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 pa.s.sing the road.

MARTIN DOUL. If it was a queer time itself it was great joy and pride I had the time I'd hear your voice speaking and you pa.s.sing 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 "G.o.d 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 a.s.s 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.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [looking at him with interest.] -- It's queer talk you have if it's a little, old, shabby stump of a man you are itself.

MARTIN DOUL. I'm not so old as you do hear them say.

MOLLY BYRNE. You're old, I'm thinking, to be talking that talk with a girl.

MARTIN DOUL -- [despondingly.] -- It's not a lie you're telling, maybe, for it's long years I'm after losing from the world, feeling love and talking love, with the old woman, and I fooled the whole while with the lies of Timmy the smith.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [half invitingly.] -- It's a fine way you're wanting to pay Timmy the smith.... And it's not his LIES you're making love to this day, Martin Doul.

MARTIN DOUL. It is not, Molly, and the Lord forgive us all. (He pa.s.ses behind her and comes near her left.) For I've heard tell there are lands beyond in Cahir Iveraghig and the Reeks of Cork with warm sun in them, and fine light in the sky. (Bending towards her.) And light's a grand thing for a man ever was blind, or a woman, with a fine neck, and a skin on her the like of you, the way we'd have a right to go off this day till we'd have a fine life pa.s.sing abroad through them towns of the south, and we telling stories, maybe, or singing songs at the fairs.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [turning round half amused, and looking him over from head to foot.] -- Well, isn't it a queer thing when your own wife's after leaving you because you're a pitiful show, you'd talk the like of that to me?

MARTIN DOUL -- [drawing back a little, hurt, but indignant.] -- It's a queer thing, maybe, for all things is queer in the world. (In a low voice with peculiar emphasis.) But there's one thing I'm telling you, if she walked off away from me, it wasn't because of seeing me, and I no more than I am, but because I was looking on her with my two eyes, and she getting up, and eating her food, and combing her hair, and lying down for her sleep.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [interested, off her guard.] -- Wouldn't any married man you'd have be doing the like of that?

MARTIN DOUL -- [seizing the moment that he has her attention.] -- I'm thinking by the mercy of G.o.d it's few sees anything but them is blind for a s.p.a.ce (with excitement.) It's a few sees the old woman rotting for the grave, and it's few sees the like of yourself. (He bends over her.) Though it's shining you are, like a high lamp would drag in the ships out of the sea.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [shrinking away from him.] -- Keep off from me, Martin Doul.

MARTIN DOUL -- [quickly, with low, furious intensity.] -- It's the truth I'm telling you. (He puts his hand on her shoulder and shakes her.) And you'd do right not to marry a man is after looking out a long while on the bad days of the world; for what way would the like of him have fit eyes to look on yourself, when you rise up in the morning and come out of the little door you have above in the lane, the time it'd be a fine thing if a man would be seeing, and losing his sight, the way he'd have your two eyes facing him, and he going the roads, and shining above him, and he looking in the sky, and springing up from the earth, the time he'd lower his head, in place of the muck that seeing men do meet all roads spread on the world.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [who has listened half mesmerized, starting away.] -- It's the like of that talk you'd hear from a man would be losing his mind.

MARTIN DOUL -- [going after her, pa.s.sing to her right.] -- It'd be little wonder if a man near the like of you would be losing his mind.

Put down your can now, and come along with myself, for I'm seeing you this day, seeing you, maybe, the way no man has seen you in the world.

(He takes her by the arm and tries to pull her away softly to the right.) Let you come on now, I'm saying, to the lands of Iveragh and the Reeks of Cork, where you won't set down the width of your two feet and not be crushing fine flowers, and making sweet smells in the air.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [laying down the can; trying to free herself.] -- Leave me go, Martin Doul! Leave me go, I'm saying!

MARTIN DOUL. Let you not be fooling. Come along now the little path through the trees.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [crying out towards forge.] -- Timmy the smith. (Timmy comes out of forge, and Martin Doul lets her go. Molly Byrne, excited and breathless, pointing to Martin Doul.) Did ever you hear that them that loses their sight loses their senses along with it, Timmy the smith!

TIMMY -- [suspicious, but uncertain.] -- He's no sense, surely, and he'll be having himself driven off this day from where he's good sleeping, and feeding, and wages for his work.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [as before.] -- He's a bigger fool than that, Timmy. Look on him now, and tell me if that isn't a grand fellow to think he's only to open his mouth to have a fine woman, the like of me, running along by his heels.

[Martin Doul recoils towards centre, with his hand to his eyes; Mary Doul is seen on left coming forward softly.]

TIMMY -- [with blank amazement.] -- Oh, the blind is wicked people, and it's no lie. But he'll walk off this day and not be troubling us more.

[Turns back left and picks up Martin Doul's coat and stick; some things fall out of coat pocket, which he gathers up again.]

MARTIN DOUL -- [turns around, sees Mary Doul, whispers to Molly Byrne with imploring agony.] -- Let you not put shame on me, Molly, before herself and the smith. Let you not put shame on me and I after saying fine words to you, and dreaming... dreams... in the night. (He hesitates, and looks round the sky.) Is it a storm of thunder is coming, or the last end of the world? (He staggers towards Mary Doul, tripping slightly over tin can.) The heavens is closing, I'm thinking, with darkness and great trouble pa.s.sing in the sky. (He reaches Mary Doul, and seizes her left arm with both his hands -- with a frantic cry.) Is it darkness of thunder is coming, Mary Doul! Do you see me clearly with your eyes?

MARY DOUL -- [s.n.a.t.c.hes her arm away, and hits him with empty sack across the face.] -- I see you a sight too clearly, and let you keep off from me now.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [clapping her hands.] -- That's right, Mary. That's the way to treat the like of him is after standing there at my feet and asking me to go off with him, till I'd grow an old wretched road-woman the like of yourself.

MARY DOUL -- [defiantly.] -- When the skin shrinks on your chin, Molly Byrne, there won't be the like of you for a shrunk hag in the four quarters of Ireland.... It's a fine pair you'd be, surely!

[Martin Doul is standing at back right centre, with his back to the audience.]

TIMMY -- [coming over to Mary Doul.] -- Is it no shame you have to let on she'd ever be the like of you?

MARY DOUL. It's them that's fat and flabby do be wrinkled young, and that whitish yellowy hair she has does be soon turning the like of a handful of thin gra.s.s you'd see rotting, where the wet lies, at the north of a sty. (Turning to go out on right.) Ah, it's a better thing to have a simple, seemly face, the like of my face, for two-score years, or fifty itself, than to be setting fools mad a short while, and then to be turning a thing would drive off the little children from your feet.

[She goes out; Martin Doul has come forward again, mastering himself, but uncertain.]

TIMMY. Oh, G.o.d protect us, Molly, from the words of the blind. (He throws down Martin Doul's coat and stick.) There's your old rubbish now, Martin Doul, and let you take it up, for it's all you have, and walk off through the world, for if ever I meet you coming again, if it's seeing or blind you are itself, I'll bring out the big hammer and hit you a welt with it will leave you easy till the judgment day.

MARTIN DOUL -- [rousing himself with an effort.] -- What call have you to talk the like of that with myself?

TIMMY -- [pointing to Molly Byrne.] -- It's well you know what call I have. It's well you know a decent girl, I'm thinking to wed, has no right to have her heart scalded with hearing talk -- and queer, bad talk, I'm thinking -- from a raggy-looking fool the like of you.

MARTIN DOUL -- [raising his voice.] -- It's making game of you she is, for what seeing girl would marry with yourself? Look on him, Molly, look on him, I'm saying, for I'm seeing him still, and let you raise your voice, for the time is come, and bid him go up into his forge, and be sitting there by himself, sneezing and sweating, and he beating pot-hooks till the judgment day. [He seizes her arm again.]

MOLLY BYRNE. Keep him off from me, Timmy!

TIMMY -- [pushing Martin Doul aside.] -- Would you have me strike you, Martin Doul? Go along now after your wife, who's a fit match for you, and leave Molly with myself.

MARTIN DOUL -- [despairingly.] -- Won't you raise your voice, Molly, and lay h.e.l.l's long curse on his tongue?

MOLLY BYRNE -- [on Timmy's left.] -- I'll be telling him it's destroyed I am with the sight of you and the sound of your voice. Go off now after your wife, and if she beats you again, let you go after the tinker girls is above running the hills, or down among the s.l.u.ts of the town, and you'll learn one day, maybe, the way a man should speak with a well-reared, civil girl the like of me. (She takes Timmy by the arm.) Come up now into the forge till he'll be gone down a bit on the road, for it's near afeard I am of the wild look he has come in his eyes.

[She goes into the forge. Timmy stops in the doorway.]

TIMMY. Let me not find you out here again, Martin Doul. (He bares his arm.) It's well you know Timmy the smith has great strength in his arm, and it's a power of things it has broken a sight harder than the old bone of your skull.