Flann O'Brien: Plays and Teleplays

  THE HANDSOME

  CARVERS

  A Tragedy in Two Acts

  ACT I

  A mean room, everything pawned save the barest necessities. The curtain has gone up in the middle of a frightful row between a man and his wife. The wife, poorly dressed, is crouched over the fire, sobbing savagely. The husband, wild-eyed, drunk, is ranging around the room like a caged beast. There is terrific tension. After a moment the wife lifts her head and emits a shrill hysterical taunt—“There’s a couple of wedding presents left—why don’t you pawn them too?”

  The husband gives a wild-beast’s cry and goes off his head completely. He rushes off to a drawer, yanks it open and pulls out a black flat case of cutlery. This he tears open and out of it produces a large gleaming carving knife. The wife screams and stands up in fright. He rushes at her, brandishing the knife. There is a brief chase round the table. He eventually corners her and poses the knife to strike. There is a terrible scream, black-out and curtain.

  ACT II

  As quickly as possible.

  Upstairs in a cheap hotel. Present is a mob of civil servants, all chattering and drinking. A greasy waiter is endlessly pulling bottles of stout in a corner. There are cries of “Ordher, ordher!” and the crowd quietens down expectantly. A card-table is placed in the foreground; on it is a flat black case of cutlery. The husband of the previous scene, looking younger and cleaner, is observed coming shyly forward towards one side of the card-table. Two pompous gentlemen come forward to the other side of the table amid renewed cries of “Ordher now, ordher, plea-ez!” The first GENTLEMAN begins to speak in the absurdly stilted and remote jargon of such occasions. Preferably give him a strong Cork accent.

  GENTLEMAN: Mister Dunleary it is my pleasure . . . and my privilege . . . to welcome you amongst us here to-night . . . in order . . . to present to you here tonight . . . on behalf of myself and my colleagues . . . a small token of our esteem on the happy and felicitous occasion of your marriage. Marriage is a thing . . . that comes to each man late or soon! (Laughter.) I think I voice the sentiments . . . of all present . . . when I say that one and all we congratulate you on entering the married state and . . . one and all . . . we offer you our sincerest and most hearty congratulations and no less do we extend our felicitations to the good lady you have invited to become your wife, “In sickness and health, till death do us part.” (“Hear, hear!”) Your colleagues have always found you, Mr. Dunleary, a most courteous . . . and considerate . . . and . . . gentlemanly colleague . . . and it gives them great pleasure . . . and it gives ME great pleasure . . . to present to you here tonight this small token of our esteem and respect. It is our hope . . . and prayer . . . that yourself and your good lady will enjoy long years of happiness . . . and that this little present will sometimes remind you of the colleagues that know you and wish you well.

  (Loud cries of “Hear, hear!” He lifts the case of cutlery and presents it with great formality: it is likewise received. The SECOND GENTLEMAN then adopts a rhetorical attitude and speaks in a loud, toneless voice, flat Dublin accent.)

  SECOND GENTLEMAN: Mr. Dunleary, Mr. Chairman and friends, I beg to associate meself with this very happy . . . and auspicious . . . occasion. I speak on behalf of the rank and file and wan an’ all I have no hesitation in expressing the happiness we all feel . . . here tonight . . . in being associated with this auspicious occasion. (Loud applause.) Mr. Dunleary is . . . in my humble opinion . . . A GREAT GENTLEMAN. Mr. Dunleary—I won’t call him Peter, that wouldn’t be in ordher at all (Laughter.)—Mr. Dunleary is A WHITE MAN. (“Hear hear!”) And I’ll tell yez a little story to prove me point. It’s about Mr. Dunleary and me humble self. Last year, God help us all, I was marked late eighteen times. No fault of mine, of course—the bus was always behind time. (Loud laughter.) I got a letter saying to attend before my superior officer Mr. Dunleary . . . and furnish me explanations. (Laughter.) Begob I got into a terrible sweat. That letter put the heart across me! (Laughter.) Next day I went up to Mr. Dunleary’s door, the knees knockin’ like hell, certain sure I was goin’ to have the face chawed off me. In I goes. Your man is sittin’ in the chair. Take a seat, says he. Then he begins to have a screw at the personal papers. (He gestures.) Begob, I got into a desperate sweat. Then he looks up. Seán, says he, what happened you? (He pauses impressively.) Seán, says he, what happened you? (There is applause and great approval.) And that’s all I have to say tonight about Mr. Dunleary. The blessins’ of God on him—he’s a decent man.

  (There is renewed applause. Mr. DUNLEARY then replies in a prim “cultured” voice.)

  DUNLEARY: Gentlemen, I can scarcely convey to you how touched I am by your kindly and generous gesture, and how much I appreciate the gift of these handsome carvers. I will cherish them so long as I live and so will my wife. Thank you all, very VERY much indeed.

  I have a slight confession to make. To-night is memorable for another reason. Gentleman, to-night I had my first glass of whiskey. It was stood to me by your good Chairman here. I fear I have missed a lot in life up to now. I propose to have another one right now!

  (There is very loud applause and the swaying figures in the background burst into “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”)

  CURTAIN

  A MOVING TALE:

  A DUBLIN

  HALLUCINATION

  Characters in the play

  THE MAN

  He is cranky, rather a humbug, but his accent is neutral.

  THE WIFE

  Vulgar, hectoring loud voice, obviously the boss.

  AGENT

  An appalling savage with the flattest of Dublin accents, a depraved gurrier.

  TYPIST

  Minor character, shrill and overbearing.

  Snatch of air on the piano, one minute.

  THE MAN: Well now . . . I’ve got to be a bit of a philosopher. Sure we all have to be that these days. We have to learn to take things as they come, cut out worrying so much as possible else the nerves will give. Life is just one crisis after another, every one of them full of danger. I seen strong men going to the wall just because they couldn’t relax. The trouble was they never trained themselves to it and the whole central nervous system came down on top of them like a ton of bricks. Sure isn’t birth, marriage and death—everyone one of them, a crisis in itself. And don’t the whole three of them lend to trouble one way or another.

  Trouble? Yes. I came to a new and vexatious cross-roads recently, and cross-roads is right! You will know what I mean when I say that I was for moving house and it was a question of getting the furniture and stuff shifted from one house to another. People have all sorts of reasons for moving. It might be due to a natural growth in the family, or a terrible looderamawn of a neighbour next door, or (chuckles) it might be an all-out attempt to shift the wife’s mother, who came for a fortnight’s visit in 1928.

  Do you know, it’s only on moving house that a man gets to know all the unbelievable assortment of stuff that he has amassed unbeknownst to himself. I’m thinking of that stuff under the stairs. Where did I get that Victorian skirt reinforced by wires, a sort of a crinoline? And the broken jack-in-the-box? The two stout bottles full of cobwebs with a label that says they were bought in Swanlinbar in 1931. The rusty lawn-mower with the shaft missing? Then the machine. It is some class of an electrical thing with a half-rotten flex ending in a plug to shove into the wall, several gauges and switches and a big wheel at the top. What’s it for? Who owns it and why is it there? I’ll tell you this—I wouldn’t plug that thing in for a million pounds. That’s a lot of money but not enough to be blun up for. There’s a lot of other rubbish all over the house I won’t bother telling about except that I don’t know where it came from or what some of it is for at all.

  The first thing was to contact a party that moves furniture. A pal had given me a certain name and address and said this crowd was very good. I won’t say more than that, for the head-buck-cat might be listening in. I just put on me hat one morning and made for that
office.

  (Brief passage from same air on piano.)

  Tell you the truth, this building up a side street wasn’t exactly luxurious. My man was on the second floor and the dark stairs up there was a divil. But at the heel of the climb I came to a door marked ENQUIRIES and knocked.

  (Knocking noise.)

  I walked in. There was a class of a young banshee sitting there at a typewriter and smoking a fag.

  TYPIST: (Shrill, loud voice.)—What is it? Are ya lookin’ for somebody?

  THE MAN: Well, yes: his Nibs.

  TYPIST: What? Do you mean Mr. Cooley?

  THE MAN: I suppose so.

  TYPIST: He’s very busy inside. He has me nearly druv mad with his letters. What do you want with him? Are you from the printers? You won’t be paid till next week.

  THE MAN: I . . . I’m not from any printers. I wanted to see him about moving furniture.

  TYPIST: Have you an appointment?

  THE MAN: No. I just called.

  TYPIST: That’s a nice way to do business. I told you he is up to his ears. (Rises.) But I’ll see. WOULD YOU MIND YOUR CIGARETTE ASH! That’s a carpet under you!

  (Fade out. Another brief passage on piano. Then THE MAN is seen approaching a desk at which a ruffianly-looking fat man, the AGENT, is seated and on telephone. THE MAN seats himself nervously.)

  AGENT: (To telephone.) For the last time I’m telling you we did NOT break the blooming mirror. There was damn-all glass in it when we got it. WE’RE a very careful crowd in this business. What? An action for DAMAGES? Hah? NEGLIGENCE? WELL that’s a good wan. That’s very good sairtintly. You ask us to shift a houseful of junk and then say we broke it? I wouldn’t give ya two pounds five for the whole load—for it’s nothing oney a jungle of woodworm and fungus. And do you know what I’m goin to tell ya, ma good woman. That so-called house of yours is held together oney be the wall-paper. We took our lives in our hands going into it at all. Good day to ya. GOO DAY!

  (Bashes down receiver and turns to THE MAN, scowling.)

  AGENT: Do you know what I am? A holy martyr. Them tramps and tinkers with their dirty wardrobes and bockety chairs, their crazy beds with mattresses full of fleas and mice—they’d drive a man out of his right mind.

  THE MAN: Well yes, I suppose you meet all sorts of people in this business.

  AGENT: (Ferociously.) I meet oney wan sort and they’re all the wrong sort. Sure this country is on its last legs, man. You meet nothing now but hop-off-me-thumbs and fly-be-nights. Fellas without a decent shirt to their back but putting on the airs of Lord Muck. And they won’t work if you paid them.

  THE MAN: Em, yes . . . it’s difficult.

  AGENT: Well, what’s on your mind now? Don’t tell me you’re looking for a job because there’s no chance of that at all. This firm is nearly down the Swannee between rates and tax and gurriers that won’t pay their bills. I’m near crazy with worry—do you know that?

  THE MAN: No, no, I don’t want a job. I have one, thanks. I wanted to arrange about moving house.

  AGENT: The WHO? Moving house?

  THE MAN: Yes. Getting the furniture shifted.

  AGENT: I see. Well, me poor bucko, I can oney say I’m very sorry.

  THE MAN: Sorry? Why? I thought you were in that business?

  AGENT: Sairtainly I am. We can shift anybody’s sticks of furniture anyway. I oney meant it’s a bit tough on yerself. But shure we all have our ups and downs in this Vale of tears.

  THE MAN: (Nettled.) What do you mean, sir?

  AGENT: (Unheeding.) Scaling things down, ah? And I suppose the old job has gone for its tea. Ah musha musha.

  THE MAN: (Angry.) What the devil are you talking about? I told you I had a job and a good one.

  AGENT: (Paying no attention.) I have them in here every day, man. DRINK! The number of decent men destroyed be drink in this country is . . . stupendious. It is drink, drink, drink night and day. Home, family and religion—all thrun away. The poor babbies roarin their heads off them and not a cup of soup in the skillet for them. And you call this a Christian country?

  THE MAN: (Heatedly.) I didn’t call this country anything. I called here on business.

  AGENT: Ah yes. Write your name and address on that sheet. If that crowd, the Irish people, could keep many away from the booze, they’s all be sitting on the golden thrones, men. But no. It’s drink and then more drink.

  THE MAN: (Frigidly.) If you refer to intoxicants I may say I never touch them. I happen to be a total abstainer since I was a boy.

  AGENT: (Low, menacing voice.) But there’s wan thing worse than drink. Ten thousand times worse. WOMEN!

  THE MAN: That may be true but I may say that I have been happily married for twenty-five years.

  AGENT: I have them in here every day. And the married man is the worst. Good lord! Some of the stories I’ve heard would frighten you—FRIGHTEN YOU. Home, faith, fatherland, the sweet vows taken at the th’altar, all gone bang. Baldy-headed oul fellas with ten children stuffed into wan room in the slums traipsin into them lounge bars with some low hawsie on th’arm, or a bold, ugly strap of a farmer’s daughter.

  THE MAN: I happen to be married to a farmer’s daughter, and she is not a bold, ugly strap.

  AGENT: And there’s another thing. The children is neglected, all covered with skin diseases and scabs. Never a dacent hot meal, dressed in rags and out all day robbin orchards.

  THE MAN: I called here to arrange for the removal of my furniture. (Loudly.) My furniture, do you hear?

  AGENT: And then you have them ruffians spending a fortune on the dirty Sunda papers.

  THE MAN: (Desperately.) Can you PLEASE talk about my furniture and give me a price?

  AGENT: Ah yes, there sairtainly are more queer hawks in this world. Your furniture? Hm, Yes, I couldn’t give you a price until I run me eye over the stuff. Where are you moving to?

  THE MAN: Up to Swanlinbar.

  AGENT: Holy Moses! Well, would it be O.K. if I called to your house tomorrow morning at half ten?

  THE MAN: Yes, that would suit.

  AGENT: It shall be done accordingly, as the man said.

  (Another brief piano excerpt. Then very loud, violent hammering on the door is heard.)

  THE MAN: (To himself.) Heavens, here he is. The Inspector-General has arrived. (Opens door.)

  AGENT: Ah here we are again! Good morra to you. How are ya this morning?

  THE MAN: Very well, thanks.

  AGENT: You look a bit pale around the gills. I’m telling you now—there’s nothing like a quiet life. Into bed at half-nine is my motto. I’d better throw off this coat and hat.

  THE MAN: Oh! Do you expect to be long?

  AGENT: Ah no. I’ll just stick these things on the peg.

  THE MAN: What peg?

  AGENT: The rack, I mean.

  THE MAN: For your information, that is a hall-stand. It is an antique and a family heirloom. Oblige me by not calling it a peg or a rack. On the under side of the drawer there in the middle you can clearly make out the word Stradivarius.

  AGENT: Well, aren’t there pegs on a fiddle?

  (Roars laughing at own joke.)

  THE MAN: Well, let’s look about.

  AGENT: I suppose you’re for selling this place. If I were you, I wouldn’t touch that line here in the hall. Bad and all as it is, it hides the boards. They’re sure to be crawling with woodworm. Buyers are cuter than you think.

  THE MAN: That lino’s nearly new.

  AGENT: Yes, but’s what is it made of? Let’s have a look at this room. (Raises voice in alarm.) Oh the Lord save us, what is that?

  THE MAN: You mean with the four legs?

  AGENT: Yes, just there in the centre.

  THE MAN: It is supposed to be a table.

  AGENT: Do you tell me? Well, me good man, I’d rather your dinner on it than mine. Is them stunted things chairs?

  THE MAN: They are, period chairs. Hepplewhite, I think. Hullo! There’s the hall door. That’ll be the lady of the house.


  AGENT: Well now, begob! Are ya married to her or is this another graw-machree-mo-colleen-dhas business?

  THE WIFE: (Calling distantly.) Hello! Anybody home? Hello. (Noisy footsteps as she comes in.) Well now. Who is this man, Aloysius? Is this the Sweep?

  THE MAN: No, no.

  AGENT: That thing you think is a brush is oney me moustache, ma’am. (Laughs uproariously.)

  THE MAN: He’s seeing about shifting the furniture dear. Just having a look round.

  THE WIFE: I don’t know what your name is but you seem to have a right sup of drink in your craw. You’re like a lot more. Don’t let me catch you putting your hands on my china.

  AGENT: If it’s any smell you’re goin by, Ma’am it could be off more than me and that’s a bloomin fact, faith.

  THE WIFE: The cheek of you!

  THE MAN: For heaven’s sake let’s get on with this inspection. Come on in here. Never mind that yellow wall-paper—it was here when we came twelve years ago.

  AGENT: These walls is all weepin.

  THE WIFE: Never you mind the walls. We don’t intend to bring the walls with us.

  AGENT: Be the dad then and I might get a right dose of plerrissy if I stopped long here. There’s fumes comin from that corner. I suppose you’ve a lot of old papers in that press?

  THE MAN: Press? That’s an antique, chased, mahogany sideboard.

  AGENT: Chased! Ha-ha-ha, over walls and ditches and you caught it at last, ah?

  THE WIFE: You said there were fumes from that corner. By the living godfathers there’s fumes coming from somewhere else fit to knock a person down. You would think we were all standing in a brewery.