Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (20 page)

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 lion
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.
)