Best of Myles

by Flann O'Brien

  After the meeting drinks were served in the board room. A very enjoyable musical evening followed. Sir Myles gave his famous rendering of ‘In Cellar Cool’, and followed up with a stirring address on the ethical and philosophic basis of ‘all true banking’. The O’Shaughraun was accorded an ovation for his rendering of ‘Believe Me If All’ and other gems from that repository of everything that is best in the national music of the old land, Moore’s Melodies.

  Taciturn director Theoderick O’Moyle (‘Silent O’Moyle’) said nothing, as usual. He just sat there.

  SIR MYLES NA gCOPALEEN (the da) was standing in the conservatory in immaculate evening dress, a figure almost kingly against a riot of banksia alba, green tomatoes, and Zephirine Drouhin. The heated air was laden with the stench of paraffin emulsion, a sign that Jenkins, the head-gardener, was taking precautions against the disorder known as Cuckoo Spit. The dusk was performing its customary intransitive operation of ‘gathering’. In some far tree an owl could be detected coughing.

  A clink is heard. The grand old man laid a glass of scotch and soda against the gold-laced patrician teeth and is swallowing the nourishment with the calm of a man well used to it. He is lost in thought. He wishes to go to the library. He has business there. But he remembers that his is the only library (in the true old-fashioned sense) that remains in the whole country. And he knows a thing or two. He fears the worst.

  He sighs, puts down the glass and passes from the conservatory. He traverses the old baronial hall, lined with dead Copaleens, each in his theatrical and anachronistic iron panoply. Sir Myles glances with affection at the last of them to be set there—the Hon. Shaughraun na gCopaleen, quondam ace-bottle-man in the southern command of the Black and Tans. Sir Myles passes on, smiling to himself with whimsical grace. He reaches the library and enters.

  ‘I thought as much,’ he sighs.

  Stretched on the floor in a most ugly attitude is a corpse. Sir Myles has already taken up the telephone and asked for a number.

  ‘That you, sergeant? Look here, those dreadful detective stories. Another corpse in the library this evening. Really, you know, too much of a good thing. Fourth this week. No doubt trouble is shortage of libraries. What? A young man, extremely handsome. Curious scar on left cheek. Dressed? Don’t be a damn fool. You ought to know he is attired in immaculate evening dress. Do not touch the corpse and leave everything as it is until you get here? What do you take me for—an ignorant fool?’

  Sir Myles puts down the instrument testily and pours himself a stiff drink. He sits down sipping it and apparently listening intently for something. Soon three shots are heard some distance away, followed by a scream.

  ‘I thought as much,’ Sir Myles mutters, ‘that will be the mysterious little Belgian governess who has been seen in the neighbourhood recently.’

  He rises, wearily and takes a well-worn storm lantern from a cupboard. He lights it and passed with it from the library. He approaches the massive baronial stairway and mounts it. Flight after flight he traverses, the flickering light illuming portrait after portrait of deceased Copaleens. Soon he has reached the cob-webbed spiral stairs that leads to the tower. With agility that belies his advanced years, he grasps the cold iron balustrade and continues the journey upwards. Soon he is out on the platform of the old Norman tower, the icy wind playing on his old-world countenance. From a small press he has taken a telescope and his eagle eye is ranging the sea. In the gloom he can make out the shape of a small ship standing in the bay. It is exchanging mysterious light signals with some unknown party ashore.

  ‘I thought as much,’ Sir Myles sighs, ‘question of some plans being thieved by international interests; obviously the agents of a foreign power are leaving no stone unturned. Well well well …’

  The grand old man wearily descends again to the library. He has lifted the telephone and asked for a number.

  ‘Look here, sergeant, I realise I am telling you something you must know, but the corpse has disappeared during my momentary absence from the library.’

  ‘I expected as much, Sir Myles.’

  ‘Also there was the usual shots and a scream and all that kind of thing.’

  ‘Quite Sir Myles. It is a good job the body has been taken off your hands because I have changed my mind. I have no intention of going out to your place. This once we will let the mystery be solved by the private investigator who will accidentally arrive on the scene. On this occasion we will spare the police the trouble of making mistakes, following dud clues, arresting innocent parties and generally complicating matters.’

  ‘I realise how you feel, sergeant. Good night.’

  Then the grand old man threw away his glass and started using the bottle.

  SIR MYLES NA gCOPALEEN (the da) who has been buried in the country for some months, was exhumed last week following a dispute as to the interpretation of a clause in his will, which purported to leave certain pictures in the National Gallery to the nation. The nation in question was not named, and lawyers held that the bequest was void for uncertainty, though it is no secret that with Sir Myles, words like ‘the nation’, ‘the Army’, ‘the services’ mean only one thing. The grand old man was alive and well, and looked extremely fit as he stepped from the coffin. ‘Never again,’ he said as he jested with reporters before being driven away in a closed car.

  He was later entertained to supper at the United Services Club by Ailtiri na hAiseirghe, when he was the recipient of a handsome wallet of carvers. Lady na gCopaleen, who had, on Sir Myles’s passing, hastily married the wastrel cousin Sir Hosis na gCopaleen for testamentary reasons, was also present with her husband and was the recipient of a handsome six-day clock.

  Returning thanks in the course of a felicitous and witty speech, the grand old man said that it was no accident that his will contained knotty and litigious provisions, such as could only be unravelled—and not necessarily to the advantage of interested appellants—by Gavan Duffy. He had taken the precaution of adding four codicils, not one of which was witnessed. He was advised that two bequests he had made were invalid inasmuch as they were contingent on the legatees ‘marrying again’. The parties in question had never married and could not lawfully satisfy the repetitive requirement of the clause. Large sums were also left to certain persons if still in the testator’s employment at the latter’s death, but all these persons had been dismissed and had in fact been jailed for theft on the testator’s uncorroborated testimony. He was also advised that four clauses in his will were repugnant to the Constitution. He had hoped that the whole document would have been impounded by the Attorney General but that little plan had evidently miscarried.

  ‘I considered carefully,’ Sir Myles said, ‘the advisability of dying intestate but rejected the idea as too dangerous. Naturally I am now glad I did not adopt that course. I would like my job pursuing her nibs here and my alleged children through court after court to get them to cough up. I would have placed upon me the onus of establishing quite novel juridical theses. For example, I would have to show that there is an alternative to testacy or intestacy, viz., extestacy, which would be the condition I would claim to be in. I would have to show that death is an essential concomitant of intestacy and this would involve lengthy legal definitions of death. I would have to show that death is not final and conclusive. This in itself would involve equally recondite definitions of life. My own ‘existence’ would be called in question and I would have to prove—on oath, mind you!—that I was not dead, notwithstanding my recent decease and the hasty nuptials of my dear widow. My right to review and strike out certain ‘refreshment’ expenses from the funeral bill charged against my alleged estate would have to be established in face of the most tortuous objections that could be devised by Costello. Even my undoubted right to participate as next-of-kin in my own estate would be called in question. The income tax authorities would challenge the inclusion of funeral charges under allowable expenses and would probably insist on sticking me for death duties. It would all be far too
troublesome. I would not like it at all. Gentlemen, I would rather be dead.’ (Loud applause.)

  Later in the evening, the grand old man was carried into a cab. He drove to the Mansion House where he made a courtesy caul. Though the ersatz membrane was rather coarse in texture, the thing very closely resembled the genuine article and showed that the old man’s fingers have lost none of their cunning.

  Later the Lord Mayor returned the caul.

  FOLLOWING the return to civil life of Sir Myles na gCopaleen (the da) after being exhumed, a number of interesting legal issues have arisen. The relatives bitterly regret the exhumation and now see that it would have better suited their book to leave well enough alone and risk the prodigious litigations that would be entailed in submitting the grand old man’s ‘will’ to probate; their hope would be that at least some crumbs of the estate would ultimately reach their hands. Now they fear that any presentation of this document to the court would be successfully opposed by the testator in person, and that the court would hold with him in his submission that he was incapable of valid and effective testacy by reason of undeath.

  On the other hand Sir Myles himself, though in excellent fettle and lion-spirited in his voracity for litigation, is confronted with some awkward situations. His bank has refused to honour his cheques on the ground that they have his death certificate, furnished to them anonymously, by post, and that they can release no money unless this document is quashed by the court. The Registrar-General, to whom the grand old man then had recourse, has refused to issue a fresh birth certificate on the grounds that the applicant could not be born at the age of eighty-one and that in any event he was not born but exhumed.

  Sir Myles then took counsel with his attorney and it was thought that the situation could be met if Sir Myles made a fresh will leaving his entire estate to himself. This course would involve payment of death duties—a not inconsiderable sum—but a law-suit could be immediately started to compel the Revenue Commissioners to give the money back. (It was of course recognised that the danger here was that a bill would be rushed through.) It was found, however, that the legacy would not be effective in the absence of conclusive evidence of death and since ample evidence of the testator’s death is what is causing all the trouble, the position is terribly obscure. The old man is reluctant to risk further obsequies because (a) his previous obsequies were not conclusive; (b) exhumation would devolve on third parties, none of whom he can trust; (c) evidence of two deaths in respect of one testator would make the legal situation, already difficult, absolutely insoluble; (d) further and more protracted obsequies might kill him. The grand old man is genuinely afraid of the incredible legal mess that would result from contingency (d), particularly if further exhumation revealed that he was neither alive nor dead, but in some sort of a trance. Sir Myles is determined that none of his relations shall get one penny but is at present in the position that the measures he has taken to that end have also deprived himself of his money.

  The kernel of the legal impasse appears to be this—that life is not in law the opposite of death, nor is being born the opposite of dying. Death is a process, resulting usually in a serious fatality. To undo the legal consequences of death insofar as the disposal of the deceased’s assets are concerned, it is apparently not sufficient merely to be demonstrably alive; it is necessary to undie, to the satisfaction of the court. As apparently nobody has yet performed this mysterious act, the grand old man is diffident at the prospect of being, at his age, the first to attempt it; he is in any event uncertain as to how the task should be approached.

  The entire situation is one in which both sides may ultimately have to accommodate each other. The relations can get nothing owing to the suspected invalidity of the will: the testator, by mere reason of having that standing, cannot get his hands on his own money.

  Sir Myles has called further attorneys into consultation, and many eminent doctors and undertakers have been called to the conferences. The other side is also taking further advice and the general situation has become very tense. An outbreak of the bloodiest warfare is expected hourly. Developments will be carefully reported in this newspaper.

  THE battle of wits as between Sir Myles na gCopaleen (the da) and his greedy relatives goes on. Lady na gCopaleen, who hastily married the wastrel cousin Sir Hosis na gCopaleen on her husband’s ‘death’ already finds herself crucified with brandy bills and has applied to the court for an annulment of the marriage and for declarations that

  i she was, prior to her marriage with Sir Hosis, non relicta and incapable of contracting a valid marriage with him;

  ii that, notwithstanding the foregoing, her marriage with Sir Myles was terminated on the latter’s death;

  iii that she cannot be a widow in view of Sir Myles’s re-appearance and that she must be a maiden lady;

  iv that Sir Myles is a person of unsound mind, having regard to his post mortem re-appearance in face of present taxation levels and general social instability;

  v that as next-of-kin, she is prima facie entitled to one third of the deceased’s estate inasmuch as he died intestate (or having executed an inadmissible document purporting to be a will) and that now, notwithstanding any appearance he may enter to the present proceedings, he is incapable of lawful testacy and that he does not exist.

  She also claims further and other relief. Her present husband, Sir Hosis, has so far ignored the proceedings, being incapable in a cab stabled since Friday in a lane off Fade Street. Sir Myles, however, is full of fight and has already entered 18 caveats, turned himself into a limited liability company with seal of perpetual succession, and wholly traversed this lady’s claim upon him. In turn, he has applied for declarations that

  i he is immune from the jurisdiction of the court, having died;

  ii that he is not, however, dead;

  iii that he did not die intestate but made a vexatious will which the court should impound and condemn;

  iv that he is capable of making further and other wills;

  v that his obsequies were not genuine or conclusive but were in the nature of agricultural necromancy;

  vi that he is a person of sound mind, knowing only too well what he is about;

  vii that Lady na gCopaleen was formerly his wife, subsequently his widow and is again his wife and that his relative, Sir Hosis, being a bigamous intruder since the date of the exhumation, should be excluded by the court a mensa et thoro;

  viii alternatively, that he and Sir Hosis are jointly wedded to the lady, that he (Sir Myles) has precedence in all issues as senior husband and that he is entitled to the income tax allowance for her under the Finance Acts;

  ix that Sir Hosis is a dangerous maniac and is unaware of the ‘marriage’ contracted with him by Lady na gCopaleen;

  x That Sir Hosis has not been sober since June 1909, having been born in 1901.

  The other relatives are taking their own measures to get their hands on the estate (for such they claim Sir Myles’s goods, chattels and cash to be) and will not scruple to lay violent hands on the grand old man if such is the only course compatible with their book. A dead pauper has been secretly interred in the grave and in due course an attempt will be made to prove that Sir Myles is an imposter and in fact never survived his funeral. It is recognised, however, that this course is perilous as it may give Sir Myles an opportunity of claiming that he never had a funeral and that he is the victim of a diabolical conspiracy to which his wife, Sir Hosis and the other cousins are privy.

  A mysterious Colonel Coplin has appeared on the scene, claiming to be a distant grand-uncle. This man claims to be pained at the ‘unseemliness’ of trailing the family name through the courts in a fug of scandalous vituperations and is mentioning certain ‘settlements’ he has in mind. Each side assumes that he is an imposter in the pay of the other side and is proceeding with the utmost wariness.

  Any further developments will be reported.

  For Steam Men

  I TOOK a trip to Belfast the other day on busine
ss of a kind that cannot be discussed here or elsewhere. I was not five minutes in the train until I realised that the engine-driver belonged to the ‘full regulator, short cut-off’ school. In my own railway days I used to work the locomotive as a high pressure simple (indeed, the design of the steam chest made no other course feasible) with cut-off as high as 60 per cent. That was before the days of the de Glehn compound or the Walschaerts gear. (I knew Walschaerts well, he was the best of fellows and a prince among steam men.) I am not criticising the G.N.R. driver. He knows his ‘car’ better than I. It is true, nevertheless, that the modern low pressure cylinder is not there for nothing. Where you have ‘hard steaming’, short cut-off with full regulator will nearly always lead to disparity in pressure readings between boiler and steam chest. They tell me that modern research at Dundalk has shown otherwise, but that is all my eye and Betty Martin.

  At Belfast I noticed that the valve rod had lost adjustment and nobody was less surprised than myself. I hate to see machinery tortured.

  FURTHERMORE

  One thing we must make sure of, if and when Hawlbowline gets into production, is that its ‘killed’ steels shall be on a controlled grain basis. This has long been a commonplace of modern steel practice in America. Carburising impairs a fine grained steel to a negligible degree because the temperature limit above which coarsening may be expected is known. Thus the use of quenches may be reduced or obviated. Your old-fashioned steel-man will guffaw if you talk of welding high-tensile steels. Nevertheless, it is possible with controlled grain sizes and let nobody tell you different. I am working on the problem at present. Watch this newspaper for an important announcement.