DRONE: Like the Pontick sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontic and the Hellespont;
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love,
Till that capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up. . . .
QUEEN: (Rushing over and shaking him.) You miserable sot! How dare you mumble your drunken rubbish in the presence of your Queen! HOW DARE YOU! Wake up! Do you hear me? WAKE UP! I command you to wake up, you drunken scoundrel. I am the Queen! THE QUEEN!
DRONE: (Only half-waking.)
This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart,
Hot, hot and moist! This hand of yours requires
A sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer,
Much castigation, exercise devout. . . .
QUEEN: Wake up! Do you hear me? I command you—WAKE UP! You are the last living bee and I command you to marry me! Do you hear? I COMMAND YOU TO MARRY ME!
DRONE: Where, where, where?
QUEEN: (Pointing up.) Up there, eight hundred thousand feet up—you know very well where. WAKE UP, you miserable sot! Do you want the race to die out, you cynical nincompoop? WAKE UP!
DRONE: (Half-awake.) Stay, my pet,
And let your reason with your choler question
What ‘tis you go about. To climb steep hills
Requires slow pace at first: anger is like
A full-hot horse, who being allow’d his way,
Self-mettle tires him.
QUEEN: (Mad.) Do you refuse? You disobey me? You disobey your Queen’s command? YOU REFUSE TO MARRY ME, YOU TREASONABLE SCOUNDREL! (She cries hysterically.) O, you awful, awful, lazy, useless, wretched scoundrel, you refuse to marry me, reject my royal love! O—! (She breaks down.)
DRONE: Be advised;
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
That it do singe yourself: we may outrun
By violent swiftness, that which we run at
And lose by over-running. Know you not,
The fire that mounts the liquor till ‘t run o’er,
In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised:
I say again, there is no beeish soul
More stronger to direct you than yourself
If with the sap of reason you would quench,
Or but allay, the fire of passion.
QUEEN: O that dreadful . . . unctuous . . . oily . . . wretched . . . treasonable . . . useless . . . dirty . . . impossible . . . bore! (She rushes about the stage in frenzy.) I’ll kill myself, I’LL KILL MYSELF. (She screams.) Do you hear me, I’ll kill myself. (She catches sight of the sleeping TRAMP in foreground.) I’ll sting something and kill myself. I’ll die, I’ll sting this and die!
(She stings the TRAMP, who starts up with a cry; then she dies after a brief and noisy paroxysm.)
TRAMP: What the bloody hell was that? Bees, begob. (He examines himself gingerly.) Begob this place is alive with them divils, I believe wan of them’s after stingin’ me, pumpin’ dirt and poison into me arum. Sure I told yeh—I TOLD YEH there’s a bloody nest of them here. Where’s me bottle? (He finds it and takes a suck.) A little drop on the sting and I was right. But where is the sting? (He notices the dead QUEEN and stands up to peer over at her.) Holy God, a bee as big as a greyhound. Begob the eyes is goin’—that or me oul’ head! What’s goin’ on in this place at all? (Enter BASIL.) Holy God, look at your man!
BASIL: (To DRONE.) Hallao! What have we here? The Queen, by Jove! (He examines her.)
TRAMP: I never seen bees that size before.
(BASIL approaches DRONE.)
BASIL: The Queen, my lord, is dead.
DRONE: (Half-asleep.) She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. (He falls asleep completely.)
TRAMP: Begob I AM stung. I am stung! I can feel it now. It’s here in the middle of me arum; wan of them dirty bees has got me! (His voice becomes steely with menace.) If I could lay me hands on the bee that done that . . . do you know what I’m goin’ to tell yeh, if I could lay me two hands on the bee that done that, I’d ——
CURTAIN
* * *
1 A reference to the fact that Meriel Moore had played Myrrhina in Oscar Wilde’s The Woman Covered with Jewels—as part of the “Jack-in-the-Box” performances by the Gate Theatre which also included O’Brien’s Thirst.
ACT II
The scene is a sandy hillock with stray stones, holes, patches of coarse grass; to the right and left of the stage are boulders, in between which characters appear or disappear on entering or leaving. Amid the boulders to the left, on somewhat of an eminence, is the nest of The Hen, a dark cave-like dwelling from which bits of straw and sticks protrude, it is not possible to see whether the nest is occupied or not. The TRAMP is lying asleep in the right foreground, unlighted.
As the curtain goes up, there are confused sounds of chirping and clucking from the nest and immediately a large EGG forces itself or is forced to the edge of the nest. It topples over and rolls down onto the stage, where it is seen that a large lump has fallen out of it. It has scarcely come to rest when a beetle rushes in and tries to roll it off; immediately another rushes in to dispute the prize and they quarrel noisily over it with harsh cries. A third beetle rushes in and joins in the fray. In the middle of it, the EGG cries out in a very high shrill voice:
EGG: I’m being born! I’m being born! Three cheers, hip hip—hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
(The beetles scurry back somewhat, curious and a bit frightened; the TRAMP, who has been half asleep, raises his head.)
TRAMP: Pardin? I beg your pardin . . . ?
EGG: I am being born. The great moment is at hand. The whole world is bursting into blossom!
(The beetles have approached the TRAMP after hearing him talk; they regard him curiously from a distance for an instant and then scurry off the stage in alarm.)
TRAMP: Yer been born? (Then very doubtfully.) I see.
EGG: I’m in the middle of me crisis. I’m threatened with existence. Light is beginning to breed in me eyes. I’m being born!
TRAMP: Sure that has to happen to us all, I done the same thing meself single-handed years ago. Years ago man.
(He settles down again and there is a pause; from outside is heard the sound of two beetles talking querulously; they enter—MR.. and MRS. BEETLE, rolling a huge ball of dirt.)
MR. BEETLE: (In an appalling Dublin accent, apparently even flatter than the TRAMP’S.) Here we are now, O.K., everything’s game ball.
MRS. BEETLE: (In a similar accent.) Do you know, the sweat is drippin’ out of me. Drippin’ out of me it is.
MR. BEETLE: An’ isn’t it worth puttin’ yourself into a lather for—a pile of stuff that cost us the grey hairs of a lifetime to put together? I’m steamin’ meself and I’m only sorry it’s not heavier to make me steam more. (Rapturously.) Ah begob it’s lovely. It’s very . . . very . . . adjacent.
MRS. BEETLE: Our gorgeous pile, our lovely savins.
MR. BEETLE: The savins of a bloody lifetime.
MRS. BEETLE: It’s what they do call capital in the bew-uks.
MR. BEETLE: (Turning to address her impressively.) Do you know what I’m goin to tell you. Do you see that ball?
MRS. BEETLE: (Abstractedly.) Our gorgeous . . . lovely . . . big . . . gorgeous pile of savin
s and capital.
MR. BEETLE: Now that pile of stuff there cost me a lifetime of workin’ and slavin’ . . . and overtime . . . and danger-money . . . and time-and-a-half . . . and Sahurda-work . . . and night-work . . . and piece-work . . . and all classes of work that isn’t known by anny particular name. Do you know that?
MRS. BEETLE: Sure don’t be talkin’, there’s nothin’ like the capital. It’s lovely—I wouldn’t be without a life’s savins for all the money in the world.
MR. BEETLE: Sure luckit. I seen meself wan June fourteen shifts on top of one another without a wink of slape or a bite in me mouth to kill the starvation—just to get a little bit more on to the pile, Begob I did and manys the time.
MRS. BEETLE: Ah certainly, certainly. An’ look how gorgeous an’ big it is now.
MR. BEETLE: It grew . . . an’ it grew . . . an’ it grew.
MRS. BEETLE: An’ it’s ours—ours only. It’s our big ball of savins and nobody else owns anny of it.
MR. BEETLE: I’m bloody sure it’s ours.
MRS. BEETLE: Our lovely gorgeous capital.
MR. BEETLE: Too bloody true it’s ours.
MRS. BEETLE: It’s gorgeous. Sure it is anny wonder some Beetles do be selling their bodies to other Beetles that does have a big pile like this?
MR. BEETLE: No Beetle could make a ball like mine at that game. Sure look at the size of it.
MRS. BEETLE: An’ it’s all ours, our gorgeous savins, the nest egg for our ould age.
MR. BEETLE: Smell it, woman, lick it, taste it! It’s ours!
EGG: (Screaming shrilly.) I’m being born! Born, do you hear me! Everything’s waking, and quaking, and shaking. I’m expected at every minute, I’m nearly here. Hurray!
MR. BEETLE: (Still preoccupied with ball.) It’s very . . . adjacent . . . having a bit of capital, d’ye understand me. It’s very . . . ad-mireable.
MRS. BEETLE: I’m as happy as Larry at the present time, there’s nothing more to wish for.
MR. BEETLE: O steady there now, me gerl, I wouldn’t say that. We have wan. Couldn’t we have two?
MRS. BEETLE: Two! What for?
MR. BEETLE: Isn’t two better than wan? Or even three. What’s wrong with three?
MRS. BEETLE: Begob I always knew you had a head on you. Two piles! Three! I never thought of that. TWO big piles, all our very own!
MR. BEETLE: Luckit. I’ll tell you what. The right game for us is to hide this one and then go off and make another. Do you see?
MRS. BEETLE: Hide it? Yes, hide it is right. We’d better hide it right away. Ey, supposin’ somebody was to lift it on us . . . ?
MR. BEETLE: Lift our little pile? O begob then you won’t find me leavin’ it lyin’ around to be whipped be some bloody scoundrel. We’ll find a hole and bury it.
MRS. BEETLE: Yer right, I’d die if anybody lifted our gorgeous pile. Where are we goin’ to hide it?
MR. BEETLE: We’ll invest it, put it away, store it, bury it, d’ye understand, put it into a nice deep hole. You stay here and don’t take your eyes off it. I’m off to find a nice hole.
MRS. BEETLE: O, I hope it’ll be safe, our hard-earned lovely capital. Where are you goin’ now?
MR. BEETLE: To look for a nice dark hole that nobody else knows about. I’ll be back in a tick. Mind the pile now, don’t take yer eyes off it. (Exit.)
MRS. BEETLE: Ay, here, come back, don’t leave me alone. Ah, begob, the bugger’s gone. Sure there’s a nice dark hole up there. It looks all right to me. Wait now till I have a decko. Wait till I have a peep now. What we want is a very dark . . . sacred . . . sanitary . . . quiet hole, wan that nobody knows anything about. . . .
(Her voice trails off as she makes her way up to the nest and disappears into it. Enter a STRANGE BEETLE.)
STRANGE BEETLE: (Jauntily.) O here’s me chance, the very thing the doctor ordered. There’s nobody here. We take it like this . . . and we roll it away. (Begins to roll it off.)
TRAMP: (Starting up.) Ay, listen here, mind where yer goin!
STRANGE BEETLE: Take yer feet out of me way.
EGG: To be born—to live—to get into the bright blue world! I’m coming, I’m nearly here!
TRAMP: What sort of dirty muck is that yer shovin’ around?
STRANGE BEETLE: That’s me capital, me pile, everything I have. That’s me savins, d’ye understand.
TRAMP: Yer savins? I see. Well there’s a bloody awful hum off yer savins then.
STRANGE BEETLE: (Offended in a very genteel way.) I beg yer pardin?
TRAMP: There’s a fierce smell offa that ball.
STRANGE BEETLE: Who ever heard of a smell being off a life’s savins. Sure all this stuff is me capital. It’s grand stuff, I’m a happy man, it does me heart good to feel it and see it. . . .
(Exit rolling the ball. MRS. BEETLE emerges from nest, fussing.)
MRS. BEETLE: There’s somebody livin’ there, that wouldn’t do at all. AY! Where is it? Where’s the pile? WHERE’S THE CAPITAL GONE?
TRAMP: Yer man took it.
MRS. BEETLE: (Rushing at him.) Thief, thief! Where is it, give it to me before I call me husband!
TRAMP: Now fair enough, take it easy. I’m tellin’ you where it is. Yer man took it.
MRS. BEETLE: Who, who? Where is it?
TRAMP: Yer man that’s after walkin’ out there, a dark fat round fella with a bit of a belly on him.
MRS. BEETLE: Do you mean me husband?
TRAMP: An ugly lookin’ customer with crooked feet.
MRS. BEETLE: That’s me husband all right, he must have found his hole. Where is the bloody fool gone to?
TRAMP: That’s the way he went—out there.
MRS. BEETLE: Wait till I get him. Why didn’t he tell me? Our lovely gorgeous capital, our nest egg. (Hurries out.)
TRAMP: (Musing.) Well begob can you beat that! The bloody bees do spend the time blathering out of them but your men the beetles is all for work, gatherin’ up all classes of muck and dirt an’ rollin’ it into big balls, balls that would take the sight out of yer eyes with the smell that’s off them. That’s the queerest game of the whole lot bar none. And there’s a bloody awful stink in the air here after them.
EGG: Let the world prepare, let everything be ready! Be ready, prepare!
TRAMP: Is it you again? What’s bitin’ you now?
EGG: I’m being born. BORN!
TRAMP: Fair enough.
EGG: I am going to do enormous things—vast, strange, terrible things. I am going to be momentous when I’m born.
TRAMP: I see. Being born, of course, is a very hard thing . . . but it’s very interestin’. Ah yes. An’ it’s a great thing to be born right, of course. Ah certainly.
EGG: I intend to be . . . implacable, wayward, devilish. And powerful, famous, a lord over the world.
TRAMP: I see. Well don’t let me stop you. But get yourself born first, you’ll never get annywhere without being born. God be with the days when I was born meself.
(The DUCK enters, dragging along a dead ladybird with its claw. It enters the nest.)
DUCK: Look, chick, Daddy’s bringing you something nice.
(The DUCK’S voice is sinister and high-pitched and it speaks with a most refined foreign accent.)
EGG: My birth-pangs are making the earth and the heavens quake. The stars halt in their courses. The fearful hour of my deliverance is at hand.
TRAMP: (Irritably.) Now that’ll be enough out of you, me bucko. There’s more oul’ chat of you than I heard from annything the same size.
DUCK: (Returning.) No, chickabiddy, mustn’t come out, just eat what Daddy gave you now. Be a good little chick now.
(An ugly yellow-headed chick puts its head out of the nest.)
DUCKLING: (Puling.) Daddy, I’m . . . tired.
DUCK: Now, now darling, back to bed. Daddy is going to get you another nice ladybird. Would my little pet like that?
DUCKLING: I don’t know what I’d like Daddy. I’d . . . I’d like something nice.
DUCK: Ha-ha! Back to bed now, my little treasure. The dote doesn’t know what she’d like. But I really must get something good for her, something interesting, something frightfully delicate. I must hunt. (To TRAMP.) Who are you?
TRAMP: Who—me?
DUCK: Does one eat a thing like you, I wonder?
TRAMP: (Sniggering.) Ate me? Not if you have the pledge because you’d only get drunk if you et a man like me.
(DUCK sniffs at him.)
DUCK: Nao, black shaow, frightfully stale smell. Who are you?
TRAMP: Yerra sure I’m only a fella havin’ a bit of sleep here on me tod.
DUCK: Ao? Any family?
TRAMP: Not at all man, sure I haven’t even a wife.
DUCK: Did you happen to notice the daughter? Fearfully brilliant child, can talk and all that. Deliciously witty person. I do think she is frightfully fetching. Like children?
TRAMP: Ah well of course the young wans is all right, I wouldn’t be heard sayin’ a word against them. They’re a very nice crowd, some of them.
DUCK: D’you knaow, I do think that children are wizard, full of beans, d’you knaow, and all that. I do think it’s frightful fun goin out to get things for them, beetles and all that sort of thing. I mean, parenthood gives one pleasure, you knaow. Give her two or three meals a day.
TRAMP: O’course a growing child d’want that, the bones does be soft and they do have to get lime into them in the feeds. Ah certainly.
DUCK: Matter of fact I’m frightfully proud of her. She’ll be a great lady when she grows up—hunting and fishing and skin-foods and that sort of thing. But really, I must toddle off and get her something to eat.
DUCKLING: (From nest.) Daddy, I’m fed up, I’m bored. I want something. I’m tired, Daddy.
DUCK: (Delighted.) Hear that? Pretty average wizard talk for a child if you ask me. Really, old man, I must toddle off and get her something very special. Cheerio, sweetness! Be good till Daddy comes back. (Exit.)
TRAMP: (Reflectively.) I see. (He suddenly bellows out in mock rage.) What are you squawkin’ out of you about, you bloody little yella bad-tempered bastard?
DUCKLING: (In a bored supercilious voice.) Shut up, you awful person.
TRAMP: (Shouting.) I’ll shut you up with wan twist of your scraggy neck, you bloody withered peacock, if you don’t look out for yourself!
Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) Page 14