Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature)

by Flann O'Brien

  (He drinks again, somewhat astonished at the anecdote himself.)

  TRAMP: An’ from that good day to this, yer man never looked back and never ever a day’s sickness in the bed. D’yeh undhersthand what I’m tellin’ yeh? D’yeh undhersthand me now? A very ferocious . . . baste, the bee. A very . . . contentious . . . intimidatin’ . . . exacerbatin’ animal, the bee. But a great man for suckin’ honey an’ workin’ away inside in the nest. Very hard-workin’ industrious men, the bees. (He looks round. There is loud buzzing.) And d’yeh know what I’m goin’ to tell yeh, there’s a bloody nest of the buggers around here somewhere. (He swipes.) Gou-athat! Gou-athat to hell away from me, yez black an’ yalla own-shucks!

  (He takes a long drink.)

  TRAMP: Begob d’yeh know what it is, yeh can’t bate d’ould bottle! I declare to me God I’d be a dead man only for this little drop o’ malt, because I have a very heavy cold on me and that’s the God’s truth. I’m not in me right health. What a man like me wants is . . . family allowances . . . yeh know . . . family allowances . . . and plenty of free insurances, d’yeh undhersthand me. (He is becoming more and more maudlin.) An’ house-buildin’ facilities for getting’ married, d’yeh know. An’ . . . wan more cow . . . wan more sow . . . an’ wan . . . more . . . acre . . . undher th’plough. D’yeh undhersthand me now? D’yeh undhersthand what I’m sayin’? Ah yes. Certaintly. Certaintly . . . Certaintly.

  (He sits down, drinks, sighs, and yawns and drinks. His fading senses are reflected in the sinking light. He lies down finally and is asleep by the time the light is nearly gone.)

  ACT I

  There is very loud buzzing. Coloured lights reveal in unearthly prettiness the same corner of Stephen’s Green.

  The females are distinguished by high-heeled shoes, coloured handkerchiefs round the head, and various touches of daintiness about the person.

  To one side an enormous flower is growing. The bowl of it must be big enough and strong enough for the bees to climb into and disappear.

  Soft ballet music. A young female bee dances in, flits about the stage, looks at the sleeping TRAMP without much attention, and dances out again. Enter immediately the DRONE. He is the peppery colonel type, gross and debauched, and bent nearly double from sheer laziness. He waddles very slowly so as to reduce to the minimum the fatigue of locomotion. He collapses into one of the deck-chairs, which are now facing audience. Before he collapses, however, he makes a speech.

  DRONE: This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air

  Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself

  Unto our gentle senses.

  (He falls into the chair and seems to go to sleep. Enter a young bee, BASIL, very refined in deportment. He starts, seeing the DRONE asleep beside the attractive flower.)

  BASIL: Aoh.

  (He approaches THE DRONE, examines him and then pokes him gently in the ribs.)

  BASIL: I say . . . hallao!

  DRONE: (Without rising or moving, in a graveyard voice.)

  What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

  Young son, it argues a distemper’d head

  So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:

  Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,

  And where care lodges sleep will never lie;

  But where unbruiséd youth with unstuff’d brain

  Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:

  Therefore thy earliness doth me assure

  Thou art up-roused by some distemperature.

  BASIL: I say aold chap—really! I’m out looking for a spot of honey. Work, you know, and all that. Frightful bore but one has to, you knaow. Grim shaow, working.

  (The DRONE is asleep again. BASIL climbs into the flower and disappears. Enter two more bees, somewhat casually. They are CYRIL and CECIL.)

  CYRIL: I say, Cec-eel, do look at that old rotter. Always asleep I mean.

  CECIL: I agree, Cyr-eel, a grey shaow. D’you knaow, there are some people who . . . simply . . . waon’t . . . work. (He approaches flower as if to enter; looks into it and then starts back.) Ao, bother! That sod Bas-eel!

  CYRIL: Is that dreadful Bas-eel working there?

  CECIL: Rather. (He sits down disconsolately.)

  CYRIL: I say Cec-eel. . . .

  CECIL: Yes old boy?

  CYRIL: D’you mind if I talk to you?

  CECIL: Nao, nao.

  CYRIL: I mean, are you ever bored by . . . I mean . . . this all-male company idea? I mean, no weemeen.

  CECIL: Well, sometimes, you know, I feel . . . I feel . . . I should like to see the Queen.

  CYRIL: Ha-ha-ha-ha! (Mirthless laugh act.)

  CECIL: But look here, I mean eet, aold boy.

  CYRIL: The Queen!! Ho-ho-ho!

  CECIL: (Seriously.) I should really like to see the Queen. Just for a short time, you knaow. And alone.

  CYRIL: One moment now Cec-eel. How many queens have we?

  CECIL: One of course. Only one.

  CYRIL: And tell me Cec-eel, how many of us bees are there? Rough estimate, you knaow, and all that.

  CECIL: A million, I suppaose. Two million.

  CYRIL: Well there you are, old boy, there eet ees. Two million bees and one Queen. I mean, what chance have you, Cec-eel. You are a nice boy and all that but what chance have you?

  CECIL: (Crestfallen.) None, I suppose.

  CYRIL: There eet ees. What can we do? What’s the point in being alive? What’s the point in all this working?

  CECIL: (Brightly.) Well, I don’t know . . . I do think, you knaow . . . that life is rather . . . wizard. Planning and working, I mean. Ambition and all that.

  CYRIL: (Impatiently.) I knaow, but wot . . . ees . . . the point . . . of eet all? Why, why, why? Where . . . ees . . . eet all leading? You do make me tired, Cec-eel.

  CECIL: I do think that life is . . . you knaow . . . fine, nobeel, something to live bravely, I mean.

  CYRIL: Cec-eel, I do wish you would be quiet, I mean. Wot can we do, WOT CAN WE DO?

  CECIL: (Again brightly.) I will tell you, Cyr-eel. We can STING! We can STING, old boy.

  CYRIL: I knaow, I knaow. It is nice, I suppaose. Actually I suppaose eet ees unbearably nice. But the penalty . . . Death, I mean, and all that.

  CECIL: (Grandly.) I’m not afraid to die, Cyr-eel.

  CYRIL: I knaow. But one sting and we are dead. Is eet worth it, I mean?

  CECIL: Cyr-eel, I believe eet ees.

  CYRIL: (Meditatively.) I suppaose you are right, you knaow.

  CECIL: (Eagerly.) I have talked with dying bees just after they have given somebody a sting. And d’you knaow wot they told me?

  CYRIL: Wot was eet, old boy?

  CECIL: When they were dying, you knaow, they said they heard voices . . . beautiful choirs, you knaow, and the soft music of harps and all that. I do think that to die from giving our sting is to become a martyr. And d’you knaow another thing they told me?

  CYRIL: Wot?

  CECIL: Absolutely no pain, old boy. They felt as if they were lying in the cups of daffodils, just falling asleep in something soft and sweet. I do think death can be rather charming, you knaow.

  CYRIL: I often wondered, Cec-eel—wot ees eet makes us sting. I mean, why do we do eet?

  CECIL: Health, old boy. High spirits, you knaow, joie de vivre and so on. When a bee is young and healthy and bulging with honey, he simply can’t help himself. He . . . simply . . . can’t . . . help himself. Stinging may be immoral but really I am sure it must be very nice. Matter of fact, I think I’ll soon do a spot of stinging myself.

  CYRIL: O, Cec-eel! And die?

  CECIL: Well, we all have to die sometime.

  CYRIL: I knaow, but still . . . Death is a grey grim shaow, you knaow, a grey grim shaow.

  CECIL: There is really only one thing that stops me from stinging somebody, Cyr-eel.

  CYRIL: And wot is that?

  CECIL: The Queen! The hope that one day . . . I may meet the Queen . . . and marry her, you knaow, old boy, at an altitude
of eight hundred thousand feet. Alone, I mean, quite alone, you knaow, in the sky.

  CYRIL: I say, Cec-eel, you are silly. A chance of two million to one.

  CECIL: But listen, Cyr-eel, d’you knaow that man person that one sees . . . ?

  CYRIL: That one stings, you mean? (They laugh.)

  CECIL: Quite. Well I do believe they sell each other little tickets. Tickets for a price, you knaow. Sometimes they sell two million of these tickets.

  CYRIL: And wot happens?

  CECIL: Why, some blighter wins the prize, of course!

  CYRIL: Is that any reason why we should be so foolish, old boy?

  CECIL: Well, I daon’t knaow. I do think life is very baffling. I mean, what is one to do. Sting, or live on in the hope of meeting the Queen?

  CYRIL: Yes, old boy, that’s the difficulty, the choice between the sensuous delight of stinging with the rather charming death that follows, or keeping oneself . . . you knaow . . . chaste and alive in the hope of meeting the Queen. It is very difficult, Cec-eel. Very, very difficult.

  CECIL: I do think I’ll sting some man person, Cyr-eel.

  CYRIL: Do wait a little longer, old boy. Control of the passions and all that. One mustn’t give in to every impulse, I mean.

  CECIL: (Impatiently.) But really, life is such a bore. It is such a bore being good!

  CYRIL: Yes, I knaow. (He rubs his hands briskly.) If only one could work, if only Bas-eel would come out of that flower—

  (There is a violent interruption. A very young and agile bee rushes in, beside himself with hysteria and delight.)

  YOUNG BEE: I’ve done it! I’ve done it! Oooooooooh!

  CYRIL: Wot’s all this row?

  (The YOUNG BEE rushes about laughing hysterically but his antics soon weaken; eventually he becomes quiet and sinks down and dies in agony.)

  YOUNG BEE: I stung a man, I stung a man! I stung him, I tell you! Ooooooooooooh!

  CECIL: Grim shaow. He’s dying, you knaow.

  BASIL: (Putting his head out of the flower.) Do tell me, wot’s all this row?

  CYRIL: Our friend has shot his bolt. Looks quite young too, I don’t knaow wot the country is coming to.

  BASIL: Ao. (He climbs out of the flower carrying a little yellow bag marked “honey.” This he inadvertently leaves within reach of The DRONE, who is already stirring from the noise.) I say, he is rather a rotter to be doing that at his age.

  CECIL: A grey tragic shaow.

  BASIL: “O Death, where is thy sting.” (All laugh.)

  DRONE: (Awake.)

  Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds

  Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds

  To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.

  BASIL: (To the DRONE.) I say old boy, do shut up. (He examines corpse.) I do think this mess should be put away. One should really arrange to die at home, you knaow.

  (Exit dragging the corpse. The DRONE quietly snaffles the bag of honey and begins to consume it covertly. CYRIL and CECIL are depressed and nervous after the death scene.)

  CECIL: (Hysterically.) Cyr-eel, I do wish I was dead!

  CYRIL: I feel like stinging somebody myself now. Why should he have all the fun?

  CECIL: Yes, why?

  CYRIL: But Cec-eel, I could not bear to part with you. We must die together, you knaow. Suicide pact and all that. We will meet again in a better land.

  CECIL: (Taken aback.) Aoh.

  DRONE: (Feeding contentedly.)

  This is the state of bees; today he puts forth

  The tender leaves of hope; tomorrow blossoms

  And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

  The third day comes with a frost, a killing frost,

  And—when he thinks, good easy bee, full surely

  His greatness is a-ripening—nips his root,

  And then he falls. . . .

  CECIL: (Annoyed.) I say, do shut up, you awful useless parasite!

  CYRIL: Yes, do be quiet, you fat good-for-nothing sponger!

  DRONE: (Unabashed.) If I am

  Traduced by ignorant tongues, which neither know

  My faculties nor person, yet will be

  The chronicles of my doing, let me say

  ‘Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake

  that virtue must go through. . . .

  CECIL: (Shouting.) I say, if you don’t keep quiet I shall tumble you out of that chair and kick the head off you!

  CYRIL: Oh, the bastard! (They turn their backs on him.)

  CECIL: Cyr-eel.

  CYRIL: Yes, old boy.

  CECIL: D’you really think we should die, disappear forever from this earth and all that?

  CYRIL: I really believe I do, old boy. I mean, if we go on living, we will have to go on working. Like Bas-eel there, you know. And I do think, Cec-eel, that there is absolutely no point in working. Working makes one vulgar, you knaow. And I am absolutely sick of the sight of honey. I mean, all that yellow mess.

  CECIL: By Jove I think you’re right, I think you’ve got eet. Why work? Why work for nothing? I mean, what do we get out of it?

  CYRIL: One chance in two million of having ten minutes with the Queen at eight hundred thousand feet. Not worth eet, old boy, definitely not worth eet.

  CECIL: Rather not.

  CYRIL: Shall we die, Cec-eel? Shall we sting? Shall we have just one glorious . . . marvellous . . . sting?

  CECIL: Together, old boy?

  CYRIL: Of course. We must both die at the same time. We must make a pact, you knaow. . . .

  DRONE: Things done well,

  And with a care, exempt themselves from fear;

  Things done without example, in their issue

  Are to be feared. Have you a precedent

  Of this commission? I believe, not any.

  CECIL: That settles eet! I do think I would die without even stinging if I had to listen to more of that rotter’s dreadful talk. I say Cyr-eel, do let us die.

  CYRIL: But how, old boy? I mean, if I sting somebody and die, how can I be sure that you will do the same? Fair is fair, you knaow, old boy.

  CECIL: That is a point, isn’t it.

  CYRIL: It ees a point, you knaow. (They think.)

  CECIL: (Excitedly.) I say! I’ve got eet! I’ve got eet! We have to sting to die? Right?

  CYRIL: Right.

  CECIL: We want to die together?

  CYRIL: Right.

  CECIL: Therefore we must sting EACH OTHER!

  CYRIL: Right. RIGHT!

  CECIL: So there you are, there eet ees. Simple, isn’t it?

  CYRIL: Deucedly simple, old boy. (Pause.)

  CECIL: Shall we do eet now, Cyr-eel?

  CYRIL: (Reluctantly.) I suppose we should, Cec-eel. I suppose we should, really.

  CECIL: (Resolutely.) Well, let’s.

  (They approach each other gingerly. The DRONE is half asleep and pays no attention. CECIL and CYRIL timidly shake hands.)

  CYRIL: Well . . . old boy . . . eet has been nice knaowing you.

  CECIL: Pleasure all mine, old chap.

  CYRIL: Sorry to part and all that.

  CECIL: It does frightfully depress one, I mean. Fearful grey shaow.

  CYRIL: But meet again in a better land and all that, don’t you think?

  CECIL: Ao, rather. And where every bee will have a queen to himself, one hopes.

  CYRIL: I say, that is an idea. One hopes eet ees true, you knaow.

  CECIL: One definitely does, I mean.

  CYRIL: Well, old chap . . . so long!

  CECIL: Cheers. Cyr-eel, old boy.

  (They turn back to back suddenly and bump their bums together. Immediately they are galvanized into frenzied prancing and screaming; they die like the YOUNG BEE earlier. The DRONE looks on, bored.)

  DRONE: What should this mean?

  What sudden anger’s this? How have they reap’d it?

  They have parted frowning from me, as if ruin

  Leap’d from their eyes: so looks the chaféd l
ion

  Upon the daring huntsman that has gall’d him;

  Then makes him nothing. Nay then, farewell!

  They’ve touched the highest point of all their greatness;

  And, from that full meridian of their glory,

  They haste now to their setting; they shall fall

  Like a bright exhalation in the evening,

  And no bee see them more.

  (Soft martial music is heard off; the lights change, presaging something momentous. The DRONE resumes his honeyed doze. Alone, the QUEEN of all the bees enters. For glitter and majesty she must exceed even Meriel Moore as the courtesan in Jack-in-the-Box.1 The QUEEN must be a superlatively erotic job.)

  QUEEN: What! More dead bees! (She is horrified.) Aoh! Am I left alone . . . with no bee at all . . . after ignoring two million of them . . . for years and years . . . ?

  DRONE: (Stirring in his sleep.)

  Who’s there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves

  Into my private meditations?

  QUEEN: What! Is this alive? How dare you? (She approaches and examines the sleeping DRONE; her disgust is tempered by the fact that after all he is alive and a male.) Aoh.

  DRONE: (Asleep.) I prithee, go to.

  QUEEN: Aoh, the nasty old man!

  DRONE: (Asleep.)

  In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

  As modest stillness and humility;

  But, when the blast of war blows in our ears,

  Then imitate the action of the tiger;

  Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood;

  Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage:

  Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

  Let it pry through the portage of the head

  Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it

  As fearfully as doth a galléd rock

  O’erhang and jutty his confounded base

  Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.

  Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;

  Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit

  To his full height!

  QUEEN: Aoh!

  DRONE: Let us seek some desolate shade, and there

  Weep our sad bosoms empty.

  QUEEN: (Incensed.) The wretch is drunk with honey! Of all the nerve! How dare the wretch treat his Queen like this—the only female bee in the whole country! How dare he!