The Well of the Saints: a Comedy in Three Acts

Act Iii

Scene: Some lonely mountainous district in the east of Ireland one or more centuries ago.

THE WELL OF THE SAINTS was first produced in the Abbey Theatre in February, 1905, by the Irish National Theatre Society, under the direction of W. G. Fay, and with the following cast.

Martin Doul W. G. FAY Mary Doul EMMA VERNON Timmy GEORGE ROBERTS Molly Byrne SARA ALLGOOD Bride MAIRE NIC SHIUBHLAIGH Mat Simon P. MAC SHIUBHLAIGH The Saint F. J. FAY OTHER GIRLS AND MEN

Persons in the Play

MARTIN DOUL, weather-beaten, blind beggar MARY DOUL, his wife, weather-beaten, ugly woman, blind also, nearly fifty TIMMY, a middle-aged, almost elderly, but vigorous smith MOLLY BYRNE, fine-looking girl with fair hair BRIDE, another handsome girl MAT SIMON THE SAINT, a wandering friar OTHER GIRLS AND MEN

THE WELL OF THE SAINTS

Act I

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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