[_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._]