it you have her hidden away? Isn’t
it a black shame for a drove of pitiful beasts the like of you to be making
game of me, and putting a fool’s head on me the grand day of my life? Ah,
you’re thinking you’re a fine lot, with your giggling, weeping
eyes, a fine lot to be making game of myself and the woman I’ve heard
called the great wonder of the west.
[During this speech, which he gives with his back towards the church, Mary Doul has come out with her sight cured, and come down towards the right with a silly simpering smile, till she is a little behind Martin Doul.]
MARY DOUL.
when he pauses. — Which of you is Martin Doul?
MARTIN DOUL.
wheeling round. — It’s her voice surely.
[They stare at each other blankly.]
MOLLY BYRNE.
to Martin Doul. — Go up now and take her under the chin and be
speaking the way you spoke to myself.
MARTIN DOUL.
in a low voice, with intensity. — If I speak now, I’ll speak
hard to the two of you.
MOLLY BYRNE.
to Mary Doul. — You’re not saying a word, Mary. What is it
you think of himself, with the fat legs on him, and the little neck like a ram?
MARY DOUL.
I’m thinking it’s a poor thing when the Lord God gives you sight
and puts the like of that man in your way.
MARTIN DOUL.
It’s on your two knees you should be thanking the Lord God you’re
not looking on yourself, for if it was yourself you seen you’d be running
round in a short while like the old screeching mad-woman is running round in
the glen.
MARY DOUL.
beginning to realize herself. — If I’m not so fine as some
of them said, I have my hair, and big eyes, and my white skin.
MARTIN DOUL.
breaking out into a passionate cry. — Your hair, and your big
eyes, is it?... I’m telling you there isn’t a wisp on any gray mare
on the ridge of the world isn’t finer than the dirty twist on your head.
There isn’t two eyes in any starving sow isn’t finer than the eyes
you were calling blue like the sea.
MARY DOUL.
interrupting him. — It’s the devil cured you this day with
your talking of sows; it’s the devil cured you this day, I’m
saying, and drove you crazy with lies.
MARTIN DOUL.
Isn’t it yourself is after playing lies on me, ten years, in the day and
in the night; but what is that to you now the Lord God has given eyes to me,
the way I see you an old wizendy hag, was never fit to rear a child to me
itself.
MARY DOUL.
I wouldn’t rear a crumpled whelp the like of you. It’s many a woman
is married with finer than yourself should be praising God if she’s no
child, and isn’t loading the earth with things would make the heavens
lonesome above, and they scaring the larks, and the crows, and the angels
passing in the sky.
MARTIN DOUL.
Go on now to be seeking a lonesome place where the earth can hide you away; go
on now, I’m saying, or you’ll be having men and women with their
knees bled, and they screaming to God for a holy water would darken their
sight, for there’s no man but would liefer be blind a hundred years, or a
thousand itself, than to be looking on your like.
MARY DOUL.
raising her stick. — Maybe if I hit you a strong blow you’d
be blind again, and having what you want.
[The Saint is seen in the church door with his head bent in prayer.]
MARTIN DOUL.
raising his stick and driving Mary Doul back towards left. — Let
you keep off from me now if you wouldn’t have me strike out the little
handful of brains you have about on the road.
[He is going to strike her, but Timmy catches him by the arm.]
TIMMY.
Have you no shame to be making a great row, and the Saint above saying his
prayers?
MARTIN DOUL.
What is it I care for the like of him? (Struggling to free himself). Let
me hit her one good one, for the love of the Almighty God, and I’ll be
quiet after till I die.
TIMMY.
shaking him. — Will you whisht, I’m saying.
SAINT.
coming forward, centre. — Are their minds troubled with joy, or is
their sight uncertain, the way it does often be the day a person is restored?
TIMMY.
It’s too certain their sight is, holy father; and they’re after
making a great fight, because they’re a pair of pitiful shows.
SAINT.
coming between them. — May the Lord who has given you sight send a
little sense into your heads, the way it won’t be on your two selves
you’ll be looking — on two pitiful sinners of the earth — but
on the splendour of the Spirit of God, you’ll see an odd time shining out
through the big hills, and steep streams falling to the sea. For if it’s
on the like of that you do be thinking, you’ll not be minding the faces
of men, but you’ll be saying prayers and great praises, till you’ll
be living the way the great saints do be living, with little but old sacks, and
skin covering their bones. (To Timmy.) Leave him go now, you’re
seeing he’s quiet again. (He frees Martin Doul.) And let you
(he turns to Mary Doul) not be raising your voice, a bad thing in a
woman; but let the lot of you, who have seen the power of the Lord, be thinking
on it in the dark night, and be saying to yourselves it’s great pity and
love He has for the poor, starving people of Ireland. (He gathers his cloak
about him.) And now the Lord send blessing to you all, for I am going on to
Annagolan, where there is a deaf woman, and to Laragh, where there are two men
without sense, and to Glenassil, where there are children blind from their
birth; and then I’m going to sleep this night in the bed of the holy
Kevin, and to be praising God, and asking great blessing on you all.
[He bends his head.]
CURTAIN
[Village roadside, on left the door of a forge, with broken wheels, etc., lying about. A well near centre, with board above it, and room to pass behind it. Martin Doul is sitting near forge, cutting sticks.]
TIMMY.
heard hammering inside forge, then calls. — Let you make haste out
there.... I’ll be putting up new fires at the turn of day, and you
haven’t the half of them cut yet.
MARTIN DOUL.
gloomily. — It’s destroyed I’ll be whacking your old
thorns till the turn of day, and I with no food in my stomach would keep the
life in a pig. (He turns towards the door.) Let you come out here and
cut them yourself if you want them cut, for there’s an hour every day
when a man has a right to his rest.
TIMMY.
coming out, with a hammer, impatiently. — Do you want me to be
driving you off again to be walking the roads? There you are now, and I giving
you your food, and a corner to sleep, and money with it; and, to hear the talk
of you, you’d think I was after beating you, or stealing your gold.
MARTIN DOUL.
You’d do it handy, maybe, if I’d gold to steal.
TIMMY.
throws down hammer; picks up some of the sticks already cut, and throws them
into door. There’s no fear of your having gold — a lazy,
basking fool the like of you.
MARTIN DOUL.
No fear, maybe, and I here with yourself, for it’s more I got a while
since and I sitting blinded in Grianan, than I get in this place working hard,
and destroying myself, the length of the day.
TIMMY.
stopping with amazement. — Working hard? (He goes over to
him.) I’ll teach you to work hard, Martin Doul. Strip off your coat
now, and put a tuck in your sleeves, and cut the lot of them, while I’d
rake the ashes from the forge, or I’ll not put up with you another hour
itself.
MARTIN DOUL.
horrified. — Would you have me getting my death sitting out in the
black wintry air with no coat on me at all?
TIMMY.
with authority. — Strip it off now, or walk down upon the road.
MARTIN DOUL.
bitterly. — Oh, God help me! (He begins taking off his
coat.) I’ve heard tell you stripped the sheet from your wife and you
putting her down into the grave, and that there isn’t the like of you for
plucking your living ducks, the short days, and leaving them running round in
their skins, in the great rains and the cold. (He tucks up his sleeves.)
Ah, I’ve heard a power of queer things of yourself, and there isn’t
one of them I’ll not believe from this day, and be telling to the boys.
TIMMY.
pulling over a big stick. — Let you cut that now, and give me rest
from your talk, for I’m not heeding you at all.
MARTIN DOUL.
taking stick. — That’s a hard, terrible stick, Timmy; and
isn’t it a poor thing to be cutting strong timber the like of that, when
it’s cold the bark is, and slippy with the frost of the air?
TIMMY.
gathering up another armful of sticks. — What way wouldn’t
it be cold, and it freezing since the moon was changed?
He goes into forge.
MARTIN DOUL.
querulously, as he cuts slowly. — What way, indeed, Timmy? For
it’s a raw, beastly day we do have each day, till I do be thinking
it’s well for the blind don’t be seeing them gray clouds driving on
the hill, and don’t be looking on people with their noses red, the like
of your nose, and their eyes weeping and watering, the like of your eyes, God
help you, Timmy the smith.
TIMMY.
seen blinking in doorway. — Is it turning now you are against your
sight?
MARTIN DOUL.
very miserably. — It’s a hard thing for a man to have his
sight, and he living near to the like of you (he cuts a stick and throws it
away), or wed with a wife (cuts a stick); and I do be thinking it
should be a hard thing for the Almighty God to be looking on the world, bad
days, and on men the like of yourself walking around on it, and they slipping
each way in the muck.
TIMMY.
with pot-hooks which he taps on anvil. — You’d have a right
to be minding, Martin Doul, for it’s a power the Saint cured lose their
sight after a while. Mary Doul’s dimming again, I’ve heard them
say; and I’m thinking the Lord, if he hears you making that talk, will
have little pity left for you at all.
MARTIN DOUL.
There’s not a bit of fear of me losing my sight, and if it’s a dark
day itself it’s too well I see every wicked wrinkle you have round by
your eye.
TIMMY.
looking at him sharply. — The day’s not dark since the
clouds broke in the east.
MARTIN DOUL.
Let you not be tormenting yourself trying to make me afeard. You told me a
power of bad lies the time I was blind, and it’s right now for you to
stop, and be taking your rest (Mary Doul comes in unnoticed on right with a
sack filled with green stuff on her arm), for it’s little ease or
quiet any person would get if the big fools of Ireland weren’t weary at
times. (He looks up and sees Mary Doul.) Oh, glory be to God,
she’s coming again.
[He begins to work busily with his back to her.]
TIMMY.
amused, to Mary Doul, as she is going by without looking at them.
— Look on him now, Mary Doul. You’d be a great one for keeping him
steady at his work, for he’s after idling and blathering to this hour
from the dawn of day.
MARY DOUL.
stiffly. — Of what is it you’re speaking, Timmy the smith?
TIMMY.
laughing. — Of himself, surely. Look on him there, and he with the
shirt on him ripping from his back. You’d have a right to come round this
night, I’m thinking, and put a stitch into his clothes, for it’s
long enough you are not speaking one to the other.
MARY DOUL.
Let the two of you not torment me at all.
[She goes out left, with her head in the air.]
MARTIN DOUL.
stops work and looks after her. — Well, isn’t it a queer
thing she can’t keep herself two days without looking on my face?
TIMMY.
jeeringly. — Looking on your face is it? And she after going by
with her head turned the way you’d see a priest going where there’d
be a drunken man in the side ditch talking with a girl. (Martin Doul gets up
and goes to corner of forge, and looks out left.) Come back here and
don’t mind her at all. Come back here, I’m saying, you’ve no
call to be spying behind her since she went off, and left you, in place of
breaking her heart, trying to keep you in the decency of clothes and food.
MARTIN DOUL.
crying out indignantly. — You know rightly, Timmy, it was myself
drove her away.
TIMMY.
That’s a lie you’re telling, yet it’s little I care which one
of you was driving the other, and let you walk back here, I’m saying, to
your work.
MARTIN DOUL.
turning round. — I’m coming, surely.
[He stops and looks out right, going a step or two towards centre.]
TIMMY.
On what is it you’re gaping, Martin Doul?
MARTIN DOUL.
There’s a person walking above.... It’s Molly Byrne, I’m
thinking, coming down with her can.
TIMMY.
If she is itself let you not be idling this day, or minding her at all, and let
you hurry with them sticks, for I’ll want you in a short while to be
blowing in the forge.
[He throws down pot-hooks.]
MARTIN DOUL.
crying out. — Is it roasting me now you’d be? (Turns back
and sees pot-hooks; he takes them up.) Pot-hooks? Is it over them
you’ve been inside sneezing and sweating since the dawn of day?
TIMMY.
resting himself on anvil, with satisfaction. — I’m making a
power of things you do have when you’re settling with a wife, Martin
Doul; for I heard tell last night the Saint’ll be passing again in a
short while, and I’d have him wed Molly with myself.... He’d do it,
I’ve heard them say, for not a penny at all.
MARTIN DOUL.
lays down hooks and looks at him steadily. — Molly’ll be
saying great praises now to the Almighty God and He giving her a fine, stout,
hardy man the like of you.
TIMMY.
uneasily. — And why wouldn’t she, if she’s a fine
woman itself?
MARTIN DOUL.
looking up right. — Why wouldn’t she, indeed, Timmy?.... The
Almighty God’s made a fine match in the two of you, for if you went
marrying a woman was the like of yourself you’d be having the fearfullest
little children, I’m thinking, was ever seen in the world.
TIMMY.
seriously offended. — God forgive you! if you’re an ugly man
to be looking at, I’m thinking your tongue’s worse than your view.
MARTIN DOUL.
hurt also. — Isn’t it destroyed with the cold I am, and if
I’m ugly itself I never seen anyone the like of you for dreepiness this
day, Timmy the smith, and I’m thinking now herself’s coming above
you’d have a right to step up into your old shanty, and give a rub to
your face, and not be sitting there with your bleary eyes, and your big nose,
the like of an old scarecrow stuck down upon the road.
TIMMY.
looking up the road uneasily. — She’s no call to mind what
way I look, and I after building a house with four rooms in it above on the
hill. (He stands up.) But it’s a queer thing the way yourself and
Mary Doul are after setting every person in this place, and up beyond to
Rathvanna, talking of nothing, and thinking of nothing, but the way they do be
looking in the face. (Going towards forge.) It’s the devil’s
work you’re after doing with your talk of fine looks, and I’d do
right, maybe, to step in and wash the blackness from my eyes.
[He goes into forge. Martin Doul rubs his face furtively with the tail of his coat. Molly Byrne comes on right with a water-can, and begins to fill it at the well.]
MARTIN DOUL.
God save you, Molly Byrne.
MOLLY BYRNE.
indifferently. — God save you.
MARTIN DOUL.
That’s a dark, gloomy day, and the Lord have mercy on us all.
MOLLY BYRNE.
Middling dark.
MARTIN DOUL.
It’s a power of dirty days, and dark mornings, and shabby-looking fellows
(he makes a gesture over his shoulder) we do have to be looking on when
we have our sight, God help us, but there’s one fine thing we have, to be
looking on a grand, white, handsome girl, the like of you.... and every time I
set my eyes on you I do be blessing the saints, and the holy water, and the
power of the Lord Almighty in the heavens above.
MOLLY BYRNE.
I’ve heard the priests say it isn’t looking on a young girl would
teach many to be saying their prayers.
[Bailing water into her can with a cup.]
MARTIN DOUL.
It isn’t many have been the way I was, hearing your voice speaking, and
not seeing you at all.
MOLLY BYRNE.
That should have been a queer time for an old, wicked, coaxing fool to be
sitting there with your eyes shut, and not seeing a sight of girl or woman
passing the road.
MARTIN DOUL.
If it was a queer time itself it was great joy and pride I had the time
I’d hear your voice speaking and you passing to Grianan (beginning to
speak with plaintive intensity), for it’s of many a fine thing your
voice would put a poor dark fellow in mind, and the day I’d hear it
it’s of little else at all I would be thinking.
MOLLY BYRNE.
I’ll tell your wife if you talk to me the like of that.... You’ve
heard, maybe, she’s below picking nettles for the widow O’Flinn,
who took great pity on her when she seen the two of you fighting, and yourself
putting shame on her at the crossing of the roads.
MARTIN DOUL.
impatiently. — Is there no living person can speak a score of
words to me, or say “God speed you,” itself, without putting me in
mind of the old woman, or that day either at Grianan?
MOLLY BYRNE.
maliciously. — I was thinking it should be a fine thing to put you
in mind of the day you called the grand day of your life.
MARTIN DOUL.
Grand day, is it? (Plaintively again, throwing aside his work, and leaning
towards her.) Or a bad black day when I was roused up and found I was the
like of the little children do be listening to the stories of an old woman, and
do be dreaming after in the dark night that it’s in grand houses of gold
they are, with speckled horses to ride, and do be waking again, in a short
while, and they destroyed with the cold, and the thatch dripping, maybe, and
the starved ass braying in the yard?
MOLLY BYRNE.
working indifferently. — You’ve great romancing this day,
Martin Doul. Was it up at the still you were at the fall of night?
MARTIN DOUL.
stands up, comes towards her, but stands at far (right) side of
well. — It was not, Molly Byrne, but lying down in a little rickety
shed.... Lying down across a sop of straw, and I thinking I was seeing you
walk, and hearing the sound of your step on a dry road, and hearing you again,
and you laughing and making great talk in a high room with dry timber lining
the roof. For it’s a fine sound your voice has that time, and it’s
better I am, I’m thinking, lying down, the way a blind man does be lying,
than to be sitting here in the gray light taking hard words of Timmy the smith.
MOLLY BYRNE.
looking at him with interest. — It’s queer talk you have if
it’s a little, old, shabby stump of a man you are itself.
MARTIN DOUL.
I’m not so old as you do hear them say.
MOLLY BYRNE.
You’re old, I’m thinking, to be talking that talk with a girl.
MARTIN DOUL.
despondingly. — It’s not a lie you’re telling, maybe,
for it’s long years I’m after losing from the world, feeling love
and talking love, with the old woman, and I fooled the whole while with the
lies of Timmy the smith.
MOLLY BYRNE.
half invitingly. — It’s a fine way you’re wanting to
pay Timmy the smith.... And it’s not his lies you’re making
love to this day, Martin Doul.
MARTIN DOUL.
It is not, Molly, and the Lord forgive us all. (He passes behind her and
comes near her left.) For I’ve heard tell there are lands beyond in
Cahir Iveraghig and the Reeks of Cork with warm sun in them, and fine light in
the sky. (Bending towards her.) And light’s a grand thing for a
man ever was blind, or a woman, with a fine neck, and a skin on her the like of
you, the way we’d have a right to go off this day till we’d have a
fine life passing abroad through them towns of the south, and we telling
stories, maybe, or singing songs at the fairs.
MOLLY BYRNE.
turning round half amused, and looking him over from head to foot.
— Well, isn’t it a queer thing when your own wife’s after
leaving you because you’re a pitiful show, you’d talk the like of
that to me?
MARTIN DOUL.
drawing back a little, hurt, but indignant. — It’s a queer
thing, maybe, for all things is queer in the world. (In a low voice with
peculiar emphasis.) But there’s one thing I’m telling you, if
she walked off away from me, it wasn’t because of seeing me, and I no
more than I am, but because I was looking on her with my two eyes, and she
getting up, and eating her food, and combing her hair, and lying down for her
sleep.
MOLLY BYRNE.
interested, off her guard. — Wouldn’t any married man
you’d have be doing the like of that?
MARTIN DOUL.
seizing the moment that he has her attention. — I’m thinking
by the mercy of God it’s few sees anything but them is blind for a space
(with excitement.) It’s a few sees the old woman rotting for the
grave, and it’s few sees the like of yourself. (He bends over
her.) Though it’s shining you are, like a high lamp would drag in the
ships out of the sea.
MOLLY BYRNE.
shrinking away from him. — Keep off from me, Martin Doul.
MARTIN DOUL.
quickly, with low, furious intensity. — It’s the truth
I’m telling you. (He puts his hand on her shoulder and shakes
her.) And you’d do right not to marry a man is after looking out a
long while on the bad days of the world; for what way would the like of him
have fit eyes to look on yourself, when you rise up in the morning and come out
of the little door you have above in the lane, the time it’d be a fine
thing if a man would be seeing, and losing his sight, the way he’d have
your two eyes facing him, and he going the roads, and shining above him, and he
looking in the sky, and springing up from the earth, the time he’d lower
his head, in place of the muck that seeing men do meet all roads spread on the
world.
MOLLY BYRNE.
who has listened half mesmerized, starting away. — It’s the
like of that talk you’d hear from a man would be losing his mind.
MARTIN DOUL.
going after her, passing to her right. — It’d be little
wonder if a man near the like of you would be losing his mind. Put down your
can now, and come along with myself, for I’m seeing you this day, seeing
you, maybe, the way no man has seen you in the world. (He takes her by the
arm and tries to pull her away softly to the right.) Let you come on now,
I’m saying, to the lands of Iveragh and the Reeks of Cork, where you
won’t set down the width of your two feet and not be crushing fine
flowers, and making sweet smells in the air.
MOLLY BYRNE.
laying down the can; trying to free herself. — Leave me go, Martin
Doul! Leave me go, I’m saying!
MARTIN DOUL.
Let you not be fooling. Come along now the little path through the trees.
MOLLY BYRNE.
crying out towards forge. — Timmy the smith. (Timmy comes out
of forge, and Martin Doul lets her go. Molly Byrne, excited and breathless,
pointing to Martin Doul.) Did ever you hear that them that loses their
sight loses their senses along with it, Timmy the smith!
TIMMY.
suspicious, but uncertain. — He’s no sense, surely, and
he’ll be having himself driven off this day from where he’s good
sleeping, and feeding, and wages for his work.
MOLLY BYRNE.
as before. — He’s a bigger fool than that, Timmy. Look on
him now, and tell me if that isn’t a grand fellow to think he’s
only to open his mouth to have a fine woman, the like of me, running along by
his heels.
[Martin Doul recoils towards centre, with his hand to his eyes; Mary Doul is seen on left coming forward softly.]
TIMMY.
with blank amazement. — Oh, the blind is wicked people, and
it’s no lie. But he’ll walk off this day and not be troubling us
more.
[Turns back left and picks up Martin Doul’s coat and stick; some things fall out of coat pocket, which he gathers up again.]
MARTIN DOUL.
turns around, sees Mary Doul, whispers to Molly Byrne with imploring
agony. — Let you not put shame on me, Molly, before herself and the
smith. Let you not put shame on me and I after saying fine words to you, and
dreaming... dreams... in the night. (He hesitates, and looks round the
sky.) Is it a storm of thunder is coming, or the last end of the world?
(He staggers towards Mary Doul, tripping slightly over tin can.) The
heavens is closing, I’m thinking, with darkness and great trouble passing
in the sky. (He reaches Mary Doul, and seizes her left arm with both his
hands — with a frantic cry.) Is it darkness of thunder is coming,
Mary Doul! Do you see me clearly with your eyes?
MARY DOUL.
snatches her arm away, and hits him with empty sack across the face.
— I see you a sight too clearly, and let you keep off from me now.
MOLLY BYRNE.
clapping her hands. — That’s right, Mary. That’s the
way to treat the like of him is after standing there at my feet and asking me
to go off with him, till I’d grow an old wretched road-woman the like of
yourself.
MARY DOUL.
defiantly. — When the skin shrinks on your chin, Molly Byrne,
there won’t be the like of you for a shrunk hag in the four quarters of
Ireland.... It’s a fine pair you’d be, surely!
[Martin Doul is standing at back right centre, with his back to the audience.]
TIMMY.
coming over to Mary Doul. — Is it no shame you have to let on
she’d ever be the like of you?
MARY DOUL.
It’s them that’s fat and flabby do be wrinkled young, and that
whitish yellowy hair she has does be soon turning the like of a handful of thin
grass you’d see rotting, where the wet lies, at the north of a sty.
(Turning to go out on right.) Ah, it’s a better thing to have a
simple, seemly face, the like of my face, for two-score years, or fifty itself,
than to be setting fools mad a short while, and then to be turning a thing
would drive off the little children from your feet.
[She goes out; Martin Doul has come forward again, mastering himself, but uncertain.]
TIMMY.
Oh, God protect us, Molly, from the words of the blind. (He throws down
Martin Doul’s coat and stick.) There’s your old rubbish now,
Martin Doul, and let you take it up, for it’s all you have, and walk off
through the world, for if ever I meet you coming again, if it’s seeing or
blind you are itself, I’ll bring out the big hammer and hit you a welt
with it will leave you easy till the judgment day.
MARTIN DOUL.
rousing himself with an effort. — What call have you to talk the
like of that with myself?
TIMMY.
pointing to Molly Byrne. — It’s well you know what call I
have. It’s well you know a decent girl, I’m thinking to wed, has no
right to have her heart scalded with hearing talk — and queer, bad talk,
I’m thinking — from a raggy-looking fool the like of you.
MARTIN DOUL.
raising his voice. — It’s making game of you she is, for
what seeing girl would marry with yourself? Look on him, Molly, look on him,
I’m saying, for I’m seeing him still, and let you raise your voice,
for the time is come, and bid him go up into his forge, and be sitting there by
himself, sneezing and sweating, and he beating pot-hooks till the judgment day.
[He seizes her arm again.]
MOLLY BYRNE.
Keep him off from me, Timmy!
TIMMY.
pushing Martin Doul aside. — Would you have me strike you, Martin
Doul? Go along now after your wife, who’s a fit match for you, and leave
Molly with myself.
MARTIN DOUL.
despairingly. — Won’t you raise your voice, Molly, and lay
hell’s long curse on his tongue?
MOLLY BYRNE.
on Timmy’s left. — I’ll be telling him it’s
destroyed I am with the sight of you and the sound of your voice. Go off now
after your wife, and if she beats you again, let you go after the tinker girls
is above running the hills, or down among the sluts of the town, and
you’ll learn one day, maybe, the way a man should speak with a
well-reared, civil girl the like of me. (She takes Timmy by the arm.)
Come up now into the forge till he’ll be gone down a bit on the road, for
it’s near afeard I am of the wild look he has come in his eyes.
[She goes into the forge. Timmy stops in the doorway.]
TIMMY.
Let me not find you out here again, Martin Doul. (He bares his arm.)
It’s well you know Timmy the smith has great strength in his arm, and
it’s a power of things it has broken a sight harder than the old bone of
your skull.
[He goes into the forge and pulls the door after him.]
MARTIN DOUL.
stands a moment with his hand to his eyes. — And that’s the
last thing I’m to set my sight on in the life of the world — the
villainy of a woman and the bloody strength of a man. Oh, God, pity a poor,
blind fellow, the way I am this day with no strength in me to do hurt to them
at all. (He begins groping about for a moment, then stops.) Yet if
I’ve no strength in me I’ve a voice left for my prayers, and may
God blight them this day, and my own soul the same hour with them, the way
I’ll see them after, Molly Byrne and Timmy the smith, the two of them on
a high bed, and they screeching in hell.... It’ll be a grand thing that
time to look on the two of them; and they twisting and roaring out, and
twisting and roaring again, one day and the next day, and each day always and
ever. It’s not blind I’ll be that time, and it won’t be hell
to me, I’m thinking, but the like of heaven itself; and it’s fine
care I’ll be taking the Lord Almighty doesn’t know.
He turns to grope out.
CURTAIN
[The same Scene as in first Act, but gap in centre has been filled with briars, or branches of some sort. Mary Doul, blind again, gropes her way in on left, and sits as before. She has a few rushes with her. It is an early spring day.]
MARY DOUL.
mournfully. — Ah, God help me... God help me; the blackness
wasn’t so black at all the other time as it is this time, and it’s
destroyed I’ll be now, and hard set to get my living working alone, when
it’s few are passing and the winds are cold. (She begins shredding
rushes.) I’m thinking short days will be long days to me from this
time, and I sitting here, not seeing a blink, or hearing a word, and no thought
in my mind but long prayers that Martin Doul’ll get his reward in a short
while for the villainy of his heart. It’s great jokes the people’ll
be making now, I’m thinking, and they pass me by, pointing their fingers
maybe, and asking what place is himself, the way it’s no quiet or decency
I’ll have from this day till I’m an old woman with long white hair
and it twisting from my brow. (She fumbles with her hair, and then seems to
hear something. Listens for a moment.) There’s a queer, slouching
step coming on the road... . God help me, he’s coming surely.
[She stays perfectly quiet. Martin Doul gropes in on right, blind also.]
MARTIN DOUL.
gloomily. — The devil mend Mary Doul for putting lies on me, and
letting on she was grand. The devil mend the old Saint for letting me see it
was lies. (He sits down near her.) The devil mend Timmy the smith for
killing me with hard work, and keeping me with an empty, windy stomach in me,
in the day and in the night. Ten thousand devils mend the soul of Molly Byrne
— (Mary Doul nods her head with approval.) — and the bad,
wicked souls is hidden in all the women of the world. (He rocks himself,
with his hand over his face.) It’s lonesome I’ll be from this
day, and if living people is a bad lot, yet Mary Doul, herself, and she a
dirty, wrinkled-looking hag, was better maybe to be sitting along with than no
one at all. I’ll be getting my death now, I’m thinking, sitting
alone in the cold air, hearing the night coming, and the blackbirds flying
round in the briars crying to themselves, the time you’ll hear one cart
getting off a long way in the east, and another cart getting off a long way in
the west, and a dog barking maybe, and a little wind turning the sticks. (He
listens and sighs heavily.) I’ll be destroyed sitting alone and
losing my senses this time the way I’m after losing my sight, for
it’d make any person afeard to be sitting up hearing the sound of his
breath — (he moves his feet on the stones) — and the noise
of his feet, when it’s a power of queer things do be stirring, little
sticks breaking, and the grass moving — (Mary Doul half sighs, and he
turns on her in horror) — till you’d take your dying oath on
sun and moon a thing was breathing on the stones. (He listens towards her
for a moment, then starts up nervously, and gropes about for his stick.)
I’ll be going now, I’m thinking, but I’m not sure what place
my stick’s in, and I’m destroyed with terror and dread. (He
touches her face as he is groping about and cries out.) There’s a
thing with a cold, living face on it sitting up at my side. (He turns to run
away, but misses his path and stumbles in against the wall.) My road is
lost on me now! Oh, merciful God, set my foot on the path this day, and
I’ll be saying prayers morning and night, and not straining my ear after
young girls, or doing any bad thing till I die.
MARY DOUL.
indignantly. — Let you not be telling lies to the Almighty God.
MARTIN DOUL.
Mary Doul, is it? (Recovering himself with immense relief.) Is it Mary
Doul, I’m saying?
MARY DOUL.
There’s a sweet tone in your voice I’ve not heard for a space.
You’re taking me for Molly Byrne, I’m thinking.
MARTIN DOUL.
coming towards her, wiping sweat from his face. — Well,
sight’s a queer thing for upsetting a man. It’s a queer thing to
think I’d live to this day to be fearing the like of you; but if
it’s shaken I am for a short while, I’ll soon be coming to myself.
MARY DOUL.
You’ll be grand then, and it’s no lie.
MARTIN DOUL.
sitting down shyly, some way off. — You’ve no call to be
talking, for I’ve heard tell you’re as blind as myself.
MARY DOUL.
If I am I’m bearing in mind I’m married to a little dark stump of a
fellow looks the fool of the world, and I’ll be bearing in mind from this
day the great hullabuloo he’s after making from hearing a poor woman
breathing quiet in her place.
MARTIN DOUL.
And you’ll be bearing in mind, I’m thinking, what you seen a while
back when you looked down into a well, or a clear pool, maybe, when there was
no wind stirring and a good light in the sky.
MARY DOUL.
I’m minding that surely, for if I’m not the way the liars were
saying below I seen a thing in them pools put joy and blessing in my heart.
She puts her hand to her hair again.
MARTIN DOUL.
laughing ironically. — Well, they were saying below I was losing
my senses, but I never went any day the length of that.... God help you, Mary
Doul, if you’re not a wonder for looks, you’re the maddest female
woman is walking the counties of the east.
MARY DOUL.
scornfully. You were saying all times you’d a great ear for
hearing the lies of the world. A great ear, God help you, and you think
you’re using it now.
MARTIN DOUL.
If it’s not lies you’re telling would you have me think
you’re not a wrinkled poor woman is looking like three scores, or two
scores and a half!
MARY DOUL.
I would not, Martin. (She leans forward earnestly.) For when I seen
myself in them pools, I seen my hair would be gray or white, maybe, in a short
while, and I seen with it that I’d a face would be a great wonder when
it’ll have soft white hair falling around it, the way when I’m an
old woman there won’t be the like of me surely in the seven counties of
the east.
MARTIN DOUL.
with real admiration. — You’re a cute thinking woman, Mary
Doul, and it’s no lie.
MARY DOUL.
triumphantly. — I am, surely, and I’m telling you a
beautiful white-haired woman is a grand thing to see, for I’m told when
Kitty Bawn was selling poteen below, the young men itself would never tire to
be looking in her face.
MARTIN DOUL.
taking off his hat and feeling his head, speaking with hesitation.
— Did you think to look, Mary Doul, would there be a whiteness the like
of that coming upon me?
MARY DOUL.
with extreme contempt. — On you, God help you!... In a short while
you’ll have a head on you as bald as an old turnip you’d see
rolling round in the muck. You need never talk again of your fine looks, Martin
Doul, for the day of that talk’s gone for ever.
MARTIN DOUL.
That’s a hard word to be saying, for I was thinking if I’d a bit of
comfort, the like of yourself, it’s not far off we’d be from the
good days went before, and that’d be a wonder surely. But I’ll
never rest easy, thinking you’re a gray, beautiful woman, and myself a
pitiful show.
MARY DOUL.
I can’t help your looks, Martin Doul. It wasn’t myself made you
with your rat’s eyes, and your big ears, and your griseldy chin.
MARTIN DOUL.
rubs his chin ruefully, then beams with delight. — There’s
one thing you’ve forgot, if you’re a cute thinking woman itself.
MARY DOUL.
Your slouching feet, is it? Or your hooky neck, or your two knees is black with
knocking one on the other?
MARTIN DOUL.
with delighted scorn. — There’s talking for a cute woman.
There’s talking, surely!
MARY DOUL.
puzzled at joy of his voice. — If you’d anything but lies to
say you’d be talking to yourself.
MARTIN DOUL.
bursting with excitement. — I’ve this to say, Mary Doul.
I’ll be letting my beard grow in a short while, a beautiful, long, white,
silken, streamy beard, you wouldn’t see the like of in the eastern
world.... Ah, a white beard’s a grand thing on an old man, a grand thing
for making the quality stop and be stretching out their hands with good silver
or gold, and a beard’s a thing you’ll never have, so you may be
holding your tongue.
MARY DOUL.
laughing cheerfully. — Well, we’re a great pair, surely, and
it’s great times we’ll have yet, maybe, and great talking before we
die.
MARTIN DOUL.
Great times from this day, with the help of the Almighty God, for a priest
itself would believe the lies of an old man would have a fine white beard
growing on his chin.
MARY DOUL.
There’s the sound of one of them twittering yellow birds do be coming in
the spring-time from beyond the sea, and there’ll be a fine warmth now in
the sun, and a sweetness in the air, the way it’ll be a grand thing to be
sitting here quiet and easy smelling the things growing up, and budding from
the earth.
MARTIN DOUL.
I’m smelling the furze a while back sprouting on the hill, and if
you’d hold your tongue you’d hear the lambs of Grianan, though
it’s near drowned their crying is with the full river making noises in
the glen.
MARY DOUL.
listens. — The lambs is bleating, surely, and there’s cocks
and laying hens making a fine stir a mile off on the face of the hill. (She
starts.)
MARTIN DOUL.
What’s that is sounding in the west?
[A faint sound of a bell is heard.]
MARY DOUL.
It’s not the churches, for the wind’s blowing from the sea.
MARTIN DOUL.
with dismay. — It’s the old Saint, I’m thinking,
ringing his bell.
MARY DOUL.
The Lord protect us from the saints of God! (They listen.) He’s
coming this road, surely.
MARTIN DOUL.
tentatively. — Will we be running off, Mary Doul?
MARY DOUL.
What place would we run?
MARTIN DOUL.
There’s the little path going up through the sloughs.... If we reached
the bank above, where the elders do be growing, no person would see a sight of
us, if it was a hundred yeomen were passing itself; but I’m afeard after
the time we were with our sight we’ll not find our way to it at all.
MARY DOUL.
standing up. — You’d find the way, surely. You’re a
grand man the world knows at finding your way winter or summer, if there was
deep snow in it itself, or thick grass and leaves, maybe, growing from the
earth.
MARTIN DOUL.
taking her hand. — Come a bit this way; it’s here it begins.
(They grope about gap.) There’s a tree pulled into the gap, or a
strange thing happened, since I was passing it before.
MARY DOUL.
Would we have a right to be crawling in below under the sticks?
MARTIN DOUL.
It’s hard set I am to know what would be right. And isn’t it a poor
thing to be blind when you can’t run off itself, and you fearing to see?
MARY DOUL.
nearly in tears. — It’s a poor thing, God help us, and what
good’ll our gray hairs be itself, if we have our sight, the way
we’ll see them falling each day, and turning dirty in the rain?
[The bell sounds nearby.]
MARTIN DOUL.
in despair. — He’s coming now, and we won’t get off
from him at all.
MARY DOUL.
Could we hide in the bit of a briar is growing at the west butt of the church?
MARTIN DOUL.
We’ll try that, surely. (He listens a moment.) Let you make haste;
I hear them trampling in the wood.
[They grope over to church.]
MARY DOUL.
It’s the words of the young girls making a great stir in the trees.
(They find the bush.) Here’s the briar on my left, Martin;
I’ll go in first, I’m the big one, and I’m easy to see.
MARTIN DOUL.
turning his head anxiously. — It’s easy heard you are; and
will you be holding your tongue?
MARY DOUL.
partly behind bush. — Come in now beside of me. (They kneel
down, still clearly visible.) Do you think they can see us now, Martin
Doul?
MARTIN DOUL.
I’m thinking they can’t, but I’m hard set to know; for the
lot of them young girls, the devil save them, have sharp, terrible eyes, would
pick out a poor man, I’m thinking, and he lying below hid in his grave.
MARY DOUL.
Let you not be whispering sin, Martin Doul, or maybe it’s the finger of
God they’d see pointing to ourselves.
MARTIN DOUL.
It’s yourself is speaking madness, Mary Doul; haven’t you heard the
Saint say it’s the wicked do be blind?
MARY DOUL.
If it is you’d have a right to speak a big, terrible word would make the
water not cure us at all.
MARTIN DOUL.
What way would I find a big, terrible word, and I shook with the fear; and if I
did itself, who’d know rightly if it’s good words or bad would save
us this day from himself?
MARY DOUL.
They’re coming. I hear their feet on the stones.
[The Saint comes in on right, with Timmy and Molly Byrne in holiday clothes, the others as before.]
TIMMY.
I’ve heard tell Martin Doul and Mary Doul were seen this day about on the
road, holy father, and we were thinking you’d have pity on them and cure
them again.
SAINT.
I would, maybe, but where are they at all? I have little time left when I have
the two of you wed in the church.
MAT SIMON.
at their seat. — There are the rushes they do have lying round on
the stones. It’s not far off they’ll be, surely.
MOLLY BYRNE.
pointing with astonishment. — Look beyond, Timmy.
[They all look over and see Martin Doul.]
TIMMY.
Well, Martin’s a lazy fellow to be lying in there at the height of the
day. (He goes over shouting.) Let you get up out of that. You were near
losing a great chance by your sleepiness this day, Martin Doul.... The two of
them’s in it, God help us all!
MARTIN DOUL.
scrambling up with Mary Doul. — What is it you want, Timmy, that
you can’t leave us in peace?
TIMMY.
The Saint’s come to marry the two of us, and I’m after speaking a
word for yourselves, the way he’ll be curing you now; for if you’re
a foolish man itself, I do be pitying you, for I’ve a kind heart, when I
think of you sitting dark again, and you after seeing a while and working for
your bread.
[Martin Doul takes Mary Doul’s hand and tries to grope his way off right; he has lost his hat, and they are both covered with dust and grass seeds.]
PEOPLE.
You’re going wrong. It’s this way, Martin Doul.
[They push him over in front of the Saint, near centre. Martin Doul and Mary Doul stand with piteous hang-dog dejection.]
SAINT.
Let you not be afeard, for there’s great pity with the Lord.
MARTIN DOUL.
We aren’t afeard, holy father.
SAINT.
It’s many a time those that are cured with the well of the four beauties
of God lose their sight when a time is gone, but those I cure a second time go
on seeing till the hour of death. (He takes the cover from his can.)
I’ve a few drops only left of the water, but, with the help of God,
It’ll be enough for the two of you, and let you kneel down now upon the
road. Martin Doul wheels round with Mary Doul and tries to get away.
SAINT.
You can kneel down here, I’m saying, we’ll not trouble this time
going to the church.
TIMMY.
turning Martin Doul round, angrily. — Are you going mad in your
head, Martin Doul? It’s here you’re to kneel. Did you not hear his
reverence, and he speaking to you now?
SAINT.
Kneel down, I’m saying, the ground’s dry at your feet.
MARTIN DOUL.
with distress. — Let you go on your own way, holy father.
We’re not calling you at all.
SAINT.
I’m not saying a word of penance, or fasting itself, for I’m
thinking the Lord has brought you great teaching in the blindness of your eyes;
so you’ve no call now to be fearing me, but let you kneel down till I
give you your sight.
MARTIN DOUL.
more troubled. — We’re not asking our sight, holy father,
and let you walk on your own way, and be fasting, or praying, or doing anything
that you will, but leave us here in our peace, at the crossing of the roads,
for it’s best we are this way, and we’re not asking to see.
SAINT.
to the People. — Is his mind gone that he’s no wish to be
cured this day, or to be living or working, or looking on the wonders of the
world?
MARTIN DOUL.
It’s wonders enough I seen in a short space for the life of one man only.
SAINT.
severely. — I never heard tell of any person wouldn’t have
great joy to be looking on the earth, and the image of the Lord thrown upon
men.
MARTIN DOUL.
raising his voice. — Them is great sights, holy father.... What
was it I seen when I first opened my eyes but your own bleeding feet, and they
cut with the stones? That was a great sight, maybe, of the image of God.... And
what was it I seen my last day but the villainy of hell looking out from the
eyes of the girl you’re coming to marry — the Lord forgive you
— with Timmy the smith. That was a great sight, maybe. And wasn’t
it great sights I seen on the roads when the north winds would be driving, and
the skies would be harsh, till you’d see the horses and the asses, and
the dogs itself, maybe, with their heads hanging, and they closing their
eyes——.
SAINT.
And did you never hear tell of the summer, and the fine spring, and the places
where the holy men of Ireland have built up churches to the Lord? No man
isn’t a madman, I’m thinking, would be talking the like of that,
and wishing to be closed up and seeing no sight of the grand glittering seas,
and the furze that is opening above, and will soon have the hills shining as if
it was fine creels of gold they were, rising to the sky.
MARTIN DOUL.
Is it talking now you are of Knock and Ballavore? Ah, it’s ourselves had
finer sights than the like of them, I’m telling you, when we were sitting
a while back hearing the birds and bees humming in every weed of the ditch, or
when we’d be smelling the sweet, beautiful smell does be rising in the
warm nights, when you do hear the swift flying things racing in the air, till
we’d be looking up in our own minds into a grand sky, and seeing lakes,
and big rivers, and fine hills for taking the plough.
SAINT.
to People. — There’s little use talking with the like of
him.
MOLLY BYRNE.
It’s lazy he is, holy father, and not wanting to work; for a while before
you had him cured he was always talking, and wishing, and longing for his
sight.
MARTIN DOUL.
turning on her. — I was longing, surely for sight; but I seen my
fill in a short while with the look of my wife, and the look of yourself, Molly
Byrne, when you’d the queer wicked grin in your eyes you do have the time
you’re making game with a man.
MOLLY BYRNE.
Let you not mind him, holy father; for it’s bad things he was saying to
me a while back — bad things for a married man, your reverence —
and you’d do right surely to leave him in darkness, if it’s that is
best fitting the villainy of his heart.
TIMMY.
to Saint. — Would you cure Mary Doul, your reverence, who is a
quiet poor woman, never did hurt to any, or said a hard word, saving only when
she’d be vexed with himself, or with young girls would be making game of
her below?
SAINT.
to Mary Doul. — If you have any sense, Mary, kneel down at my
feet, and I’ll bring the sight again into your eyes.
MARTIN DOUL.
more defiantly. — You will not, holy father. Would you have her
looking on me, and saying hard words to me, till the hour of death?
SAINT.
severely. — If she’s wanting her sight I wouldn’t have
the like of you stop her at all. (To Mary Doul.) Kneel down, I’m
saying.
MARY DOUL.
doubtfully. — Let us be as we are, holy father, and then
we’ll be known again in a short while as the people is happy and blind,
and be having an easy time, with no trouble to live, and we getting halfpence
on the road.
MOLLY BYRNE.
Let you not be a raving fool, Mary Doul. Kneel down now, and let him give you
your sight, and himself can be sitting here if he likes it best, and taking
halfpence on the road.
TIMMY.
That’s the truth, Mary; and if it’s choosing a wilful blindness you
are, I’m thinking there isn’t anyone in this place will ever be
giving you a hand’s turn or a hap’orth of meal, or be doing the
little things you need to keep you at all living in the world.
MAT SIMON.
If you had your sight, Mary, you could be walking up for him and down with him,
and be stitching his clothes, and keeping a watch on him day and night the way
no other woman would come near him at all.
MARY DOUL.
half persuaded. — That’s the truth, maybe.
SAINT.
Kneel down now, I’m saying, for it’s in haste I am to be going on
with the marriage and be walking my own way before the fall of night.
THE PEOPLE.
Kneel down, Mary! Kneel down when you’re bid by the Saint!
MARY DOUL.
looking uneasily towards Martin Doul. — Maybe it’s right
they are, and I will if you wish it, holy father.
[She kneels down. The Saint takes off his hat and gives it to some one near him. All the men take off their hats. He goes forward a step to take Martin Doul’s hand away from Mary Doul.]
SAINT.
to Martin Doul. — Go aside now; we’re not wanting you here.
MARTIN DOUL.
pushes him away roughly, and stands with his left hand on Mary Doul’s
shoulder. — Keep off yourself, holy father, and let you not be taking
my rest from me in the darkness of my wife.... What call has the like of you to
be coming between married people — that you’re not understanding at
all — and be making a great mess with the holy water you have, and the
length of your prayers? Go on now, I’m saying, and leave us here on the
road.
SAINT.
If it was a seeing man I heard talking to me the like of that I’d put a
black curse on him would weigh down his soul till it’d be falling to
hell; but you’re a poor blind sinner, God forgive you, and I don’t
mind you at all. (He raises his can.) Go aside now till I give the
blessing to your wife, and if you won’t go with your own will, there are
those standing by will make you, surely.
MARTIN DOUL.
pulling Mary Doul. — Come along now, and don’t mind him at
all.
SAINT.
imperiously, to the People. — Let you take that man and drive him
down upon the road.
[Some men seize Martin Doul.]
MARTIN DOUL.
struggling and shouting. — Make them leave me go, holy father!
Make them leave me go, I’m saying, and you may cure her this day, or do
anything that you will.
SAINT.
to People. — Let him be..... Let him be if his sense is come to
him at all.
MARTIN DOUL.
shakes himself loose, feels for Mary Doul, sinking his voice to a plausible
whine. — You may cure herself, surely, holy father; I wouldn’t
stop you at all — and it’s great joy she’ll have looking on
your face — but let you cure myself along with her, the way I’ll
see when it’s lies she’s telling, and be looking out day and night
upon the holy men of God.
[He kneels down a little before Mary Doul.]
SAINT.
speaking half to the People. — Men who are dark a long while and
thinking over queer thoughts in their heads, aren’t the like of simple
men, who do be working every day, and praying, and living like ourselves; so if
he has found a right mind at the last minute itself, I’ll cure him, if
the Lord will, and not be thinking of the hard, foolish words he’s after
saying this day to us all.
MARTIN DOUL.
listening eagerly. — I’m waiting now, holy father.
SAINT.
with can in his hand, close to Martin Doul. — With the power of
the water from the grave of the four beauties of God, with the power of this
water, I’m saying, that I put upon your eyes——.
[He raises can.]
MARTIN DOUL.
with a sudden movement strikes the can from the Saint’s hand and sends
it rocketing across stage. He stands up; People murmur loudly. — If
I’m a poor dark sinner I’ve sharp ears, God help me, and have left
you with a big head on you and it’s well I heard the little splash of the
water you had there in the can. Go on now, holy father, for if you’re a
fine Saint itself, it’s more sense is in a blind man, and more power
maybe than you’re thinking at all. Let you walk on now with your worn
feet, and your welted knees, and your fasting, holy ways a thin pitiful arm.
(The Saint looks at him for a moment severely, then turns away and picks up
his can. He pulls Mary Doul up.) For if it’s a right some of you have
to be working and sweating the like of Timmy the smith, and a right some of you
have to be fasting and praying and talking holy talk the like of yourself,
I’m thinking it’s a good right ourselves have to be sitting blind,
hearing a soft wind turning round the little leaves of the spring and feeling
the sun, and we not tormenting our souls with the sight of the gray days, and
the holy men, and the dirty feet is trampling the world.
[He gropes towards his stone with Mary Doul.]
MAT SIMON.
It’d be an unlucky fearful thing, I’m thinking, to have the like of
that man living near us at all in the townland of Grianan. Wouldn’t he
bring down a curse upon us, holy father, from the heavens of God?
SAINT.
tying his girdle. — God has great mercy, but great wrath for them
that sin.
THE PEOPLE.
Go on now, Martin Doul. Go on from this place. Let you not be bringing great
storms or droughts on us maybe from the power of the Lord.
[Some of them throw things at him.]
MARTIN DOUL.
turning round defiantly and picking up a stone. — Keep off now,
the yelping lot of you, or it’s more than one maybe will get a bloody
head on him with the pitch of my stone. Keep off now, and let you not be
afeard; for we’re going on the two of us to the towns of the south, where
the people will have kind voices maybe, and we won’t know their bad looks
or their villainy at all. (He takes Mary Doul’s hand again.) Come
along now and we’ll be walking to the south, for we’ve seen too
much of everyone in this place, and it’s small joy we’d have living
near them, or hearing the lies they do be telling from the gray of dawn till
the night.
MARY DOUL.
despondingly. — That’s the truth, surely; and we’d
have a right to be gone, if it’s a long way itself, as I’ve heard
them say, where you do have to be walking with a slough of wet on the one side
and a slough of wet on the other, and you going a stony path with a north wind
blowing behind.
[They go out.]
TIMMY.
There’s a power of deep rivers with floods in them where you do have to
be lepping the stones and you going to the south, so I’m thinking the two
of them will be drowned together in a short while, surely.
SAINT.
They have chosen their lot, and the Lord have mercy on their souls. (He
rings his bell.) And let the two of you come up now into the church, Molly
Byrne and Timmy the smith, till I make your marriage and put my blessing on you
all.
[He turns to the church; procession forms, and the curtain comes down, as they go slowly into the church.]