ACT II
ACT III
Scene: Some lonely mountainous district in the east of Ireland one or
more centuries ago.
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
Persons in the Play
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
THE WELL OF THE SAINTS
ACT I
[_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