The Well of the Saints

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