Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (19 page)

Costumes by Micheál MacLiammóir

PROLOGUE

St Stephen’s Green. Probably near the lake, there is a row of chairs with their backs to the audience; some are deck chairs and some the upright green twopenny type. Most of them are occupied. Dusk is falling (and pretty fast too). The bells of the keepers summoning their visitors to leave are heard in the distance. A few small children rush across the foreground shouting and playing with a ball; they run out again. A bell is heard being banged very loud off. Enter a comic carrying the bell. He looks from behind at the row of inert social figures, his back to the audience. His stance and silence suggest patient disgust. Suddenly he gives a savage ear-splitting clang of the bell, startling everybody, including the audience.

KEEPER:
Do yez know the time or have yez no home to go to?

(
A very mixed group get up hastily, glare at the
KEEPER
and move off. A fat lady calls to her children, two old men shamble off muttering, a student and some others leave in the manner that fits them. A very pronounced bulge in the back of one of the deck-chairs at the right-hand side of the row remains, however. The
KEEPER
eyes it and approaches stealthily. He then gives a really ferocious clang on the bell.
)

KEEPER:
Will yeh get up to hell ou’ a that and clear out of this pairk, d’yeh hear me!

(
An irate fat well-dressed figure has jumped up out of the chair. His accent is very ‘cultured.
’)

VISITOR:
What the devil do you mean?

KEEPER:
(
Sarcastic in a steely way.
) I beg yer pardin?

VISITOR:
How dare you talk to me like that—how dare you ring your bell like that in my ear?

KEEPER:
Now luckit here, don’t give me anny trouble. This pairk is closed down be the regulations from sunset. And all the visitors has to be cleared out, d’yeh undhersthand me. All has to go off an’ leave the premises. It’s just like a public house. Come on now, sir yeh’ll have to pack up, yeh’ll have all day to-morra to be lying down there snoozin’!

VISITOR:
(
Flabbergasted at all this familiarity.
) Well upon my word! Who the devil do you think you’re speaking to? Of all the . . . infernal . . . nerve!

KEEPER:
I don’t want anny trouble now, DON’T GIVE ME ANNY TROUBLE. Out yeh’ll have to go and that’s all about it. It’s a very seryus thing to be in the pairk after dairk.

VISITOR:
How dare you address members of the public in that impertinent fashion! How dare you set out to injure people’s hearing with that bell of yours! HOW DARE YOU SIR!

KEEPER:
(
With fake resignation.
) Well, of course . . . I dunno. I don’t know what I’ll do with this man at all. I don’t know what I’ll do with this man at all.

VISITOR:
Permit me to remark that it is rather a question of what will be done with you, my man.

KEEPER:
(
Mechanical reply to any ‘difficult’ speech.
) I beg yer pardin?

VISITOR:
Do you know who I am?

KEEPER:
(
Brushing aside a very old story with his flat hand.
) Now listen. Luckit here. I don’t want to know yer name, yer address, or who yer mother was. Are yeh gettin’ out or are yeh not? Now don’t tell me I’ll have to call a Gaird.

VISITOR:
(
Getting ready to leave.
) From your offensive behaviour it’s rather obvious you don’t know who I am but you may learn sooner than you expect.

KEEPER:
I don’t give a damn if yer de Valera . . . or one of them lads out of the Kildare Street Club . . . or (
tremendous effort
) the Bishop . . . of . . . Bangalore—OUT—OF—THIS—PAIRK—YOU’LL—HAVE—TO—GO—AND THAT’S ALL.

VISITOR:
Indeed? Perhaps I should tell you who I am.

KEEPER:
(
Putting up the hand again to ward off unwanted information.
) Now I don’t want to hear anny more—I don’t want to hear anny more talk or chat at all. This pairk is owned an’ run by the Boord of Works, d’yeh understand. And the Boord of Works is a very sthrict crowd . . . a very sthrict . . . crowd.

VISITOR:
(
Interested.
) Really.

KEEPER:
D’yeh undhersthand me now. The Boord has very sthrict regulations for clearin’ out the pairk after dairk. It’s the Boord’s regulations, yeh’ll see them pasted up there be the gate.

VISITOR:
All this is extremely interesting.

KEEPER:
Are yeh gettin’ out? Yes or no now.

VISITOR:
Extremely interesting.

KEEPER:
Because if yer goin’ to stop here, I’ll go and get a Gaird and it’s above in the ‘joy yeh’ll spend the night, me good man.

VISITOR:
If you knew who you are speaking to, you uncouth impudent. . . .

KEEPER:
(
Almost roaring.
) Luckit here, if you were wan of the head buck-cats out of the Boord of Works itself, a big offeecial from the place beyant there (
he points
), if you were the head-man in chairge of pairks an’ gairdens, I’d mairch you out just the same in double quick time, me bucko!

VISITOR:
(
Angry but gloating.
) As a matter of fact that’s exactly who I am. (
He begins to move off.
)

KEEPER:
(
Dumbfounded.
) I beg yer pardin?

VISITOR:
That’s exactly who I am.

KEEPER:
(
Exit out after the visitor, making desperate efforts to retrieve the damage.
) But I beg yer pardin kindly sir, SHURE I DIDN’T MEAN ANNY HARM, Sir. Didn’t I know yeh well an’ me only tryin’ to take a rise out of yeh, I’d no more think of givin’ guff to yer honour than I would of givin’ it to Mister Connolly, yer honour. . . .

(
They pass out, the
VISITOR
very haughty. The light sinks somewhat. Loud buzzing as if of aeroplanes is heard. The
TRAMP
,
who is emaciated (naturally enough) is concealed in one of the other deck-chairs, making little or no bulge to betray his presence. The buzzing noise gets louder. The audience hears the maudlin voice of the hidden
TRAMP
.
His accent is a richer Dublin job than the
KEEPER;
indeed, the latter might be better with a rich southern New-York-cop intonation.
)

TRAMP:
Away wid yez now! Away wid yez! Keep offa me now.

(
More buzzing, much nearer.
)

TRAMP:
Do yez hear me! Get away to hell ou’ a that!

(
He starts thrashing about with his arms, which betray his location to the audience. He starts incoherent drunken roaring and falls out of the chair into full view.
)

TRAMP:
One sting from one of them lads and begob yeh could be screwed down in yer coffin in two days.

(
He swipes at invisible bees but carefully preserving his bottle; he pauses to take a good swig.
)

TRAMP:
The bee . . . Do you know what I’m goin’ to tell yeh. The bee . . . is one of the worst jobs out. Them lads has a bagful of stuff inside them . . . and they do spend all their time lookin’ for some poor unfortunate omadaun like meself for to pump it into. Ah yes, a very bad job—the bee. I don’t fancy the bees at all.

(
He swipes madly again and then has a swig. He resumes his monologue in a very high-pitched confidential voice.
)

TRAMP:
(
To audience.
) I’ll tell yez a good wan. I seen a man—a personal friend of me own—stung be a bee and him lying on his death-bed. A man that was given up be the clergy, the doctors, the nurses, and begob even be the parties that was to benefit under the will. That’s a quare one! Yer man is breathin’ his last gasp when the bee flies in and given him pfffff—a dart in the neck. And do you know what happens?

(
He pauses impressively and takes another long suck.
)

TRAMP:
Do you know what happens? Now you won’t believe this, as sure as God you’ll tell me I’m a liar. . . .

(
Again he pauses for effect and takes another drink.
)

TRAMP:
I’ll tell you what happens. Your man . . . sits up . . . in bed . . . and says he: Will one of youz hand me trousers there . . . plee-ez. Ah? That’s . . . a quare wan for yez. Would yeh believe that?

(
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.