📒 The Well Of the Saints (day 1)

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joi, 16 mai, 01:53 (acum 3 zile)

to me

Act I

The Well Of the Saints

day 1 of 3

J M Synge

24 minutes read

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 someone 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 humbugging 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 Byrne	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 curragh 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 halfway 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 someone 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 madwoman 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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📒 The Well Of the Saints (day 1)

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The Well Of the Saints

Act I

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