DAISIES!
However, the opposing warrior continued to rush straight on, sprinting after Seán and all of his companions, and it was not long before he reached the end of his journey, and he came into the presence of Seán and the brave, steadfast men of Éireann (as many of them as were in that spot at the time, anyway), right in the dim, misty centre of the wood.5 Beautiful Seán Mac Cumhaill was at that time deftly, dextrously, daintily gathering daisies, and putting them together in the form of a chain, whistling gently and sweetly all the while.
I WILL STAY!
Indeed, when he saw the strange giant coming at him, a swell of wonder and anxiety6 seized him, he blessed him with words lavish, lofty and lionhearted, inquired after his health and well-being, and gave him leave for lecturing, speechifying, and oratory. The giant grumpily beheld Seán and all his companions, bared his protracted, primitive, pointy teeth, moved his grisly, grimy gums, and spoke:
“O King of the Gaels!” said he, hardly, bitterly, and without humility.
“Seán Mac Cumhaill, son of Airt son of Tréanmhóir of the Lineage of Baoisgne is my name,” replied the vigorous leader of the Gaels.
“‘Sean’?” said the giant.
“No, actually,” Seán said, having perceived the Roman print, “it’s Seán.”7
“John Bull is my name,” the giant responded.
“The best thing for you to do now,” Seán Mac Cumhaill said, “is to take yourself back to whichever region of the world you came from.”
“It is true that I will not,” the giant said, sneering, “but I will remain in this place as long as I have the will and the desire to do so.”
“I have never been in the habit,” Seán said, “of socialising or cohabiting in the same spot with the likes of you, and I’m not about to start doing so now.”
“Exactly, well said!” said one of the Gaelic noblemen in the depths of the woods, clapping.
“I beg to differ,” said John Bull.
“Well, now,” said another Gael in the depths of the woods.
WHAT HE WANTS
“I am John Bull,” the giant announced, boldly and fervently, “and as much of the world as I have walked since departing my homeland, I have thus far not left one country, atoll, or island without demanding tribute from them, or bringing them beneath the dominion of my excise duties and the abject slavery of my tariffs: and it is my desire for the dominion and taxation of this territory to be mine as well, along with the misery of all its people, and to bring Gaelic poverty and servitude to the seven tribes of the Gaels and to the seven tribes of the Common Gaels with the heavy axe of those tariffs; that is my ambition for this kingdom.”
“I understand,” replied Seán Mac Cumhaill, leader of the Gaels.
A MAN WITH ENGLISH!
“That being said,” the repulsive mongrel of a giant continued, “if any of your heroes can be troubled to prove to me that Gaelic has great literature, or that there is one courageous, cultivated, clever, courtly, courteous, consummate author among you, or that the noble, ancient tongue of the Saxon is alive, however much of it is left, in some corner of Ireland, I will not do one thing more to trouble ye, but take myself back to my own land without delay.”
“We have as many great authors and great works as you’d like.”
“Recite the titles for me,” the giant said.
“There’s Yesterday and Today,” said Seán Mac Cumhaill, “and Heavy and Light.”
“There’s Dusk and Dawn,” said another Gaelic noble.
“There’s Old and New,” another Gael said.
“There’s Day and Night.”
“There’s Love and Gloom.”8
“If that’s the case,” said the giant, “then it seems that all those well-read works are somewhat formulaic. The fact is that is ye now have to prove that ye have Anglo-Saxon somewhere right now, or become a people without a kingdom.”
THE HUNT
“I understand9 all you have said,” replied Seán Mac Cumhaill, the Gaelic supreme leader.
It was then that Seán asked of the multitude around and beside him who among them would undertake the great expedition and thoroughly search Ireland, without rest or respite, until Gaelic masters were found who were skilled in the English dialect. Two fleet-footed, valorous, manly men, Peadar Shamuseen Pat’s Mary and Black Mickey Donnell, emerged from the horde of Gaels hiding in the deep woods, and went to the side of Seán Mac Cumhaill, supreme leader of the Gaels, and before long they departed as fast as they could on the wide plains road through Ireland. John Bull made a coarse, cackling laugh, and sat down on a stone.
THERE’S FOUR OF THEM!
It was not long after the departure of Peadar and Mickey, the two bold heroes, that they returned to the presence of Seán Mac Cumhaill and John Bull, and four elderly men in their company, coming along feebly, slowly and reluctantly. Seán Mac Cumhaill blessed them gracefully with sweet gentle words, and gave them leave to commence lecturing and orating and speechifying. John Bull gave a coarse sniggering laugh, and said:
“If you have English, speak it!”
It was then that Mickey and Peadar explained that the elderly men were from Belfast, Dublin, Cork, and Limerick, and that varying degrees of the dialect of the Saxons yet remained on their tongues.
“This is the well-read learned gentleman from Belfast,” he said, “and his name is in the mouths of seers and storytellers, and the readers of poems and books and useful descriptions, all over the world. Recite your bit, Eoghan. Recite to us the English you have!”
The wise, civil old man opened his mouth and said:
THE SPEECH OF THE MEN
“Not an inch. Used as a pawn in the game. Up the Twalfth. To aitch with the Pee.” That was as much as he had. Joy and wonderment came over John Bull. Then, the elderly gent from Dublin spoke all that he knew.
“Alf. Where were you in sixteen? O Yeah! Sez me! Branch-a Mapaíochta & Survey-reachta.” Then it was the Corkman’s turn to speak; he had naught but a strange scrap that he did not understand himself:
“Dep. Cork 9.25. Arr. Dublin 12.35.
Dep. Cork 1.30. Arr. Dublin 4.16.
No Return Tickets issued.”
It was then that the learned expert from Limerick spoke, and he had only one English sentence:
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch.”
John Bull, when heard this melodious talk, was seized by a surge of joy: he sent for his servant, and put the same sweet talk on musicplates with help from Conradh an Bhéarla:10 and John Bull put his hand on the hand of Seán Mac Cumhaill, and they feasted and celebrated for a month and a day, and then John Bull returned to his own kingdom. Everything hitherto was the tale of Seán Mac Cumhaill.
* * *
1 Translator’s Note: This is the first indication that Ó Nualláin is deliberately using poor Irish in this text: the phrase used for “record” in this case is “plátaí ceoil,” which literally means “music plates.”
2 The phrase used throughout the text is “Gnáth-Gaedheal.” “Gnáth” means “common” or “usual,” but it could also be used to mean “habitual,” perhaps implying that the “Gnáth-Gaedheal” could be “Gaels by Custom or Habit,” i.e. citizens of non-Gaelic heritage.
3 In the original text, the adjective used to describe the seas is “mí-chéillidhe,” which I have translated here as “surly” but whose meaning is closer to “insane, stupid or insensible.”
4 Here, Ó Nualláin uses “troigh” to denote “foot,” when it actually means a foot in length.
5 “Coilleadh,” meaning “castration,” is used instead of the homophone “coille,” meaning “woods” or “forest.”
6 The indicated word is “aithis,” meaning “reproach” or “shame”; however, the word used is “áthas,” meaning joy.
7 Originally, the story was printed in the Irish uncial alphabet, except for certain phrases spoken by the giant, which were printed in Roman type. Note the absence of an accent over the ‘a’ in Seán’s name as th
e giant pronounces it.
8 The titles on this list are all real. In order: Indé agus Indiu by Seán Mac Meanman; Trom agus Eadtrom by Mícheál Breathnach; Ciot is Dealán by Séamus Ó Grianna; Sean Agus Nua by Gearóid Ó Nualláin; Lá agus Oidhche by Micheál Mac Liammóir; and An Grádh agus an Ghruaim, by Seosamh Mac Grianna.
9 The word used throughout the text is “deontach,” meaning “voluntary, in agreement, content or willing.”
10 “The Covenant of English.” This is a parody of Conradh na Gaeilge, Douglas Hyde’s initiative to restore the Irish language.
The Tale of the Drunkard: MUSIC! (1932)
by Brian Ó Nualláin
He was a small, inoffensive, level-headed man, and I would not make note of that latter characteristic except that he was speaking angrily to a street-lamp. He was drunk, it seemed to me, and the right thing to do would be to direct him homewards. I glanced at him.
“What is the meaning of this? What’s wrong with you!” I said. “It’d be more in your line to be in bed, instead of staggering around drunk all over the city like this. You’d be better off if you turned your back on the drink, and your face to the fireplace—an intelligent, mild-mannered man such as yourself—and took up another hobby, like fretwork, or listening to the gramophone. . . .”
“GRAMOPHONE!” He regarded me with two eyes containing the savagery of Hell—two venomous, red embers.
THE DRUNKARD’S STORY
“Stay for a moment,” he said, “until I tell you my story. It’ll depress you, if you’re a normal man at all. . . . One airy Spring morning ten years ago, I heard the woman’s voice for the first time, and if my memory is not deranged, I reckoned at the time that she had a good voice, a voice that would become first-rate with care and practice.
“It seems that there was an ambition of the same kind in that girl’s heart, for the practice was started the very next day and it continued, without restraint or pause, without respite or delay, for the next ten years. I’m still here, but alas, I’m not the same man I was back then. . . . I had an almighty craving for music at that time, and I’m not saying I never lifted a fiddle the odd time in the loneliness of night—God forgive me.”
THE WOMAN WITH ONE TUNE
“But yer wan over. She lived in the house opposite my own, across the street. ‘Annie Laurie’ was the first sound I heard as I woke up, and ‘Annie Laurie’ was the last note that broke my heart and I drifting off to sleep; and the clock chimed Annie-Laurie-Annie-Laurie until morning. ‘Gloom follows after glee.’ Well, the glee was across the way from dawn to dusk, and it was myself who got the gloom, the mood swings, the nervous frenzies, the fits of anger, the malice. The thought of slashing my own throat was sweeter to me than those merry words, ‘Annie Laurie.’
“If the situation went on any longer in the same way, I knew that nostalgia and loneliness would creep into my soul, that I would become heartsick and short of wits. What happened then? I was in the middle of shaving one morning when I realised that there was another tune being played. I said to myself, that nice decent girl has a new song—fair play to her, she’s improving.”
THE MAN’S VOICE
“Then, I realised that it was a man’s voice. Down the stairs with me. The music was coming from the house right next to mine, on the right-hand side. The song ended, and a voice then said that we were ‘going over to the Royal Hotel, Blackpool, for dance music.’ And we went. . . . And stately and low, but growing more powerful with every passing moment, a high female voice proclaimed that Maxwelton Braes were ‘bonn-ee.’
“A year went by, and the situation changed again. There was another house just next to mine, on the left-hand side, and one morning I perceived, over the din of ‘Annie Laurie’ and the racket of the other man, someone announcing to the world that a distinguished guest was about to give a ‘Talk’ on ‘The Decoration of the Modern Sitting-room.’
“More time went by. Annie Laurie was still alive, so lively that I supposed that the flower of second youth was upon her. Daventry was coming in at its very best on one side, and Radio Paris was steering the revelry on the other. A barrel organ could be heard constantly in that neighbourhood, that and a piper whose ears and pipes are far from being in tune, unknown to him. . . .”
“TALKS”
“Faith,” I said, “that’s an awful state of affairs. What did you do?”
“A story with no good in it, without a doubt. I wrote to the Minister for Posts and Telegraphs. He said that he had a plan. ‘Talks’ would be broadcast, advising the public, that would bring about an improvement in my situation. Maybe. ‘TALKS’ my granny! I said. I fetched a long, sharp knife, and I murdered the two men who were so fond of the radio (and one of those poor lads with eight children). I was about to dispatch ‘Annie Laurie’ to her eternal rest, when I remembered it was time for me to be on my way to the Congress at Lausanne.”
“The Congress?”
“Yeah. Don’t you recognise me? I’m Napoleon Bonaparte!”
“Begob, you’re right,” said I, panicking a little.
“Wait ’til you see my lovely knife.” The red eyes were twinkling like the stars on Halloween night.
“I’ll have a look at it tomorrow,” I said, striding away with my best foot forward.
The Reckonings of our Ancestors (1932)
by Brian Ó Nualláin
Below is a selection from a bundle of papers recently found hidden inside one of the walls of the National Library, as those same walls were being demolished, repaired and renovated by men from the Office of Public Works in Dublin. It is believed that these papers were wrapped around the lunch of a workman hundreds of years ago, when the walls of the library were first being constructed, and that they were sealed inside the wall by accident. This theory is confirmed by the stench of fish and chips on the paper.
As regards the writing itself, it is clear that it is a selection of letters which were sent to a leading newspaper or magazine long ago; we do not know its name, however, and there is no information on it to be found in the old books at all.
The text has been fully edited, abbreviations have been expanded, and all instances of Old Irish have been translated to clear New Irish.
*
Dear Sir,
One night when myself and my mates here in Almhuin were together in the one assembly and in the one spot and in one sleeping-place, having chased, hunted, and slaughtered across the hills, gentle grasslands, and woodlands of Éireann, it was clear and evident to us that we would not be allowed our sleep, or permitted to remedy our exhaustion, for there were huge crowds and gangs of corner-boys out on the street at strange, occult hours of the night, playing football and “The Scotsman’s Leap” [hopscotch], and hallooing, with bonfires and tremendous roaring.
When my companions and I tried to converse with some of them, furthermore, they responded with reproach and dire insults, and said they were the quietest and most peaceful crowd you could hope for.
Where are the Guards? The High King?
—With great respect,
Fionn Mac Cumhaill Mac A., etc.
*
My dear friend,
In Doire an Chairn the other afternoon, I heard a blackbird singing. I believe this is the first time I have heard it so early in the year. Do any other readers have similar stories?
—Yours etc.,
Fhlaithbheartach Mac Colla, poet.1
*
Amiable master,
I went from Baile Gréine to Sliabh Fhuaith by chariot, and for that journey, the charioteer demanded two bags of flour, a silk cloak, and two bronze pots. Isn’t it time that a stop was put to this kind of blaggarding?
—Yours,
“Totally Disgusted.”
*
Sir,
It is with permission and with great delight that I put before the Gaelic public a summary of the letters that we have sent to the two overseas kingdoms conquered by the King of Ireland, i.e., the Kingdom of the Saxons and the Kingdom o
f the Dalriada in Scotland, in response to communications received from them asking for an alleviation or relief of their taxes. This is a copy of the letter, translated into the sweet, verbose English of the Saxons by our clever, knowledgeable poets:
“Gentlemen,
Take a victory and a blessing! The Government have considered the contents of your letter dated 3rd ult. and regret that an adjustment of the financial relations between the three independent and self-governing members of the Gaelic Commonwealth is not at the moment feasible owing to a variety of diverse and intricate difficulties in the sphere of world economics resultant on the prevailing depression, the successful solving of which will provide the only basis for further negotiation.
We feel sure, however, that with the dawning of a brighter era and with the adjustment of the world polity for the general benefit of the human race, with a striving for mutual understanding and amicable relations, with the coming of a spiritual as well as an economic unity between our peoples geographically and politically united by the grace of Providence, with the spreading of good-will and universal brotherhood, with the dawning of a new and brighter era of mutual understanding and friendly intercourse, coupled with a firm realisation that the great destiny of the independent States are inseparably linked, each with the other—all of which are easily attainable in the realms of statesmanship—a better and brighter era of mutual understanding and mutual advantage will be dawning.”2
—Cormac, Son of Art.
The Short Fiction of Flann O'Brien Page 3