(Here the SERGEANT involuntarily half turns round again in amazement.)
PETER: That’s awful. I suppose the eyes were affected, too.
MR. C.: Don’t be talking, man! The eyes begun to get singed and burnt at the edges. And to close up and get smaller like a hole burnt in a table-cloth by a cigarette. And as well as that the watery part dried up in a way that was something fierce, it would all remind you of a corpse or something. And all the time that sun was coming down and sitting on us like a red hot iron. Before I know where I was, the eyebrows were gone. It was the most fierce unmerciful bit of heat I ever felt in my life, hell can’t be anything half like it.
JEM: (After a long audible gulp.) I see. I see.
PETER: (Also gulping.) That’s awful.
MR. C.: (Passing his hand over his face in crazed recollection.) It was terrible . . . terrible . . . terrible. There we were, staggering through the blank . . . brazen . . . boiling heat, the skin chipping and curling off our faces, our bodies drying up and withering into wrinkles like prunes and a hot, dry thirst coming up out of the neck like the blast from a furnace. Oh, my God, it was desperate. Do you know the first thing the lads did, nearly every one of them?
JEM: Turn back and march for home?
PETER: What?
MR. C.: TOOK OFF THEIR WATER-BOTTLES AND THREW THEM AWAY! Honest to God, now, no word of a lie. I seen them being fired away by the hundred and sitting there in the sun like bits of glass with the sun comin’ on them and takin’ the sight out of your eyes. Do you know why? DO YOU KNOW WHY?
(He turns interrogatively to each of the company in turn. Here again the SERGEANT half turns round involuntarily but checks himself barely in time. For the first time he sees the bottle of stout that has been placed within his reach. He lingers on it for a moment and then turns resolutely back to his note-book, where his show of writing is by now the barest pretence.)
MR. C.: I’ll tell you why. The water-bottles were made of metal. Some class of thin aluminium. The whole idea at the time was to do away with weight. Aluminium as thin as a sheet of paper. Well begob when that sun got to work on these bottles, I needn’t tell you what happened. First of all, the water got up nearly to boilingpoint. Even if you could hold the bottle in your hand and open it, the water would be no good to you because it would scald the neck off you. But that wasn’t the only thing. With all the staggerin’ and pullin’ and pushin’ half the lads got the two hands nearly burnt off them from touching the bottles accidentally. My God, it was fierce! Desperate! It was like walkin’ around with a brazier tacked on to your back. There was only one thing to do. (He goes through the action of firing something away.) Away with them no matter what else happens.
PETER: Well, wasn’t that terrible, throwing away bottles full of water in the middle of the desert.
MR. C.: Well, there you are, there you are.
JEM: Of course your only way was to bury all the bottles deep down in a hole and come back for them when the thirst is at you. The water would be nice and cool below in the hole of course.
PETER: (Impatiently.) Ah, for God’s sake, man. Put all the bottles down in a hole! (He turns to his host.) What happened after that?
MR. C.: (Reflectively.) Well, of course, what happened after that is not a thing I would like to swear to because (he taps his forehead ominously) the heat began to have a very bad effect on number one. There is a lot of moisture and blood and so on in the brain, you know. The brain is like a wet sponge. Dry up that sponge and very queer things are going to happen. Very queer things.
PETER: I suppose you’re lucky to be alive at all.
MR. C.: (Ignoring the remark, still lost in reflection.) Very queer things. The first thing that happened to me was I lost me sense of direction! Didn’t know whether me head was me heels or whether I was standin’ or sittin’, do you know? To tell you the God’s truth I was fallin’ all over the place. So were the other lads—walkin’ and crawlin’ on top of each other, every man as dry as a brick with his tongue swollen out in his parched mouth half-chokin’ him. And the thirst! THE THIRST!
(He passes his hand in a crazed way over his face and head. PETER and JEM give loud audible gulps. MR. C. then takes up his drink and takes a long appreciative draught.)
MR. C.: I’ll tell you how I knew I was fallin’ down in the sand. I began to suffer the agonies of the damned from me nails. I got some very fine red hot sand under them. Me nails started to singe and burn and get thin and broken at the edges.
(Here the SERGEANT hastily puts the nails of his right hand in his mouth.)
MR. C.: Me nails began to crack. I tried to put them into me mouth but there was no room, me mouth was stuffed tight with the dry swollen tongue. By this time the rubber was nearly all gone of the shoes and I was practically walkin’ in me bare feet with the red hot sand in under me toe-nails and makin’ a flitters of me feet.
JEM: Begob you were in right order there, why didn’t you turn the rifle round and give yourself a bullet in the head, sure any life would be better than that.
(MR. C. buries his face in his hands. He has apparently reached the worst part of his recollection and can scarcely bring himself to talk about it. There is a pause. Then MR. C. continues in an almost wailing voice.)
MR. C.: But the torture we got from the nails and feet was nothing. Nothing, nothing, NOTHING. It was the thirst, man alive, the thirst, THE THIRST!
JEM: The thirst is a thing that troubles us all. Every wan of us. (He gulps audibly.)
MR. C.: From falling about in the sand we all began to get a layer of fine sand on the tongue and the roof of the mouth and half-way down the neck. And the thirst that began to rise in me was something too desperate to talk about.
PETER: Dear, dear, dear. (He gulps.)
(Here the SERGEANT again stirs uneasily and steals a side-long glance at the bottle of stout. He is weakening.)
MR. C.: (Lost in recollection.) Of course by this time I was half off me head. I was driven crazy with the thirst and the sand and the heat. Nothing would do me but start thinkin’ to meself about all the nice long cool drinks I could have—buttermilk and iced water and beer—not glasses or jugs of it but buckets and buckets, big baths and tanks full of it. I pictured to meself a big river of beer coming out of a hole in the wall and me runnin’ up and putting me head under it, getting it all over me face and neck, swallyin’ away like hell at it for hours and lettin’ it run down me neck and clothes to wash away all the grit and sand and thirst and let it soak in under me nails until I was all like a bit of blottin’-paper—rotten with beer—rotten and soaked with beer through and through, and THROUGH roarin’ mad and drenched to the skin and under it with beer.
(Here JEM and PETER take long gulps. The SERGEANT has at last turned fully round to look MR. C. in the face. He is unnerved.)
MR. C.: (Resuming.) I could see in me minds eye the big vat above in Guinness’s and meself divin’ into it with the mouth open and swallyin’ . . . swallyin’ . . . swallyin’ . . . swallyin’ away for hours, lettin’ the brown porter run down me neck until I was fit to burst. . . . Until I was nearly dead from drinkin’ the lovely wet, cold, brown, lovely porter!
(Here the SERGEANT makes a loud incoherent noise, turns slowly and deliberately, lifts the glass of stout that is beside him and drinks it off in one long appreciative draught. The others look on in complete silence. He looks at the empty glass, puts it down smartly, on the counter and waves at MR. C. to convey that a fresh round should be served. Then he wipes his mouth carefully with the back of his hand.)
SERGEANT: Does anybody mind if I sing “The Rose of Tralee”?
(They all sing.)
RHAPSODY IN
STEPHEN’S GREEN:
THE INSECT PLAY
Characters in the play
Rhapsody in Stephen’s Green was first performed (as The Insect Play) by the Gate Theatre Company at the Gaiety Theatre, Dublin, on 22 March 1943. The cast was as follows:
THE TRAMP
Rob
ert Hennessy
A LADY IN GREEN
Rosalind Halligan
Tony Mathews, Teddy Lucas,
Eileen Ashe, Collette Redmond,
CHILDREN
Ita McManus, Deirdre King,
Dolores Lucas, Peggy Kennedy,
Maeve Kennedy
A GIRL STUDENT
Patricia Kennedy
A YOUNG MAN
James Neylin
A VISITOR
Liam Gaffney
THE KEEPER
William Fassbender
THE DRONE BEE
Stephen King
BASIL BEE
Cecil Monson
CECIL BEE
Norman Barrs
CYRIL BEE
Antony Walsh
A YOUNG BEE
Robert Dawson
HER MAJESTY QUEEN BEE
Betty Chancellor
A DUCKLING
Alexis Milne
THE VOICE OF THE EGG
Jean St Clair
THE DUCK
P. P. Maguire
MR. BEETLE
William Fassbender
MRS. BEETLE
Sally Travers
A STRANGE BEETLE
Tyrell Pine
MR. CRICKET
J. Winter
MRS. CRICKET
Meriel Moore
A PARASITE
Liam Gaffney
A BLIND ANT
William Fassbender
THE CHIEF ENGINEER ANT
J. Winter
THE 2ND ENGINEER ANT
Sean Colleary
THE POLITICIAN ANT
Antony Walsh
A MESSENGER ANT
Liam Gaffney
A CROSS-CHANNEL ANT
Norman Barrs
SLATTERY
Val Iremonger
GREEN ANTS, RED ANTS, ORANGE ANTS,
ANTS OF THE GAEL AND ANTS OF THE PALE.
Directed and Produced by Hilton Edwards
Settings by Molly MacEwen
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?
Flann O'Brien: Plays and Teleplays Page 12
