[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
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