THE WELL OF THE SAINTS
A monologue from the
play by John
Millington Synge
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NOTE: This monologue is reprinted
from The Well of the Saints. John Millington Synge. Boston:
John W. Luce, 1911. |
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MARTIN DOUL: The devil mend Mary Doul for putting lies
on me, and letting on she was grand. The devil mend the old Saint
for letting me see it was lies. The devil mend Timmy the smith
for killing me with hard work, and keeping me with an empty,
windy stomach in me, in the day and in the night. Ten thousand
devils mend the soul of Molly Byrne and the bad, wicked souls
is hidden in all the women of the world. [He rocks himself,
with his hand over his face.] It's lonesome I'll be from
this day, and if living people is a bad lot, yet Mary Doul, herself,
and she a dirty, wrinkled-looking hag, was better maybe to be
sitting along with than no one at all. I'll be getting my death
now, I'm thinking, sitting alone in the cold air, hearing the
night coming, and the blackbirds flying round in the briars crying
to themselves, the time you'll hear one cart getting off a long
way in the east, and another cart getting off a long way in the
west, and a dog barking maybe, and a little wind turning the
sticks. [He listens and sighs heavily.] I'll be destroyed
sitting alone and losing my senses this time the way I'm after
losing my sight, for it'd make any person afeard to be sitting
up hearing the sound of his breath-- [He moves his feet on
the stones.] --and the noise of his feet, when it's a power
of queer things do be stirring, little sticks breaking, and the
grass moving till you'd take your dying oath on sun and moon
a thing was breathing on the stones. [He listens for a moment,
then starts up nervously, and gropes about for his stick.]
I'll be going now, I'm thinking, but I'm not sure what place
my stick's in ... [He cries out.] There's a thing with
a cold, living face on it sitting up at my side. [He turns
to run away, but misses his path and stumbles against the wall.]
My road is lost on me now! Oh, merciful God, set my foot on the
path this day, and I'll be saying prayers morning and night,
and not straining my ear after young girls, or doing any bad
thing till I die--
MORE MONOLOGUES BY J.M. SYNGE |
