Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature)

by Flann O'Brien

  SOUTHERN VOICE: Do you know, we’ve slattered and destroyed the whole empire of them, yellow and red and blue and every colour. We own the whole world now and every thing in it, it takes us boy.

  VOICE: (In alarm.) Gob phwat do I see? Phwat do I see. Green Ants with fáinnes on them is goin’ for our lads out there. They’re roarin’ out orders in a foreign language.

  SOUTHERN VOICE: Come on, lads, fight for ye’r lives!

  (Another vast battle is fought, mostly off-stage, but in the circle of light Green Ants reel in death-grips with other Green Ants who wear enormous gold fáinnes. Words and shouts that sound like Irish are heard above the din. When the battle subsides, the fáinne-wearers have won. The commanders gather in the circle of light. A RICH VOICE is heard.)

  RICH VOICE: A dhaoine uaisle agus a chairde Gaedheal! A chairde agus a dhaoine go léir! Tá buaidhte fá dheireadh ag na Gaedhil. Tar éis an chogaidh seo tá an domhan go léir buaidhte aca.

  TRAMP: Whaa? I beg yer pardin?

  RICH VOICE: Ar an ocáid stairiúil seo fógraighim mise féin im Impire ar an domhan go h-uile!

  TRAMP: What’s yer man sayin’ or tryin’ to say?

  PETULANT VOICE: Do you not know your own language, you ignorant man? He is proclaiming our great victory. At this hour he becomes emperor of all the earth. History is at an end. Our glorious destiny is achieved after seventeen hundred years.

  TRAMP: He’s EMPEROR?? Of the EARTH . . . I see.

  EGG: I’m . . . nearly born.

  RICH VOICE: Ní bheidh acht an Ghaeilge amháin á labhairt ar fúd an domhain feasta.

  (TRAMP has sprung up, kicked the ‘Emperor’ over and grinds him to bits as the others scurry off.)

  TRAMP: You . . . dirty . . . bloody . . . lousy . . . little bastard of an insect. Ouwathat!

  CURTAIN

  EPILOGUE

  Darkness everywhere. The TRAMP, picked out by a faint light, is lying in the foreground sleeping. He stirs uneasily and speaks in his sleep.

  TRAMP: Take yer hands offa me now—take yer hands off me: What? What’d you say? I beg your pardin? STOP BATIN’ THAT FELLA! Stop killin’ him! Gou-athat! Take yer sting and pump it into somewan else! Keep yer distance or I’ll destroy yeh! D’yeh hear me?

  (Pause.)

  (Then in a pathetic voice:)

  I don’t feel too well at all. I’m not in me right health. I wouldn’t like to pass out here in the dairk . . . all be meself. Give us a bit of light there, some wan. . . .

  CYRIL: (Far off.) Cec-eel, where are you?

  CHIEF ENGINEER: Avvery mon, wooman ond wee wan to the front now. Quack morch!

  MR. BEETLE: Ay, where’s me pile gone to? D’yeh hear me? Where’s me pile? WHERE’S ME PILE?

  CYRIL: (Calling softly.) O Cec-eeeeeeeel . . .

  TRAMP: Will yez stop blatherin’ in the dark and show a light till I see am I alive at all! I don’t want to be stung again be that bloody big bee I seen sitting in a deck chair!

  DRONE: Princes and noble lords, what answer shall I make to this base man? I say, thou liest, and will maintain what thou hast said is false in thy heart-blood, though being all too base to stain the temper of my knightly sword.

  TRAMP: (Awed.) I beg yer pardin?

  DUCK: (Appearing under a ghostly spotlight in the background stalking an invisible cricket.) Nearly got the blighter. Four today and one more makes five.

  (Lunges forward and there is a scream as the light goes out.)

  TRAMP: You’ve killed him! (Excitedly.) You’ve killed another one! Can yeh not stop killin’ and slaughterin’? CAN YEH NOT BE AISY AND LAVE OTHER PEOPLE ALONE?

  EGG: (Revealed by dim spotlight and seen to be moving slightly.) I’ll get out of this if it’s the last thing I do, if it’s the last thing I do I’ll break this bloody shell. I’ll be here soon, make no mistake at all about that!

  CYRIL: (Afar off, perplexed.) Do tell me, Cec-eel, where are you, old boy.

  TRAMP: Begob I believe I’m goin’ off me rocker.

  MR. BEETLE: Listen here, WHERE’S THAT BALL? Where’s me capital?

  TRAMP: That’s that bloody beetle, I’d know the voice anywhere.

  (The spotlight reveals dimly a beetle sneaking in and starting to roll away the EGG.)

  EGG: Help! HELP! Stop! Stop that!

  BEETLE: Shut up or I’ll ate yeh here!

  EGG: HELP! HELP! I want to be born! He’s going to kill me! HELP!

  TRAMP: (Rising on elbow.) Ay! You leave that bloody poor little egg alone—d’yeh hear me?

  (The ‘hideous cries’ are gathering in the background and now rise in crescendo. Confusion grows.)

  TRAMP: Leave that egg alone. My God, more slaughter, more bloody slaughter!

  CHIEF ENGINEER: (Invisible.) The agg is port of our nawshional haritage! Defand it with your lives! Quack morch! Quack morch!

  (The dim light reveals that several beetles have rushed to contest the ownership of the EGG. Several ants join in and a great battle starts: screams and roars and general din.)

  TRAMP: (Rising excitedly.) DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME? Didn’t you hear me tellin’ yeh to lave that egg alone? OUT OF ME WAY! If yez harum that egg I’ll have yer bloody lives! OUT OF ME WAY!

  (He is seen in the gloom to plunge madly into the battle, tripping and falling down among the milling insects. Soon his own horrible cries mingle with those of the others.)

  TRAMP: Stop that! STOP! Yez are killin’ me. YEZ ARE ATIN’ ME! Ow—!

  (The row dies down gradually and darkness has descended. There is silence. Birds twitter and the dawn breaks. The TRAMP is revealed in a crumpled heap with frost on his clothes. Beside the body is an ordinary broken egg-shell. Two mooning lovers stroll in, the BOY’S arm round the GIRL’S waist. They start slightly at the spectacle of the TRAMP.)

  GIRL: O George, look!

  BOY: Janey, a beggar! He’s asleep!

  GIRL: Look at the bottle. He’s drunk. He must have been lying there all night. O George, I hate drunkards.

  BOY: How do you know I’m not one myself! Or that I won’t be when we’re married. How would you like me to go out every Friday and drink the week’s wages. And leave nothing to buy food for you and the kids.

  GIRL: (Coy whimsy stuff.) O George, how do you know we are going to have kids. You’re a very bold boy.

  (They begin to move off and exit.)

  BOY: Well now you know. We’re going to have four kids—two girls and two boys. Not girls and boys following each other, of course. A boy, then a girl, and so on.

  GIRL: O George . . .

  (Exit. A ball runs across the stage followed by two ragged small BOYS, shouting. They stop and regard the TRAMP.)

  IST SMALL BOY: Aw look at the man.

  2ND SMALL BOY: He’s asleep

  IST SMALL BOY: Maybe he’s dead. (He runs to retrieve ball.)

  2ND SMALL BOY: My daddy’s dead and Mammy’s goin’ to marry Mr. Conlan.

  IST SMALL BOY: I wouldn’t mind your ould wan.

  (They chase the ball off the stage again. Enter KEEPER.)

  KEEPER: Ay what’s this. What’s going on here. My God, has this bloody fellow been here all night!

  (Very concerned, he kneels and examines the TRAMP. He rises, enormously excited.)

  KEEPER: My God, he’s dead. There’ll be a bloody row about this. (He picks up bottle and smells it.) Whiskey. There’ll be hell to pay. (He roars for a brother keeper.) Hey! Slattery! SLATTERY! Come over here! Quick!

  (SLATTERY, a youth, comes running in.)

  SLATTERY: What’s up?

  KEEPER: This unfortunate man’s dead. Give me your coat.

  (He covers corpse with overcoat.)

  SLATTERY: Dead? Was he here all night?

  KEEPER: He was and whoever locked him in is going to get into a row. And it wasn’t me, Slattery.

  SLATTERY: The poor unfortunate divil.

  (The lovers come back, attracted by the row; they are soon followed by the small BOYS, possibly reinforced in numbers.)

  K
EEPER: Phone for the ambulance, Slattery. STAND BACK NOW PLEASE. EVERYTHING’S ALL RIGHT.

  GIRL: Is he dead?

  KEEPER: Everything’s all right now. Stand back please.

  GIRL: O George!

  BOY: He’s better out of it the poor divil.

  IST SMALL BOY: The man’s dead.

  GIRL: O George, the poor man. The poor man.

  BOY: Do you see the eggshell. I suppose a little chicken was born out of it. Chicken starts out as this man finishes up. . . .

  KEEPER: It’s a duck’s egg. Now yez’ll all have to move on please. We don’t want any crowds collectin’.

  2ND SMALL BOY: Aw come on, come on home. I want to get me boat. Come on Paddy.

  IST SMALL BOY: All right come on.

  (They trail off to exit. Immediately a LITTLE GIRL’S voice is heard off, from the other side.)

  LITTLE GIRL: Paddy! PAD-EE! Wait for me!

  (She hurries in to follow them and crosses stage, pushing an enormous pram.)

  KEEPER: Gob, I never seen so many children.

  CURTAIN

  THE KNIFE

  (Translated by Jack Fennell)

  Characters in the play

  TADHG MAC PHEARSAN

  PEIG

  A gentleman

  His soon-to-be late wife

  The two of them beside each other, an awful commotion going on between them as the curtain rises; herself sitting down, himself pacing crazily around the room.

  TADHG: It wouldn’t matter to me . . . (He stands still for a moment and stretches his arm.) I DON’T CARE only that it was me that taught you all the Irish you have!

  PEIG: (Sniggering.) You! You!!

  TADHG: (At the top of his voice.) Yeah, me! ME!

  PEIG: I suppose it was from you that I got my manners, too . . . and the money that bought this mahogany table. (She knocks on it.) WHAT DID I EVER GET FROM YOU BUT INSULTS . . . AND BACK-TALK . . . AND (her voice changes into a mocking imitation of his) “WHY IS IT THAT THE TEA CAN NEVER BE STRONG IN THIS HOUSE?” You? YOU?

  TADHG: (Low and threatening.) Maybe it would be better for you to be a little more careful.

  PEIG: Yourself and your little Irish lessons.

  TADHG: Be quiet, I’m telling you!

  PEIG: What’s that Art’s got? A pencil. Does Máire have a pencil? Máire has no pencil. Máire has a dolly. Ha-ha!

  TADHG: It won’t be a dolly that you’ll get if you keep this up, I promise you that much!

  PEIG: But look at Paul. Paul has a pencil.

  TADHG: (Screaming.) SHUT UP!

  PEIG: I’ll speak however I like.

  TADHG: (Pacing furiously.) God give me patience. God give me patience. May he give me help tonight!

  PEIG: And strong tea whenever you would like some, sir.

  TADHG: (Lowly, tormented.) And may he put a restraint on that woman’s tongue!

  PEIG: Huh!

  (There is a short blackout.)

  TADHG: (Loudly and angrily once more.) I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. YOU MUST RESIGN FROM GLÚN NA BUAID-HE IMMEDIATELY. You hear me? Resign from it—NOW! I’m in charge of this house, and I will decide what goes on in it. Not one more eejit from that crowd will enter this house from now on—EVER!

  PEIG: Speak up a little bit, darling.

  TADHG: And if I find any one of them here, I’ll kill him.

  PEIG: You? You couldn’t frighten the cat. Ho, ho, ho. Fee fi fo fum!

  TADHG: I’LL KILL HIM, I’m telling you!

  PEIG: With the help of God, there’ll be a committee meeting of Glún na Buaidhe here in this room on Thursday. I’ll be in charge, AND TO HELL WITH YOU!

  TADHG: If you have anything more to do with that crowd, I’ll clear you out of this house, OUT THE DOOR WITH YOU!

  PEIG: (Sweetly.) And what about Ailtirí na hAiséirghe?

  TADHG: (Putting on a show of astonishment.) And what’s out-of-order with Ailtirí na hAiséirghe, if you please? WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE AILTIRÍ?

  PEIG: Wrong? What’s right with them?

  TADHG: Aren’t they reviving the Irish language, saving the country, bringing back the old Gaelic spirit? Haven’t they declared war on Fianna Fáil?

  PEIG: Don’t Glún na Buaidhe have a plan to revive Irish as a spoken language within ten years? Wasn’t it Glún na Buaidhe that taught those West Brits in Radio Éireann a lesson? WASN’T IT GLÚN NA BUAIDHE THAT INVENTED AILTIRÍ NA HAISÉIRGHE?

  TADHG: (Anger rising.) That invented Ailtirí na hAiséirghe! INVENTED them!!! God preserve us! God save us tonight!

  PEIG: Yeah, invented them . . . and may God forgive them for it.

  TADHG: Glún na Buaidhe, is it? Those . . . those . . . soft . . . malicious little con-men! Those children! Those . . . those thieving, insignificant eejits!

  PEIG: Oh? And what are the Ailtirí, then?

  TADHG: SOLDIERS!

  PEIG: Tin soldiers. UP GLÚN NA BUAIDHE!

  TADHG: To the Devil with Glún na Buaidhe! To Hell with Glún na Buaidhe! The Ailtirí are the only ones who are doing anything in this country! The Ailtirí are the only ones who have done anything! Éire is finally awakening, and it’s the Ailtirí that are responsible! THE AILTIRÍ ALONE ARE RESPONSIBLE! UP AILTIRÍ NA HAISÉIRGHE!

  PEIG: (Letting out a great big laugh.) That fine talk of yours isn’t all lies—I know one little Ailtire who wakes me up plenty.

  TADHG: (Angrily.) If you don’t believe that the Ailtirí are knuckling down to work instead of talking and blathering, look at this. . . .

  (He takes the Aiséirghe newspaper out of his pocket and shoves it under his wife’s nose.)

  TADHG: Read that there . . . and this bit down here . . . and the dynamic, manly section on page two.

  PEIG: (Reluctantly taking the paper.) I’ve no interest in nonsense. Don’t tell me you BOUGHT this thing?

  TADHG: Bought it? I WROTE most of it. Look at page three! Look at the ANGER in the poetry! Red, thunderous anger, I’m telling you!

  PEIG: Ho! Anger, is it? Anger?

  (She stands, opens her bag, takes out a copy of Indiu, the magazine of Glún na Buaidhe, opens it and places it angrily in her husband’s hands.)

  PEIG: Anger, is it? If it’s anger you want, read what’s on the front page there. You’ve never read the like of it. Just read that bit there. Are you blind . . . or deaf? READ IT, I SAID!

  TADHG: (Throwing the paper on the floor.) I will not! I won’t cast my eyes on one word of that putrid filth . . . AND DON’T YOU EVER BRING THE LIKES OF THAT INTO THIS HOUSE AGAIN!

  PEIG: And what about filth like this? (She takes Aiséirghe and throws it on the floor.) What about that? And young children in the house! HAVE YOU NO SHAME?

  TADHG: (Enraged.) Listen! LISTEN! I’ve said all this before, but I’ll say it to you again. Quit Glún na Buaidhe immediately—IMMEDIATELY, I say! If the name of that gang is heard in this house ever again . . .

  PEIG: Oh, shut up for the love of God. . . .

  TADHG: (Raising his voice.) If the name of that gang is heard even once in this house ever again . . . (He clenches his fist.) if the name of that gang is heard in this house ever again . . . well . . . I won’t be held responsible. I WON’T BE HELD RESPONSIBLE.

  (His bearing is growing more demented, the eyes are growing wilder, etc.)

  PEIG: (Wildly.) I’ll NEVER leave Glún na Buaidhe! NEVER, do you hear me. Glún na Buaidhe forever! My curse upon anyone who insults them! My curses sevenfold upon those who are not members! One more thing—there will be a committee meeting Thursday, here, IN THIS ROOM!

  TADHG: (Quietly, through his teeth.) No, there won’t.

  PEIG: This coming Thursday, at half-past seven.

  TADHG: No, there won’t.

  PEIG: Half-past seven, new time.

  TADHG: (In a horrible scream.) THERE WON’T, I TELL YOU! THERE WON’T, THERE WON’T, THERE WON’T!

  (He is out of his mind now; he runs around the room, and pulls a big black box into view; he breaks it open and o
ut fall a big knife and a carving-fork; he takes the knife and goes after the wife. A lot of “business” here—screaming, chasing, etc. He grabs a hold of her and thrusts the knife into her back.)

  (There is a long pause after Peig has been rendered peaceable and dead. Tadhg stands there looking at what he has done, wearing a stupid, lost expression. Eventually he stirs and picks the black box off the floor; it is clear that there is a piece of paper stuck to the back of the box, with writing on it; he starts to read it aloud, his voice slow and ghostly.)

  TADHG: From the Central Branch of the Gaelic League to Mister Tadhg Mac Phearsan, address. Tadhg, my friend, exalted hero of the Irish language.

  We, by which I mean the President, Vice-President and Deputy Vice-President of the Central Branch, together with all the members named herein, would like to wish you good health and long life as you leave the branch secretariat on your wedding day. We would like to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for the hard, invaluable work you have done as leader of the branch secretariat in the cause of the sweet mother-tongue of the Gaels. It is our unanimous opinion that. . . .

  (He stops and lifts his head; his appearance is tormented, gloomy, introspective; he speaks, more or less to himself.)

  TADHG: Is é ár tuairim [‘It is our opinion’]? Is é ár tuairim? Mmmmm. Is é ár tuairim? I don’t think that’s right. Is í ár tuairim? Yes. Is í ár tuairim . . .1

  (He turns back to the reading.)

  TADHG: It is our opinion that not only are this branch and the entire Gaelic League indebted to you, but the whole of Ireland as well, and every Irishman and Irishwoman dead or alive.

  In addition, we would like you to accept from us, on the wonderful occasion of your marriage, this carving fork and knife as a sign of the respect in which we hold you, a trifling gift to always remind you, and the noble woman you have taken, that we wish you both nothing but happiness, comfort and long-life. . . .

  (He moves his eyes slowly from the note to the body of his wife.)

  CURTAIN

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