The novel within a novel had been used by at least two authors whose books Brian O’Nolan had read. One of these was the now almost forgotten American, James Branch Cabell, whose novels, Jurgen and The Cream of the Jest, had been passed from hand to hand among O’Nolan’s contemporaries at UCD and who was subsequently to be referred to as James Joyce Cabell in “Cruiskeen Lawn”.3
Overall, and while we think this makes a compelling case for O’Brien’s authorship, we leave that final judgment to others. In the meantime, here’s the story: enjoy!
Why, some of our readers have asked, do we take science fiction so seriously? Is there no humor in it? We think there is. But we want to hear from more of our readers about this story, which we are using as an experiment. We think it is very ingenious and cleverly worked out.
—Original Headnote to “Naval Control,” Amazing Stories Quarterly, 19324
* * *
1 Everett F. Bleiler, with Richard J. Bleiler, Science-Fiction: The Gernsback Years: A Complete Coverage of the Genre Magazines ‘Amazing’, ‘Astounding’, ‘Wonder’, and Others from 1926 through 1936 (Kent, Ohio; London: Kent State UP, 1998), p. 311 (entry 1076).
2 For a detailed discussion of this intertextual strategy, see Keith Hopper, “Coming Off the Rails: The Strange Case of ‘John Duffy’s Brother,’” Flann O’Brien: Contesting Legacies, ed. Werner Huber, Paul Fagan, and Ruben Borg (Cork: Cork UP, forthcoming).
3 Anthony Cronin, No Laughing Matter: The Life and Times of Flann O’Brien (London: Grafton, 1989), p. 83. See also Anne Clissmann, Flann O’Brien: A Critical Introduction to his Writings (Dublin: Gill & Macmillan, 1975), p. 93.
4 John Shamus O’Donnell, “Naval Control,” Amazing Stories Quarterly [USA] 5.1 (Winter 1932), pp. 141–43.
Naval Control (1932)
by John Shamus O’Donnell
I am in a saddened and unbearable state of melancholia. Four months ago today my Florence Minerva succumbed to the deadly fever of a South American jungle.
What a woman! I will never find another like her; she was the perfect helpmate. When I would be weary while working on my mining invention, she would spur me on with intensive spiritual quotations, and not only to me was she an inspiration.
To the natives she was a blessing. I firmly believe if she had lived another ten years she would have accomplished the full attire of at least half the female native population of Peru.
I remember now, as when we first arrived, looking about with a Napoleonic glint through her glasses at the shameless half nude natives, how she struggled to moralize them in the early stages. She would no sooner get a native woman to drape herself more heavily, than one of the burly bucks would take it away from her, promenading through the village street with her drapings.
Overcoming all these obstacles, she had the village going Baptist with glorious hallelujahs, when she was stricken by fever, and we laid away my spiritual six-foot Jeanne d’Arc.
I drifted back to my laboratory home at Beal Gulch outside of Oakland, California, on the Golden Gate, where I gaze at the fog-filtered sunsets and think with pensive sadness of my Florence Minerva.
I’ve tried the subterfuge of housekeepers and servants but they all seem such strangers in the house that Florence Minerva enveloped with her personality.
Once again I go to my lonely bed torturing myself with a look at one of Florence Minerva’s night caps, which still hang under our favourite epigram, “Love, pure and unadulterated.”
Today I received a gleam of insane hope through my old colleague, Professor Egan, the Irish scientist.
It seems, after twenty years of constant labour, that he has at last perfected his mechanical human, controlled by his advanced inventions on power transmissions, and on account of the devotion held for my dear wife and me, he has collaborated with a modernistic plastic surgeon, and a marvellous sculptor, producing, he says, an almost human likeness of the departed Florence Minerva. In his letter he expresses the desire to have his invention in my laboratory home, where we both could experiment and, perhaps, improve on her life-like qualities and where he would be unhampered for space or bothered by curiosity seekers.
I immediately wired my acquiescence and waited with feverish impatience.
He answered immediately and said that he would make the daring experiment of bringing her out on the train intact as his travelling companion; and would start as soon as he could pack his laboratory instruments and spare parts for Florence Minerva.
Six days later I received a wire announcing his departure in this manner—“Taxied to the Grand Central Station with Florence Minerva, and left New York quite successfully. So far she is human, all too human, even attracting a bold smile from a sailor loafing in the station.”
The next communication I received was this, by Western Union—“March 17, Garrison, N.Y., Safely seated in Pullman, just one minor accident so far; on boarding train, one of the radio transfusion wires in my vest became shorted and Florence Minerva fell through the glass in the Pullman window; in my momentary excitement I seized her by the throat and sat her down; naturally she tried to repeat the gesture but I finally managed to straighten the wires and she dropped back into normalcy. I greatly fear this has caused undesirable comment; I hear loud indignant buzzings made by two rather spinsterish looking old ladies seated in back of us, who seem to think Florence Minerva was either trying to commit suicide or make an escape. I had Florence Minerva turn about and explain, in her maidenly way, that she was subject to fainting spells and not to be alarmed. I seem to have the situation well in hand again and will keep in touch with you constantly. Signed, J. Egan.”
The next I heard was this: “Aboard the Mohawk Limited, 9 A.M., the last twelve hours have been most hectic. I fear the two old ladies are liable to cause serious complications, they watch us most sharply. Florence Minerva and I retired to our berths at ten P.M. I thought it wiser that we sleep with our clothes on as I am in deadly fear of getting her wires crossed again. This was poor foresight for I overlooked the disreputable condition we were bound to have when we arose in the morning. We arose early hoping to escape the congestion one always finds in Pullman wash-rooms, also the two spinsters, but, alas, they were already up and their curiosity hadn’t abated over night; they eyed us sharply and noted our rumpled condition suspiciously. I made a lightning-like peep of the ladies’ washroom and found it untenanted. I then sent Florence Minerva in and in a few moments brought her out again. I had her essay a good morning to the old ladies who replied quite stiffly, ‘Dear me, I’ll be glad when this trip is over!’ Florence Minerva has developed an off-key in her cerebral cortex—when one of the old ladies asked her if she happened to be a Methodist, she shouted, with the gusto of a longshoreman, that she was a hot shot three o’clock blonde when, according to my A B C D wiring for the larynx, tongue and throat, she should have answered with a cultured, ‘No, Baptist.’ This, I am afraid has created another unpleasant scene, the conductor even coming up to inquire if anything were wrong. I soothed things as much as possible, by explaining that my wife was subject to a form of nervous insanity if anything of a religious nature was mentioned. Things are resuming normalcy again, thank God! Will wire you again shortly. Signed, J. Egan.”
“Mohawk Limited, 18th. A terrible thing has happened. I find Florence Minerva reacts uncontrollably to heat lightning. Everything was quite peaceable, when about noon, there arose a burst of heat lightning. Florence Minerva nearly startled me out of my senses when she burst forth in a ribald sailor’s song, which would have been proper in a Singapore drinking dive but it was terrible in a Pullman. This was evidently a thought transfusion from the sailor in the Grand Central Station. I shorted her motor-nerve battery, but the damage was already done. The old ladies shrieked, rude men guffawed; we were in wild confusion. Immediately I had Florence Minerva faint, then attempted to explain in an incoherent way that she was having another one of her spells; the conductor growled that if she had any more we would be left, bag and baggage, at the nex
t water tank. It seems every eye is on us, I am praying for night to come, as it’s just about time to recharge her batteries.”
“Nineteenth, Mohawk Limited, a mystifying thing is happening. I find the sailor who smiled at Florence Minerva in the Grand Central Station is aboard the train. When he walks by our seat, she buzzes and shakes in a disconcerting way; I short circuit her every time. I cannot seem to understand this. Perplexedly yours, J. Egan.”
“Nineteenth, one P.M., Mohawk Limited, Amazing! I had a searching conversation with the sailor and I find the cause of Florence Minerva’s sympathetic disorders. It seems that during the war he had an accident which resulted in a silver plate being placed in his head near his brain; therefore with the fissures and sulci of Florence Minerva’s brain being silver, there seems to be an electrical sympathy between the two convolutions; I sincerely hope nothing comes of this. Incidentally, he’s going to San Francisco also. J. Egan.”
“Twentieth, 10 A.M., Mohawk Limited, Florence Minerva behaving in an excellent way, sailor confining himself in smoking room. I will arrive Oakland Mole tomorrow at eleven A.M. Approximately. J. Egan.”
Ah! The momentous day is here! Can’t you picture my excitement? Today I will meet the reincarnation of my dear departed wife. I wonder, can it be possible she will appear as life-like and real as the doctor has stated; it must be so for no one has guessed the secret on the train.
I dressed today as if I were starting on the second honeymoon, arrived at the Oakland Mole in the same frame of mind as if I were waiting for Florence Minerva to step out of the vault. I wondered how accurately they had copied her features and form. Well, we shall see soon, now, as I hear the train clanging in. There he is, and oh, can it be possible! I feel dizzy—it must be some Hindoo magic, for I see my dear wife in person towering above the crowd and swinging towards me with a timid smile of welcome. I must be going crazy. But no, there is my dear old friend, Dr. Egan, labouring towards me with his ponderous bags.
I am trembling and so overcome with an unexplainable shyness, I hardly know how to greet Florence Minerva and the doctor. But finally we are through this ordeal and seated in my car, where I have a chance to look over Florence Minerva and Dr. Egan, who seems to have, I might say, a more sophisticated and worldly appearance but, still apparently, the same dynamic energy. We are now nearing Beal Gulch where I await with pride the joy of showing Florence Minerva and the doctor the magnificent laboratories I have installed for us three, overlooking the Golden Gate.
Florence Minerva and the doctor seem delighted in their new home. There seems to be just one rift in the scientific calm. I fear Dr. Egan is slightly inclined toward sentimentalism. I notice him, in unguarded moments, gazing with tender devotion towards Florence Minerva. This has created a difficult problem for me, for even though Dr. Egan has created Florence Minerva, I feel that she is mine by every spiritual right. I am afraid it is rather straining our friendship. This morning we were even a bit rude over her. The doctor, in the final work of Florence Minerva’s brain control, made a grave error. Instead of the simple sweetness of Florence Minerva Number One, she seems to have a suppressed eroticism, which I firmly believe will not coordinate with the mechanical organic system. I stated my belief to the doctor, also adding I thought it sacrilegious to the memory of Florence Minerva Number One; he had the audacity to reply, that perhaps Florence Minerva Number One had been that way, I having the usual intelligence of genus husband.
But we must forget our household squabbles, and now combat mutually a new scientific hazard that has appeared on the horizon. It seems this silver-pated sailor has arrived on the scene again, being stationed at Vallejo, not far from our home, the doctor having seen him while on a trip to town with Florence Minerva. The meeting was unavoidable and Florence Minerva was, as usual, uncontrollable, making herself a perfect mechanical idiot by greeting him as if she were Minnie the mermaid greeting the long-lost boatswain of a whaler. This was extremely humiliating, as you may imagine, to a dignified old gentleman such as our Dr. Egan. We pondered over this new difficulty and the only solution we could see was keeping Florence Minerva away from the Naval Station and confining her on the sailor’s liberty days. We also had a solution of the difficulty in the fact that the sailor’s ship was being sent to sea shortly.
Life hummed along in a happy orgy of detecting and eradicating flaws in Florence Minerva and adding more complexity to her brain mechanism. We, of course, have Florence Minerva’s orthodox habits dialed quite expertly, but we find in our eagerness to improve, we must have merged some wires, which have produced unchartable complexes; we are watching her closely, and expect, by working her in the usual lanes such as her household duties and church, these wires will work back in place again.
Today was quite a domestic little scene about the laboratory. We were going over her wiring, checking batteries, polishing nails, taking the shine off the nose, washing the hair and deciding which dresses she should wear for the week, quite a problem, I assure you, for two middle-aged gentlemen. Here again the doctor and I were at sword’s points, he being inclined towards an English walking suit while I approved of a dignified Mother Hubbard, but we compromised on a gay middy-blouse and sun-bonnet, very charming, I pledge my word.
Today being Sunday, we went to church where we made another momentous but disconcerting discovery. There is a distinct reverberation in Florence Minerva’s system to organ music. We were sitting quietly listening to the sweet strains of “Over the River,” when Florence Minerva emitted a protracted dog-like howl which stopped the organ but started everything else. The simple country folk, thinking she was beset by devils, broke into loud praying, led by the minister. In this passion of theological fervour we made our escape with Florence Minerva between us.
As much as I enjoy the walks to town with Florence Minerva, I am afraid I shall have to discontinue them; they are too risky. Today, on arriving in town, it being a sunny day, I left her sitting on the bench in front of the store while I made the purchases. On returning, I discovered I had made a very stupid blunder. I had left her sitting on this bench which, being iron, had drained a large part of her magnetism. We started for home immediately but she staggered most erratically, giving the appearance of being in a most inebriated condition. We were followed at our heels by small boys and the village loafers who used this scene to indulge in vulgar witticisms such as, “Don’t walk home, lady; the old stiff got you drunk, make him drag you home!” With Florence Minerva at last becoming so weak, and the jeers of the crowd becoming so obnoxious, I threw her six feet of pulchritude over my shoulder and broke into a mad gallop. Outdistancing my pursuers, I arrived home red-faced and my heart palpitating most dangerously.
Life is but a bridge; pass over but build not a house thereon. I have been sacrificed on the altar of Love in a most hideous way; the fires of my love for Florence Minerva Number One had only been allowed to cool slightly when Florence Minerva Number Two arrived to give me all my old love again, plus the scientific love. Now I am robbed of everything!
We had sent Florence Minerva for her usual morning walk on our private beach, thinking she was quite safe. What fools we were! We had overlooked the navy!
The cursed silver-pated sailor had been called to sea and, as his ship headed out the Golden Gate, that fatal magnetism caught our Florence Minerva. Standing at the other end of the beach, I saw, too late, what had happened. I pressed the controls in vain! With the spiritual poise of a Lady of the Lake walking toward her Jurgen, she walked toward the ship and the sunset, till, through my tears, I saw her sun-bonnet disappear beneath the waves!
Contributors
NEIL MURPHY teaches at NTU, Singapore. He is the author of Irish Fiction and Postmodern Doubt (2004) and editor of Aidan Higgins: The Fragility of Form (2009). He co-edited (with Keith Hopper) the special Flann O’Brien centenary issue of the Review of Contemporary Fiction (2011), and has published articles and book chapters on contemporary fiction, Irish writing, and theories of reading.
JACK FENNELL is a researcher at the University of Limerick. His research interests are Irish literature, science fiction, and cultural studies. He has published essays on Irish dystopian literature, the aesthetics of comic-book justice, and the politics of monsters and monstrous communities, as well as contributing informal articles to The James Joyce Literary Supplement and the Flann O’Brien e-journal, The Parish Review. His doctoral thesis is on the subject of Irish science fiction, from the 1850s to the present day.
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