In the 1930s, Irish novelist Maurice Walsh placed the moors and mountains of Ireland firmly on the literary map with this celebrated collection of stories under the title Green Rushes, here re-titled The Quiet Man and Other Stories. Since then, readers have continued to be charmed by these accounts of his characters in 1920s rural Ireland as the themes of nationalism, human dignity, honour, and love are given full play. Made famous by John Ford's Oscar-winning film The Quiet Man, starring John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara, these remain humorous and poignant tales set against a backdrop of politics, intrigue, and Irish civil war and unrest.
Shawn Kelvin, a blithe young lad of 20, went to the States to seek his fortune. And 15 years thereafter he returned to his native Kerry, his blitheness sobered and his youth dried to the core, and whether he had made his fortune or whether he had not no one could be knowing for certain. For he was a quiet man, not given to talking about himself and the things he had done. A quiet man, under middle size, with strong shoulders and deep-set blue eyes below brows darker than his dark hair - that was Shawn Kelvin. One shoulder had a trick of hunching slightly higher than the other, and some folks said that it came from a habit he had of shielding his eyes in the glare of an open-hearth furnace in a place called Pittsburgh, while others said it used to be a way he had of guarding his chin that time he was a sort of sparring-partner punching bag at a boxing camp.
Shawn Kelvin came home and found that he was the last of the Kelvin's, and that the farm of his forefathers had added its few acres to the ranch of Big Liam O'Grady, of Moyvalla. Shawn took no action to recover his land, though O'Grady had got it meanly. He had had enough of fighting, and all he wanted now was peace. He quietly went amongst the old and kindly friends and quietly looked about him for the place and peace he wanted; and when the time came, quietly produced the money for a neat, handy, small farm on the first warm shoulder of Knockanore Hill below the rolling curves of heather. It was not a big place but it was in good heart, and it got all the sun that was going; and, best of all, it suited Shawn to the tiptop notch of contentment; for it held the peace that tuned to his quietness, and it commanded the widest view in all Ireland; vale and mountain and the lifting green plain of the Atlantic Sea.
There, in a four-roomed, lime-washed, thatched cottage, Shawn made his life, and, though his friends hinted at his needs and obligations, no thought came to him of bringing a wife into the place. Yet Fate had the thought and the dream in her loom for him. One middling imitation of a man he had to do chores for him, an ex-navy pensioner handy enough about house and byre, but with no relish for the sustained work of the field-and, indeed, as long as he kept house and byre shipshape, he found Shawn an easy master.
Shawn himself was no drudge toiler. He knew all about drudgery and the way it wears out a man's soul. He ploughed a little and sowed a little, and at the end of a furrow he would lean on the handles of the cultivator, wipe his brow, if it needed wiping, and lose himself for whole minutes in the great green curve of the sea out there beyond the high black portals of Shannon Mouth. And sometimes of an evening he would see, under the glory of the sky, the faint smoke smudge of an American liner. Then he would smile to himself - a pitying smile - thinking of the poor devils, with dreams of fortune luring them, going out to sweat in Ironville, or to bootleg bad whiskey down the hidden way, or to stand in a bread line. All these things were behind Shawn forever.
Market days he would go down and across to Listowel town, seven miles, to do his bartering; and in the long evenings, slowly slipping into the endless summer gloaming, his friends used to climb the winding lane to see him. Only the real friends came that long road, and they were welcome - fighting men who had been out in the "Sixteen": Matt Tobin the thresher, the schoolmaster, the young curate - men like that. A stone jar of malt whiskey would appear on the table and there would be a haze of smoke and a maze of warm, friendly disagreements.
"Shawn, old son," one of them might hint, "aren't you sometimes terrible lonely?"
"Like hell I am!" might retort Shawn derisively. "Why?"
"Nothing but the daylight and the wind and the sun setting like the wrath o' God."
"Just that! Well?'
"But after the stirring times beyond in the States-"
"Ay! Tell me, fine man, have you ever seen a furnace in full blast?"
"A great sight.
"Great surely! But if I could jump you into a steel foundry this minute, you would be sure that God had judged you faithfully into the very hob of hell."
And then they would laugh and have another small one from the stone jar.
And on Sundays Shawn used to go to church, three miles down to the grey chapel above the black cliffs of Doon Bay. Their Fate laid her lure for him.
Sitting quietly on his wooden bench or kneeling on the dusty footboard, he would fix his steadfast deep-set eyes on the vestmented celebrant and say his prayers slowly, or go into that strange trance, beyond dreams and visions, where the soul is almost at one with the unknowable.
But after a time, Shawn's eyes no longer fixed themselves on the celebrant. They went no farther than two seats ahead. A girl sat there. Sunday after Sunday she sat in front of him, and Sunday after Sunday his first casual admiration grew warmer.
She had a white nape to her neck and short red hair above it, and Shawn liked the colour and wave of that flame. And he liked the set of her shoulders and the way the white neck had of leaning a little forward and she at her prayers-or her dreams. And, the service over, Shawn used to stay in his seat so that he might get one quick but sure look at her face as she passed out. And he liked her face, too - the wide - set grey eyes, cheekbones firmly curved, clean-moulded lips, austere yet sensitive. And he smiled pityingly at himself that one of her names should make his pulse stir - for she was an O'Grady.
One person, only, in the crowded chapel noted Shawn's look and the thought behind the look. Not the girl. Her brother, Big Liam O'Grady of Moyvalla, the very man who as good as stole the Kelvin acres. And that man smiled to himself, too-the ugly, contemptuous smile that was his by nature - and, after another habit he had, he tucked away his bit of knowledge against a day when it might come in useful for his own purposes.
The girl's name was Ellen - Ellen O'Grady. But a truth she was no longer a girl. She was past her first youth into that second one that had no definite ending. She might be 30 - she was no less - but there was not a lad in the countryside who would say she was past her prime. The poise of her and the firm set of her bones below clean skin saved her from the fading of mere prettiness. Though she had been sought in marriage more than once, she had accepted no one, or, rather, had not been allowed to encourage anyone. Her brother saw to that.
Big Liam O'Grady was a great, raw-boned, sandy-haired man, with the strength of an ox and a heart no bigger than a sour apple. An overbearing man given to berserk rages. Though he was a churchgoer by habit, the true god of that man was Monday - red gold, shining silver, dull copper - the trinity that he worshipped in degree. He and his sister Ellen lived on the big ranch farm of Moyvalla, and Ellen was his housekeeper and maid of all work. She was a careful housekeeper, a good cook, a notable baker, and she demanded no wage. All that suited Big Liam splendidly, and so she remained single - a wasted woman.
Big Liam himself was not a marrying man. There were not many spinsters with a dowry big enough to tempt him, and the few there had acquired expensive tastes-a convent education, the deplorable art of hitting jazz out of a piano, the damnable vice of cigarette smoking, the purse - emptying craze for motor cars - such things.
But in due time, the dowry and the place - with a woman tied to them - came under his nose, and Big Liam was no longer tardy. His neighbour, James Carry, died in March and left his fine farm and all on it to his widow, a youngish woman without children, a woman with a hard name for saving pennies. Big Liam looked once at Kathy Carey and looked many times at her broad acres. Both pleased him. He took the steps required by tradition. In the very first week of the following Shrovetide, he sent an accredited emissary to open formal negotiations, and that emissary came back within the hour.
"My soul," said he, "but she is the quick one! I hadn't 10 words out of me when she was down my throat. 'I am in no hurry,' says she, 'to come wife to a house with another woman at the fire corner. When Ellen is in a place of her own, I will listen to what Liam O'Grady has to say.'"
"She will, by Jacus!" Big Liam stopped him. "She will so."
There, now, was the right time to recall Shawn Kelvin and the look in his eyes. Big Liam's mind corner promptly delivered up its memory. He smiled knowingly and contemptuously. Shawn Kelvin daring to cast sheep's eyes at an O'Grady! The undersized chicken heart, who took the loss of the Kelvin acres lying down! The little Yankee runt hidden away on the shelf of Knockanore! But what of it? The required dowry would be conveniently small, and the girl would never go hungry, anyway. There was Big Liam O'Grady, far descended from many chieftains.
The very next market day at Listowel he sought out Shawn Kelvin and placed a huge, sandy-haired hand on the shoulder that hunched to meet it.
"Shawn Kelvin, a word with you! Come and have a drink."
Shawn hesitated. "Very well," he said then. He did not care for O'Grady, but he would hurt no man's feelings.
They went across to Sullivan's bar and had a drink, and Shawn paid for it. And Big Liam came directly to his subject - almost patronisingly, as if he were conferring a favour.
"I want to see Ellen settled in a place of her own," said he.
Shawn's heart lifted into his throat and stayed there. But that steadfast face with the steadfast eyes gave no sign and, moreover, he could not say a word with his heart where it was.
"Your place is small," went on the big man, "but it is and no load of debt on it, as I hear. Not much of a dowry ever came to Knockanore, and not much of a dowry can I be giving with Ellen. Say 200 pounds at the end of harvest, if prices improve. What do you say, Shawn Kelvin?"
Shawn swallowed his heart, and his voice came slow and cool "What does Ellen say?"
I haven't asked her," said Big Liam. "but what would she say, blast it?"
"Whatever she says, she will say it herself, not you, Big Liam."
But what could Ellen say? She looked within her own heart and found it empty; she looked at the granite crag of her brother's face and contemplated herself a slowly withering spinster at his fire corner; she looked up at the swell of Knockanore Hill and saw the white cottage among the green small fields below the warm brown of the heather. Oh, but the sun would shine up there in the lengthening spring day and pleasant breezes blow in sultry summer; and finally she looked at Shawn Kelvin, that firmly built, small man with the clean face and the lustrous eyes below steadfast brow. She said a prayer to her God and sank head and shoulders in a resignation more pitiful than tears, more proud than the pride of chieftains. Romance? Well away!
Shawn was far from satisfied with resigned acceptance, but then was not the time to press for a warmer one. He knew the brother's wizened soul, guessed at the girl's clean one, and saw that she was doomed beyond hope to a fireside sordidly bought for her. Let it be his own fireside then. There were many worse ones - and God was good.
Release Date: June 6, 1952
Release Time: 129 minutes
Director: John Ford
Cast:
John Wayne as Sean Thornton
Maureen O'Hara as Mary Kate Danaher
Barry Fitzgerald as Michaeleen "Óge" Flynn
Victor McLaglen as Squire "Red" Will Danaher
Ward Bond as Father Peter Lonergan
Mildred Natwick as the Widow Sarah Tillane
Francis Ford as Dan Tobin
Arthur Shields as Rev. Cyril Playfair
Eileen Crowe as Elizabeth Playfair
Charles FitzSimons as Hugh Forbes
James Fitzsimons (as James Lilburn) as Father Paul
Sean McClory as Owen Glynn
Emily Eby as Mave Campbell
Jack MacGowran as Ignatius Feeney
Philip Stainton as Anglican Bishop
May Craig as Fishwoman with Basket at Station
Paddy O'Donnell as Railway porter
Eric Gorman as Costello – Engine driver
Kevin Lawless as Engine fireman
Joseph O'Dea as Molouney – Train guard
Uncredited
Tony Canzoneri as Boxing Second
Frank Baker as Man in Bar
Ruth Clifford as Mother
Ken Curtis as Dermot Fahy
Douglas Evans as Ring Physician
Colin Kenny as Pub Extra
Patrick Wayne as Boy on Wagon at Horse Race
Michael Wayne as Teenage Boy at Races
Toni Wayne as Teenage Girl at Races
Melinda Wayne as Girl on Wagon at Horse Race
Mae Marsh as Father Paul's Mother
Harry Tenbrook as Police Sergeant Hanan
Al Murphy as Boxing Referee
Hank Worden as Boxing Trainer
Web Overlander as Hugh Bailey
Philip Stainton as Anglican Bishop
Awards:
Academy Awards
Best Actor in a Supporting Role - Victor McLaglen - Nominated
Best Art Decoration - Set Direction, Color - Frank Hotaling, John McCarthy Jr., Charles S. Thompson - Nominated
Best Cinematography - Color - Winton C. Hoch, Archie Stout - Won
Best Director - John Ford - Won
Best Picture - John Ford, Merian C. Cooper - Nominated
Best Sound, Recording - Daniel J. Bloomberg - Nominated
Best Writing, Screenplay - Frank S. Nugent - Nominated
Golden Globes
Best Director - John Ford - Nominated
Best Original Score - Victor Young - Nominated
Director's Guild of America
Outstanding Directorial Achievement in Motion Pictures - John Ford, Wingate Smith - Won
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Maurice Walsh was an Irish novelist best known for the short story The Quiet Man which was later made into an Oscar-winning movie directed by John Ford and starring John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara. Walsh was born in 1879 in Ballydonoghue near Listowel, Co. Kerry, Ireland. He was one of Ireland's best-selling authors in the 1930s.
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