RHAPSODY IN
STEPHEN’S GREEN:
THE INSECT PLAY
Characters in the play
Rhapsody in Stephen’s Green was first performed (as The Insect Play) by the Gate Theatre Company at the Gaiety Theatre, Dublin, on 22 March 1943. The cast was as follows:
THE TRAMP | Robert Hennessy |
A LADY IN GREEN | Rosalind Halligan |
Tony Mathews, Teddy Lucas, | |
Eileen Ashe, Collette Redmond, | |
CHILDREN | Ita McManus, Deirdre King, |
Dolores Lucas, Peggy Kennedy, | |
Maeve Kennedy | |
A GIRL STUDENT | Patricia Kennedy |
A YOUNG MAN | James Neylin |
A VISITOR | Liam Gaffney |
THE KEEPER | William Fassbender |
THE DRONE BEE | Stephen King |
BASIL BEE | Cecil Monson |
CECIL BEE | Norman Barrs |
CYRIL BEE | Antony Walsh |
A YOUNG BEE | Robert Dawson |
HER MAJESTY QUEEN BEE | Betty Chancellor |
A DUCKLING | Alexis Milne |
THE VOICE OF THE EGG | Jean St Clair |
THE DUCK | P. P. Maguire |
MR. BEETLE | William Fassbender |
MRS. BEETLE | Sally Travers |
A STRANGE BEETLE | Tyrell Pine |
MR. CRICKET | J. Winter |
MRS. CRICKET | Meriel Moore |
A PARASITE | Liam Gaffney |
A BLIND ANT | William Fassbender |
THE CHIEF ENGINEER ANT | J. Winter |
THE 2ND ENGINEER ANT | Sean Colleary |
THE POLITICIAN ANT | Antony Walsh |
A MESSENGER ANT | Liam Gaffney |
A CROSS-CHANNEL ANT | Norman Barrs |
SLATTERY | Val Iremonger |
GREEN ANTS, RED ANTS, ORANGE ANTS,
ANTS OF THE GAEL AND ANTS OF THE PALE.
Directed and Produced by Hilton Edwards
Settings by Molly MacEwen
Costumes by Micheál MacLiammóir
PROLOGUE
St Stephen’s Green. Probably near the lake, there is a row of chairs with their backs to the audience; some are deck chairs and some the upright green twopenny type. Most of them are occupied. Dusk is falling (and pretty fast too). The bells of the keepers summoning their visitors to leave are heard in the distance. A few small children rush across the foreground shouting and playing with a ball; they run out again. A bell is heard being banged very loud off. Enter a comic carrying the bell. He looks from behind at the row of inert social figures, his back to the audience. His stance and silence suggest patient disgust. Suddenly he gives a savage ear-splitting clang of the bell, startling everybody, including the audience.
KEEPER: Do yez know the time or have yez no home to go to?
(A very mixed group get up hastily, glare at the KEEPER and move off. A fat lady calls to her children, two old men shamble off muttering, a student and some others leave in the manner that fits them. A very pronounced bulge in the back of one of the deck-chairs at the right-hand side of the row remains, however. The KEEPER eyes it and approaches stealthily. He then gives a really ferocious clang on the bell.)
KEEPER: Will yeh get up to hell ou’ a that and clear out of this pairk, d’yeh hear me!
(An irate fat well-dressed figure has jumped up out of the chair. His accent is very ‘cultured.’)
VISITOR: What the devil do you mean?
KEEPER: (Sarcastic in a steely way.) I beg yer pardin?
VISITOR: How dare you talk to me like that—how dare you ring your bell like that in my ear?
KEEPER: Now luckit here, don’t give me anny trouble. This pairk is closed down be the regulations from sunset. And all the visitors has to be cleared out, d’yeh undhersthand me. All has to go off an’ leave the premises. It’s just like a public house. Come on now, sir yeh’ll have to pack up, yeh’ll have all day to-morra to be lying down there snoozin’!
VISITOR: (Flabbergasted at all this familiarity.) Well upon my word! Who the devil do you think you’re speaking to? Of all the . . . infernal . . . nerve!
KEEPER: I don’t want anny trouble now, DON’T GIVE ME ANNY TROUBLE. Out yeh’ll have to go and that’s all about it. It’s a very seryus thing to be in the pairk after dairk.
VISITOR: How dare you address members of the public in that impertinent fashion! How dare you set out to injure people’s hearing with that bell of yours! HOW DARE YOU SIR!
KEEPER: (With fake resignation.) Well, of course . . . I dunno. I don’t know what I’ll do with this man at all. I don’t know what I’ll do with this man at all.
VISITOR: Permit me to remark that it is rather a question of what will be done with you, my man.
KEEPER: (Mechanical reply to any ‘difficult’ speech.) I beg yer pardin?
VISITOR: Do you know who I am?
KEEPER: (Brushing aside a very old story with his flat hand.) Now listen. Luckit here. I don’t want to know yer name, yer address, or who yer mother was. Are yeh gettin’ out or are yeh not? Now don’t tell me I’ll have to call a Gaird.
VISITOR: (Getting ready to leave.) From your offensive behaviour it’s rather obvious you don’t know who I am but you may learn sooner than you expect.
KEEPER: I don’t give a damn if yer de Valera . . . or one of them lads out of the Kildare Street Club . . . or (tremendous effort) the Bishop . . . of . . . Bangalore—OUT—OF—THIS—PAIRK—YOU’LL—HAVE—TO—GO—AND THAT’S ALL.
VISITOR: Indeed? Perhaps I should tell you who I am.
KEEPER: (Putting up the hand again to ward off unwanted information.) Now I don’t want to hear anny more—I don’t want to hear anny more talk or chat at all. This pairk is owned an’ run by the Boord of Works, d’yeh understand. And the Boord of Works is a very sthrict crowd . . . a very sthrict . . . crowd.
VISITOR: (Interested.) Really.
KEEPER: D’yeh undhersthand me now. The Boord has very sthrict regulations for clearin’ out the pairk after dairk. It’s the Boord’s regulations, yeh’ll see them pasted up there be the gate.
VISITOR: All this is extremely interesting.
KEEPER: Are yeh gettin’ out? Yes or no now.
VISITOR: Extremely interesting.
KEEPER: Because if yer goin’ to stop here, I’ll go and get a Gaird and it’s above in the ‘joy yeh’ll spend the night, me good man.
VISITOR: If you knew who you are speaking to, you uncouth impudent. . . .
KEEPER: (Almost roaring.) Luckit here, if you were wan of the head buck-cats out of the Boord of Works itself, a big offeecial from the place beyant there (he points), if you were the head-man in chairge of pairks an’ gairdens, I’d mairch you out just the same in double quick time, me bucko!
VISITOR:(Angry but gloating.) As a matter of fact that’s exactly who I am. (He begins to move off.)
KEEPER: (Dumbfounded.) I beg yer pardin?
VISITOR: That’s exactly who I am.
KEEPER: (Exit out after the visitor, making desperate efforts to retrieve the damage.) But I beg yer pardin kindly sir, SHURE I DIDN’T MEAN ANNY HARM, Sir. Didn’t I know yeh well an’ me only tryin’ to take a rise out of yeh, I’d no more think of givin’ guff to yer honour than I would of givin’ it to Mister Connolly, yer honour. . . .
(They pass out, the VISITOR very haughty. The light sinks somewhat. Loud buzzing as if of aeroplanes is heard. The TRAMP, who is emaciated (naturally enough) is concealed in one of the other deck-chairs, making little or no bulge to betray his presence. The buzzing noise gets louder. The audience hears the maudlin voice of the hidden TRAMP. His accent is a richer Dublin job than the KEEPER; indeed, the latter might be better with a rich southern New-York-cop intonation.)
TRAMP: Away wid yez now! Away wid yez! Keep offa me now.
(More buzzing, much nearer.)
TRAMP: Do yez hear me! Get away to hell ou’ a that!
(He starts thrashing about with his arms, which betray his location to the audience. He starts incoherent drunken roaring and falls out of the chair into full view.)
TRAMP: One sting from one of them lads and begob yeh could be screwed down in yer coffin in two days.
(He swipes at invisible bees but carefully preserving his bottle; he pauses to take a good swig.)
TRAMP: The bee . . . Do you know what I’m goin’ to tell yeh. The bee . . . is one of the worst jobs out. Them lads has a bagful of stuff inside them . . . and they do spend all their time lookin’ for some poor unfortunate omadaun like meself for to pump it into. Ah yes, a very bad job—the bee. I don’t fancy the bees at all.
(He swipes madly again and then has a swig. He resumes his monologue in a very high-pitched confidential voice.)
TRAMP: (To audience.) I’ll tell yez a good wan. I seen a man—a personal friend of me own—stung be a bee and him lying on his death-bed. A man that was given up be the clergy, the doctors, the nurses, and begob even be the parties that was to benefit under the will. That’s a quare one! Yer man is breathin’ his last gasp when the bee flies in and given him pfffff—a dart in the neck. And do you know what happens?
(He pauses impressively and takes another long suck.)
TRAMP: Do you know what happens? Now you won’t believe this, as sure as God you’ll tell me I’m a liar. . . .
(Again he pauses for effect and takes another drink.)
TRAMP: I’ll tell you what happens. Your man . . . sits up . . . in bed . . . and says he: Will one of youz hand me trousers there . . . plee-ez. Ah? That’s . . . a quare wan for yez. Would yeh believe that?
(He drinks again, somewhat astonished at the anecdote himself.)
TRAMP: An’ from that good day to this, yer man never looked back and never ever a day’s sickness in the bed. D’yeh undhersthand what I’m tellin’ yeh? D’yeh undhersthand me now? A very ferocious . . . baste, the bee. A very . . . contentious . . . intimidatin’ . . . exacerbatin’ animal, the bee. But a great man for suckin’ honey an’ workin’ away inside in the nest. Very hard-workin’ industrious men, the bees. (He looks round. There is loud buzzing.) And d’yeh know what I’m goin’ to tell yeh, there’s a bloody nest of the buggers around here somewhere. (He swipes.) Gou-athat! Gou-athat to hell away from me, yez black an’ yalla own-shucks!
(He takes a long drink.)
TRAMP: Begob d’yeh know what it is, yeh can’t bate d’ould bottle! I declare to me God I’d be a dead man only for this little drop o’ malt, because I have a very heavy cold on me and that’s the God’s truth. I’m not in me right health. What a man like me wants is . . . family allowances . . . yeh know . . . family allowances . . . and plenty of free insurances, d’yeh undhersthand me. (He is becoming more and more maudlin.) An’ house-buildin’ facilities for getting’ married, d’yeh know. An’ . . . wan more cow . . . wan more sow . . . an’ wan . . . more . . . acre . . . undher th’plough. D’yeh undhersthand me now? D’yeh undhersthand what I’m sayin’? Ah yes. Certaintly. Certaintly . . . Certaintly.
(He sits down, drinks, sighs, and yawns and drinks. His fading senses are reflected in the sinking light. He lies down finally and is asleep by the time the light is nearly gone.)
ACT I
There is very loud buzzing. Coloured lights reveal in unearthly prettiness the same corner of Stephen’s Green.
The females are distinguished by high-heeled shoes, coloured handkerchiefs round the head, and various touches of daintiness about the person.
To one side an enormous flower is growing. The bowl of it must be big enough and strong enough for the bees to climb into and disappear.
Soft ballet music. A young female bee dances in, flits about the stage, looks at the sleeping TRAMP without much attention, and dances out again. Enter immediately the DRONE. He is the peppery colonel type, gross and debauched, and bent nearly double from sheer laziness. He waddles very slowly so as to reduce to the minimum the fatigue of locomotion. He collapses into one of the deck-chairs, which are now facing audience. Before he collapses, however, he makes a speech.
DRONE: This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
(He falls into the chair and seems to go to sleep. Enter a young bee, BASIL, very refined in deportment. He starts, seeing the DRONE asleep beside the attractive flower.)
BASIL: Aoh.
(He approaches THE DRONE, examines him and then pokes him gently in the ribs.)
BASIL: I say . . . hallao!
DRONE: (Without rising or moving, in a graveyard voice.)
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distemper’d head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,
And where care lodges sleep will never lie;
But where unbruiséd youth with unstuff’d brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art up-roused by some distemperature.
BASIL: I say aold chap—really! I’m out looking for a spot of honey. Work, you know, and all that. Frightful bore but one has to, you knaow. Grim shaow, working.
(The DRONE is asleep again. BASIL climbs into the flower and disappears. Enter two more bees, somewhat casually. They are CYRIL and CECIL.)
CYRIL: I say, Cec-eel, do look at that old rotter. Always asleep I mean.
CECIL: I agree, Cyr-eel, a grey shaow. D’you knaow, there are some people who . . . simply . . . waon’t . . . work. (He approaches flower as if to enter; looks into it and then starts back.) Ao, bother! That sod Bas-eel!
CYRIL: Is that dreadful Bas-eel working there?
CECIL: Rather. (He sits down disconsolately.)
CYRIL: I say Cec-eel. . . .
CECIL: Yes old boy?
CYRIL: D’you mind if I talk to you?
CECIL: Nao, nao.
CYRIL: I mean, are you ever bored by . . . I mean . . . this all-male company idea? I mean, no weemeen.
CECIL: Well, sometimes, you know, I feel . . . I feel . . . I should like to see the Queen.
CYRIL: Ha-ha-ha-ha! (Mirthless laugh act.)
CECIL: But look here, I mean eet, aold boy.
CYRIL: The Queen!! Ho-ho-ho!
CECIL: (Seriously.) I should really like to see the Queen. Just for a short time, you knaow. And alone.
CYRIL: One moment now Cec-eel. How many queens have we?
CECIL: One of course. Only one.
CYRIL: And tell me Cec-eel, how many of us bees are there? Rough estimate, you knaow, and all that.
CECIL: A million, I suppaose. Two million.
CYRIL: Well there you are, old boy, there eet ees. Two million bees and one Queen. I mean, what chance have you, Cec-eel. You are a nice boy and all that but what chance have you?
CECIL: (Crestfallen.) None, I suppose.
CYRIL: There eet ees. What can we do? What’s the point in being alive? What’s the point in all this working?
CECIL: (Brightly.) Well, I don’t know . . . I do think, you knaow . . . that life is rather . . . wizard. Planning and working, I mean. Ambition and all that.
CYRIL: (Impatiently.) I knaow, but wot . . . ees . . . the point . . . of eet all? Why, why, why? Where . . . ees . . . eet all leading? You do make me tired, Cec-eel.
CECIL: I do think that life is . . . you knaow . . . fine, nobeel, something to live bravely, I mean.
CYRIL: Cec-eel, I do wish you would be quiet, I mean. Wot can we do, WOT CAN WE DO?
CECIL: (Again brightly.) I will tell you, Cyr-eel. We can STING! We can STING, old boy.
CYRIL: I knaow, I knaow. It is nice, I suppaose. Actually I suppaose eet ees unbearably nice. But the penalty . . . Death, I mean, and all that.
CECIL: (Grandly.) I’m not afraid to die, Cyr-eel.
CYRIL: I knaow. But one sting and we are dead. Is eet worth it, I mean?
CECIL: Cyr-eel, I believe eet ees.
CYRIL: (Meditatively.) I suppaose you are right, you knaow.
CECIL: (Eagerly.) I have talked with dying bees just after they have given somebody a sting. And d’you knaow wot they told me?
CYRIL: Wot was eet, old boy?
CECIL: When they were dying, you knaow, they said they heard voices . . . beautiful choirs, you knaow, and the soft music of harps and all that. I do think that to die from giving our sting is to become a martyr. And d’you knaow another thing they told me?
CYRIL: Wot?
CECIL: Absolutely no pain, old boy. They felt as if they were lying in the cups of daffodils, just falling asleep in something soft and sweet. I do think death can be rather charming, you knaow.
CYRIL: I often wondered, Cec-eel—wot ees eet makes us sting. I mean, why do we do eet?
CECIL: Health, old boy. High spirits, you knaow, joie de vivre and so on. When a bee is young and healthy and bulging with honey, he simply can’t help himself. He . . . simply . . . can’t . . . help himself. Stinging may be immoral but really I am sure it must be very nice. Matter of fact, I think I’ll soon do a spot of stinging myself.
CYRIL: O, Cec-eel! And die?
CECIL: Well, we all have to die sometime.
CYRIL: I knaow, but still . . . Death is a grey grim shaow, you knaow, a grey grim shaow.
CECIL: There is really only one thing that stops me from stinging somebody, Cyr-eel.
CYRIL: And wot is that?
CECIL: The Queen! The hope that one day . . . I may meet the Queen . . . and marry her, you knaow, old boy, at an altitude of eight hundred thousand feet. Alone, I mean, quite alone, you knaow, in the sky.
CYRIL: I say, Cec-eel, you are silly. A chance of two million to one.
CECIL: But listen, Cyr-eel, d’you knaow that man person that one sees . . . ?
CYRIL: That one stings, you mean? (They laugh.)
CECIL: Quite. Well I do believe they sell each other little tickets. Tickets for a price, you knaow. Sometimes they sell two million of these tickets.
CYRIL: And wot happens?
CECIL: Why, some blighter wins the prize, of course!
CYRIL: Is that any reason why we should be so foolish, old boy?
CECIL: Well, I daon’t knaow. I do think life is very baffling. I mean, what is one to do. Sting, or live on in the hope of meeting the Queen?
CYRIL: Yes, old boy, that’s the difficulty, the choice between the sensuous delight of stinging with the rather charming death that follows, or keeping oneself . . . you knaow . . . chaste and alive in the hope of meeting the Queen. It is very difficult, Cec-eel. Very, very difficult.
CECIL: I do think I’ll sting some man person, Cyr-eel.
CYRIL: Do wait a little longer, old boy. Control of the passions and all that. One mustn’t give in to every impulse, I mean.
CECIL: (Impatiently.) But really, life is such a bore. It is such a bore being good!
CYRIL: Yes, I knaow. (He rubs his hands briskly.) If only one could work, if only Bas-eel would come out of that flower—
(There is a violent interruption. A very young and agile bee rushes in, beside himself with hysteria and delight.)
YOUNG BEE: I’ve done it! I’ve done it! Oooooooooh!
CYRIL: Wot’s all this row?
(The YOUNG BEE rushes about laughing hysterically but his antics soon weaken; eventually he becomes quiet and sinks down and dies in agony.)
YOUNG BEE: I stung a man, I stung a man! I stung him, I tell you! Ooooooooooooh!
CECIL: Grim shaow. He’s dying, you knaow.
BASIL: (Putting his head out of the flower.) Do tell me, wot’s all this row?
CYRIL: Our friend has shot his bolt. Looks quite young too, I don’t knaow wot the country is coming to.
BASIL: Ao. (He climbs out of the flower carrying a little yellow bag marked “honey.” This he inadvertently leaves within reach of The DRONE, who is already stirring from the noise.) I say, he is rather a rotter to be doing that at his age.
CECIL: A grey tragic shaow.
BASIL: “O Death, where is thy sting.” (All laugh.)
DRONE: (Awake.)
Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
BASIL: (To the DRONE.) I say old boy, do shut up. (He examines corpse.) I do think this mess should be put away. One should really arrange to die at home, you knaow.
(Exit dragging the corpse. The DRONE quietly snaffles the bag of honey and begins to consume it covertly. CYRIL and CECIL are depressed and nervous after the death scene.)
CECIL: (Hysterically.) Cyr-eel, I do wish I was dead!
CYRIL: I feel like stinging somebody myself now. Why should he have all the fun?
CECIL: Yes, why?
CYRIL: But Cec-eel, I could not bear to part with you. We must die together, you knaow. Suicide pact and all that. We will meet again in a better land.
CECIL: (Taken aback.) Aoh.
DRONE: (Feeding contentedly.)
This is the state of bees; today he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; tomorrow blossoms
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes with a frost, a killing frost,
And—when he thinks, good easy bee, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening—nips his root,
And then he falls. . . .
CECIL: (Annoyed.) I say, do shut up, you awful useless parasite!
CYRIL: Yes, do be quiet, you fat good-for-nothing sponger!
DRONE: (Unabashed.) If I am
Traduced by ignorant tongues, which neither know
My faculties nor person, yet will be
The chronicles of my doing, let me say
‘Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake
that virtue must go through. . . .
CECIL: (Shouting.) I say, if you don’t keep quiet I shall tumble you out of that chair and kick the head off you!
CYRIL: Oh, the bastard! (They turn their backs on him.)
CECIL: Cyr-eel.
CYRIL: Yes, old boy.
CECIL: D’you really think we should die, disappear forever from this earth and all that?
CYRIL: I really believe I do, old boy. I mean, if we go on living, we will have to go on working. Like Bas-eel there, you know. And I do think, Cec-eel, that there is absolutely no point in working. Working makes one vulgar, you knaow. And I am absolutely sick of the sight of honey. I mean, all that yellow mess.
CECIL: By Jove I think you’re right, I think you’ve got eet. Why work? Why work for nothing? I mean, what do we get out of it?
CYRIL: One chance in two million of having ten minutes with the Queen at eight hundred thousand feet. Not worth eet, old boy, definitely not worth eet.
CECIL: Rather not.
CYRIL: Shall we die, Cec-eel? Shall we sting? Shall we have just one glorious . . . marvellous . . . sting?
CECIL: Together, old boy?
CYRIL: Of course. We must both die at the same time. We must make a pact, you knaow. . . .
DRONE: Things done well,
And with a care, exempt themselves from fear;
Things done without example, in their issue
Are to be feared. Have you a precedent
Of this commission? I believe, not any.
CECIL: That settles eet! I do think I would die without even stinging if I had to listen to more of that rotter’s dreadful talk. I say Cyr-eel, do let us die.
CYRIL: But how, old boy? I mean, if I sting somebody and die, how can I be sure that you will do the same? Fair is fair, you knaow, old boy.
CECIL: That is a point, isn’t it.
CYRIL: It ees a point, you knaow. (They think.)
CECIL: (Excitedly.) I say! I’ve got eet! I’ve got eet! We have to sting to die? Right?
CYRIL: Right.
CECIL: We want to die together?
CYRIL: Right.
CECIL: Therefore we must sting EACH OTHER!
CYRIL: Right. RIGHT!
CECIL: So there you are, there eet ees. Simple, isn’t it?
CYRIL: Deucedly simple, old boy. (Pause.)
CECIL: Shall we do eet now, Cyr-eel?
CYRIL: (Reluctantly.) I suppose we should, Cec-eel. I suppose we should, really.
CECIL: (Resolutely.) Well, let’s.
(They approach each other gingerly. The DRONE is half asleep and pays no attention. CECIL and CYRIL timidly shake hands.)
CYRIL: Well . . . old boy . . . eet has been nice knaowing you.
CECIL: Pleasure all mine, old chap.
CYRIL: Sorry to part and all that.
CECIL: It does frightfully depress one, I mean. Fearful grey shaow.
CYRIL: But meet again in a better land and all that, don’t you think?
CECIL: Ao, rather. And where every bee will have a queen to himself, one hopes.
CYRIL: I say, that is an idea. One hopes eet ees true, you knaow.
CECIL: One definitely does, I mean.
CYRIL: Well, old chap . . . so long!
CECIL: Cheers. Cyr-eel, old boy.
(They turn back to back suddenly and bump their bums together. Immediately they are galvanized into frenzied prancing and screaming; they die like the YOUNG BEE earlier. The DRONE looks on, bored.)
DRONE: What should this mean?
What sudden anger’s this? How have they reap’d it?
They have parted frowning from me, as if ruin
Leap’d from their eyes: so looks the chaféd lion
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall’d him;
Then makes him nothing. Nay then, farewell!
They’ve touched the highest point of all their greatness;
And, from that full meridian of their glory,
They haste now to their setting; they shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no bee see them more.
(Soft martial music is heard off; the lights change, presaging something momentous. The DRONE resumes his honeyed doze. Alone, the QUEEN of all the bees enters. For glitter and majesty she must exceed even Meriel Moore as the courtesan in Jack-in-the-Box.1 The QUEEN must be a superlatively erotic job.)
QUEEN: What! More dead bees! (She is horrified.) Aoh! Am I left alone . . . with no bee at all . . . after ignoring two million of them . . . for years and years . . . ?
DRONE: (Stirring in his sleep.)
Who’s there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves
Into my private meditations?
QUEEN: What! Is this alive? How dare you? (She approaches and examines the sleeping DRONE; her disgust is tempered by the fact that after all he is alive and a male.) Aoh.
DRONE: (Asleep.) I prithee, go to.
QUEEN: Aoh, the nasty old man!
DRONE: (Asleep.)
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;
But, when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood;
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage:
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galléd rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full height!
QUEEN: Aoh!
DRONE: Let us seek some desolate shade, and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.
QUEEN: (Incensed.) The wretch is drunk with honey! Of all the nerve! How dare the wretch treat his Queen like this—the only female bee in the whole country! How dare he!
DRONE: Like the Pontick sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontic and the Hellespont;
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love,
Till that capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up. . . .
QUEEN: (Rushing over and shaking him.) You miserable sot! How dare you mumble your drunken rubbish in the presence of your Queen! HOW DARE YOU! Wake up! Do you hear me? WAKE UP! I command you to wake up, you drunken scoundrel. I am the Queen! THE QUEEN!
DRONE: (Only half-waking.)
This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart,
Hot, hot and moist! This hand of yours requires
A sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer,
Much castigation, exercise devout. . . .
QUEEN: Wake up! Do you hear me? I command you—WAKE UP! You are the last living bee and I command you to marry me! Do you hear? I COMMAND YOU TO MARRY ME!
DRONE: Where, where, where?
QUEEN: (Pointing up.) Up there, eight hundred thousand feet up—you know very well where. WAKE UP, you miserable sot! Do you want the race to die out, you cynical nincompoop? WAKE UP!
DRONE: (Half-awake.) Stay, my pet,
And let your reason with your choler question
What ‘tis you go about. To climb steep hills
Requires slow pace at first: anger is like
A full-hot horse, who being allow’d his way,
Self-mettle tires him.
QUEEN: (Mad.) Do you refuse? You disobey me? You disobey your Queen’s command? YOU REFUSE TO MARRY ME, YOU TREASONABLE SCOUNDREL! (She cries hysterically.) O, you awful, awful, lazy, useless, wretched scoundrel, you refuse to marry me, reject my royal love! O—! (She breaks down.)
DRONE: Be advised;
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
That it do singe yourself: we may outrun
By violent swiftness, that which we run at
And lose by over-running. Know you not,
The fire that mounts the liquor till ‘t run o’er,
In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised:
I say again, there is no beeish soul
More stronger to direct you than yourself
If with the sap of reason you would quench,
Or but allay, the fire of passion.
QUEEN: O that dreadful . . . unctuous . . . oily . . . wretched . . . treasonable . . . useless . . . dirty . . . impossible . . . bore! (She rushes about the stage in frenzy.) I’ll kill myself, I’LL KILL MYSELF. (She screams.) Do you hear me, I’ll kill myself. (She catches sight of the sleeping TRAMP in foreground.) I’ll sting something and kill myself. I’ll die, I’ll sting this and die!
(She stings the TRAMP, who starts up with a cry; then she dies after a brief and noisy paroxysm.)
TRAMP: What the bloody hell was that? Bees, begob. (He examines himself gingerly.) Begob this place is alive with them divils, I believe wan of them’s after stingin’ me, pumpin’ dirt and poison into me arum. Sure I told yeh—I TOLD YEH there’s a bloody nest of them here. Where’s me bottle? (He finds it and takes a suck.) A little drop on the sting and I was right. But where is the sting? (He notices the dead QUEEN and stands up to peer over at her.) Holy God, a bee as big as a greyhound. Begob the eyes is goin’—that or me oul’ head! What’s goin’ on in this place at all? (Enter BASIL.) Holy God, look at your man!
BASIL: (To DRONE.) Hallao! What have we here? The Queen, by Jove! (He examines her.)
TRAMP: I never seen bees that size before.
(BASIL approaches DRONE.)
BASIL: The Queen, my lord, is dead.
DRONE: (Half-asleep.) She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. (He falls asleep completely.)
TRAMP: Begob I AM stung. I am stung! I can feel it now. It’s here in the middle of me arum; wan of them dirty bees has got me! (His voice becomes steely with menace.) If I could lay me hands on the bee that done that . . . do you know what I’m goin’ to tell yeh, if I could lay me two hands on the bee that done that, I’d ——
CURTAIN
1 A reference to the fact that Meriel Moore had played Myrrhina in Oscar Wilde’s The Woman Covered with Jewels—as part of the “Jack-in-the-Box” performances by the Gate Theatre which also included O’Brien’s Thirst.
ACT II
The scene is a sandy hillock with stray stones, holes, patches of coarse grass; to the right and left of the stage are boulders, in between which characters appear or disappear on entering or leaving. Amid the boulders to the left, on somewhat of an eminence, is the nest of The Hen, a dark cave-like dwelling from which bits of straw and sticks protrude, it is not possible to see whether the nest is occupied or not. The TRAMP is lying asleep in the right foreground, unlighted.
As the curtain goes up, there are confused sounds of chirping and clucking from the nest and immediately a large EGG forces itself or is forced to the edge of the nest. It topples over and rolls down onto the stage, where it is seen that a large lump has fallen out of it. It has scarcely come to rest when a beetle rushes in and tries to roll it off; immediately another rushes in to dispute the prize and they quarrel noisily over it with harsh cries. A third beetle rushes in and joins in the fray. In the middle of it, the EGG cries out in a very high shrill voice:
EGG: I’m being born! I’m being born! Three cheers, hip hip—hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
(The beetles scurry back somewhat, curious and a bit frightened; the TRAMP, who has been half asleep, raises his head.)
TRAMP: Pardin? I beg your pardin . . . ?
EGG: I am being born. The great moment is at hand. The whole world is bursting into blossom!
(The beetles have approached the TRAMP after hearing him talk; they regard him curiously from a distance for an instant and then scurry off the stage in alarm.)
TRAMP: Yer been born? (Then very doubtfully.) I see.
EGG: I’m in the middle of me crisis. I’m threatened with existence. Light is beginning to breed in me eyes. I’m being born!
TRAMP: Sure that has to happen to us all, I done the same thing meself single-handed years ago. Years ago man.
(He settles down again and there is a pause; from outside is heard the sound of two beetles talking querulously; they enter—MR.. and MRS. BEETLE, rolling a huge ball of dirt.)
MR. BEETLE: (In an appalling Dublin accent, apparently even flatter than the TRAMP’S.) Here we are now, O.K., everything’s game ball.
MRS. BEETLE: (In a similar accent.) Do you know, the sweat is drippin’ out of me. Drippin’ out of me it is.
MR. BEETLE: An’ isn’t it worth puttin’ yourself into a lather for—a pile of stuff that cost us the grey hairs of a lifetime to put together? I’m steamin’ meself and I’m only sorry it’s not heavier to make me steam more. (Rapturously.) Ah begob it’s lovely. It’s very . . . very . . . adjacent.
MRS. BEETLE: Our gorgeous pile, our lovely savins.
MR. BEETLE: The savins of a bloody lifetime.
MRS. BEETLE: It’s what they do call capital in the bew-uks.
MR. BEETLE: (Turning to address her impressively.) Do you know what I’m goin to tell you. Do you see that ball?
MRS. BEETLE: (Abstractedly.) Our gorgeous . . . lovely . . . big . . . gorgeous pile of savins and capital.
MR. BEETLE: Now that pile of stuff there cost me a lifetime of workin’ and slavin’ . . . and overtime . . . and danger-money . . . and time-and-a-half . . . and Sahurda-work . . . and night-work . . . and piece-work . . . and all classes of work that isn’t known by anny particular name. Do you know that?
MRS. BEETLE: Sure don’t be talkin’, there’s nothin’ like the capital. It’s lovely—I wouldn’t be without a life’s savins for all the money in the world.
MR. BEETLE: Sure luckit. I seen meself wan June fourteen shifts on top of one another without a wink of slape or a bite in me mouth to kill the starvation—just to get a little bit more on to the pile, Begob I did and manys the time.
MRS. BEETLE: Ah certainly, certainly. An’ look how gorgeous an’ big it is now.
MR. BEETLE: It grew . . . an’ it grew . . . an’ it grew.
MRS. BEETLE: An’ it’s ours—ours only. It’s our big ball of savins and nobody else owns anny of it.
MR. BEETLE: I’m bloody sure it’s ours.
MRS. BEETLE: Our lovely gorgeous capital.
MR. BEETLE: Too bloody true it’s ours.
MRS. BEETLE: It’s gorgeous. Sure it is anny wonder some Beetles do be selling their bodies to other Beetles that does have a big pile like this?
MR. BEETLE: No Beetle could make a ball like mine at that game. Sure look at the size of it.
MRS. BEETLE: An’ it’s all ours, our gorgeous savins, the nest egg for our ould age.
MR. BEETLE: Smell it, woman, lick it, taste it! It’s ours!
EGG: (Screaming shrilly.) I’m being born! Born, do you hear me! Everything’s waking, and quaking, and shaking. I’m expected at every minute, I’m nearly here. Hurray!
MR. BEETLE: (Still preoccupied with ball.) It’s very . . . adjacent . . . having a bit of capital, d’ye understand me. It’s very . . . ad-mireable.
MRS. BEETLE: I’m as happy as Larry at the present time, there’s nothing more to wish for.
MR. BEETLE: O steady there now, me gerl, I wouldn’t say that. We have wan. Couldn’t we have two?
MRS. BEETLE: Two! What for?
MR. BEETLE: Isn’t two better than wan? Or even three. What’s wrong with three?
MRS. BEETLE: Begob I always knew you had a head on you. Two piles! Three! I never thought of that. TWO big piles, all our very own!
MR. BEETLE: Luckit. I’ll tell you what. The right game for us is to hide this one and then go off and make another. Do you see?
MRS. BEETLE: Hide it? Yes, hide it is right. We’d better hide it right away. Ey, supposin’ somebody was to lift it on us . . . ?
MR. BEETLE: Lift our little pile? O begob then you won’t find me leavin’ it lyin’ around to be whipped be some bloody scoundrel. We’ll find a hole and bury it.
MRS. BEETLE: Yer right, I’d die if anybody lifted our gorgeous pile. Where are we goin’ to hide it?
MR. BEETLE: We’ll invest it, put it away, store it, bury it, d’ye understand, put it into a nice deep hole. You stay here and don’t take your eyes off it. I’m off to find a nice hole.
MRS. BEETLE: O, I hope it’ll be safe, our hard-earned lovely capital. Where are you goin’ now?
MR. BEETLE: To look for a nice dark hole that nobody else knows about. I’ll be back in a tick. Mind the pile now, don’t take yer eyes off it. (Exit.)
MRS. BEETLE: Ay, here, come back, don’t leave me alone. Ah, begob, the bugger’s gone. Sure there’s a nice dark hole up there. It looks all right to me. Wait now till I have a decko. Wait till I have a peep now. What we want is a very dark . . . sacred . . . sanitary . . . quiet hole, wan that nobody knows anything about. . . .
(Her voice trails off as she makes her way up to the nest and disappears into it. Enter a STRANGE BEETLE.)
STRANGE BEETLE: (Jauntily.) O here’s me chance, the very thing the doctor ordered. There’s nobody here. We take it like this . . . and we roll it away. (Begins to roll it off.)
TRAMP: (Starting up.) Ay, listen here, mind where yer goin!
STRANGE BEETLE: Take yer feet out of me way.
EGG: To be born—to live—to get into the bright blue world! I’m coming, I’m nearly here!
TRAMP: What sort of dirty muck is that yer shovin’ around?
STRANGE BEETLE: That’s me capital, me pile, everything I have. That’s me savins, d’ye understand.
TRAMP: Yer savins? I see. Well there’s a bloody awful hum off yer savins then.
STRANGE BEETLE: (Offended in a very genteel way.) I beg yer pardin?
TRAMP: There’s a fierce smell offa that ball.
STRANGE BEETLE: Who ever heard of a smell being off a life’s savins. Sure all this stuff is me capital. It’s grand stuff, I’m a happy man, it does me heart good to feel it and see it. . . .
(Exit rolling the ball. MRS. BEETLE emerges from nest, fussing.)
MRS. BEETLE: There’s somebody livin’ there, that wouldn’t do at all. AY! Where is it? Where’s the pile? WHERE’S THE CAPITAL GONE?
TRAMP: Yer man took it.
MRS. BEETLE: (Rushing at him.) Thief, thief! Where is it, give it to me before I call me husband!
TRAMP: Now fair enough, take it easy. I’m tellin’ you where it is. Yer man took it.
MRS. BEETLE: Who, who? Where is it?
TRAMP: Yer man that’s after walkin’ out there, a dark fat round fella with a bit of a belly on him.
MRS. BEETLE: Do you mean me husband?
TRAMP: An ugly lookin’ customer with crooked feet.
MRS. BEETLE: That’s me husband all right, he must have found his hole. Where is the bloody fool gone to?
TRAMP: That’s the way he went—out there.
MRS. BEETLE: Wait till I get him. Why didn’t he tell me? Our lovely gorgeous capital, our nest egg. (Hurries out.)
TRAMP: (Musing.) Well begob can you beat that! The bloody bees do spend the time blathering out of them but your men the beetles is all for work, gatherin’ up all classes of muck and dirt an’ rollin’ it into big balls, balls that would take the sight out of yer eyes with the smell that’s off them. That’s the queerest game of the whole lot bar none. And there’s a bloody awful stink in the air here after them.
EGG: Let the world prepare, let everything be ready! Be ready, prepare!
TRAMP: Is it you again? What’s bitin’ you now?
EGG: I’m being born. BORN!
TRAMP: Fair enough.
EGG: I am going to do enormous things—vast, strange, terrible things. I am going to be momentous when I’m born.
TRAMP: I see. Being born, of course, is a very hard thing . . . but it’s very interestin’. Ah yes. An’ it’s a great thing to be born right, of course. Ah certainly.
EGG: I intend to be . . . implacable, wayward, devilish. And powerful, famous, a lord over the world.
TRAMP: I see. Well don’t let me stop you. But get yourself born first, you’ll never get annywhere without being born. God be with the days when I was born meself.
(The DUCK enters, dragging along a dead ladybird with its claw. It enters the nest.)
DUCK: Look, chick, Daddy’s bringing you something nice.
(The DUCK’S voice is sinister and high-pitched and it speaks with a most refined foreign accent.)
EGG: My birth-pangs are making the earth and the heavens quake. The stars halt in their courses. The fearful hour of my deliverance is at hand.
TRAMP: (Irritably.) Now that’ll be enough out of you, me bucko. There’s more oul’ chat of you than I heard from annything the same size.
DUCK: (Returning.) No, chickabiddy, mustn’t come out, just eat what Daddy gave you now. Be a good little chick now.
(An ugly yellow-headed chick puts its head out of the nest.)
DUCKLING: (Puling.) Daddy, I’m . . . tired.
DUCK: Now, now darling, back to bed. Daddy is going to get you another nice ladybird. Would my little pet like that?
DUCKLING: I don’t know what I’d like Daddy. I’d . . . I’d like something nice.
DUCK: Ha-ha! Back to bed now, my little treasure. The dote doesn’t know what she’d like. But I really must get something good for her, something interesting, something frightfully delicate. I must hunt. (To TRAMP.) Who are you?
TRAMP: Who—me?
DUCK: Does one eat a thing like you, I wonder?
TRAMP: (Sniggering.) Ate me? Not if you have the pledge because you’d only get drunk if you et a man like me.
(DUCK sniffs at him.)
DUCK: Nao, black shaow, frightfully stale smell. Who are you?
TRAMP: Yerra sure I’m only a fella havin’ a bit of sleep here on me tod.
DUCK: Ao? Any family?
TRAMP: Not at all man, sure I haven’t even a wife.
DUCK: Did you happen to notice the daughter? Fearfully brilliant child, can talk and all that. Deliciously witty person. I do think she is frightfully fetching. Like children?
TRAMP: Ah well of course the young wans is all right, I wouldn’t be heard sayin’ a word against them. They’re a very nice crowd, some of them.
DUCK: D’you knaow, I do think that children are wizard, full of beans, d’you knaow, and all that. I do think it’s frightful fun goin out to get things for them, beetles and all that sort of thing. I mean, parenthood gives one pleasure, you knaow. Give her two or three meals a day.
TRAMP: O’course a growing child d’want that, the bones does be soft and they do have to get lime into them in the feeds. Ah certainly.
DUCK: Matter of fact I’m frightfully proud of her. She’ll be a great lady when she grows up—hunting and fishing and skin-foods and that sort of thing. But really, I must toddle off and get her something to eat.
DUCKLING: (From nest.) Daddy, I’m fed up, I’m bored. I want something. I’m tired, Daddy.
DUCK: (Delighted.) Hear that? Pretty average wizard talk for a child if you ask me. Really, old man, I must toddle off and get her something very special. Cheerio, sweetness! Be good till Daddy comes back. (Exit.)
TRAMP: (Reflectively.) I see. (He suddenly bellows out in mock rage.) What are you squawkin’ out of you about, you bloody little yella bad-tempered bastard?
DUCKLING: (In a bored supercilious voice.) Shut up, you awful person.
TRAMP: (Shouting.) I’ll shut you up with wan twist of your scraggy neck, you bloody withered peacock, if you don’t look out for yourself!
EGG: (Shouting.) Be ready for me! The great moment of crisis is at hand. PREPARE! BE READY!
TRAMP: You again? Don’t you start now, because begob I won’t have the pair of yez roarin’ out of yez at me.
DUCKLING: (In a low voice to herself.) Perfectly impossible person really.
TRAMP: (Meditatively.) I don’t know . . . I don’t know. It’s haird . . . it’s haird, but it’s very interesstin’. It’s haird but it’s very interesstin’. Your man the bird works the feathers off his back to feed this dirty heap of yellow muck inside in the nest. That’s nature for you, of course. And I suppose the people that owns this zoo does be layin’ out good hard earned money to feed the hen. And then there’s this bastard in the shell lettin’ roars out of him every minute. Everybody’s well looked after bar meself. It’s haird. It’s very haird but it’s very interesstin’.
(Enter MR. BEETLE.)
MR. BEETLE: (Calling.) Where are you Maggie? Where the hell are you? Ay, where’s me ball? Where’s me wife?
TRAMP: Yer wife? Don’t tell me that that big fat bags that was here a minute ago is yer wife? You don’t mean to stand there and tell me you get into bed with that. If you do, keep far away from me, me boy.
MR. BEETLE: That’s her alright—where is she? Do you hear me? And where’s me pile? WHERE’S ME PILE?
TRAMP: She’s humped off lookin’ for you.
MR. BEETLE: But me pile, me ball of capital! Where is it? Do you hear me, where’s me bloody capital?
TRAMP: That muck with the bad smell offit? Sure some chancer came along and rolled it off with him. Yer oul wan wasn’t here at the time.
MR. BEETLE: WHAT! What are you sayin’ man?
TRAMP: The stuff is gone and that’s all.
MR. BEETLE: It’s gone? Great God! O great God! Gone! Stolen! Me capital, me savins I’m ruined, I’m destroyed! (Cries out hysterically.) They’ve stolen me savins, me capital, they’ve stolen me investments, me pile! I’m ruined, ruined, where was that bloody bitch of a wife of mine? I’m ruined, ruined. Thief, thief, stop him. Stop him! Murder! Murder! (Exit moaning.)
TRAMP: I see. As I said before, it’s all very haird but it’s very interesstin’. It’s very interesstin’. Your man kills himself gatherin’ up a ball of muck. Then when he has rolled it up nice and big and smelly, along comes your other man and nabs it. And your man, of course, gets nothing for all his trouble and his bloody exertions. It’s haird, it’s haird.
(Enter MR. and MRS. CRICKET. Both speak with the rawest of all possible Cork accents.)
MR. CRICKET: Mind oorself now.
MRS. CRICKET: Yerra sure I’m all right.
MR. CRICKET: But oo know the way oo are now, sure didn’t the doctor tell you to be careful.
MRS. CRICKET: Well do oo know, I’m worn out with the travellin’.
MR. CRICKET: But why wouldn’t oo be after comin’ all de way from Cork? Sure ‘tis a hoor of a journey. Let you sit down now.
MRS. CRICKET: Do oo know, if I’d known this is the way I’d be, not a bit of me would let you do it.
MR. CRICKET: Yerra, gwan out of that wid oo.
MRS. CRICKET: I’m as tired as a corpse.
MR. CRICKET: Oo poor little wife, let oo sit down there now and be aisy. Sure won’t it be grand altogether when we have the youngster, chirping and crowin’ and laughin’ out of him on the floor.
MRS. CRICKET: Yerra but won’t it be the fine father you’ll make, yourself and your youngster.
MR. CRICKET: And look at the fine . . . grand . . . impartant job he’ll get in the civil service.
MRS. CRICKET: Yerra I’m tired—doan’t be annoyin’ me. Is dis our new home?
MR. CRICKET: It is faith. And a grand fine little home it is.
MRS. CRICKET: But is it sound, is it dry?
MR. CRICKET: As dry as a bone, girl.
MRS. CRICKET: I hope it is—oo know I doan’t like damp.
MR. CRICKET: Yerra doan’t be talkin’, sure didn’t another cricket live here, a cricket from Cork.
MRS. CRICKET: (Moaning.) O, O, the pains is at me—hard. And phwat happened him. The cricket from Cork. Did he get a fine job in the service and move to a bigger house?
MR. CRICKET: (Laughing.) Ha ha! No, he didn’t get e’er a jab in de service at all. Do oo know phwat happened him. Could oo guess?
MRS. CRICKET: Ah doan’t be annoyin’ me. Phwat happened him?
MR. CRICKET: I’ll tell oo. A bird took a fancy to him and et him up. Et him up, every bit and bitteen of him. Ha-ha-ha! And wasn’t it lucky for oo and me? (He makes chewing noise and laughs.)
MRS. CRICKET: Phwat? Et him up . . . alive?
MR. CRICKET: Sure twas a shtroke of providence, girl. Only for de bird eatin’ him we’d have ne’er a house over our heads at all.
MRS. CRICKET: But Lord save us, eaten up alive! Sure that’s terrible altogether, dat’s a fright. OO! Phwat’s dat. Oooooo!
MR. CRICKET: (Alarmed.) What’s wrong, girl? What’s de matter?
MRS. CRICKET: O no, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be yet. The pains is at me again—hard. Do oo know, I’m frightened.
MR. CRICKET: Don’t worry now, oo’ll be allright. Every woman, oo know, has to go through all dat class of ting sooner or later. Sure ‘tis only nature, girl.
MRS. CRICKET: O, oo can talk, ‘tis easy for oo to blather out of oo like dat. Did he chew him or did he swally him in one lump?
MR. CRICKET: (Gloatingly munching.) He chewed him well.
MRS. CRICKET: Do oo know, dat’s funny. (Laughs hysterically.)
MR. CRICKET: Easy now, girl. We’ll be very comfortable here now, when we put up nice curtains and furnishins’. Do oo know what I’d like?
MRS. CRICKET: Phwat?
MR. CRICKET: I’ll tell oo. A nice . . . big . . . juicy kiss.
MRS. CRICKET: Yerra go away and doan’t be such an ownshuck.
MR. CRICKET: (In an artful whisper.) Do oo know what I have here, inside in me pocket?
MRS. CRICKET: I woan’t listen to any bold talk and me dis way, you mind phwat you’re sayin’ now boy.
MR. CRICKET: Guess now. Oo woan’t? A rattle!
(He takes out a rattle.)
MRS. CRICKET: A rattle! A little rattle! Give it here to me.
(MR. CRICKET prances round the stage in comic attitudes, humming and making outlandish noises. MRS. CRICKET sits and laughs in a somewhat unbalanced fashion.)
MRS. CRICKET: Wait till de baby comes till he sees de rattle we have. Give it here to me?
MR. CRICKET: (Merrily.) Wait till HE sees it? Sure ‘tis a little girl I do be praying for iviry night.
MRS. CRICKET: Give it here to me.
(He gives it and she starts rattling it and humming in a broken voice.)
MR. CRICKET: Well do oo know, I must be off now to look around and look up some of de old Cork crowd in de service. They’ll tip me off, oo know, about dis place, and bring me around till I get de hang of it. ‘Tis impartant to start right away and get in with de right crowd. ‘Tis a terrible sin to waste time, oo know.
MRS. CRICKET: Phwat, leave me here—alone?
MR. CRICKET: Yerra girl sure I’ll be only round de corner.
MRS. CRICKET: Sure you’re no father at all to leave me here and me in a certain condition. ‘Tis very unfair entirely.
MR. CRICKET: Doan’t be mad girl, oo wouldn’t like me to miss dem all and dem coming out at five o’clock. Sure dat wouldn’t do at all at all. I’ll be back nearly before I’m gone.
MRS. CRICKET: Well oo must hurry back to Mama.
MR. CRICKET: And if oo wants me badly oo can rattle.
MRS. CRICKET: (She rattles and hums ‘Husha-bye-baby.’) Oo’r a bad father, that’s what oo are.
MR. CRICKET: (Hurrying off.) Mind oorself now, girl, I’ll be back very soon with all de news.
TRAMP: Ye’ll be game ball there ma’am, ye’ll be . . . absolutely . . . O.K. Just stop where you are till yer man comes back and you’ll be O.K.
MRS. CRICKET: Who are oo? A beetle?
TRAMP: Indeed and begob and I am not a beetle ma’am, I’m certainly not a bloody beetle and I’ve been called manny a thing in me time.
MRS. CRICKET: Do oo eat people up or bite?
TRAMP: I don’t, and I don’t spend me time shovin’ round balls of dirt either.
MRS. CRICKET: (Rattling.) How many children have oo?
TRAMP: (In mock indignation.) I beg yer pardin?
MRS. CRICKET: Have oo many young wans in de house?
TRAMP: Sure I never had ne’er a kid nor annything like one, I was never a man for that class of thing at all. I always barred that game.
MRS. CRICKET: Oo never got married?
TRAMP: Married? Not at all.
MRS. CRICKET: ‘Tis very sad not to be married.
(She rattles and sings idly as if attaching no importance to the conversation.)
TRAMP: (Very meditatively.) Of course marriage is a very interestin’ thing . . . but it’s very haird, it’s very haird. There does be very heavy responsibilities on the married men. They do have to give over takin’ a jar when they’re married.
MRS. CRICKET: You’re a very funny beetle. Men are very selfish. Would oo look at my man now, went away and left me and me in a certain condition.
TRAMP: Him? Sure he’s only hopped round the corner for a jar to steady his nerves.
EGG: (Shouting.) The whole future is boiling up inside me! Terrible and vast undertakings are about to be launched forth. The golden hour is about to dawn. I’m coming! I approach!
TRAMP: Do you hear your man?
(Enter MRS. BEETLE.)
MRS. BEETLE: Where’s me oul fella? Do you hear me? Where’s me oul fella? WHERE’S ME PILE?
MRS. CRICKET: Oor pile? Phwat pile now?
MRS. BEETLE: Me pile, me capital, me own and me husband’s life savins, our little all. Where is it? Where’s me oul fella?
MRS. CRICKET: I’m a stranger here, I didn’t see him at all.
MRS. BEETLE: The bloody oul eejit must have gone off with it. Have you e’er an oul fella yourself, ma’am?
MRS. CRICKET: I have o’ course. He’s gone away on very impartant business, do oo know.
MRS. BEETLE: Is he now. Listen, deary, I know it’s none of me business, I know you’ll think I’m very cheeky but tell me, ma’am are ye . . . expectin’?
MRS. CRICKET: O! De pains is terrible.
MRS. BEETLE: Ah there now, love didn’t I know, sure many’s the time I was in the same boat meself and I’d be in it this minute if I let his nibs have his way. But not me, I’ve learnt me lesson.
MRS. CRICKET: Well do oo know, tis nice, but tis a terrible price altogether to pay for the grand times you do have when you get married.
MRS. BEETLE: Ah the poor girl . . . and you so young. Sure ‘tis only a mug’s game. Sure look at my figure.
MRS. CRICKET: ‘Tis too late for me to change me mind.
MRS. BEETLE: Where’s yer pile?
MRS. CRICKET: A pile. Phwat do I want a pile for?
MRS. BEETLE: What do you want it for? A PILE? Sure everybody has to have a pile. Yer capital, nest egg, for yourself and yer oul man. Yer life savins, something for the rainy day. You don’t mean to say yer oul man hasn’t a pile?
MRS. CRICKET: If he has he never showed it to me.
MRS. BEETLE: Sure you can’t have a proper home without a pile. Nor you can’t have happiness nor a future. A pile is what keeps a home together, woman dear.
MRS. CRICKET: Ah yerra sure there’s nothing like a grand nice little houseen for keepin’ a home together, and a nice job in the service for the man with a grand pinshin at the end of it.
MRS. BEETLE: Ah musha but you’ve got the queer ideas, God bless you. I’d no more . . . I’d no more be without a pile than I’d be without me dinner on a Sunda.
MRS. CRICKET: Ah there’s nothing like the clean bright little houseen to make a man love ye and stay with ye.
MRS. BEETLE: Lord love you, I hope you’re right, but I want me pile.
Where is it? Where’s that oul man o’mine? (Shouts.) Ay, where are you. Ooo-oo! (Exit.)
MRS. CRICKET: Well, do oo know, isn’t that the cantankerous oul sow, I wouldn’t blame her husband for skippin off with himself. (She rattles and sings to herself tunelessly.) I feel queer. I feel very queer in meself.
(Enter DUCK.)
DUCK: Ao, what have we here? Tally-ho, tally-ho!
(He kills MRS. CRICKET and starts to drag her body up to the nest with his leg.)
TRAMP: Ay, luckit here, what are you doing? You’ve killed her!
DUCK: Oh-ho, chickabiddy! Chick chick chick! Wake up darling, Daddy’s brought something nice.
TRAMP: Well begob can you beat that! He done her in in front of me eyes and me sittin’ here lookin’ at him. And I didn’t move a hand to save her. Begob I’m worse than he is. I’m worse than he is. It’s a bloody shame.
(Enter PARASITE, who is a frightful-looking sight and the last word in mealy-mouthed joxers.)
PARASITE: You took the words outa me mouth. Them’s me own sentiments sir.
TRAMP: To be whipped off like that and her goin’ to have a baby—sure that’s not right at all.
PARASITE: It’s not right, it never was right, and it never will be right. I understand how you feel. You’re a man after me own heart.
TRAMP: And who might you be?
PARASITE: I’m a poor . . . unassumin’ . . . labourin’ man, I ask no favours and I mind me own business. I’m a poor orphan into the bargain. They do call me a parasite.
TRAMP: I see. Well do you know what I’m goin’ to tell you, I never in me born days seen a dirtier stroke than your man done, killin’ the young wan off like that.
PARASITE: I’m with you there, sir, it aggravated and consternated me feelins’, sir. And answer me this, sir. Did he have to do it? Was he starvin’ with the hunger like meself that hasn’t had bite to eat or sup to drink for four days? Indeed and begob and he wasn’t, not bloody likely, he has his place inside there packed to the roof with stuff smoked and hung up to dry, any God’s amount of it man. Don’t be talkin’ to me, sure don’t I know. And it’s a right bloody shame, that’s what it is. Look at me. I’m half as strong as a bantam and twice as light from all me hardships and hunger and here is this bastard with more stuff than could feed a hundred for a week. Sure don’t be talkin’ to me man.
TRAMP: You’re right there—it’s a shame certainly.
PARASITE: Luckit. Here am I. I’m poor. I’m starvin’. What can I do? Just go on starvin’. But what does your man do? He just sticks his claw into the first unfortunate poor whore he meets and off with him then to have a feed he’s not able for. One law for me, a different law for his nibs. Sure don’t be talkin’ to me man.
TRAMP: You wouldn’t believe all the murder and robbery and rascality that’s goin’ on here for the last half hour, I’ll be as gray as a badger before I’m much older.
PARASITE: Sure luckit. You took the words out of me mouth. What goes on here day in and day out is a terrible crime against the people, mark my words now. That bugger above there in that hole’ll have to be put a stop to, I’m tellin’ you. Somebody’ll have to kill that bugger. Because do you know what I’m goin to tell you, he has half the food in the country cornered and hoarded and stored away there, he has bags and pucks of stuff there inside in the nest, lashins of grub goin’ bad there while meself and me likes is starvin’ with the hunger. Sure don’t be talkin’ to me man.
TRAMP: I didn’t know he had all that tucked away.
PARASITE: Well, I’m tellin’ you he has. To hell with him! To bloody hell with him!
(The DUCK re-appears from the nest.)
DUCK: That’s right, little pet, eat it all up. Good little fluffy chick!
PARASITE: Good evenin’, yer honour.
DUCK: Ao, what have we here? Who is this frightful person? Don’t move, I’m only smelling you.
PARASITE: Ah now, mister, you’re only coddin me. Nobody would ever ate me, mister.
DUCK: D’you knaow, there’s a most frightful beastly smell from you. I do think you’re pretty average filthy. Be off with you!
PARASITE: Certainly, sir, yer honour, no offence, mister. (He cowers.)
DUCK: (To TRAMP.) I trust you saw my little exploit, old man. Not bad, you know. Frightfully difficult thing sometimes. Calls for skill, you knaow, coolness, iron nerve and all that sort of thing. One has to be in training and so on.
PARASITE: You’re right, yer honour, you’re right there.
DUCK: Frightful lot of patience called for too, you knaow. Fellow has to watch his chance and keep his head and all the sort of thing . . . I do it rather well, if I do say so myself.
PARASITE: You took the words right out of me mouth, your majesty, it’s a very haird exacerbatin’ occupation.
DUCK: I say, do shut up, you filthy creature. I’m not talking to you.
PARASITE: No offence, yer royal highness. I sincerely beg yer pardin.
DUCK: It calls for qualities one doesn’t find in the working classes. I mean, breeding and good form and love of sport and so on. I mean, one is that sort of person or one isn’t, you knaow. I do think it is all frightfully fascinating. Well, sir, I think I’ll say cheerio. Must get a little something more before dark. No rest for me, you knaow. Pip pip, old boy. (Exit.)
PARASITE: The dirty mouldy oul bags. For wan minute there I thought I was goin’ to let fly at him, I was never so boilin’ mad in me life.
TRAMP: O begob he was lucky to escape with his life.
PARASITE: Sure don’t be talkin’ to me man, another couple of seconds and I’d lost control. Your man was blowin’ about all the work he does to get grub. Well, who’s afraid of work anyway? I’d work me fingers to the bone meself and welcome if there was anny need to. But why should I when he and his like has a thousand times what I’ve got? Why should I kill meself to preserve . . . and per-petuate . . . a dirty rich man’s world where the poor is ground down . . . and persecuted . . . and starved be the boss class. Do you know what I’m goin’ to tell you? I’m a communist. I take me stand on communism. And I’m starvin’ with the bloody hunger. Sure don’t be talkin’ to me.
TRAMP: I suppose you wouldn’t say no to a nice steak and chips . . . and a few fried onions . . . and plenty of pepper and salt . . . and a bottle of stout?
PARASITE: Ah now man, don’t be talkin’ to me, don’t be talkin’ to me. Because I take me stand on communism, the boss class is goin’ to let me starve to death. Is you and me goin’ to stand for that?
TRAMP: Begob I think you’re as much entitled to a feed as the next man.
(MR. CRICKET enters, rattling and chirping merrily.)
MR. CRICKET: Are oo here? Where are oo, acushla? Where are oo hidin’ on me? Guess what I brought oo!
DUCK: (Suddenly appearing behind him.) AHA!
TRAMP: (Roaring in alarm.) Hey—mind yerself, MIND YERSELF!
PARASITE: Now listen be a wise man like me and keep yer nose out of what doesn’t concern you. Don’t get mixed up in annybody else’s row. You’ll get all the trouble you want without lookin’ for it.
MR. CRICKET: Yerra girl where are oo?
(DUCK suddenly kills him and drags him off.)
TRAMP: O Lord save us—Lord save us. Did you see that? What are we goin’ to do at all—IS THERE NO WAY OF STOPPIN THIS BLOODY SLAUGHTER?
PARASITE: What did I tell you? Did you expect any dacency or principles from that baucaugh-shool? Murder, that’s his dish. Three crickets he’s had already and me standin’ here with me backbone out through me stomach with the hunger. Would you blame me for being a communist?
(DUCK quickly re-appears from nest, speaking to the DUCKLING.)
DUCK: No, old girl, can’t wait. More work to do, you knaow, Cheerypip! I’ll be back soon. (Exit.)
PARASITE: I wonder what class of a place has your man above there in that cave. Keep nix there like a dacent man till I have a screw.
(He enters the nest.)
TRAMP: Well bad an’ all as real people like me is, we’re not as bad as that. We don’t be killin’ and atin’ each other, we just work hard and try and make a couple of bob, scrape together a few little savins, a little pile. Blast it, I’m crazy, that’s what them bloody beetles does be at. Be God maybe it’s all the wan. I don’t know. It’s haird. It’s very haird but it’s very interesstin’.
EGG: I feel absolutely . . . bulging . . . with life and vitality. I’m nearer being born than ever.
TRAMP: You’re havin’ a great time in there.
PARASITE: (Falling down out of the nest, bloated, helpless and hiccupping.) Ha-ha-ha! Boys-a-dear! Th’oul bags kept any God’s amount of stuff above there for that lousy-lookin’ flea-bitten brat he has there, all classes of—hup—lovely juice—hup—grubsteaks, I declare be the powers that I’ve—hup—stuffed meself till I can’t talk. Hup!
TRAMP: And how about the yella duckling, did she not bite the nose off you?
PARASITE: Her? I swallyed her too, claw, beak and feathers. I look after Number One. I leave nothin’ behind me, believe you me.
TRAMP: I see. You’re a communist all right, there’s no doubt about that. You dirty lookin’ bags.
CURTAIN
ACT III
Back of stage is undisclosed. TRAMP is again lying in the foreground, musing.
TRAMP: It’s very haird . . . but it’s very interesstin’—them little buggers with all the legs on them is queer little men. Don’t give a damn for one another—every man for himself. You ate me or I’ll ate you.
EGG: (Shouting.) The universe approaches its supreme crisis. Soon it will be liberated, calm, triumphant. I am about to be born.
TRAMP: Now take your man. He thinks he’s Number One. Never heard of annybody he likes as well as himself. He thinks he’s the whole bloody world. And look at the size of him, stuffed into a bloody egg, a thing I’d ate for breakfast without lookin’ at it. Of course I know what’s wrong with all these lads. They’ve no proper system or way of workin’. They’re not organized if you understand me.
EGG: Strange lights are glowing, strange sweet sounds are thickening the air, a frightful and majestic cataclysm is at hand.
TRAMP: Begob I think I’ve put me finger on it there. That’s the difference between meself and me likes and them lads. We have a system, a proper way of workin’. We have what they call a plan. Every man with his own job, all workin’ away together for the good of all. What they call the Nation.
EGG: I will soar aloft, traverse vast spaces, accomplish miraculous tasks. I am nearly born!
TRAMP: Begorrah now, I think that’s about the size of it. Human beins’ is civilized because they do be workin’ for one another and workin’ together. But these mad whores here do be atin’ one another. And that’s just the difference between the two. (He begins feeling himself and the ground about him.) Ay, what’s this? ANTS, be God! Millions of the buggers—I must be sittin’ on an anthill. . . .
(Meanwhile the curtain has risen to reveal the Ant Hill, a featureless and uneven situation crowded with ever-moving ants; they carry confused objects that look like tools and each drags along a round white object. In the centre an ant wearing a card marked BLIND sits and counts continuously. The ants speak with a most pronounced Belfast accent.)
BLIND ANT: Wun tew three fore, wun tew three fore. . . .
TRAMP: Ay, what’s this? What’s goin’ on here? What are you countin’ for, Jem?
BLIND ANT: Wun tew three fore. . . .
TRAMP: Ay, come here Jem, what’s the countin’ for? Is this a factory or what?
BLIND ANT: Wun tew three fore. . . .
TRAMP: Do you hear me—WHAT’S GOIN’ ON? Look at the way all the lads are movin’ in step to the blind fella. Begob you’d swear they were all worked be clockwork!
BLIND ANT: Wun tew three fore. . . .
(CHIEF ENGINEER rushes in.)
CHIEF ENGINEER: Come awn now—quacker, d’ye hear me—quacker, wun tew three fore.
(They all move quicker.)
TRAMP: (Shouting.) Ay, you, what’s goin’ on here? What class of work is this? Is this a bloomin’ factory?
CHIEF ENGINEER: Hoo orr yew ond what’s yoor busness here?
TRAMP: What do you mean ‘business’?
CHIEF ENGINEER: Whuch of the awnts do ye wont tay see?
TRAMP: Now listen here to me, I’m a man, d’you understand, A MAN. I’m not an ant and I don’t want to have anny conversations with anny ant, I’m not as far-gone as that yet.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Thus us the Prawvince of the Awnts, yoo’ve no reight to be here at all if yoo’re not an awnt.
TRAMP: Is that so. Well it’ll take more than you to shift me.
(2ND ENGINEER runs in.)
2ND ENGINEER: A grawnd new discovery, Ah’ve discovered something grawnd!
CHIEF ENGINEER: What us it?
2ND ENGINEER: A new way of mackin’ them wurk quacker! Don’t count wun tew three fore. Are ye lustenin’ to me, Bliend Fella?
BLIND ANT: Wun tew three fore . . .
2ND ENGINEER: Naw naw, yew’re wrong, blank tew three fore, blank tew three fore.
(The ants move more quickly still.)
TRAMP: Do you know what I’m goin’ to tell you, you’re makin’ my head go round worse than anny feed of malt ever did. I’m dizzy!
2ND ENGINEER: Ond hoo is thus mon?
TRAMP: I’m a person from other parts.
2ND ENGINEER: Where frum, did ye say?
CHIEF ENGINEER: He’s a thing from what ye mieght call the Hewman Awnt Heap, do ye ondherstawnd me.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond where is thon in Go-id’s name?
TRAMP: Ah yerra miles away man. It’s here too, of course. You’ll find my kind of lads everywhere.
2ND ENGINEER: Ah thank yoo’re a wee fool.
TRAMP: People like me is the lords of creation. That’s a quare one for you!
2ND ENGINEER: Ha-ha-ha, the lowerds of creation!
CHIEF ENGINEER: We’re the only peepil thot motter.
2ND ENGINEER: We’re the bawsses, do ye ondherstawnd.
CHIEF ENGINEER: We’re the mawsters.
2ND ENGINEER: Thae mawsters of the Awnt Kingdom.
CHIEF ENGINEER: The biggest of all the Awnt Kingdoms!
2ND ENGINEER: Ond the bee-est.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond the strongest, do ye ondherstawnd!
2ND ENGINEER: Ond the most loyal!
CHIEF ENGINEER: The Awnt State will feight ond the Awnt State wull be rieght!
TRAMP: I . . . beg . . . your . . . par-din?
2ND ENGINEER: We wurk to keep in step!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond to show we’re loyal!
2ND ENGINEER: Ond to show we don’t care a domn for thon Awnt over in Rome!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond to show we’re hord-headed, do ye ondherstawnd!
TRAMP: (Incredulously.) I see. I’m sure them’s all very good reasons but I don’t understand them right. What’s all this rushin’ around for?
2ND ENGINEER: Thus us a grawnd big foctory, d’ye see, for mackin’ things.
CHIEF ENGINEER: For mackin ships ond trains ond nuts ond bolts.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond onny soert of a thang thot’s hard, do ye ondherstawnd.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Because we’re very hord-headed awnts.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond because we’re port of the Empiere.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond because we keep in step.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond show avrybody we’re loyal, d’ye see.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond because we know what’s what.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond because thon awnts in the south is jalous of us.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond because thon porties hov tacken down the flag of the Good Awnts ond poot up some other flag.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond because they’re not loyal, d’ye see.
CHIEF ENGINEER: They’ll do what thon awnt over in Rome tals them.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond thot’s whey they all tok Latin.
CHIEF ENGINEER: A dad longuage.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond they want to mack us tok Latin too.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond hov it taught in the schools.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond hov it shoved down the wee awnts nacks.
CHIEF ENGINEER: A dad longuage.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond no good to onyone that hos to eemigrate to gat a luvin’.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond they won’t hov anybody tokin’ the Good Awnts’ longuage.
2ND ENGINEER: Naw, they want a dad longuage.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Thot’s no good anywhere excapt in Rome.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond thot’s whey we’re wurkin’ so hard mackin’ hard things.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Tay show we’re loyal.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond hord-headed.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond ready to fieght for the rieght to keep in stap.
2ND ENGINEER: In stap with the Awnt Empiere.
CHIEF ENGINEER: On which the sun never sats.
2ND ENGINEER: Tha grawndest empiere in the wurld.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond the richest empiere.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond the empiere where there’s no Latin tokd.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Up his mojesty the king awnt!
2ND ENGINEER: Ond to hal with thon awnt in Rome!
TRAMP: Yerra I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about and yo don’t aither. Sure all ants is the same. They’re all little round dark fellas. They only think they’re different. You’re all crazy, gettin’ into a sweat about nothin’.
CHIEF ENGINEER: We’ll fieght for the rieght to be loyal.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond the rieght to keep in stap.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond the rieght to axport the hard things we’re mackin’ in this foctory.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond we’ll fieght for our holy ralugion.
BLIND ANT: Blank tew three fore, blank tew three fore. . . .
2ND ENGINEER: Quacker! We’re wastin’ time. Quacker, quacker!
CHIEF ENGINEER: The horder we wurk, the safer we are from those bawd awnts in the south.
TRAMP: But sure them other ants you’re talkin’ about isn’t bitin’ you at all. Take it aisy now. And don’t keep on repeatin’ them slogans you have or I’ll be believin’ them meself next.
CHIEF ENGINEER: We’re defandin’ our honour!
2ND ENGINEER: Ond the honour of all our dead awnts of glorious and immortal mamory.
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Roaring at the ants.) QUACKER! QUACKER!!
TRAMP: (Musing.) I don’t know. What would happen if they all sat down and took a rest? Nothing.
BLIND ANT: Blank tew three fore, blank tew three fore. . . .
TRAMP: These poor whores has a lot of oul chat off be heart and they keep sayin’ it and sayin’ it and workin’ for it and workin’ for it. And what harm but it means nothin’ as far as I can see.
2ND ENGINEER: Quacker, Quacker!
TRAMP: I wonder who told them all them yarns.
(An ant collapses, dying.)
2ND ENGINEER: Whot’s thon? Quacker, quacker!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Blank tew three fore. Carry him off, quack! Tack away the body. Blank tew three fore!
2ND ENGINEER: He died because he’s loyal, he died for the empiere of the Good Awnts.
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Shouting.) Luft him up rieght and tack him out quack! Yew’re wastin’ time, d’ye see. Hurry, quacker!
TRAMP: Well begob you can’t say he wasted anny time himself when he was dyin’. He passed out like a lighted match, the poor bastard.
2ND ENGINEER: He died because he was tryin’ to keep in stap.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond now he’s a glorious awnt of immortal memory. Quacker! Blank tew three fore.
(Enter a POLITICIAN, groping, lost in thought.)
POLITICIAN: Get away now ond don’t talk to me. I’m thankin’.
2ND ENGINEER: Thon’s our wee head Politician.
POLITICIAN: Ah’ve got a grawnd idea for a new slogan. Don’t say a word, don’t mack any noise. I’m thankin’.
2ND ENGINEER: Do ye mind that now.
POLITICIAN: A grawnd . . . new . . . poleetical . . . slogan, d’ye see.
CHIEF ENGINEER: A slogan that’ll mack them work horder ond be more hord-headed!
POLITICIAN: A slogan that’ll mack them fieght ond be right ond be loyal ond keep in stap. Stop, now, I nearly have it!
2ND ENGINEER: Be quiet, the Politeecian is thankin’.
CHIEF ENGINEER: On thot’s what we’re bodly in need of—a grawnd new slogan, d’ye see.
POLITICIAN: A slogan that’ll mack them join the Ormy in thousands and mullions ond hundreds of mullions of thousands, tans of thousands of mullions of mullions.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond die in mullions to keep in stap.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond to show they’re hord-headed ond loyal.
POLITICIAN: Och, it’s swirlin’ around unside my head, a grawnd new slogan, Ah’ll have it in a minit, don’t any-body say a wurd now.
2ND ENGINEER: The Politeecian is thankin’ hord.
CHIEF ENGINEER: He’s a grawnd genius, the Politeecian, Ah don’t know where we’d be without him so Ah don’t.
2ND ENGINEER: He’s the greatest Politeecian in the whole wurld!
CHIEF ENGINEER: He’s the most voluable thing we have.
2ND ENGINEER: Shure if we hodn’t him we wouldn’t have war. Ond then we couldn’t be loyal ond hord-headed.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Aye, war. WAR! We’ll soon have war. Ond we’ll want thon new slogan.
2ND ENGINEER: For to get mullions and mullions into the Ormy.
CHIEF ENGINEER: The Green Awnts in the south will force war on us ond try ond mack us talk Lotin.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond force it down the throats of the wee awnts.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond try ond mack them disloyal.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond shame all our dead awnts of glorious ond immortal mamory.
CHIEF ENGINEER: But us awnts’ll fieght ond us awnts’ll be rieght.
2ND ENGINEER: Aye surely.
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Shouting suddenly.) Quacker, quacker, quacker! Blank tew three fore! Get intil trainin’ because we’re goin’ to have war!
2ND ENGINEER: War for our homes and our holy relugion!
CHIEF ENGINEER: War against the dirty Green Awnts.
TRAMP: Now don’t tell me there’s goin’ to be more slaughter. Can’t yez stop fightin’ and atin’ one another at all?
CHIEF ENGINEER: It’s us or them, d’ye ondherstawnd?
2ND ENGINEER: Thon’s a massinger comin’. A massinger!
CHIEF ENGINEER: A massinger! With news of war!
(Enter a MESSENGER.)
MESSENGER: Ah beg to report, sir.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond what’s your massage, say it quack.
MESSENGER: Ah’m from the Ormy G.H.Q., sir.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Well hurry on, what’s your massage?
MESSENGER: The Green Awnts was chasin’ a sick beetle for to eat it.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond it came into our territory?
MESSENGER: Yes sir.
CHIEF ENGINEER: In clear defiance of international law.
MESSENGER: Yes sir. Ond it died in our territory sir.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond they want us to give it back to them? Notwithstanding the fact that mullions of our own awnts are starving for the want of good food?
MESSENGER: Yes sir.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond what did they say? What cheeky impartinent massage did they send about it?
MESSENGER: This is it, sir.
(Hands over a letter.)
CHIEF ENGINEER: What do the bostards say? (Opens letter and reads.) The Government of the Green Awnts prasants their compliments ond would like the parmussion of the Yellow Awnts to come intil their tarritory for to retrieve the dead beetle rightly belonging to the Green Awnts aforesaid. Signed by Deevil . . . Deevil so-ond-so. Well there’s not much in thon latter. They’ll get no permussion so they’ll not. They’ll get no permussion for to tack away the beetle. The beetle is our propty by international law.
2ND ENGINEER: (Coming forward and peering at letter.) But what’s thon? There’s a P.S. there.
CHIEF ENGINEER: A P.S.? Och so there is. What does it say? P.S. Eff ye don’t give permussion we’ll come ond get it anyway. Yours sincerely, the Green Awnts.
2ND ENGINEER: A threat! An ultimatum!
CHIEF ENGINEER: War! A holy war!
2ND ENGINEER: Our exastince is threatened!
CHIEF ENGINEER: A tarrible war to preserve our weemen and children. Call everybody to arms!
2ND ENGINEER: Mobilise! To orms, to orms!
CHIEF ENGINEER: The foul and patiless enemy is forcing us to defand ourselves. To orms!
(There is general excitement and rushing about on the part of the ants. Several begin to appear with crude weapons. A strange and opulentlooking ant enters.)
2ND ENGINEER: Who’s thon?
CHIEF ENGINEER: Who are you, sor?
STRANGE ANT: (In refined English accent.) Matter of fact old boy I represent the Emperor of all the free ants and all that. Dropped into see you about fearfully boring imperial matters, imperial contribution and all that.
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Sullenly.) We’ve ped all we owe.
2ND ENGINEER: Ond we’ve kept in step, d’ye ondherstawnd.
STRANGE ANT: Frightfully sorry but you must pay more, cost of living going up and all that.
CHIEF ENGINEER: We’ve paid every penny we owe and delivered four mullion balls of food.
STRANGE ANT: Not enough old man.
2ND ENGINEER: It’s enough ond planty ond damn the more we’ll pay, d’ye ondherstawnd.
STRANGE ANT: Magnificent dead beetle in your territory, must have that, you know, have instructions from higher up to annex it and attach it and so on. Food for the people in the Greater Ant Realm, fearfully important thing to keep them fed. Know how you feel and all that but it must be done, you know.
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Savagely.) You’ll tack thon beetle over our dead bodies, so you wull.
2ND ENGINEER: (Very excited.) We’ll die first, do ye hear, we’ll die first!
STRANGE ANT: Do you mean war? Black shaow, war, you know. Fearful slaughter and bloodshed and all that. But rather glorious in its own queer way. Die for your country, you know. The supreme sacrifice. Altars and homes and all that.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Eff yew poot wun finger on thon beetle—
2ND ENGINEER: Ye’ll be massacreed, d’ye hear.
STRANGE ANT: By Jove I think this is treason! Treason. You are all frightfully Irish here.
2ND ENGINEER: We’re loyal but we’re goin’ to keep thon beetle.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Is this the thanks we get for keepin’ in stup?
STRANGE ANT: (In delighted amazement.) By George it’s a rebellion! These elements here are disaffected. Enemies of the Emperor of all the Ants! I say, this is quite a story! Really I must report back!
2ND ENGINEER: Ye can go back to haal where ye came from!
STRANGE ANT: An insurrection!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Eff ye want war it’s war ye’ll get, d’ye hear.
STRANGE ANT: If you start insurrecting, you knaow, we’ll have to put you down with a firm hand. Suspend habeas corpus and all that. Really, I think we are going to have war here! A BLOODY . . . NOBLE . . . AND DISASTROUS WAR FOR HONOUR AND DECENCY.
CHIEF ENGINEER: To orms, to orms! We’re being attacked!
STRANGE ANT: (Going out.) No matter what you give them these damn people aren’t satisfied. They’re really hopeless, you knaow. Must report all this nonsense. We’ll wipe the blighters out and restore order.
2ND ENGINEER: (Roaring after him.) May ye roast in haal!
CHIEF ENGINEER: To orms! We’ll fieght them ond the Green Awnts as well. We’ll fieght everybody!
(There is great activity; soldier-ants rush all over the place, bugles blow, sirens sound.)
TRAMP: Well do you know what I’m goin’ to tell you. Do you know what it is. Them buggers is all mad. Down the road we have a dead beetle with his dirty bloody guts stickin’ out of him and all classes of bees and bluebottles tryin’ to ate him—a dirty useless-lookin’ sight. And these lads here wants to die for that. Nothin’ will do them but get slaughtered for a dead beetle. I’d die meself, of course, if I’d any reason to. I’d give me life this minute for a pint of porter and often risked me life for less. But a dead beetle! A DEAD BEETLE! Sure that’s a terrible reason for dyin’. The whole bloody lot of them is crackers.
EGG: (Shouting.) Do you hear the mighty trumpets, the vast noises that announce my coming? The firmament resounds, I am nearly here!
TRAMP: YOU’RE nearly here. Begob when you see what’s goin’ on here you won’t stay long then.
(Activity among the ants has increased.)
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Eloquently.) Soldiers, friends, countrymen! We have to call the whole lot of ye to the colours. Not one wacked anemy is attackin’ us but TWO. The Amperor of the Awnts is attackin’ because we won’t give up our own beetle, ond them wacked Green Awnts is flyin’ at us too, some of them hardened speakers of Latin!
2ND ENGINEER: We’ll have to call the weemen to the colours too. Ond the wee ants as well.
CHIEF ENGINEER: At this great hour I have to proclaim meself Dactator!
2ND ENGINEER: Three cheers for the Dactator!
TRAMP: Good man yourself! Get out now and bate the lard out of them other fellas.
2ND ENGINEER: We’ll fight for our altars ond our homes.
CHIEF ENGINEER: We go to war proudly, seeking death or glory for our altars ond our homes ond the right to keep our own beetles, d’ye ondherstawnd. QUICK MARCH! I now assume commond of all our ormies. We fieght because we are attacked. I am with you till the last drop of me blood.
2ND ENGINEER: We’ll all have to keep in stap with one another ond kill all them bustards that’s attackin’ us. We fight for the honour of our dead awnts of glorious and immortal memory. Quack march, to victory or death!
(There is marching all about the stage, drums beat and bugles blow. A particularly large drum dominates the others.)
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Screaming.) Goodbye, now, soldiers, good luck, goodbye, fieght with all your might, never give in, shed the last drop of your blood, I’m here behind you all the time, make the world safe for your weemen and wee awnts, defand your altars and your homes, navver give in, navver NAVVER give in.
2ND ENGINEER: Quack morch, blank two three fore! We’ll fight ond we’ll be rieght! The ormy is ready. Show no quarter!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Slaughter the annemy’s weemen ond wee ones!
2ND ENGINEER: Burn all before ye.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond kill all them bustards that speak Lotin, d’ye onderstawnd!
(Troops keep marching past on their way to the front. A MESSENGER rushes in.)
2ND ENGINEER: Wipe out everybody ye meet, tear the lights out of them Green Awnts. Ond them Red Awnts, do tham all in, roast them all in haal, cut them into wee bits, slaughter the whole domn lot!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Onwards, soldiers, to the soop-reme sacrifice, die for your altars ond your commonder-in-chief. Ond for your weemen and wee awnts. Well, what do you wont?
MESSENGER: The Red Awnts has pooshed our forces back ond the Green Awnts is behind them pooshin’ them the other way. Half of our forces is destroyed.
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Shouting.) Avverything is goin’ according to plan. Two more divisions to the front! Quack march! Your country calls! Onwards to death or glory! Show thot you’re worthy of your fathers of glorious ond immortal mamory! Quack march, laft, right, laft, right. . . .
(Fresh regiments march out beating enormous drums. Great bangs are heard in distance.)
CHIEF ENGINEER: Call fresh men to the colours! Get ready the reserves.
EGG: Vast detonations shake the earth, thunderous music interferes with the rhythm of the spheres. The universe is in labour! Soon it will bring me forth!
TRAMP: (Sotto voce.) I see.
CHIEF ENGINEER: The great bottle is on! Second Angineer, wull ye issue a communique.
2ND ENGINEER: (In a loud toneless voice.) Our preparations are proceeding according to plan. Ten thousand annemy troops are encircled and faced with annihilation. Our gallant forces, fieghting against tremendous odds, have occupied two thousand fortified points. The defeated annemy is being closely pursued. Mopping up operations are in progress. The morale of the troops is excellent.
(Enter MESSENGER.)
MESSENGER: The first, sacond, third, fourth ond fifth regiments has been completely destroyed.
CHIEF ENGINEER: The bottle is progressing, a grand enormous bottle of annihilation is goin’ on, avverything’s goin’ according to plan. Send up more fresh troops! Eighth, Ninth ond Tanth Regiments, quack morch!
TRAMP: If all this is goin’ accordin’ to plan, it’s a bloody queer plan, that’s all I have to say.
2ND ENGINEER: Quack morch! Dath or glory!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Give out another communique!
2ND ENGINEER: The annemy has lost half a million awnts in dead ond missing. The booty has not yet been counted but it is known thot a thousand annemy aircraft was destroyed on the ground. Mopping up operations are in progress.
(A MESSENGER rushes in.)
MESSENGER: The Eighth, Ninth ond Tanth Regiments has been wiped out. War has been declared on us by the Purple Awnts from across the sea because we’re at war with the Red Awnts. The Green Awnts has captured the Seventh Regiment and is torturin’ them ond makin’ them speak Lotin!
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Roaring.) Quack morch, more regiments ond more drums. A great victory is axpacted! We are stronger now than when the war storted. Our production of aircraft ond munitions is staggerin’ and mountin’ every day. The tempo of our war effort increases. Call up the 50s. Forward gallant soldiers! The home front is behind ye!
2ND ENGINEER: We’ll fight to the last drop of our blood. We will never capitulate, d’ye undherstawnd!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Send out forty thousand bombers right away!
(Enter another MESSENGER.)
MESSENGER: Two more regiments have been wiped out.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Call the wee awnts up for military service. Our gallant troops at the front is performin’ prodigies of valour. All must share in this glorious task!
(Enter stretcher-bearers carrying a wounded ant. Others follow.)
TRAMP: Ah begob your man is banjaxed. The unfortunate poor whore is bet.
WOUNDED ANT: (Faintly.) Stop this, stop this. We are being cut to ribbons. A drink!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Move up another regiment! Give out another communique, Angineer!
2ND ENGINEER: Formations of our aircraft have successfully carried out a heavy bombing raid on annemy territory. Harbour installations ond malatory objactives were successfully attacked. Bombs were seen to burst on the target area. Forty-five thousand annemy planes were shot down in air bottles. All our planes returned safely to their bases. . . .
MESSENGER: Ond the Pink Awnts has declared war on us because we are at war with their friends the Red Awnts. Ond another thing has happened. . . .
2ND ENGINEER: Ond what’s that?
MESSENGER: The Green Awnts that talk Lotin is attackin’ the Green Awnts that doesn’t talk Lotin.
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Loudly.) Our low ond despacable enemies are divided amongst themselves, they have all shot their leaders, there is terrible mutiny goin’ on, vactory is in sight.
2ND ENGINEER: Avverything’s goin’ accordin’ to plan.
(Several wounded ants have been carried in on stretchers. They groan hideously.)
TRAMP: Ah your poor men, they have the insides shot out of them. Do you hear them lettin’ roars out of them!
WOUNDED ANT: Shoot me! Put me out of me pain!
TRAMP: Ah the poor bugger.
CHIEF ENGINEER: I see a further massenger approaching. Get ready more reserves! Morch up another new ormy! Call up the wee awnts of sixteen!
(A PHILANTHROPIST ANT with a red cross on him enters.)
PHILANTHROPIST: Halp the wounded!
TRAMP: Ah yes, the poor wounded buggers.
PHILANTHROPIST: Halp the heroes, the glorious and immortal heroes.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Reinforcements! Hurry with the reserves! Here’s the massenger.
TRAMP: (Tears off a button from his coat.) Ah yes, the poor wounded buggers. Here y’are, me son!
(He puts the button in the box. Enter MESSENGER.)
MESSENGER: The Tanth, Eleventh, Twalfth, Thirteenth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth ond Saxteenth Ormies has been wiped out.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Our heroic men continue to fight gallantly. The annemy has sustained enormous losses. Give out another communique!
MESSENGER: Ond the Savventeenth Ormy is now in the middle of bein’ wiped out too.
2ND ENGINEER: Last night our troops fought the annemy along the whole front. Several fortified places ond inhabited localities was taken. Our troops are pursuing the defeated annemy. Mopping up operations are in progress.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Get me a wee spy-glass.
2ND ENGINEER: (Shouting.) A wee spy-glass for the Commonderin-Chief!
TRAMP: Begob it’s a good spy-glass you’ll want if it’s yerself winnin’ you want to see.
(A soldier-ant brings a telescope.)
CHIEF ENGINEER: The annemy is in headlong retreat!
2ND ENGINEER: Vactory, vactory!
CHIEF ENGINEER: We have captured ond invested five blades of grass.
2ND ENGINEER: Vactory!
CHIEF ENGINEER: The annemy has sustained enormous ond bloody losses. I see nothing but dead Green Awnts ond dead Red Awnts ond dead Pink Awnts. Ond dead Mauve Awnts. Ond dead Brown Awnts. Everybody is dead excapt our own awnts.
2ND ENGINEER: A grond vactory for democracy and decency!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Now they’ve captured four more blades of grass! Vactory is assured!
2ND ENGINEER: Tell them to take no prisoners. Slaughter avverybody! Slaughter the annemy’s weemen ond wee awnts! A holy vactory!
CHIEF ENGINEER: The ramnents of the beaten annemy is bein’ pursued. The Red Awnts ond their allies are annihilated. There’s nothing left to be done.
2ND ENGINEER: —Only moppin’ up.
CHIEF ENGINEER: We have fulfilled the glorious and immortal destiny of our race! Here, take the wee spy-glass!
2ND ENGINEER: Isn’t it grond to be alive at this glorious ond immortal hour. Our gallant troops have covered thamsalves with glory.
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Roaring.) Vactory is ours, right ond justice ond fairplay and democracy has prevailed. (Falls on his knees.) Great God of the Awnts, thou has deigned to bless the orms of thy faithful sar-vants, thou hast given us victory! I appoint thee an honorary member of our gallant ormy, with the rank of colonel. (He jumps up.) Twenty-first ond Twenty-sacond Ormies, forward! Quack morch, onward to the front! Take your place by the side of your gallant ond victorious comrades! Call up all reserves! Form the weemen ond wee awnts into battalions! All must fight at this glorious ond immortal hour. (Down on his knees again.) Righteous ond all-powerful God of all the Awnts, thou knowest how well we desarve the vactory thou has deigned to give us! (Jumps up.) Attack! Take no prisoners! Forward avverybody to the front! Set all the annemy prisoners on fire ond roast them! Tear up the wee prisoner awnts into wee bits! (Kneels.) Glorious ond immortal God of the Awnts, by our vactory thou hast conferred the priceless boon of peace on the world! (Jumps up.) Quack morch! Attack! We will navver retreat, we will navver give in, we’ll fight to the last drop of our blood for our hearths and our homes. We have won a glorious peace! The world is now a fit place for hero-awnts to live in!
TRAMP: (Bending over CHIEF ENGINEER and talking to him softly.) The world? Did I hear you sayin’ THE WORLD? Sure Lord save us man this isn’t the world! Sure this here is only a lump of muck. I could kick the whole bloody issue from here to Carlow with wan root of me boot and you along with it!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Who are you? Why aren’t you doin’ your duty at this glorious hour?
TRAMP: Who am I? O indeed faith you needn’t bother your barney about me. I’m only . . . an oul’ chap . . . lyin’ here . . . havin’ an odd jar to meself here. And I fought hard enough in me own day, too. God be with the oul’ Munsters and every dacent man that was in them. Ah, the oul’ crowd, you can’t beat them. But YOU! What’s all this cavortin’ and rampagin’ about? How many of these poor little bastards have you slaughtered? How many of them have you killed to make yerself a big fella?
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Haughtily.) I’ll pay no attention to the like of you. On behalf of all the Yalla Awnts I now crown meself Amperor.
2ND ENGINEER: (Looking through glass.) Long live the Amperor!
CHIEF ENGINEER: What can you see through the wee glass? Are we havin’ any more glorious vactories.
2ND ENGINEER: The vactory is a wee bit delayed. The last ormies we sent out is callin’ for reinforcements.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Make them hold out! Tell the generals to shoot down cowards that won’t fight! Send the weemen to the front!
AN OFFICER: (Off-stage.) Quack morch, quack morch!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Ond the crapples ond wee awnts!
2ND ENGINEER: Holy Gawd, all our glorious ormies is in full flight. The Red Imperial Awnts is after them ond after them again is the Green Awnts.
CHIEF ENGINEER: To orms, to orms! Avverybody must fight! Protact the Amperor.
(The confused noises of battle are heard coming closer and closer. The screams of wounded fill the air.)
2ND ENGINEER: Our ormies are bein’ massacreed!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Protact the Amperor! The Amperor!
A SHOUT: Back, Back! Stop! Stop!
ANOTHER SHOUT: Run, RUN! Avvery man for himself! Run, RUN!
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Screaming.) Where is the Amperor’s personal bodyguard? Fight, ye bustards, FIGHT!
(Two yellow soldier-ants rush in. Din of battle increases off-stage.)
SOLDIERS: We’re bin’ slaughtered! Escape!
2ND ENGINEER: Go back ond fight, ye dirty cowards. Fight for your country ond your Amperor! FIGHT!
CHIEF ENGINEER: (To soldiers.) I commond ye as your Amperor to protact me ond be my bodyguard!
SOLDIERS: Away out o’ that, ye wee bustard!
(They kill him as they rush out again right.)
2ND ENGINEER: Holy God, we’re captured! The lights, put out the lights! It’s the only chance to escape. The lights!
(Several Red ants rush in. The lights go out. There is terrific turmoil and noise.)
2ND ENGINEER: Fight on to the last! AH——
(He groans, evidently mortally hit. A faint light in the centre of the stage indicates that it is filled with victorious Red and Allied Ants. There is great clanking of weapons and confused noise. Then a refined ENGLISH VOICE says:)
ENGLISH VOICE: Phew, jolly hard going. We’ve wiped out the bastards. Deserve what they get, too, dim shaow attacking us, you knaow.
COCKNEY VOICE: (In alarm.) Gorblimey, the Green Awnts!
(There is a rush and some Green Awnts are discerned fighting madly with the Red Ants, though most of the fighting is off-stage, judging by the row. When the battle has subsided, the centre of the stage is occupied by victorious Green Ants. A voice with a thick southern brogue is heard.)
SOUTHERN VOICE: Do you know, we’ve slattered and destroyed the whole empire of them, yellow and red and blue and every colour. We own the whole world now and every thing in it, it takes us boy.
VOICE: (In alarm.) Gob phwat do I see? Phwat do I see. Green Ants with fáinnes on them is goin’ for our lads out there. They’re roarin’ out orders in a foreign language.
SOUTHERN VOICE: Come on, lads, fight for ye’r lives!
(Another vast battle is fought, mostly off-stage, but in the circle of light Green Ants reel in death-grips with other Green Ants who wear enormous gold fáinnes. Words and shouts that sound like Irish are heard above the din. When the battle subsides, the fáinne-wearers have won. The commanders gather in the circle of light. A RICH VOICE is heard.)
RICH VOICE: A dhaoine uaisle agus a chairde Gaedheal! A chairde agus a dhaoine go léir! Tá buaidhte fá dheireadh ag na Gaedhil. Tar éis an chogaidh seo tá an domhan go léir buaidhte aca.
TRAMP: Whaa? I beg yer pardin?
RICH VOICE: Ar an ocáid stairiúil seo fógraighim mise féin im Impire ar an domhan go h-uile!
TRAMP: What’s yer man sayin’ or tryin’ to say?
PETULANT VOICE: Do you not know your own language, you ignorant man? He is proclaiming our great victory. At this hour he becomes emperor of all the earth. History is at an end. Our glorious destiny is achieved after seventeen hundred years.
TRAMP: He’s EMPEROR?? Of the EARTH . . . I see.
EGG: I’m . . . nearly born.
RICH VOICE: Ní bheidh acht an Ghaeilge amháin á labhairt ar fúd an domhain feasta.
(TRAMP has sprung up, kicked the ‘Emperor’ over and grinds him to bits as the others scurry off.)
TRAMP: You . . . dirty . . . bloody . . . lousy . . . little bastard of an insect. Ouwathat!
CURTAIN
EPILOGUE
Darkness everywhere. The TRAMP, picked out by a faint light, is lying in the foreground sleeping. He stirs uneasily and speaks in his sleep.
TRAMP: Take yer hands offa me now—take yer hands off me: What? What’d you say? I beg your pardin? STOP BATIN’ THAT FELLA! Stop killin’ him! Gou-athat! Take yer sting and pump it into somewan else! Keep yer distance or I’ll destroy yeh! D’yeh hear me?
(Pause.)
(Then in a pathetic voice:)
I don’t feel too well at all. I’m not in me right health. I wouldn’t like to pass out here in the dairk . . . all be meself. Give us a bit of light there, some wan. . . .
CYRIL: (Far off.) Cec-eel, where are you?
CHIEF ENGINEER: Avvery mon, wooman ond wee wan to the front now. Quack morch!
MR. BEETLE: Ay, where’s me pile gone to? D’yeh hear me? Where’s me pile? WHERE’S ME PILE?
CYRIL: (Calling softly.) O Cec-eeeeeeeel . . .
TRAMP: Will yez stop blatherin’ in the dark and show a light till I see am I alive at all! I don’t want to be stung again be that bloody big bee I seen sitting in a deck chair!
DRONE: Princes and noble lords, what answer shall I make to this base man? I say, thou liest, and will maintain what thou hast said is false in thy heart-blood, though being all too base to stain the temper of my knightly sword.
TRAMP: (Awed.) I beg yer pardin?
DUCK: (Appearing under a ghostly spotlight in the background stalking an invisible cricket.) Nearly got the blighter. Four today and one more makes five.
(Lunges forward and there is a scream as the light goes out.)
TRAMP: You’ve killed him! (Excitedly.) You’ve killed another one! Can yeh not stop killin’ and slaughterin’? CAN YEH NOT BE AISY AND LAVE OTHER PEOPLE ALONE?
EGG: (Revealed by dim spotlight and seen to be moving slightly.) I’ll get out of this if it’s the last thing I do, if it’s the last thing I do I’ll break this bloody shell. I’ll be here soon, make no mistake at all about that!
CYRIL: (Afar off, perplexed.) Do tell me, Cec-eel, where are you, old boy.
TRAMP: Begob I believe I’m goin’ off me rocker.
MR. BEETLE: Listen here, WHERE’S THAT BALL? Where’s me capital?
TRAMP: That’s that bloody beetle, I’d know the voice anywhere.
(The spotlight reveals dimly a beetle sneaking in and starting to roll away the EGG.)
EGG: Help! HELP! Stop! Stop that!
BEETLE: Shut up or I’ll ate yeh here!
EGG: HELP! HELP! I want to be born! He’s going to kill me! HELP!
TRAMP: (Rising on elbow.) Ay! You leave that bloody poor little egg alone—d’yeh hear me?
(The ‘hideous cries’ are gathering in the background and now rise in crescendo. Confusion grows.)
TRAMP: Leave that egg alone. My God, more slaughter, more bloody slaughter!
CHIEF ENGINEER: (Invisible.) The agg is port of our nawshional haritage! Defand it with your lives! Quack morch! Quack morch!
(The dim light reveals that several beetles have rushed to contest the ownership of the EGG. Several ants join in and a great battle starts: screams and roars and general din.)
TRAMP: (Rising excitedly.) DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME? Didn’t you hear me tellin’ yeh to lave that egg alone? OUT OF ME WAY! If yez harum that egg I’ll have yer bloody lives! OUT OF ME WAY!
(He is seen in the gloom to plunge madly into the battle, tripping and falling down among the milling insects. Soon his own horrible cries mingle with those of the others.)
TRAMP: Stop that! STOP! Yez are killin’ me. YEZ ARE ATIN’ ME! Ow—!
(The row dies down gradually and darkness has descended. There is silence. Birds twitter and the dawn breaks. The TRAMP is revealed in a crumpled heap with frost on his clothes. Beside the body is an ordinary broken egg-shell. Two mooning lovers stroll in, the BOY’S arm round the GIRL’S waist. They start slightly at the spectacle of the TRAMP.)
GIRL: O George, look!
BOY: Janey, a beggar! He’s asleep!
GIRL: Look at the bottle. He’s drunk. He must have been lying there all night. O George, I hate drunkards.
BOY: How do you know I’m not one myself! Or that I won’t be when we’re married. How would you like me to go out every Friday and drink the week’s wages. And leave nothing to buy food for you and the kids.
GIRL: (Coy whimsy stuff.) O George, how do you know we are going to have kids. You’re a very bold boy.
(They begin to move off and exit.)
BOY: Well now you know. We’re going to have four kids—two girls and two boys. Not girls and boys following each other, of course. A boy, then a girl, and so on.
GIRL: O George . . .
(Exit. A ball runs across the stage followed by two ragged small BOYS, shouting. They stop and regard the TRAMP.)
IST SMALL BOY: Aw look at the man.
2ND SMALL BOY: He’s asleep
IST SMALL BOY: Maybe he’s dead. (He runs to retrieve ball.)
2ND SMALL BOY: My daddy’s dead and Mammy’s goin’ to marry Mr. Conlan.
IST SMALL BOY: I wouldn’t mind your ould wan.
(They chase the ball off the stage again. Enter KEEPER.)
KEEPER: Ay what’s this. What’s going on here. My God, has this bloody fellow been here all night!
(Very concerned, he kneels and examines the TRAMP. He rises, enormously excited.)
KEEPER: My God, he’s dead. There’ll be a bloody row about this. (He picks up bottle and smells it.) Whiskey. There’ll be hell to pay. (He roars for a brother keeper.) Hey! Slattery! SLATTERY! Come over here! Quick!
(SLATTERY, a youth, comes running in.)
SLATTERY: What’s up?
KEEPER: This unfortunate man’s dead. Give me your coat.
(He covers corpse with overcoat.)
SLATTERY: Dead? Was he here all night?
KEEPER: He was and whoever locked him in is going to get into a row. And it wasn’t me, Slattery.
SLATTERY: The poor unfortunate divil.
(The lovers come back, attracted by the row; they are soon followed by the small BOYS, possibly reinforced in numbers.)
KEEPER: Phone for the ambulance, Slattery. STAND BACK NOW PLEASE. EVERYTHING’S ALL RIGHT.
GIRL: Is he dead?
KEEPER: Everything’s all right now. Stand back please.
GIRL: O George!
BOY: He’s better out of it the poor divil.
IST SMALL BOY: The man’s dead.
GIRL: O George, the poor man. The poor man.
BOY: Do you see the eggshell. I suppose a little chicken was born out of it. Chicken starts out as this man finishes up. . . .
KEEPER: It’s a duck’s egg. Now yez’ll all have to move on please. We don’t want any crowds collectin’.
2ND SMALL BOY: Aw come on, come on home. I want to get me boat. Come on Paddy.
IST SMALL BOY: All right come on.
(They trail off to exit. Immediately a LITTLE GIRL’S voice is heard off, from the other side.)
LITTLE GIRL: Paddy! PAD-EE! Wait for me!
(She hurries in to follow them and crosses stage, pushing an enormous pram.)
KEEPER: Gob, I never seen so many children.
CURTAIN
THE KNIFE
(Translated by Jack Fennell)
Characters in the play
TADHG MAC PHEARSAN | A gentleman |
The two of them beside each other, an awful commotion going on between them as the curtain rises; herself sitting down, himself pacing crazily around the room.
TADHG: It wouldn’t matter to me . . . (He stands still for a moment and stretches his arm.) I DON’T CARE only that it was me that taught you all the Irish you have!
PEIG: (Sniggering.) You! You!!
TADHG: (At the top of his voice.) Yeah, me! ME!
PEIG: I suppose it was from you that I got my manners, too . . . and the money that bought this mahogany table. (She knocks on it.) WHAT DID I EVER GET FROM YOU BUT INSULTS . . . AND BACK-TALK . . . AND (her voice changes into a mocking imitation of his) “WHY IS IT THAT THE TEA CAN NEVER BE STRONG IN THIS HOUSE?” You? YOU?
TADHG: (Low and threatening.) Maybe it would be better for you to be a little more careful.
PEIG: Yourself and your little Irish lessons.
TADHG: Be quiet, I’m telling you!
PEIG: What’s that Art’s got? A pencil. Does Máire have a pencil? Máire has no pencil. Máire has a dolly. Ha-ha!
TADHG: It won’t be a dolly that you’ll get if you keep this up, I promise you that much!
PEIG: But look at Paul. Paul has a pencil.
TADHG: (Screaming.) SHUT UP!
PEIG: I’ll speak however I like.
TADHG: (Pacing furiously.) God give me patience. God give me patience. May he give me help tonight!
PEIG: And strong tea whenever you would like some, sir.
TADHG: (Lowly, tormented.) And may he put a restraint on that woman’s tongue!
PEIG: Huh!
(There is a short blackout.)
TADHG: (Loudly and angrily once more.) I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. YOU MUST RESIGN FROM GLÚN NA BUAID-HE IMMEDIATELY. You hear me? Resign from it—NOW! I’m in charge of this house, and I will decide what goes on in it. Not one more eejit from that crowd will enter this house from now on—EVER!
PEIG: Speak up a little bit, darling.
TADHG: And if I find any one of them here, I’ll kill him.
PEIG: You? You couldn’t frighten the cat. Ho, ho, ho. Fee fi fo fum!
TADHG: I’LL KILL HIM, I’m telling you!
PEIG: With the help of God, there’ll be a committee meeting of Glún na Buaidhe here in this room on Thursday. I’ll be in charge, AND TO HELL WITH YOU!
TADHG: If you have anything more to do with that crowd, I’ll clear you out of this house, OUT THE DOOR WITH YOU!
PEIG: (Sweetly.) And what about Ailtirí na hAiséirghe?
TADHG: (Putting on a show of astonishment.) And what’s out-of-order with Ailtirí na hAiséirghe, if you please? WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE AILTIRÍ?
PEIG: Wrong? What’s right with them?
TADHG: Aren’t they reviving the Irish language, saving the country, bringing back the old Gaelic spirit? Haven’t they declared war on Fianna Fáil?
PEIG: Don’t Glún na Buaidhe have a plan to revive Irish as a spoken language within ten years? Wasn’t it Glún na Buaidhe that taught those West Brits in Radio Éireann a lesson? WASN’T IT GLÚN NA BUAIDHE THAT INVENTED AILTIRÍ NA HAISÉIRGHE?
TADHG: (Anger rising.) That invented Ailtirí na hAiséirghe! INVENTED them!!! God preserve us! God save us tonight!
PEIG: Yeah, invented them . . . and may God forgive them for it.
TADHG: Glún na Buaidhe, is it? Those . . . those . . . soft . . . malicious little con-men! Those children! Those . . . those thieving, insignificant eejits!
PEIG: Oh? And what are the Ailtirí, then?
TADHG: SOLDIERS!
PEIG: Tin soldiers. UP GLÚN NA BUAIDHE!
TADHG: To the Devil with Glún na Buaidhe! To Hell with Glún na Buaidhe! The Ailtirí are the only ones who are doing anything in this country! The Ailtirí are the only ones who have done anything! Éire is finally awakening, and it’s the Ailtirí that are responsible! THE AILTIRÍ ALONE ARE RESPONSIBLE! UP AILTIRÍ NA HAISÉIRGHE!
PEIG: (Letting out a great big laugh.) That fine talk of yours isn’t all lies—I know one little Ailtire who wakes me up plenty.
TADHG: (Angrily.) If you don’t believe that the Ailtirí are knuckling down to work instead of talking and blathering, look at this. . . .
(He takes the Aiséirghe newspaper out of his pocket and shoves it under his wife’s nose.)
TADHG: Read that there . . . and this bit down here . . . and the dynamic, manly section on page two.
PEIG: (Reluctantly taking the paper.) I’ve no interest in nonsense. Don’t tell me you BOUGHT this thing?
TADHG: Bought it? I WROTE most of it. Look at page three! Look at the ANGER in the poetry! Red, thunderous anger, I’m telling you!
PEIG: Ho! Anger, is it? Anger?
(She stands, opens her bag, takes out a copy of Indiu, the magazine of Glún na Buaidhe, opens it and places it angrily in her husband’s hands.)
PEIG: Anger, is it? If it’s anger you want, read what’s on the front page there. You’ve never read the like of it. Just read that bit there. Are you blind . . . or deaf? READ IT, I SAID!
TADHG: (Throwing the paper on the floor.) I will not! I won’t cast my eyes on one word of that putrid filth . . . AND DON’T YOU EVER BRING THE LIKES OF THAT INTO THIS HOUSE AGAIN!
PEIG: And what about filth like this? (She takes Aiséirghe and throws it on the floor.) What about that? And young children in the house! HAVE YOU NO SHAME?
TADHG: (Enraged.) Listen! LISTEN! I’ve said all this before, but I’ll say it to you again. Quit Glún na Buaidhe immediately—IMMEDIATELY, I say! If the name of that gang is heard in this house ever again . . .
PEIG: Oh, shut up for the love of God. . . .
TADHG: (Raising his voice.) If the name of that gang is heard even once in this house ever again . . . (He clenches his fist.) if the name of that gang is heard in this house ever again . . . well . . . I won’t be held responsible. I WON’T BE HELD RESPONSIBLE.
(His bearing is growing more demented, the eyes are growing wilder, etc.)
PEIG: (Wildly.) I’ll NEVER leave Glún na Buaidhe! NEVER, do you hear me. Glún na Buaidhe forever! My curse upon anyone who insults them! My curses sevenfold upon those who are not members! One more thing—there will be a committee meeting Thursday, here, IN THIS ROOM!
TADHG: (Quietly, through his teeth.) No, there won’t.
PEIG: This coming Thursday, at half-past seven.
TADHG: No, there won’t.
PEIG: Half-past seven, new time.
TADHG: (In a horrible scream.) THERE WON’T, I TELL YOU! THERE WON’T, THERE WON’T, THERE WON’T!
(He is out of his mind now; he runs around the room, and pulls a big black box into view; he breaks it open and out fall a big knife and a carving-fork; he takes the knife and goes after the wife. A lot of “business” here—screaming, chasing, etc. He grabs a hold of her and thrusts the knife into her back.)
(There is a long pause after Peig has been rendered peaceable and dead. Tadhg stands there looking at what he has done, wearing a stupid, lost expression. Eventually he stirs and picks the black box off the floor; it is clear that there is a piece of paper stuck to the back of the box, with writing on it; he starts to read it aloud, his voice slow and ghostly.)
TADHG: From the Central Branch of the Gaelic League to Mister Tadhg Mac Phearsan, address. Tadhg, my friend, exalted hero of the Irish language.
We, by which I mean the President, Vice-President and Deputy Vice-President of the Central Branch, together with all the members named herein, would like to wish you good health and long life as you leave the branch secretariat on your wedding day. We would like to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for the hard, invaluable work you have done as leader of the branch secretariat in the cause of the sweet mother-tongue of the Gaels. It is our unanimous opinion that. . . .
(He stops and lifts his head; his appearance is tormented, gloomy, introspective; he speaks, more or less to himself.)
TADHG: Is é ár tuairim [‘It is our opinion’]? Is é ár tuairim? Mmmmm. Is é ár tuairim? I don’t think that’s right. Is í ár tuairim? Yes. Is í ár tuairim . . .1
(He turns back to the reading.)
TADHG: It is our opinion that not only are this branch and the entire Gaelic League indebted to you, but the whole of Ireland as well, and every Irishman and Irishwoman dead or alive.
In addition, we would like you to accept from us, on the wonderful occasion of your marriage, this carving fork and knife as a sign of the respect in which we hold you, a trifling gift to always remind you, and the noble woman you have taken, that we wish you both nothing but happiness, comfort and long-life. . . .
(He moves his eyes slowly from the note to the body of his wife.)
CURTAIN
1 Note from the translator: All nouns have a gender in the Irish language, and ‘tuairim,’ meaning ‘opinion,’ is feminine. Still, the masculine third-person singular pronoun “é” is so prevalent that it is sometimes mistakenly used by default, as it is in this case. “Is í ár tuairim” literally means, “She is our opinion that . . .” There is no neuter “it” in Irish Gaelic.
THE HANDSOME
CARVERS
A Tragedy in Two Acts
ACT I
A mean room, everything pawned save the barest necessities. The curtain has gone up in the middle of a frightful row between a man and his wife. The wife, poorly dressed, is crouched over the fire, sobbing savagely. The husband, wild-eyed, drunk, is ranging around the room like a caged beast. There is terrific tension. After a moment the wife lifts her head and emits a shrill hysterical taunt—“There’s a couple of wedding presents left—why don’t you pawn them too?”
The husband gives a wild-beast’s cry and goes off his head completely. He rushes off to a drawer, yanks it open and pulls out a black flat case of cutlery. This he tears open and out of it produces a large gleaming carving knife. The wife screams and stands up in fright. He rushes at her, brandishing the knife. There is a brief chase round the table. He eventually corners her and poses the knife to strike. There is a terrible scream, black-out and curtain.
ACT II
As quickly as possible.
Upstairs in a cheap hotel. Present is a mob of civil servants, all chattering and drinking. A greasy waiter is endlessly pulling bottles of stout in a corner. There are cries of “Ordher, ordher!” and the crowd quietens down expectantly. A card-table is placed in the foreground; on it is a flat black case of cutlery. The husband of the previous scene, looking younger and cleaner, is observed coming shyly forward towards one side of the card-table. Two pompous gentlemen come forward to the other side of the table amid renewed cries of “Ordher now, ordher, plea-ez!” The first GENTLEMAN begins to speak in the absurdly stilted and remote jargon of such occasions. Preferably give him a strong Cork accent.
GENTLEMAN: Mister Dunleary it is my pleasure . . . and my privilege . . . to welcome you amongst us here to-night . . . in order . . . to present to you here tonight . . . on behalf of myself and my colleagues . . . a small token of our esteem on the happy and felicitous occasion of your marriage. Marriage is a thing . . . that comes to each man late or soon! (Laughter.) I think I voice the sentiments . . . of all present . . . when I say that one and all we congratulate you on entering the married state and . . . one and all . . . we offer you our sincerest and most hearty congratulations and no less do we extend our felicitations to the good lady you have invited to become your wife, “In sickness and health, till death do us part.” (“Hear, hear!”) Your colleagues have always found you, Mr. Dunleary, a most courteous . . . and considerate . . . and . . . gentlemanly colleague . . . and it gives them great pleasure . . . and it gives ME great pleasure . . . to present to you here tonight this small token of our esteem and respect. It is our hope . . . and prayer . . . that yourself and your good lady will enjoy long years of happiness . . . and that this little present will sometimes remind you of the colleagues that know you and wish you well.
(Loud cries of “Hear, hear!” He lifts the case of cutlery and presents it with great formality: it is likewise received. The SECOND GENTLEMAN then adopts a rhetorical attitude and speaks in a loud, toneless voice, flat Dublin accent.)
SECOND GENTLEMAN: Mr. Dunleary, Mr. Chairman and friends, I beg to associate meself with this very happy . . . and auspicious . . . occasion. I speak on behalf of the rank and file and wan an’ all I have no hesitation in expressing the happiness we all feel . . . here tonight . . . in being associated with this auspicious occasion. (Loud applause.) Mr. Dunleary is . . . in my humble opinion . . . A GREAT GENTLEMAN. Mr. Dunleary—I won’t call him Peter, that wouldn’t be in ordher at all (Laughter.)—Mr. Dunleary is A WHITE MAN. (“Hear hear!”) And I’ll tell yez a little story to prove me point. It’s about Mr. Dunleary and me humble self. Last year, God help us all, I was marked late eighteen times. No fault of mine, of course—the bus was always behind time. (Loud laughter.) I got a letter saying to attend before my superior officer Mr. Dunleary . . . and furnish me explanations. (Laughter.) Begob I got into a terrible sweat. That letter put the heart across me! (Laughter.) Next day I went up to Mr. Dunleary’s door, the knees knockin’ like hell, certain sure I was goin’ to have the face chawed off me. In I goes. Your man is sittin’ in the chair. Take a seat, says he. Then he begins to have a screw at the personal papers. (He gestures.) Begob, I got into a desperate sweat. Then he looks up. Seán, says he, what happened you? (He pauses impressively.) Seán, says he, what happened you? (There is applause and great approval.) And that’s all I have to say tonight about Mr. Dunleary. The blessins’ of God on him—he’s a decent man.
(There is renewed applause. Mr. DUNLEARY then replies in a prim “cultured” voice.)
DUNLEARY: Gentlemen, I can scarcely convey to you how touched I am by your kindly and generous gesture, and how much I appreciate the gift of these handsome carvers. I will cherish them so long as I live and so will my wife. Thank you all, very VERY much indeed.
I have a slight confession to make. To-night is memorable for another reason. Gentleman, to-night I had my first glass of whiskey. It was stood to me by your good Chairman here. I fear I have missed a lot in life up to now. I propose to have another one right now!
(There is very loud applause and the swaying figures in the background burst into “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”)
CURTAIN
A MOVING TALE:
A DUBLIN
HALLUCINATION
Characters in the play
THE MAN | He is cranky, rather a humbug, but his accent is neutral. |
THE WIFE | Vulgar, hectoring loud voice, obviously the boss. |
AGENT | An appalling savage with the flattest of Dublin accents, a depraved gurrier. |
TYPIST | Minor character, shrill and overbearing. |
Snatch of air on the piano, one minute.
THE MAN: Well now . . . I’ve got to be a bit of a philosopher. Sure we all have to be that these days. We have to learn to take things as they come, cut out worrying so much as possible else the nerves will give. Life is just one crisis after another, every one of them full of danger. I seen strong men going to the wall just because they couldn’t relax. The trouble was they never trained themselves to it and the whole central nervous system came down on top of them like a ton of bricks. Sure isn’t birth, marriage and death—everyone one of them, a crisis in itself. And don’t the whole three of them lend to trouble one way or another.
Trouble? Yes. I came to a new and vexatious cross-roads recently, and cross-roads is right! You will know what I mean when I say that I was for moving house and it was a question of getting the furniture and stuff shifted from one house to another. People have all sorts of reasons for moving. It might be due to a natural growth in the family, or a terrible looderamawn of a neighbour next door, or (chuckles) it might be an all-out attempt to shift the wife’s mother, who came for a fortnight’s visit in 1928.
Do you know, it’s only on moving house that a man gets to know all the unbelievable assortment of stuff that he has amassed unbeknownst to himself. I’m thinking of that stuff under the stairs. Where did I get that Victorian skirt reinforced by wires, a sort of a crinoline? And the broken jack-in-the-box? The two stout bottles full of cobwebs with a label that says they were bought in Swanlinbar in 1931. The rusty lawn-mower with the shaft missing? Then the machine. It is some class of an electrical thing with a half-rotten flex ending in a plug to shove into the wall, several gauges and switches and a big wheel at the top. What’s it for? Who owns it and why is it there? I’ll tell you this—I wouldn’t plug that thing in for a million pounds. That’s a lot of money but not enough to be blun up for. There’s a lot of other rubbish all over the house I won’t bother telling about except that I don’t know where it came from or what some of it is for at all.
The first thing was to contact a party that moves furniture. A pal had given me a certain name and address and said this crowd was very good. I won’t say more than that, for the head-buck-cat might be listening in. I just put on me hat one morning and made for that office.
(Brief passage from same air on piano.)
Tell you the truth, this building up a side street wasn’t exactly luxurious. My man was on the second floor and the dark stairs up there was a divil. But at the heel of the climb I came to a door marked ENQUIRIES and knocked.
(Knocking noise.)
I walked in. There was a class of a young banshee sitting there at a typewriter and smoking a fag.
TYPIST: (Shrill, loud voice.)—What is it? Are ya lookin’ for somebody?
THE MAN: Well, yes: his Nibs.
TYPIST: What? Do you mean Mr. Cooley?
THE MAN: I suppose so.
TYPIST: He’s very busy inside. He has me nearly druv mad with his letters. What do you want with him? Are you from the printers? You won’t be paid till next week.
THE MAN: I . . . I’m not from any printers. I wanted to see him about moving furniture.
TYPIST: Have you an appointment?
THE MAN: No. I just called.
TYPIST: That’s a nice way to do business. I told you he is up to his ears. (Rises.) But I’ll see. WOULD YOU MIND YOUR CIGARETTE ASH! That’s a carpet under you!
(Fade out. Another brief passage on piano. Then THE MAN is seen approaching a desk at which a ruffianly-looking fat man, the AGENT, is seated and on telephone. THE MAN seats himself nervously.)
AGENT: (To telephone.) For the last time I’m telling you we did NOT break the blooming mirror. There was damn-all glass in it when we got it. WE’RE a very careful crowd in this business. What? An action for DAMAGES? Hah? NEGLIGENCE? WELL that’s a good wan. That’s very good sairtintly. You ask us to shift a houseful of junk and then say we broke it? I wouldn’t give ya two pounds five for the whole load—for it’s nothing oney a jungle of woodworm and fungus. And do you know what I’m goin to tell ya, ma good woman. That so-called house of yours is held together oney be the wall-paper. We took our lives in our hands going into it at all. Good day to ya. GOO DAY!
(Bashes down receiver and turns to THE MAN, scowling.)
AGENT: Do you know what I am? A holy martyr. Them tramps and tinkers with their dirty wardrobes and bockety chairs, their crazy beds with mattresses full of fleas and mice—they’d drive a man out of his right mind.
THE MAN: Well yes, I suppose you meet all sorts of people in this business.
AGENT: (Ferociously.) I meet oney wan sort and they’re all the wrong sort. Sure this country is on its last legs, man. You meet nothing now but hop-off-me-thumbs and fly-be-nights. Fellas without a decent shirt to their back but putting on the airs of Lord Muck. And they won’t work if you paid them.
THE MAN: Em, yes . . . it’s difficult.
AGENT: Well, what’s on your mind now? Don’t tell me you’re looking for a job because there’s no chance of that at all. This firm is nearly down the Swannee between rates and tax and gurriers that won’t pay their bills. I’m near crazy with worry—do you know that?
THE MAN: No, no, I don’t want a job. I have one, thanks. I wanted to arrange about moving house.
AGENT: The WHO? Moving house?
THE MAN: Yes. Getting the furniture shifted.
AGENT: I see. Well, me poor bucko, I can oney say I’m very sorry.
THE MAN: Sorry? Why? I thought you were in that business?
AGENT: Sairtainly I am. We can shift anybody’s sticks of furniture anyway. I oney meant it’s a bit tough on yerself. But shure we all have our ups and downs in this Vale of tears.
THE MAN: (Nettled.) What do you mean, sir?
AGENT: (Unheeding.) Scaling things down, ah? And I suppose the old job has gone for its tea. Ah musha musha.
THE MAN: (Angry.) What the devil are you talking about? I told you I had a job and a good one.
AGENT: (Paying no attention.) I have them in here every day, man. DRINK! The number of decent men destroyed be drink in this country is . . . stupendious. It is drink, drink, drink night and day. Home, family and religion—all thrun away. The poor babbies roarin their heads off them and not a cup of soup in the skillet for them. And you call this a Christian country?
THE MAN: (Heatedly.) I didn’t call this country anything. I called here on business.
AGENT: Ah yes. Write your name and address on that sheet. If that crowd, the Irish people, could keep many away from the booze, they’s all be sitting on the golden thrones, men. But no. It’s drink and then more drink.
THE MAN: (Frigidly.) If you refer to intoxicants I may say I never touch them. I happen to be a total abstainer since I was a boy.
AGENT: (Low, menacing voice.) But there’s wan thing worse than drink. Ten thousand times worse. WOMEN!
THE MAN: That may be true but I may say that I have been happily married for twenty-five years.
AGENT: I have them in here every day. And the married man is the worst. Good lord! Some of the stories I’ve heard would frighten you—FRIGHTEN YOU. Home, faith, fatherland, the sweet vows taken at the th’altar, all gone bang. Baldy-headed oul fellas with ten children stuffed into wan room in the slums traipsin into them lounge bars with some low hawsie on th’arm, or a bold, ugly strap of a farmer’s daughter.
THE MAN: I happen to be married to a farmer’s daughter, and she is not a bold, ugly strap.
AGENT: And there’s another thing. The children is neglected, all covered with skin diseases and scabs. Never a dacent hot meal, dressed in rags and out all day robbin orchards.
THE MAN: I called here to arrange for the removal of my furniture. (Loudly.) My furniture, do you hear?
AGENT: And then you have them ruffians spending a fortune on the dirty Sunda papers.
THE MAN: (Desperately.) Can you PLEASE talk about my furniture and give me a price?
AGENT: Ah yes, there sairtainly are more queer hawks in this world. Your furniture? Hm, Yes, I couldn’t give you a price until I run me eye over the stuff. Where are you moving to?
THE MAN: Up to Swanlinbar.
AGENT: Holy Moses! Well, would it be O.K. if I called to your house tomorrow morning at half ten?
THE MAN: Yes, that would suit.
AGENT: It shall be done accordingly, as the man said.
(Another brief piano excerpt. Then very loud, violent hammering on the door is heard.)
THE MAN: (To himself.) Heavens, here he is. The Inspector-General has arrived. (Opens door.)
AGENT: Ah here we are again! Good morra to you. How are ya this morning?
THE MAN: Very well, thanks.
AGENT: You look a bit pale around the gills. I’m telling you now—there’s nothing like a quiet life. Into bed at half-nine is my motto. I’d better throw off this coat and hat.
THE MAN: Oh! Do you expect to be long?
AGENT: Ah no. I’ll just stick these things on the peg.
THE MAN: What peg?
AGENT: The rack, I mean.
THE MAN: For your information, that is a hall-stand. It is an antique and a family heirloom. Oblige me by not calling it a peg or a rack. On the under side of the drawer there in the middle you can clearly make out the word Stradivarius.
AGENT: Well, aren’t there pegs on a fiddle?
(Roars laughing at own joke.)
THE MAN: Well, let’s look about.
AGENT: I suppose you’re for selling this place. If I were you, I wouldn’t touch that line here in the hall. Bad and all as it is, it hides the boards. They’re sure to be crawling with woodworm. Buyers are cuter than you think.
THE MAN: That lino’s nearly new.
AGENT: Yes, but’s what is it made of? Let’s have a look at this room. (Raises voice in alarm.) Oh the Lord save us, what is that?
THE MAN: You mean with the four legs?
AGENT: Yes, just there in the centre.
THE MAN: It is supposed to be a table.
AGENT: Do you tell me? Well, me good man, I’d rather your dinner on it than mine. Is them stunted things chairs?
THE MAN: They are, period chairs. Hepplewhite, I think. Hullo! There’s the hall door. That’ll be the lady of the house.
AGENT: Well now, begob! Are ya married to her or is this another graw-machree-mo-colleen-dhas business?
THE WIFE: (Calling distantly.) Hello! Anybody home? Hello. (Noisy footsteps as she comes in.) Well now. Who is this man, Aloysius? Is this the Sweep?
THE MAN: No, no.
AGENT: That thing you think is a brush is oney me moustache, ma’am. (Laughs uproariously.)
THE MAN: He’s seeing about shifting the furniture dear. Just having a look round.
THE WIFE: I don’t know what your name is but you seem to have a right sup of drink in your craw. You’re like a lot more. Don’t let me catch you putting your hands on my china.
AGENT: If it’s any smell you’re goin by, Ma’am it could be off more than me and that’s a bloomin fact, faith.
THE WIFE: The cheek of you!
THE MAN: For heaven’s sake let’s get on with this inspection. Come on in here. Never mind that yellow wall-paper—it was here when we came twelve years ago.
AGENT: These walls is all weepin.
THE WIFE: Never you mind the walls. We don’t intend to bring the walls with us.
AGENT: Be the dad then and I might get a right dose of plerrissy if I stopped long here. There’s fumes comin from that corner. I suppose you’ve a lot of old papers in that press?
THE MAN: Press? That’s an antique, chased, mahogany sideboard.
AGENT: Chased! Ha-ha-ha, over walls and ditches and you caught it at last, ah?
THE WIFE: You said there were fumes from that corner. By the living godfathers there’s fumes coming from somewhere else fit to knock a person down. You would think we were all standing in a brewery.
AGENT: I beg your pairding, ma’am, but when the doctor tells me to take a tonic, he says to touch nothing but bar brandy.
THE MAN: Come on, carry on with the work.
AGENT: I suppose you might be looking for a small fortune for the hearthrug? Or should we call it a fancy bit of carpet?
THE MAN: What! At the fireplace?
THE WIFE: Well, the dear knows, isn’t this nice? Listen to me, now. That’s not a hearthrug and it’s not for sale. That is Annie. Annie is a Tibetan sheepdog. If you wake her with the clack of your loud, drunken tongue, I wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled the living daylights out of you. But I wouldn’t like to see her poisoned.
THE MAN: Quiet, please. Come in here. Just a quick look-around at two more rooms.
AGENT: What’s this—a pantry?
THE MAN: It’s not a pantry.
THE WIFE: Well, there’s no doubt—the cheek of some people . . .
AGENT: Another table? Why the divil have you it covered with a dirty blanket?
THE MAN: You mean that article by the window? It has four legs but it is not a table.
AGENT: Well, what is it if it’s not making you to break a secret?
THE MAN: It’s my bed.
AGENT: Mean to say you sleep in that? Well, well—holy salted mackerel!
THE WIFE: Will you control your tongue, you dirty thing you!
AGENT: In the days of me youth I slept on a sheepskin in the middle of the Sahara with millions of mosquitoes and buzzers all around me—but THAT!
THE MAN: Come on now and see the wife’s room with the bathroom off.
THE WIFE: What! He’ll do nothing of the kind. Have you taken leave of your wits, Aloysius? Having that inebriated looderamawn snooping and poking about my private boody-war? Not one step will you put into that room, sir. Keep your distance. (Shrilly.) There is a telephone next door and I can get the police.
THE MAN: Now look here, for heaven’s sake. . . .
AGENT: You’ll oblige me, ma’am, by keeping your voice down or do you want to bring the roof down on the top of all of us. I don’t need to see the rest. I’ve a fair idea of the sticks we’ll have to shift. I’ll have to tell Rafferty to be careful when he comes along with the lurry. We don’t want a hollyocast with all and sundry buried in the debree. I suppose this place is condemned to be the Corporation?
THE WIFE: How dare you!
THE MAN: Certainly not. This is a fine, old-world residence. Georgian type. One of the gems of old Dublin.
AGENT: There’s plenty of GERMS of old Dublin in them floors. If the Corporation sent a Dangerous Buildings man along and he began dancing on the joyces, the whole shootin-match would collapse. Course I know the slums is a terrible curse in this town.
THE WIFE: Aloysius, where did you pick up this gawm at all? He’s not coming near the kitchen either. Faith and if he does, I’ll get something there and with it I’ll give him something that he badly needs. Clear out of here.
THE MAN: For Pete’s sake!
AGENT: Think of the valves of your heart, ma’am. Me dear man, you’re the one I’m talking to. I’ve seen enough, and be the jabbers I’ve heard enough too. I’ll go back and figure out the price. If it suits you, then we’ll get Rafferty along with the lurry.
THE MAN: Very good. That sounds satisfactory.
AGENT: Wait now till I get me cawb and me casogue offa the rack.
THE MAN: Right. Just let yourself out.
THE WIFE: And good riddance.
AGENT: Cheers, now.
(Noise of door slamming.)
THE WIFE: Don’t let me catch you bringing any other dirty character like that into this house. Suppose my sister happened to call and found the like of him here? What under God would she think of us?
THE MAN: I don’t care what yours sister would think and I don’t give a damn. How was I to know the man was a bowsie?
THE WIFE: Kindly moderate your language. I got a letter this morning. The Swanlinbar house is sold and the job up yonder is filled.
THE MAN: (In a howl.) WHAT! Why didn’t you tell me?
THE WIFE: I only got the letter this morning.
THE MAN: Well why didn’t you tell me this morning before I went out to contact that gorilla?
THE WIFE: (Severely.) You know very well that I never open letters until I get down to the butcher’s.
THE MAN: O dear, dear, dear. May the Lord look down on me. (Begins to sob.)
THE WIFE: We may stay here . . . till we die, I suppose. Stop that nonsense. There are two heavy bins in the yard. Carry them out to the front. I’ll be up to Mrs Clohessy’s if Fanny calls with the turnips.
THE MAN: Aaawwww.
CURTAIN