At Swim-Two-Birds

by Flann O'Brien

  If that is the case, said the Pooka, you can change to another or get out and walk and welcome.

  The smell of another pocket, replied the Good Fairy, that might be far worse.

  The company continued to travel throughout the day, pausing at evening to provide themselves with the sustenance of oakmast and coconuts and with the refreshment of pure water from the jungle springs. They did not cease, either walking or eating, from the delights of colloquy and harmonized talk contrapuntal in character nor did Sweeny desist for long from stave-music or from the recital of his misery in verse. On the brink of night they halted to light faggots with a box of matches and continued through the tangle and the grasses with flaming brands above their heads until the night-newts and the moths and the bats and the fellicaun-eeha had fallen in behind them in a gentle constellation of winking red wings in the flair of the fires, delightful alliteration. On occasion an owl or an awkward beetle or a small coterie of hedgehogs, attracted by the splendour of the light, would escort them for a part of the journey until the circumstances of their several destinations would divert them again into the wild treachery of the gloom. The travellers would sometimes tire of the drone of one another’s talk and join together in the metre of an old-fashioned song, filling their lungs with fly-thickened air and raising their voices above the sleeping trees. They sang Home on The Range and the pick of the old cowboy airs, the evergreen favourites of the bunkhouse and the prairie; they joined together with a husky softness in the lilt of the old come-all-ye’s, the ageless minstrelsy of the native-land, a sob in their voice as the last note died; they rendered old catches with full throats, and glees and round-songs and riddle-me-raddies, Tipperary and Nellie Deane and The Shade of the Old Apple Tree. They sang Cuban love-songs and moonsweet madrigals and selections from the best and the finest of the Italian operas, from the compositions of Puccini and Meyerbeer and Donizetti and Gounod and the Maestro Mascagni as well as an aria from The Bohemian Girl by Balfe, and intoned the choral complexities of Palestrina the pioneer. They rendered two hundred and forty-two (242) songs by Schubert in the original German words, and sang a chorus from Fidelio (by Beethoven of Moonlight Sonata fame) and the Song of the Flea, and a long excerpt from a Mass by Bach, as well as innumerable tuneful pleasantries from the able pens of no less than Mozart and Handel. To the stars (though they could not see them owing to the roofage of the leaves and the branches above them), they gave with a thunderous spirit such pieces by Offenbach, Schumann, Saint-Saens and Granville Bantock as they could remember. They sang entire movements from cantatas and oratorios and other items of sacred music, allegro ma non troppo, largo, and andante cantabile.

  They were all so preoccupied with music that they were still chanting spiritedly in the dark undergrowth long after the sun, earlier astir than usual, had cleaned the last vestige of the soiling night from the verdure of the tree-tops – rosy-fingered pilgrim of the sandal grey. When they suddenly arrived to find mid-day in a clearing, they wildly reproached each other with bitter words and groundless allegations of bastardy and low birth as they collected berries and haws into the hollows of their hats against the incidence of a late breakfast. Temporary discontinuance of the foregoing.

  Biographical reminiscence, part the seventh: I recall that I went into my uncle’s house about nine p.m. one evening in the early spring, the sharp edge of my perception dulled somewhat by indulgence in spirituous liquors. I was standing in the middle of the dining-room floor before I had properly adverted to my surroundings. The faces I found there were strange and questioning. Searching among them, I found at last the features of my uncle.

  Nature of features: Red, irregular, coarse, fat.

  He was situated in a central position in the midst of four others and looked out from them in my direction in a penetrating attentive manner. I was on my way backwards towards the door when he said to me:

  No need to go. Gentlemen, my nephew. I think we require a secretary. Take a seat.

  After this I heard a murmur of polite felicitation. It was represented that my continued presence was a keen source of pleasure to the company without exception. I sat down at the table and took my blue pencil from a chest-pocket. My uncle studied a black notebook for a moment and then pushed it across to me and said:

  I think that should be enough.

  I took the book and read the legend inscribed on the front page in the square unambiguous writing of my uncle.

  Nature of legend: Eighteen loaves. Two pan-loaves (? one pan). Three pounds cheese. Five pounds cooked ham. Two pounds tea (one and four). Tin floor-powder. Fancy cakes 2d. and 3d. (? 4d.). Eighteen rock-buns. Eight pounds butter. Sugar, milk (? each bring supply ?). Rosin. Bottle D.W.D. ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?. Hire of crockery £1.? Breakages Speak re necessity care.? Lemonade. Say £5.

  My uncle made an urgent noise with the case of his spectacles.

  You were saying, Mr Connors…? he said.

  Ah, yes, said Mr Connors.

  A big loose man to my left drew himself together and braced his body for the ordeal of utterance. He wore on the upper lip a great straggling moustache and heavy tired eyes moved slowly as if belated in adjustment to his other features. He struggled to an attitude of upright attention.

  Now I think it’s a great mistake to be too strict, he said. We must make allowances. One old-time waltz is all I ask. It’s as Irish as any of them, nothing foreign about the old-time waltz. We must make allowances. The Gaelic League…

  I don’t agree, said another man.

  My uncle gave a sharp crack on the table.

  Order, Mr Corcoran, he said in reprimand, order if you please. Mr Connors has the floor. This is a Committee Meeting. I’m sick sore and tired saying this is a Committee Meeting. After all there is such a thing as Procedure, there is such a thing as Order, there is such a thing as doing things in the right way. Have you a Point of Order, Mr Corcoran?

  I have, said Mr Corcoran. He was tall and thin and fair. I found that his face was known to me. His hair was sparse and sandy.

  Very well. If you have a Point of Order, well and good. Well and good if you have a Point of Order. Proceed.

  Eh? said Mr Corcoran.

  Proceed. Continue.

  Oh, yes. Old-time waltzes. Yes. I don’t agree with the old-time waltz at all. Nothing wrong with it, of course, Mr Connors, nothing actually wrong with it…

  Address the Chair, address the Chair, said my uncle.

  But after all a Ceilidhe is not the place for it, that’s all. A Ceilidhe is a Ceilidhe. I mean, we have our own. We have plenty of our own dances without crossing the road to borrow what we can’t wear. See the point? It’s all right but it’s not for us. Leave the waltz to the jazz-boys. By God they’re welcome as far as I’m concerned.

  Mr Connors to reply, said my uncle.

  Oh, settle it any way you like, said Mr Connors. It was only a suggestion. There’s nothing wrong with the old-time waltz. Nothing in the wide world. I’ve danced it myself. Mr Hickey here has danced it. We have all danced it. Because a thing is foreign it does not stand to reason that it’s bad.

  When did I dance it? asked Mr Hickey.

  Description of Mr Hickey: Old, yellow, dark, lean. Pendulous flesh at eyes and jaws. Of utterance precise and slow. A watching listener.

  On a Point of Personal Explanation? asked my uncle.

  Yes, said Mr Hickey.

  Very well.

  Twenty-three years ago at the Rotunda Gardens, said Mr Connors. Haven’t I a good memory?

  You certainly have, said Mr Hickey.

  He smiled, mollified. He pursed his lips in the exercise of a retrospect across the years, absently playing with his loose plate. Bushy brows hid his eyes as they gazed on his white knuckles.

  Mr Fogarty? said my uncle.

  Mr Fogarty was a middle-aged man but with a round satisfied face. He smiled evenly on the company. He was attired in good-quality expensive clothing and wore an air of assurance.

  Settle it between ye, he said l
ightly. Leave Mr Fogarty alone now.

  The Gaelic League is opposed to the old-time waltz, said Mr Corcoran. So are the clergy.

  Now, now, I don’t think that’s right, said Mr Connors.

  Order, order, said my uncle.

  I never heard that said, said Mr Connors. Which of the clergy now?

  My uncle gave another crack.

  Order, he repeated. Order.

  Chapter and verse, Mr Corcoran. Which of the clergy.

  That will do, Mr Connors, said my uncle sharply, that is quite sufficient. This is a Committee Meeting. We won’t be long settling it All those in favour of the old-time waltz say Aye.

  Aye!

  Those against say No.

  No!

  I declare the Noes have it

  Division, called Mr Connors.

  A division has been challenged. I appoint Mr Secretary teller. All those in favour raise one hand.

  The total that I counted in favour of each proposition was one; certain parties abstained from voting.

  My casting vote, said my uncle loudly, is in favour of the negative.

  Well that’s that, said Mr Connors sighing.

  If things are done in the right way, said my uncle, there is no question of wasting time. Now when does he arrive? You have the details, Mr Hickey.

  Mr Hickey bestirred himself with reluctance and said:

  He will be in Cork from the liner at ten, that means Kingsbridge about seven.

  Very well, said my uncle, that means he reaches the hall about nine, making allowance for a wash and a bite to eat. By nine o’clock – yes, we will be in full swing by nine o’clock. Now a Reception Committee. I appoint Mr Corcoran and Mr Connors and myself.

  I still challenge Mr Corcoran to give the name of the clergyman, said Mr Connors.

  That is not a Point of Order, said my uncle. He turned to me and said: Have you the names of the Reception Committee?

  Yes, I answered.

  Very good. Now I think I should read a brief address when he is at the door. Something short and to the point. A few words in Irish first, of course.

  Oh, certainly, said Mr Corcoran. Not forgetting a red carpet on the steps. That is the recognized thing.

  My uncle frowned.

  Well I don’t know, he said. I think a red carpet would be a bit…

  I agree with you, said Mr Hickey.

  A bit, you know…well, a little bit…

  I see your point, I see your point, said Mr Corcoran.

  You understand me? We don’t want to be too formal. After all he is one of our own, an exile home from the foreign clime.

  Yes, he might not like it, said Mr Corcoran.

  It was quite proper, of course, to raise the point if it was on your mind, said my uncle. Well that is settled. Just a friendly Irish welcome, céad mile fáilte. Now there is another important matter that we’ll need to see to. I refer to the inner man. The honourable secretary will now read out my estimate of what we want. The secretary has the floor.

  In my thin voice I enunciated the contents of the black note-book given over to my charge.

  I think you might put down another bottle and a couple of dozen stout, said Mr Hickey. I don’t think they would go to waste.

  Oh, Lord yes, said Mr Fogarty. We would want that.

  I don’t think he touches anything, said my uncle. A very strict man, I believe.

  Well, of course, there are others, said Mr Hickey sharply.

  Who? asked my uncle.

  Who! Well dear knows! said Mr Hickey testily.

  Mr Fogarty gave a loud laugh in the tense air.

  Oh, put it down, Mr Chairman, he laughed. Put it down man. A few of us would like a bottle of stout and we might have friends in. Put it down and say no more about it.

  Oh, very well, said my uncle. Very good, very good.

  I entered these further items in my ledger.

  Oh, talking about the clergy – on a Point of Order, Mr Chairman – talking about the clergy, said Mr Connors suddenly, I heard a good one the other day. A P.P. down in the County Meath.

  Now, Mr Connors, please remember that your audience is a mixed one, said my uncle severely.

  It’s all right now, said Mr Connors smiling in reassurance. He invited two young priests down to the house for dinner. Two young priests from Clongowes or somewhere, you understand, smart boys, doctors and all the rest of it. Well the three of them went in to dinner and here were two fine fat chickens on the table. Two chickens for the three of them.

  Fair enough, said Mr Fogarty.

  Now no disrespect, warned my uncle.

  It’s all right, said Mr Connors. Just when they were sitting down for a good tuck in, the P.P. gets a sick call and away with him on his white horse after telling the two visitors to eat away and not to mind him or to wait for him.

  Fair enough, said Mr Fogarty.

  Well after an hour back came his reverence the P.P. to find a heap of bones on the plate there. Not a pick of the two chickens left for him. He had to swallow his anger for damn the thing else was there left for him to swallow.

  Well dear knows they were the nice pair of curates, said my uncle in facetious consternation.

  Weren’t they, said Mr Connors. Well after a bit the two said they were very full and would like to stretch their legs. So out went the three of them to the farmyard. It was in the summer, you understand.

  Fair enough, said Mr Fogarty.

  Over comes the P.P.’s cock, a grand big animal with feathers of every colour in his tail. Isn’t that the fine proud cock you have, says one of the curates. The P.P. turns and looks at him. And why wouldn’t he be proud, says he, and him with two sons in the Jesuits!

  Oh, fair enough, roared Mr Fogarty laughing.

  There was general acclamation and amusement in which I inserted perfunctorily my low laugh.

  Isn’t it good? laughed Mr Connors. The P.P. turns on the curate and looks him straight in the eye. And why wouldn’t he be proud, says he, and him with two sons in the Jesuits!

  Very good indeed, said my uncle. Now we want three clean respectable women to cut the bread.

  Let me see, said Mr Corcoran. You have Mrs Hanafin and Mrs Corky. Poor of course, but good clean respectable women.

  Cleanliness is all-important, said my uncle. Lord save us, thumb-marks on bread, there is nothing so disgusting. Are they clean, Mr Corcoran?

  Oh, very clean and respectable.

  Very good, said my uncle, we will leave that to you.

  He put up the four fingers of a hand in the air and identified by a finger the cares of each member of the assembly.

  Sandwiches and refreshments Mr Corcoran, he said. Mr Hickey is attending to the band and will oblige in the interval. Mr Fogarty will be M.C. and will also oblige with a hornpipe. I will look after our friend. That is everything, I think. Any questions, gentlemen?

  A vote of thanks to our efficient young secretary, said Mr Fogarty smiling.

  Oh, certainly, said my uncle. Passed unanimously. Nothing else?

  No.

  Very good. I declare the meeting adjourned seeny day. Conclusion of reminiscence.

  Penultimum continued. A further account of the journey of the Pooka and party: At approximately twenty past four p.m. they arrived at the Red Swan Hotel and entered the premises, unnoticed, by the window of the maids’ private bed-room on the ground floor. They made no noise in their passage and disturbed no dust of the dust that lay about the carpets. Quickly they repaired to a small room adjoining Miss Lamont’s bedroom where the good lady was lying in, and deftly stacked the papered wallsteads with the colourful wealth of their offerings and their fine gifts – their golden sheaves of ripened barley, firkins of curdy cheese, berries and acorns and crimson yams, melons and marrows and mellowed mast, variholed sponges of crisp-edged honey and oaten breads, earthenware jars of whey-thick sack and porcelain pots of lathery lager, sorrels and short-bread and coarse-grained cake, cucumbers cold and downy straw-laced cradles of elderberry wi
ne poured out in sea-green egg-cups and urn-shaped tubs of molasses crushed and crucibled with the lush brown-heavy scum of pulped mellifluous mushrooms, an exhaustive harvesting of the teeming earth, by God.

  Sit down and make yourselves happy, boys, said Slug, put a match to the fire, somebody. Give the door a knock, Mr Casey. See if the hour has come if you know what I mean.

  These bogberries, said Shorty with a motion of his brown thumb, would it be against the rules to eat a few of them?

  Certainly it would, said the Good Fairy, you won’t touch them. In any case they are not bogberries.

  Aren’t they bogberries, mister smarty, asked Shorty, aren’t they though, you little pimp!

  The door is locked, said Casey.

  No they are not, said the Good Fairy.

  That is a pity, said the Pooka civilly. I suppose we can only wait until we are asked in. Has anybody got an American master-key?

  A bullet would put the lock in in half a tick, said Shorty.

  I don’t doubt that, said Slug, but there is going to be no gun-play here, remember that.

  I have not got a key anyway, said the Good Fairy, except an old-fashioned watch-key, a very good instrument for taking out blackheads.

  The new-lit fire was maturing with high leaps which glowed for red instants on the smooth cheeks of the inky grapes on the long and tenuous flanks of the marrows.

  Our policy, said the Pooka with his careful statesman’s smile as he sat in his arm-chair with his clubfoot hidden beneath the seat, must be an open one, a policy of wait and see.

  What about a hand of cards? asked Shorty.

  Eh?

  Just to pass the time…

  Not a bad idea at all, said the Good Fairy.

  I don’t hold with gambling, said the Pooka, for money.

  With quiet industry he filled at his pipe, his face averted.

  Of course a small stake to keep one’s interest from flagging, he said, there is no great harm in that. That is a different thing.

  It will pass the time for a start, said Casey.

  Deal out for a round of Poker, said the Good Fairy, there is nothing like a good game of cards.

  Have you a pack, Shorty? asked Slug.