Rhapsody in Stephen's Green/The Insect Play
Page 4
CURTAIN
Notes
1 twopenny type: chairs rentable for twopence.
2 no home to go to: a phrase much used at closing time by Dublin barmen.
3 Guard: a policeman, in Irish Garda Síochána.
4 de Valera … Bangalore: Eamon de Valera (1882–1975), President of the Executive Council (Prime Minister) from March 1932 until February 1948, and also June 1951-June 1954 and March 1957-June 1959; after December 1937 his title was Taoiseach. The Kildare Street Club, now extinct, was Dublin’s most exclusive men’s club. The Keeper presumably refers to the Bishop of Bangalore for alliterative reasons.
5 Boord of Works: a government department charged with maintaining parks, public buildings, and other public properties.
6 the ‘joy: Mountjoy Prison near the Royal Canal in Phibsboro, North Dublin.
7 Mister Connolly: Joseph Connolly, then Chairman of the Board of Works. In September 1939 he was appointed Controller of Censorship. R.M. Smyllie, Myles’s editor at The Irish Times, described Connolly as ‘a bitter Anglophobe.’ See Bernard Share, The Emergency; Neutral Ireland, 1939–1945 (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1978), 32. Smyllie claimed that ‘in practice … the censorship … worked almost exclusively against the Allies,’ and called it ‘ludicrous He was not allowed to mention that many Irishmen had joined the British forces nor could obituaries speak of death in battle. The Irish births of Generals Montgomery and Alexander ‘had to be kept dark’. When a Dubliner serving in the British Navy was rescued from his sinking ship, this could only be mentioned by stating ‘in the Social and Personal column that the young man … had completely recovered from the effect of his recent boating accident!’ See R.M. Smyllie, Unneutral Eire,’ Foreign Affairs 24: 2 (January 1946), 322–3. Myles’s ‘Cruiskeen Lawn’ column was apparently censored (Cronin, No Laughing Matter, 119).
8 omadaun: Irish amadán, fool, simpleton, idiot.
9 own-shucks: óinseach is the female form of amadán.
10 drop o’malt: malt is whiskey.
11 family allowances … undher th’plough: The Fine Gael leader, James Dillon, suggested government subsidies to assist poor families in March 1939. Myles, in his Civil Service capacity as Brian O Nualláin, was appointed Secretary to the Local Government Committee set up in July 1939 to study the question. The Committee first met in April 1940, and eventually recommended the appointment of a second, interdepartmental committee. The second Committee was even more desultory, reporting finally in October 1942, and recommending the establishment of Family or Children’s Allowances. The proposal was strongly opposed, on both political and religious grounds, by J.J. McElligott, Secretary to the Department of Finance, and by Sean MacEntee, Minister of Local Government (August 1941–February 1948), Myles’s/O Nualláin’s direct superior, MacEntee’s hostile memoranda, presumably drafted by Myles, then his private secretary, were particularly numerous, lengthy, and hysterical in February–March 1943. McElligott’s and MacEntee’s conviction that rural poverty was morally bracing, and quintessentially Irish, echoes — presumably unconsciously — similar ideas which Myles had parodied in An Béal Bocht (1941). Their insistence that the child allowance would weaken the family and so subvert Catholic values anticipated arguments used successfully against the ‘Mother and Child’ plan of Dr Noel Browne (Minister of Health, February 1948–11 April 1951), which proposed free pre- and post-natal care for mothers and children, irrespective of means. See J.J. Lee, Ireland 1912–1985 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 277–86.
The slogan ‘One more cow, and one more sow, and one more acre under the plow,’ was coined by Patrick J. Hogan (1891–1936), Minister of Agriculture 1922–32.
ACT I
There is very loud buzzing. Coloured lights reveal in unearthly prettiness the same corner of Stephen’s Green.
The bee 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 it 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.1
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.) 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.2
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 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 kn
aow. It is nice, I suppaose. Actually I suppaose eet ees unbearably nice. But the penalty … Death, I mean, and all that.
CECIL (Grandly) I am 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’re 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 on 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.3 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.4 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)5
DRONE (Awake)
Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.6
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 the bee; today he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; tomorrow blossoms
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes 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 …7
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.8
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.9
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 (Ex
citedly) 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 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 absolutely 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 we will 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 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.10