Complete Works of J M Synge Page 6

  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 prais- ing God, and asking great blessing on you all. [He bends his head.]

  CURTAIN

  ACT II

  [VILLAGE ROADSIDE, ON left the door of a forge, with broken wheels, etc., lying about. A well near centre, with board above it, and room to pass behind it. Martin Doul is sitting near forge, cutting sticks.]

  TIMMY — [heard hammering inside forge, then calls.] — Let you make haste out there.... I’ll be putting up new fires at the turn of day, and you haven’t the half of them cut yet.

  MARTIN DOUL — [gloomily.] — It’s destroyed I’ll be whacking your old thorns till the turn of day, and I with no food in my stomach would keep the life in a pig. (He turns towards the door.) Let you come out here and cut them yourself if you want them cut, for there’s an hour every day when a man has a right to his rest.

  TIMMY — [coming out, with a hammer, impatiently.] — Do you want me to be driving you off again to be walking the roads? There you are now, and I giving you your food, and a corner to sleep, and money with it; and, to hear the talk of you, you’d think I was after beating you, or stealing your gold.

  MARTIN DOUL. You’d do it handy, maybe, if I’d gold to steal.

  TIMMY — [throws down hammer; picks up some of the sticks already cut, and throws them into door.] There’s no fear of your having gold — a lazy, basking fool the like of you.

  MARTIN DOUL. No fear, maybe, and I here with yourself, for it’s more I got a while since and I sitting blinded in Grianan, than I get in this place working hard, and destroying myself, the length of the day.

  TIMMY — [stopping with amazement.] — Working hard? (He goes over to him.) I’ll teach you to work hard, Martin Doul. Strip off your coat now, and put a tuck in your sleeves, and cut the lot of them, while I’d rake the ashes from the forge, or I’ll not put up with you another hour itself.

  MARTIN DOUL — [horrified.] — Would you have me getting my death sitting out in the black wintry air with no coat on me at all?

  TIMMY — [with authority.] — Strip it off now, or walk down upon the road.

  MARTIN DOUL — [bitterly.] — Oh, God help me! (He begins taking off his coat.) I’ve heard tell you stripped the sheet from your wife and you putting her down into the grave, and that there isn’t the like of you for plucking your living ducks, the short days, and leaving them running round in their skins, in the great rains and the cold. (He tucks up his sleeves.) Ah, I’ve heard a power of queer things of yourself, and there isn’t one of them I’ll not believe from this day, and be telling to
the boys.

  TIMMY — [pulling over a big stick.] — Let you cut that now, and give me rest from your talk, for I’m not heeding you at all.

  MARTIN DOUL — [taking stick.] — That’s a hard, terrible stick, Timmy; and isn’t it a poor thing to be cutting strong timber the like of that, when it’s cold the bark is, and slippy with the frost of the air?

  TIMMY — [gathering up another armful of sticks.] — What way wouldn’t it be cold, and it freezing since the moon was changed? [He goes into forge.]

  MARTIN DOUL — [querulously, as he cuts slowly.] — What way, indeed, Timmy? For it’s a raw, beastly day we do have each day, till I do be thinking it’s well for the blind don’t be seeing them gray clouds driving on the hill, and don’t be looking on people with their noses red, the like of your nose, and their eyes weeping and watering, the like of your eyes, God help you, Timmy the smith.

  TIMMY — [seen blinking in doorway.] — Is it turning now you are against your sight?

  MARTIN DOUL — [very miserably.] — It’s a hard thing for a man to have his sight, and he living near to the like of you (he cuts a stick and throws it away), or wed with a wife (cuts a stick); and I do be thinking it should be a 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 pot-hooks 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 pot-hooks.]

  MARTIN DOUL — [crying out.] — Is it roasting me now you’d be? (Turns back and sees pot-hooks; he takes them up.) Pot-hooks? 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. (Going towards forge.) It’s the devil’s work you’re after doing with your talk of fine looks, and I’d do right, maybe, to step in and wash the blackness from my eyes.

  [He goes into forge. Martin Doul rubs his face furtively with the tail of his coat. Molly Byrne comes on right with a water-can, and begins to fill it at the well.]

  MARTIN DOUL. God save you, Molly Byrne.

  MOLLY BYRNE — [indifferently.] — God save you.

  MARTIN DOUL. That’s a dark, gloomy day, and the Lord have mercy on us all.

  MOLLY BYRNE. Middling dark.

  MARTIN DOUL. It’s a power of dirty days, and dark mornings, and shabby-looking fellows (he makes a gesture over his shoulder) we do have to be looking on when we have our sight, God help us, but there’s one fine thing we have, to be looking on a grand, white, handsome girl, the like of you.... and every time I set my eyes on you I do be blessing the saints, and the holy water, and the power of the Lord Almighty in the heavens above.

  MOLLY BYRNE. I’ve heard the priests say it isn’t looking on a young girl would teach many to be saying their prayers. [Bailing water into her can with a cup.]

  MARTIN DOUL. It isn’t many have been the way I was, hearing your voice speaking, and not seeing you at all.

  MOLLY BYRNE. That should have been a queer time for an old, wicked, coaxing fool to be sitting there with your eyes shut, and not seeing a sight of girl or woman passing the road.

  MARTIN DOUL. If it was a queer time itself it was great j
oy and pride I had the time I’d hear your voice speaking and you passing to Grianan (beginning to speak with plaintive intensity), for it’s of many a fine thing your voice would put a poor dark fellow in mind, and the day I’d hear it it’s of little else at all I would be thinking.

  MOLLY BYRNE. I’ll tell your wife if you talk to me the like of that.... You’ve heard, maybe, she’s below picking nettles for the widow O’Flinn, who took great pity on her when she seen the two of you fighting, and yourself putting shame on her at the crossing of the roads.

  MARTIN DOUL — [impatiently.] — Is there no living person can speak a score of words to me, or say “God speed you,” itself, without putting me in mind of the old woman, or that day either at Grianan?

  MOLLY BYRNE — [maliciously.] — I was thinking it should be a fine thing to put you in mind of the day you called the grand day of your life.

  MARTIN DOUL. Grand day, is it? (Plaintively again, throwing aside his work, and leaning towards her.) Or a bad black day when I was roused up and found I was the like of the little children do be listening to the stories of an old woman, and do be dreaming after in the dark night that it’s in grand houses of gold they are, with speckled horses to ride, and do be waking again, in a short while, and they destroyed with the cold, and the thatch dripping, maybe, and the starved ass braying in the yard?

  MOLLY BYRNE — [working indifferently.] — You’ve great romancing this day, Martin Doul. Was it up at the still you were at the fall of night?

  MARTIN DOUL — [stands up, comes towards her, but stands at far (right) side of well.] — It was not, Molly Byrne, but lying down in a little rickety shed.... Lying down across a sop of straw, and I thinking I was seeing you walk, and hearing the sound of your step on a dry road, and hearing you again, and you laughing and making great talk in a high room with dry timber lining the roof. For it’s a fine sound your voice has that time, and it’s better I am, I’m thinking, lying down, the way a blind man does be lying, than to be sitting here in the gray light taking hard words of Timmy the smith.