Best of Myles

by Flann O'Brien

  I have no doubt of it.

  Well she’s lyin there all day in a terrible condition but of course nobody was goin to chance calling a docthor. The brother wouldn’t like that, you know. The brother takes a very poor view of the docthors.

  So I recollect.

  Well annyway when the brother comes home at night, I tell him the landlady took bad after the red dose. IS IT ANNY WONDHER SHE’S TOOK BAD, says the brother, AFTER PUTTIN THAT WHITE POISON IN HER MOUTH. DIDN’T I WARN YEZ ALL. IT’S A GOOD JOB I TOOK HER IN TIME, says he. And then up to start dosin’ her again, black stuff this time. She’s above in the bed still. Gob, me bus. Cheers!

  Good-bye.

  YOURSELF, is it? Fit an’ well you’re lookin. I’ll tell you a good one. I’ll give you a laugh.

  Do.

  I’ll give you a laugh. The digs was in the front line for near on a fortnight. Martial law, begob. It was a … thremendious business. Fierce.

  One divines a domestic crisis of unexampled gravity.

  Some was for handin in the gun after the first week and runnin off on holidays, muryaa, off down to Skerries or Arklow where they were sleepin five in a bed and not a place to be had for love or money. All hands was losin weight be the pound. It was a … most … thremendious … war of nerves.

  No doubt your relative was the author of this tension?

  Tuesday fortnight was D-Day. The brother comes down to breakfast without the mark of a shavin-razor on the jaw. The brother—!

  Indeed?

  A man … a man … that was never known to put the nose out of the room of a mornin without everything just so—the handkerchief right, the tie right, and never without a fierce smell of shavin-soap off him. An’ the hair-oil standin out on the head like diamonds!

  One cannot always maintain such an attitude neque semper tendit arcum Apollo.

  Of course the crowd starts eatin an’ takin no notice. There would be no question of anybody passin remarks, you know. There was very ferocious eatin goin on that morning. The brother just reads the paper and then off to work. He only opens the beak once. Goin out he says to the landlady ‘Pardon me but I may be delayed to-night and there is no necessity for you to defer retiring.’

  A most considerate thought.

  The next mornin the crowd is sittin at the table as white as a sheet, all waitin for the brother to come down. Begob you would think they were all for the firin-squad. And down comes the brother. Do you know what I’m goin to tell you?

  I do not.

  The face was as black as a black-faced goat. I never seen a more ferocious-lookin sight. Begob there was hair on him from the ears to the neck. The crowd begins to feed like prisoners given thirty second to swally their stew. The landlady’s face gets red and out she comes in a big loud voice with a lot of chat about the war. The secret was out! He was tryin to raise wan.

  Trying to raise what?

  To raise a whisker. Your man was puttin up a beaver!

  Curious that any activity so ancient should be considered reprehensible!

  I couldn’t tell you how the crowd in the digs lived through the next ten days. You wouldn’t know your man to look at him. A fierce lookin sight, comin in and sittin down as bold as bedamned. Starts enlargin the bridgehead from wan day to the next. An’ not a word out of him but Pardon me this an’ Pardon me that. O a very cool customer, say what you like. And no remarks passed, of course. Do you know what it is?

  I do not.

  If the brother came down without a face on him at all, there wouldn’t be wan that would pass a remark. The heads would go down, the chawin and aytin would go on and the landlady would pass the brother the paper. A nice crowd begob.

  A remarkable character.

  After a fortnight the brother got himself into a condition I never seen a man in in me life. There was hair hangin out of him behind the ears an’ there was hair growin into the eyes. The strain was terrible. The digs was about to crack. It was H-Hour. Then begob the big thing happened. Next mornin the brother comes down with his face as smooth as a baby’s, sits down and says Parding me, ma’am, but I think that clock is four minutes slow be the Ballast Office. Well luckit.

  I am looking.

  The crowd in the digs goes off their heads. They all start chattin an’ talkin and roarin out of them about the time and peepin at their watches and laughin and cavortin for further orders. I think we’ll need more tea, the landlady says, gettin up to go out. Do you know what it is?

  I do not.

  I’ll give you a laugh. Her nibs was cryin.

  Not unusual in such an emotional crisis.

  I never put in such a fortnight in me life. Begob here’s a 52. Cheers!

  Cheers!

  BEGOB is it yerself?

  It IS myself.

  I see where the Christmas is on. Things is in full swing.

  It cannot be denied.

  I’ll tell you a good wan.

  Pray, by all means do so.

  I’ll tell you a good wan about the brother. The brother is holdin a conversasioney in the digs, Sahurda. All hands is to report for duty. A hand of cards, thrifle, plum puddin and a bit of a sing-song. No jars, of course, bar a few bottles of stout in the pantry for the hard chaws. An ould-fashioned conversasioney, that’s what the brother calls it. Ladies present, o’course.

  I see.

  Do you know why?

  I do not.

  The brother is for keepin the crowd in over the Christmas. Have your life if you looked for a pass-out to mooch off down-town aSahurda.

  One admires the preservation of ancient customs.

  The brother was makin’ inquiries about the pubs. Peepin’ in here and there, askin an odd question, chattin the curates, maybe takin an odd sip for himself on the Q.T. Do you know what the brother says?

  I do not.

  The brother says there’s stuff been got ready.

  Indeed?

  The brother says there’s special stuff been got ready for the Christmas.

  You mean inferior and poisonous potions?

  The brother says there’s lads below in cellars at the present time gettin stuff ready be the bucketful. They do be below in the daytime mixin stuff in firkins. Whiskey by yer lave. For the Christmas. Two bob a glass.

  Surely the police should be informed?

  There’s mixtures been made up that was never made up before. This year it’s goin to be the works altogether.

  Surely the reputable houses in their own interest should communicate with the police?

  I’ll tell you another thing. The brother says there’s a black market in turps.

  Indeed?

  Yer men use a lot of turps for the mixtures, you know. Turps, sherry-wine and a drop of the Portugese brandy that was brought in early in the war. That’s yer glass of malt. And I’ll tell you a funny wan. Do you know what a glass of fine old brandy is, three and six a knock?

  I do not.

  Turps and sherry-wine.

  You astound me.

  The brother says the North of Ireland crowd is goin to be sorry men.

  You mean the undiscerning stranger will be poisoned?

  And there’s wan particular crowd gettin their own cigars and cigarettes ready, the brother says. Word’ll be sent round that so-and-so has bags of cigarettes and your men will all march in and do their drinkin there. First they’ll get the sherry-wine and the turps. Then on top of that the special fags got ready downstairs be the boss himself. And goin out, a half-naggin of turps for the morning.

  I sincerely hope you exaggerate.

  That’s why the brother is gettin up the conversasioney for the Sahurda. Here’s me bus. Happy Christmas now and mind yerself!

  Good-bye, and thanks!

  Cheers now.

  YOURSELF begob! How did you get over the Christmas?

  Excellently, thank you.

  There was fierce goins-on in the digs over the Christmas.

  Indeed?

  The brother got up a conversationey for the Chr
istmas Eve so as to keep the crowd out of the pubs where there was turps, and sherry-wine got ready as a Christmas present for all-comers. I’ll tell you a damn good wan.

  Do.

  The brother invites the uncle from Skerries up for the Christmas. Your man arrives up on the Thursday night. The brother takes out a bottle of sherry-wine. A very broad-minded customer, the brother. Offers the uncle a glass. But not on your life. The uncle puts up the hands, makes a terrible face, wouldn’t touch it. Thanks very much but not for him. A very abstemious character, the uncle. Next thing he’s off up to bed.

  Admirable.

  Next day is the Frida. Landlady up at eight o’clock, reports the uncle missin. A note on the hall table, ‘Very important appointment, back at twleve.’ Is he back at twelve?

  I would hazard the opinion that he is not back at twelve.

  He certainly is not back at twelve. Nor at wan. Nor at two. Nor at four.

  Extraordinary behaviour.

  And the dinner stuffed in the oven. Begob at six there’s a report that your man’s coat is on th’hallstand. One of the crowd goes up and peeps into the bedroom. Here is me bould man asleep, dead to the world.

  Eccentric is scarcely the word for such behaviour.

  The brother hears the story when he gets home. Says nothin’ but you could see he was takin’ a poor view. Goes up, takes a look at th’uncle, comes down, says nothin’ but starts with David Copperfold.

  An ominous reaction.

  Annyway next mornin’—this is the Christmas Eve, mind—th’uncle wakes up very tired and asks for a feed of Farola for breakfast. Says he had a busy day with appointments, buyin stuff an’ all the rest of it, and that he’s for stoppin in bed all day. The crowd in the digs start readin and snoozin and gettin ready for the conversationey. Twelve twenty-five, th’uncle’s coat is reported missin’.

  My goodness!

  The brother starts a sort of martial law in the digs. The crowd arrives for the conversationey but certain parties is ordered to keep a watch. Believe me or believe me not the coat is back at six and not a soul’s seen it comin!

  Here one is almost tempted to suspect the machinations of the occult.

  And the bould uncle stuffed above in the bed. You won’t believe the next thing that happened. Eight o’clock the crowd is workin’ away at the charades when word comes in that the coat is gone again—AND the brother’s bike!

  Well, well, well!

  Begob I never seen such a look on the brother’s face. Makes a signal for the crowd to carry on, on with the black velour, and out. Next thing that happens—ten o’clock Christmas Eve—a message is sent up be the Guards that the brother is stretched on one of the Guard’s beds. Dead to the world. Do you know what happened?

  I do not.

  Goes into a boozer lookin for th’uncle. Thinks he’ll chance a drop to make things look natural. Gets an extra special dose for himself offa one of the curates.

  You mean this lethal mixture of turpentine and sherry?

  Not at all man. The turps gave out at five. Do you know what he got?

  I do not.

  Paraffeen!

  Surely you are not serious?

  Paraffeen and sherry-wine. And th’uncle was never heard of since. Cheers. Here’s me bus! Happy new year!

  I’LL TELL you another man that the brother fixed up—Jamesie D. Now there was a man that wasn’t getting his health at all. When he came to the brother he was a cripple. And look at him now.

  In what condition is he now?

  Sure wasn’t he picked for a trial with Rovers Seconds and couldn’t turn out because the ould mother beyond in Stepaside was taken bad on the Friday. A great big gorilla of a man.

  And what was his trouble?

  Arthreetus, so the brother said. It was a very poor glass of water, I’m telling you. But the brother got it in time.

  That was fortunate.

  Ah yes, if you don’t put it off too long the brother can work wonders. He does be often giving out about people that don’t come to him in time.

  And what happened in connexion with that gentleman you mentioned?

  Jamesie D.? Ah poor Jamesie had a bad time. The joint of the elbow went out of order with his arthreetus. He could no more lift a pint than he could lift a fog. The poor man took it very badly, hardly ever came down to the smoker of a Friday. A man remember that could play Ave Maria on the piana to bring the tears to your eyes. To tell you the truth he was half poisoned by the doctors. All classes of pills and bottles. And one doctor gave him the machine.

  I beg your pardon?

  As true as I’m here, strapped him down to some class of an electric chair and turned on the juice. Poor Jamesie thought it was the end. He thought your man was a maniac, you know, passing himself off as a doctor. Begob, what the chair did for him was to give him a bad ankle. It was after that that he went to the brother.

  I see.

  Well do you know what I’m going to tell you. The brother got that arthreetus at the elbow, he chased it up the arm to the shoulder, then down the back, over across to the other leg and down the thighs. He got it just above the knee. It took him two years but he got it in the end. He killed it just above the knee. And it never came back.

  I see.

  No, it never came back. Well, here’s me wagon. Good luck now and back no horses, as the man said.

  Farewell, friend.

  * * *

  *Rouault. See Criticism, Art Letters.

  The Plain People of Ireland

  SEVERAL PEOPLE have written to compliment me on my drawings and to express astonishment at the variety of styles I can adopt. Particularly have I won golden opinions, not to say encomia, as a result of my mastery of the old-time craft of the woodcut.

  It is true that my drawings are fine things. They satisfy the human appetite for what is pleasing and well-made. It is no lie to say that they are delightful.

  How do I do it?

  I cannot say. Genius, take it how you will, is an odd thing. Talent, yes—that can be analysed and explained. But not genius. I am myself as much an astonished spectator of my own work as any reader. When my fingers begin drawing I often find myself giving involuntary gasps of surprise and excitement. A few quick strokes and the thing is done. The whole thing is over in a moment. Every line is in its place, every delicate little shade exquisitely delineated.

  And those fingers! You should see them. They are rich with rings, crusted with exotic opal, lapis lazuli, Benghazi myrmum, incomparable cheznook and fahr from the Orient. They are long, nervous and beautifully shaped, the fingers of an artist. Please notice their white translucent skin of perfect grain, the perfectly kept nails, pink suffusion of pale quick under pearly shell, the delicate, almost feminine, rounding of the thumb. My face, too—

  The Plain People of Ireland: Could we hold the face over till tomorrow?

  Myself: Certainly.

  CONVERSATION PIECE

  The Plain People of Ireland: If it’s all the same, we’d prefer to have you by instalments.

  Myself: Fair enough.

  Well, what do you think of the war?

  Nothing. I never think of the war.

  The brother was across to the other side last week. He said we have no idea.

  Have we not?

  The brother says you’ll see the Americans in before the New Year. And do you know what I’m going to tell you?

  I do not.

  The Swiss are thinking of having a go at the French. There’s bad blood there, you know, always was. Some of your men in Switzerland speak French, but don’t run away with the idea that that makes them Frenchmen.

  I rarely run away with such ideas.

  The brother takes a poor view of the situation above in Africa. He says that class of thing can’t last—couldn’t last. He says you’ll see a republic there before the New Year. He gives them to Christmas to blow up.

  This is very kind of him.

  Another crowd that aren’t happy at all, so the brother says,
is the Swedes. A desperate crowd of men for going off to sea. Close up the area with mines and torpedo boats and where are you? You’re in for trouble.

  That makes it simple.

  The brother was saying that he has eighteen pounds of tea stored up above in Finglas. He knew the war was coming five years ago. He said the thing couldn’t last.

  That reminds me that it is tea-time. Good-bye!

  IN THE SERE THE YELLOW

  LOOKING OVER my well-thumbed volume of Keats the other day (‘First Prize for English Composition, Clongowes Wood College, 1888’) I re-read the sonnet on the four seasons of man.

  ‘He has his summer, when luxuriously

  Spring’s honeyed end of youthful thought he loves

  To ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh

  Is the nearest unto heaven; quiet coves

  His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings

  He furleth close …’

  This is largely hearsay or guesswork on the part of Keats, who died when he was a boy. All the same, he was not far out. I am old enough myself to know what Autumn is, and I find that my habits are of the order imagined by the poet. There is nothing I like better than an evening with a few quiet coves in the dimmer corner of a pub, murmuring together in friendship the judgements of our mature minds. As regards furling my wings close, that is also true enough. To spend a whole bob or a tanner in one go entails physical suffering. My little pension is woefully inelastic. A wing or two saved in ordering porter instead of stout is not to be despised. A borrowed match, a cadged filling of the pipe, all small things mount mightily in a year.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Did you really go to Clongowes?

  Myself: Certainly.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Isn’t that a fancy place, gentlemen’s sons and all the rest of it.

  Myself: It is. That’s what I mean.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Um. Did they teach you spelling there at all?

  Myself: They taught me anything you like to mention.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Then how about the word ‘judgement’ above? Unless we are very much mistaken, that should be JUDGMENT.