The Well of the Saints

hard thing for the Almighty God to be looking on the world, bad days, and on men the like of yourself walking around on it, and they slipping each way in the muck. Timmy With pothooks which he taps on anvil. You’d have a right to be minding, Martin Doul, for it’s a power the Saint cured lose their sight after a while. Mary Doul’s dimming again, I’ve heard them say; and I’m thinking the Lord, if he hears you making that talk, will have little pity left for you at all. Martin Doul There’s not a bit of fear of me losing my sight, and if it’s a dark day itself it’s too well I see every wicked wrinkle you have round by your eye. Timmy Looking at him sharply. The day’s not dark since the clouds broke in the east. Martin Doul Let you not be tormenting yourself trying to make me afeard. You told me a power of bad lies the time I was blind, and it’s right now for you to stop, and be taking your rest Mary Doul comes in unnoticed on right with a sack filled with green stuff on her arm, for it’s little ease or quiet any person would get if the big fools of Ireland weren’t weary at times. He looks up and sees Mary Doul. Oh, glory be to God, she’s coming again. He begins to work busily with his back to her. Timmy Amused, to Mary Doul, as she is going by without looking at them. Look on him now, Mary Doul. You’d be a great one for keeping him steady at his work, for he’s after idling and blathering to this hour from the dawn of day. Mary Doul Stiffly. Of what is it you’re speaking, Timmy the smith? Timmy Laughing. Of himself, surely. Look on him there, and he with the shirt on him ripping from his back. You’d have a right to come round this night, I’m thinking, and put a stitch into his clothes, for it’s long enough you are not speaking one to the other. Mary Doul Let the two of you not torment me at all. She goes out left, with her head in the air. Martin Doul Stops work and looks after her. Well, isn’t it a queer thing she can’t keep herself two days without looking on my face? Timmy Jeeringly. Looking on your face is it? And she after going by with her head turned the way you’d see a priest going where there’d be a drunken man in the side ditch talking with a girl. Martin Doul gets up and goes to corner of forge, and looks out left. Come back here and don’t mind her at all. Come back here, I’m saying, you’ve no call to be spying behind her since she went off, and left you, in place of breaking her heart, trying to keep you in the decency of clothes and food. Martin Doul Crying out indignantly. You know rightly, Timmy, it was myself drove her away. Timmy That’s a lie you’re telling, yet it’s little I care which one of you was driving the other, and let you walk back here, I’m saying, to your work. Martin Doul Turning round. I’m coming, surely. He stops and looks out right, going a step or two towards centre. Timmy On what is it you’re gaping, Martin Doul? Martin Doul There’s a person walking above.⁠ ⁠… It’s Molly Byrne, I’m thinking, coming down with her can. Timmy If she is itself let you not be idling this day, or minding her at all, and let you hurry with them sticks, for I’ll want you in a short while to be blowing in the forge. He throws down pothooks. Martin Doul Crying out. Is it roasting me now you’d be? Turns back and sees pothooks; he takes them up. Pothooks? Is it over them you’ve been inside sneezing and sweating since the dawn of day? Timmy Resting himself on anvil, with satisfaction. I’m making a power of things you do have when you’re settling with a wife, Martin Doul; for I heard tell last night the Saint’ll be passing again in a short while, and I’d have him wed Molly with myself.⁠ ⁠… He’d do it, I’ve heard them say, for not a penny at all. Martin Doul Lays down hooks and looks at him steadily. Molly’ll be saying great praises now to the Almighty God and He giving her a fine, stout, hardy man the like of you. Timmy Uneasily. And why wouldn’t she, if she’s a fine woman itself? Martin Doul Looking up right. Why wouldn’t she, indeed, Timmy?⁠ ⁠… The Almighty God’s made a fine match in the two of you, for if you went marrying a woman was the like of yourself you’d be having the fearfullest little children, I’m thinking, was ever seen in the world. Timmy Seriously offended. God forgive you! if you’re an ugly man to be looking at, I’m thinking your tongue’s worse than your view. Martin Doul Hurt also. Isn’t it destroyed with the cold I am, and if I’m ugly itself I never seen anyone the like of you for dreepiness this day, Timmy the smith, and I’m thinking now herself’s coming above you’d have a right to step up into your old shanty, and give a rub to your face, and not be sitting there with your bleary eyes, and your big nose, the like of an old scarecrow stuck down upon the road. Timmy Looking up the road uneasily. She’s no call to mind what way I look, and I after building a house with four rooms in it above on the hill. He stands up. But it’s a queer thing the way yourself and Mary Doul are after setting every person in this place, and up beyond to Rathvanna, talking of nothing, and thinking of nothing, but the way they do be looking in the face.