Best of Myles

by Flann O'Brien

  And think of this. You are sitting comfortably in your seat when you feel some ignorant clown (too lazy to look carefully at the number on his ticket) pushing his way up through your trap-door. Lift your feet quickly off it until his head is halfway up. Then smash the trap-door down with every ounce of weight and strength you can command. Listen for the remote thud of his falling body then resume giving your attention to Micheál.

  Excuse me.

  Round to the Gaiety there last week (I say ‘round’ because I live on the NCR and my approach was necessarily more circuitous than tangential) to see a piece of Mr Mac Liammóir’s entitled—if memory fools me not—‘The Packed Ewer of Doreen Grey’. There was not much in it that I would criticise. Or should I say criticize? For the piece was described in the programme as ‘a dramatization of Oscar Wilde’s only Novel’. Wilde I never met; though the father and I were close friends in the early daze.

  One thing rather puzzles me. Wilde wrote a number of plays and also this ‘only’ novel. Unless he was mad, he must have intended to write ‘Doreen Gay’ as a novel, otherwise he would have done what was for him the customary thing—written it as a play. Since, however, a man of the calibre of Mr Mac Liammóir does not hesitate to reverse Wilde’s judgment in this regard, I fear we are faced (unless we also are mad—a thing that would not astonish me in the least) with the theory that Wilde fully intended to write it as a play. He couldn’t think of the word, went ahead writing, and the thing turned out to be a novel!

  But … is there not then a complementary theory? If Wilde mixed up the dissimilar modes of play and novel, how can we be satisfied that he did not intend to be a novelist only—that his plays were so written in error? If his novel (and we do not admit it is a novel, m’lud) if his novel be a play … em … a play manqué, then why not a novelization of his ‘plays’?

  I am terribly serious about this, because it involves a major problem in aesthetics. I go to an exhibition of ‘paintings’. I am astounded by what I appear to see with my (own) eyes. The ‘message’ of this or that canvas eludes me, sometimes I am distressed by the frames. (You see, I too am an artist.) It does not follow that I denounce the author of these … these … practices. This painter, I say, can it be that he is a novelist? A poet? A worker in exquisite enamels? A musician in the manner of Ravel? For certain it is, that painter he is not.

  There can be a fusion of artistic activities directed towards the communication of a single artistic concept. Example: a song—a poem sung to an air. But is artistic function interchangeable? Can a play be made a novel? Some people are chronically incapable of appreciating a thing in terms of itself. (My wife thinks I am a husband, for example—whereas, of course, I am a philosopher.) Show a cobbler a cow. Note his trade union obtuseness in relation to all kine! He simply cannot see how fine they are! ‘Ah yes,’ he will say, ‘there’s many a fine pair of shoes in that animal.’ Show this or that patriot an equestrian statue and he will say ‘Hah! Pretty big job that. That’d take the 24-foot ladder and a double-handled gauge-4 saw.’ Tell a Hollywood man about the Kabbala, or the Koran, and he will ask you whether you could get 34 thousand feet out of it. Show a certain type of funny (?) writer something sincere, serious, and he will mutter: ‘I wonder how we can make a laugh of this.’

  You see? The problem is everywhere. No Irish farmer appreciates his young strapping son for the attractive healthy agricultural type he is (and must intrinsically remain). The Irish farmer sees his son as a potential Higher Executive Officer, Grade II, Temporary, Unestablished, full of grievances about bonus.

  Do engine drivers, I wonder, eternally wish they were small boys?

  I have not been to the Abbey since the decline set in, nor indeed has Blythe sent me the customary free pass since the day we had words about the terminology adopted in the program when plays in Irish are being presented. You have been there, of course, you have noticed that for the word ‘stall’ (costing 3/6, I think) they say: steallai.

  My point was that such a term is recherché, difficult and obviously mined out of Dinneen and that there is no justification at all for using it when you have in Irish—every chisler in Dublin knows it—(PS. O’H. please note spelling of chisler) the simple word: stól.

  I might as well be talking to the wall, of course, though this phrase has always seemed strange in view of the belief that walls have ears. Equally fruitless was another effort I made about the title of the theatre. They call it ‘Amharclann na Mainistreach’, although everybody knows that ‘mainistir’ means monastery. Do they not then know the Irish for ‘abbey’? Are they too stuck-up to ask some one who does?

  It follows from the opening sentence above that I have not seen Mr Tomelty’s play, ‘The End House’. I couldn’t go, of course—it would never do to hear theatre-going ‘wits’ (foyer-flies if you like) making terrible jokes about ‘the house’.

  ‘Was there a good house last night?’

  ‘O just the same—the end house.’

  A slogan that interests me immensely is that one that they came out with some months ago and still have despite its decrepit syntax—‘Late-comers not admitted until end of First Act.’ It has several undesirable implications. First, that every play must have not only acts but even a first act! (Nay, a First Act). What would, say, Rouault think of such unenterprise? Is it also suggested, forsooth, that every play must have a last act? I have several plays (opens drawer, points in, hastily covers half-exposed bottle, slams drawer shut) and competent people who have read them certify that there is neither beginning nor end to them. Some of them have no characters—I did not say character, mind—some are without ‘climaxes’, ‘plots’ and other dreary journeyman paraphernalia. As for Aristotle’s unities of thyme, plaice and auction—faugh! There are enough earnest souls observing them, we have a plenitude of knaves tricking with rules made by people who have not had the advantage of … of … being present for a couple of thousand years.

  The second deplorable implication of the ‘late-comer’ slogan is that while those who are in at the beginning will not be disturbed during the first act they will not necessarily be undisturbed during subsequent acts. You can’t barge in in the middle of the first act but you can arrive in the middle of the second or third act, start tuning the piano, decide you haven’t enough light and stagger out with the thing on your back. What they really mean, you say, is ‘Patrons not admitted between the acts.’ But not quite. Because if that were the rule, nobody would ever get in. The … interval, shall we call it, before the first act is not, within the meaning of the statute, ‘between the acts.’

  The Abbey should think of a more precise and literate slogan, something catchy—like this:

  The National Theatre Society

  Likes promptness and sobriety,

  No patrons will be admitted

  Unless promptly stalled (or pitted).

  The real trouble is, of course, that too many of the patrons have learnt their manners from characters on the Abbey stage. Gach éan mar a adhbha!

  The Brother

  THE BROTHER is making a great job of the landlady.

  I beg your pardon?

  Says he’ll have her on her feet in another week.

  I do not understand.

  She was laid up, you know.

  Is that a fact?

  Ah, yes, she got a very bad attack on New Year’s Day. The rheumatism was at her for a long time. The brother ordered her to bed, but bedamn but she’d fight it on her feet. The brother took a very poor view and said she’d be a sorry woman. And, sure enough, so she was. On New Year’s Day she got an attack that was something fierce, all classes of stabbing pains down the back. Couldn’t move a hand to help herself. Couldn’t walk, sit or stand.

  I see.

  Of course, the brother took command as quick as you’d order a pint. Ordered the whole lot out of the digs for the night, sent for the married sister and had the landlady put to bed. A very strict man for doing things the right way, you know, although he’s not a
married man himself. O, very strict.

  That is satisfactory.

  Well, the next day she was worse. She was in a fierce condition. All classes of pains in the knees, knuckles swollen out and all this class of thing. Couldn’t get her breath right, either, wheezing and moaning there inside in the bed. O, a desperate breakdown altogether.

  No doubt a doctor was sent for?

  Sure that’s what I’m coming to man. The unfortunate woman was all on for calling in Doctor Dan. A son of the father, you know, round the corner, a nice young fellow with all classes of degrees after his name. Well, I believe the brother kicked up a fierce row. Wouldn’t hear of it at any price. Of course, the brother was always inclined to take a poor view of the doctors, never had any time for them at all.

  I see.

  If you want to hear the pay given out in right style, get the brother on to the doctors. Fierce language he uses sometimes. Says half of those lads never wash their hands. Now say there’s some ould one down the road laid up with a bad knee. Right. She sends for the doctor. Right. But where are you in the meantime? You’re laid up, too. You’re inside in your bed with a bad cold. Right. You send for the doctor, too. Right. In he comes and takes your pulse and gives you some class of a powder. Next morning you’re feeling grand. The cold is gone. Fair enough. You think you’ll get up. You hop out of bed like a young one. The next minute you’re on your back on the floor roaring out of you with all classes of pains. What’s happened?

  I fear I have no idea what’s happened.

  The knee is gone, of course. Your man has cured the cold, but given you a knee that’s worse than the knee the ould one had. Be your own doctor, that’s what the brother says, or get a good layman that understands first principles. That ’flu that was going round at the Christmas, the brother blames the doctors for that, too.

  What happened the landlady?

  O the brother started treatment right away. Stuck above in the bedroom half the day working away at her. Running up and down stairs with big basins of scalding water. Of course the brother believes that the whole secret is in the circulation. It’s the blood all the time. Well do you know, the third day the landlady was very much improved.

  That is remarkable.

  Very … much … improved. But did the brother let her up?

  I should not imagine so.

  Not on your life man. O no. He still keeps working away at her and puts her on a special diet, milk and nuts and all this class of thing. And now she’s nearly cured. The brother is going to let her up for a while on Sunday.

  That is very satisfactory.

  Of course the married sister was under the roof all the time, if you know what I mean.

  I understand.

  Ah yes, the brother has fixed up harder cases than that. Weren’t you telling me that you had some class of a stiffness in one of your fingers?

  I had.

  Would you like to show it to the brother?

  Thank you very much but the trouble has since cleared up.

  I see. Well, any time you think you’re not feeling right, you’ve only to say the word. No trouble at all. Begob, here’s me ’bus.

  Good-bye and thank you again.

  Cheers now.

  YES, INDEED

  HELLO. Yes.

  Ah, yes. Certainly.

  Who? WHO?

  Ah, not at all. No. No.

  Begob he’d touch a man in a shroud for a tanner.

  Cork? Yes. What?

  WHAT?

  I can’t hear you.

  I CAN’T HEAR YOU.

  Yes, the wife is a Cork girl, a right flighty article. Yes. Let me know the whole story. Yes. See you at the smoker Saturday. Goodbye. Cheers. WHAT? No, I said Goodbye. GOODBYE!

  These telephones are indistinct occasionally.

  Yes, that was the brother. There’s a new Guard moved into the station near the digs and the brother is having inquiries made. Who, where and what, you know. Show me your companions and I’ll tell you what you are. He likes to know who he’s living in the same street with. Believes in keeping his weather-eye on the Guards. Necessitas compellibus, you know. He’s just had an inquiry put through to Cork.

  I see.

  He got a Guard transferred in 1924. Was lifting the little finger too much for the brother’s taste.

  I see. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes and so on.

  The very thing. Do you know what I heard the brother once called?

  What?

  ‘An Iron Disciplinarian.’ It’s a good job somebody’s keeping the Guards right. Because, do you know what I’m going to tell you, they take a bit of watching. Of course there’s a white and black sheep in every fold.

  An acute and penetrating observation.

  Yes. BEGOB HERE’S THE ’BUS. Cheers!

  THE BROTHER had them all in stitches above in the digs the other night.

  Is that a fact?

  Gob he was in right form. Sits down to his tea and has a go at the jam. Then he gives the old man a nudge and says he: Do you know, says he, it’s well for that crowd Williams and Woods.

  I see.

  The old man, of course, only that the eyes do be movin’ in his head you’d think he was a corpse. A desperate man for readin books and all that class of thing. Takes no notice of the brother at all. Then the teacher asks why. The landlady begins to laugh out of her, too well she knows the brother. Then the lad from the bank asks why. Begob in two ticks they were all laughing and waiting for the word from the brother. Of course, he goes on chawing and takes no notice.

  I understand.

  After a while he looks up. WHY IS IT WELL FOR WILLIAMS AND WOODS? BECAUSE, says he (and begob there wasn’t a bit being touched or swallyed be this time) BECAUSE, says he, THEY GET MONEY FOR JAM! Well lookit. The roarin and laughin was something fierce. The old man begins to choke and the landlady laughs so much she takes her left hand away from her chest where she keeps it when she’s drinkin tea. Not a smile out of your man the brother, of course. A face on him as long as a hare’s back leg.

  Most amusing. Your relative would do well to take up one or other of the music hall avocations or even consider writing humorous matter for the newspapers.

  Ah yes, he is great sport when he is in form. And the great thing is this, that every joke is RIGHT if you know what I mean. The brother is very strict about that class of thing. The youngest baby in all Ireland could be there and no danger of anything that isn’t right coming out in front of it. Yes. Well, here’s where I lave yeh.

  Bye bye.

  PRAY CAST your eye across the street. Our mutual friend with the cap. Going down there for a quick one unless I’m very much mistaken. I have frequently observed you in converse with him. And I’ll bet you a shilling that he talks to you about his brother because damn the thing else he can ever talk about to man or layman. Is he a personal friend?

  I should classify him as an acquaintance.

  Well I am glad to hear it because if you would take a tip you will make it your business to be on the other side of the street accidentally on purpose when you observe him on the distant horizon. Because do you know what I am going to tell you, he’s not the simple man that he lets on to be, faith he isn’t, he was down in a certain public house one night last week with some hop-off-my-thumb from the County Wicklow on a rogue’s errant with two softies that have a quarry out on the south side, the pair of them being bested out of their property by the two boyos with the kind assistance of General Whiskey and Major Porter, IOU’s passing to and fro like a snowstorm, make me your partner, and you’ll get five pounds a week for life and here, sign this, thanks very much. The Lord knows what the unfortunate men signed away, crooked drunk inside in the back snug and a certain detective that you know and that I know standing at the bar winking the other eye, waiting for his twenty-five per cent as usual, fresh and good-looking from getting five motor-cars across the border for a certain man in Phibsborough that I know and that you know. Faith now I would play cagey-cannon while th
at gentleman is in the offing because he would take the shirt off your back and put a cheaper one in its place and you would notice sweet nothing. Himself and his brother. I would not be surprised to hear that he has no brother at all.

  That is a shocking thing to say.

  That is my honest opinion, take it for what it is worth. I passed smarter boyos than that through my fingers, they get away with little with yours truly, I can smell them a mile off. ‘That letter about the rates that you wrote to the papers was very well done, it was the best thing I read for a long time, could you lend me half a crown.’ This class of thing. O faith many’s a time he has tried it on. But I’m ready for him and ready for them all.

  He never asked me for money.

  Ah but give him time, give him time. When it comes you will find it will be a real knock. A five pound note if you please, the mother was taken bad and had to be brought off to Jervis Street, you’ll have your money back on Thursday next at half-past two. Nolly may tango is the motto. ‘I am unwilling to be touched.’ Follow?

  I understand.

  And talking of hospitals, tell me this much. The good lady. Is she …?

  O very well, thanks very much.

  Was it …?

  Yes, but it is all right now, she is feeling grand.

  Well do you know, I am very glad to hear it because these things can be very awkward. Very awkward. Yes. And now let me put a question to you. What is your private opinion about this war or is it going to end at all in our time and generation?

  I fear it is a world-wide upheaval the end of which no man can foresee.

  Well I am with you there, truer word than that was never said. And do you know, it is a judgment from heaven on the world. There is a very bad class of young person going now, no time for anything but the dance halls and the pictures and the Lord knows what devilment. And they are all destroyed with this dole, they wouldn’t work if you paid them. Well here we are. Would you join me in a small Redbreast to keep the life in us this cold day?