Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) (28 page)

PEIG:
But look at Paul. Paul has a pencil.

TADHG:
(
Screaming.
) SHUT UP!

PEIG:
I’ll speak however I like.

TADHG:
(
Pacing furiously.
) God give me patience. God give me patience. May he give me help tonight!

PEIG:
And strong tea whenever you would like some, sir.

TADHG:
(
Lowly, tormented.
) And may he put a restraint on that woman’s tongue!

PEIG:
Huh!

(
There is a short blackout.
)

TADHG:
(
Loudly and angrily once more.
) I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. YOU MUST RESIGN FROM GLÚN NA BUAID-HE IMMEDIATELY. You hear me? Resign from it—NOW! I’m in charge of this house, and I will decide what goes on in it. Not one more eejit from that crowd will enter this house from now on—EVER!

PEIG:
Speak up a little bit, darling.

TADHG:
And if I find any one of them here, I’ll kill him.

PEIG:
You? You couldn’t frighten the cat. Ho, ho, ho. Fee fi fo fum!

TADHG:
I’LL KILL HIM, I’m telling you!

PEIG:
With the help of God, there’ll be a committee meeting of Glún na Buaidhe here in this room on Thursday. I’ll be in charge, AND TO HELL WITH YOU!

TADHG:
If you have anything more to do with that crowd, I’ll clear you out of this house, OUT THE DOOR WITH YOU!

PEIG:
(
Sweetly.
) And what about Ailtirí na hAiséirghe?

TADHG:
(
Putting on a show of astonishment.
) And what’s out-of-order with Ailtirí na hAiséirghe, if you please? WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE AILTIRÍ?

PEIG:
Wrong? What’s right with them?

TADHG:
Aren’t they reviving the Irish language, saving the country, bringing back the old Gaelic spirit? Haven’t they declared war on Fianna Fáil?

PEIG:
Don’t Glún na Buaidhe have a plan to revive Irish as a spoken language within ten years? Wasn’t it Glún na Buaidhe that taught those West Brits in Radio Éireann a lesson? WASN’T IT GLÚN NA BUAIDHE THAT INVENTED AILTIRÍ NA HAISÉIRGHE?

TADHG:
(
Anger rising.
) That invented Ailtirí na hAiséirghe! INVENTED them!!! God preserve us! God save us tonight!

PEIG:
Yeah, invented them . . . and may God forgive them for it.

TADHG:
Glún na Buaidhe, is it? Those . . . those . . . soft . . . malicious little con-men! Those children! Those . . . those thieving, insignificant eejits!

PEIG:
Oh? And what are the Ailtirí, then?

TADHG:
SOLDIERS!

PEIG:
Tin soldiers. UP GLÚN NA BUAIDHE!

TADHG:
To the Devil with Glún na Buaidhe! To Hell with Glún na Buaidhe! The Ailtirí are the only ones who are doing anything in this country! The Ailtirí are the only ones who have done anything! Éire is finally awakening, and it’s the Ailtirí that are responsible! THE AILTIRÍ ALONE ARE RESPONSIBLE! UP AILTIRÍ NA HAISÉIRGHE!

PEIG:
(
Letting out a great big laugh.
) That fine talk of yours isn’t all lies—I know one little Ailtire who wakes me up plenty.

TADHG:
(
Angrily.
) If you don’t believe that the Ailtirí are knuckling down to work instead of talking and blathering, look at this. . . .

(
He takes the Aiséirghe newspaper out of his pocket and shoves it under his wife’s nose.
)

TADHG:
Read that there . . . and this bit down here . . . and the dynamic, manly section on page two.

PEIG:
(
Reluctantly taking the paper.
) I’ve no interest in nonsense. Don’t tell me you BOUGHT this thing?

TADHG:
Bought it? I WROTE most of it. Look at page three! Look at the ANGER in the poetry! Red, thunderous anger, I’m telling you!

PEIG:
Ho! Anger, is it? Anger?

(
She stands, opens her bag, takes out a copy of Indiu, the magazine of Glún na Buaidhe, opens it and places it angrily in her husband’s hands.
)

PEIG:
Anger, is it? If it’s anger you want, read what’s on the front page there. You’ve never read the like of it. Just read that bit there. Are you blind . . . or deaf? READ IT, I SAID!

TADHG:
(
Throwing the paper on the floor.
) I will not! I won’t cast my eyes on one word of that putrid filth . . . AND DON’T YOU EVER BRING THE LIKES OF THAT INTO THIS HOUSE AGAIN!

PEIG:
And what about filth like this? (
She takes Aiséirghe and throws it on the floor.
) What about that? And young children in the house! HAVE YOU NO SHAME?

TADHG:
(
Enraged.
) Listen! LISTEN! I’ve said all this before, but I’ll say it to you again. Quit Glún na Buaidhe immediately—IMMEDIATELY, I say! If the name of that gang is heard in this house ever again . . .

PEIG:
Oh, shut up for the love of God. . . .

TADHG:
(
Raising his voice.
) If the name of that gang is heard even once in this house ever again . . . (
He clenches his fist.
) if the name of that gang is heard in this house ever again . . . well . . . I won’t be held responsible. I WON’T BE HELD RESPONSIBLE.

(
His bearing is growing more demented, the eyes are growing wilder, etc.
)

PEIG:
(
Wildly.
) I’ll NEVER leave Glún na Buaidhe! NEVER, do you hear me. Glún na Buaidhe forever! My curse upon anyone who insults them! My curses sevenfold upon those who are not members! One more thing—there will be a committee meeting Thursday, here, IN THIS ROOM!

TADHG:
(
Quietly, through his teeth.
) No, there won’t.

PEIG:
This coming Thursday, at half-past seven.

TADHG:
No, there won’t.

PEIG:
Half-past seven, new time.

TADHG:
(
In a horrible scream.
) THERE WON’T, I TELL YOU! THERE WON’T, THERE WON’T, THERE WON’T!

(
He is out of his mind now; he runs around the room, and pulls a big black box into view; he breaks it open and out fall a big knife and a carving-fork; he takes the knife and goes after the wife. A lot of “business” here—screaming, chasing, etc. He grabs a hold of her and thrusts the knife into her back
.)

(
There is a long pause after Peig has been rendered peaceable and dead. Tadhg stands there looking at what he has done, wearing a stupid, lost expression. Eventually he stirs and picks the black box off the floor; it is clear that there is a piece of paper stuck to the back of the box, with writing on it; he starts to read it aloud, his voice slow and ghostly.
)

TADHG:
From the Central Branch of the Gaelic League to Mister Tadhg Mac Phearsan, address. Tadhg, my friend, exalted hero of the Irish language.

We, by which I mean the President, Vice-President and Deputy Vice-President of the Central Branch, together with all the members named herein, would like to wish you good health and long life as you leave the branch secretariat on your wedding day. We would like to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for the hard, invaluable work you have done as leader of the branch secretariat in the cause of the sweet mother-tongue of the Gaels. It is our unanimous opinion that. . . .

(
He stops and lifts his head; his appearance is tormented, gloomy, introspective; he speaks, more or less to himself.
)

TADHG:
Is é ár tuairim [‘It is our opinion’]? Is é ár tuairim? Mmmmm. Is é ár tuairim? I don’t think that’s right. Is í ár tuairim? Yes. Is í ár tuairim . . .
¹

(
He turns back to the reading.
)

TADHG:
It is our opinion that not only are this branch and the entire Gaelic League indebted to you, but the whole of Ireland as well, and every Irishman and Irishwoman dead or alive.

In addition, we would like you to accept from us, on the wonderful occasion of your marriage, this carving fork and knife as a sign of the respect in which we hold you, a trifling gift to always remind you, and the noble woman you have taken, that we wish you both nothing but happiness, comfort and long-life. . . .

(
He moves his eyes slowly from the note to the body of his wife.
)

CURTAIN

1
Note from the translator: All nouns have a gender in the Irish language, and ‘tuairim,’ meaning ‘opinion,’ is feminine. Still, the masculine third-person singular pronoun “é” is so prevalent that it is sometimes mistakenly used by default, as it is in this case. “Is í ár tuairim” literally means, “She is our opinion that . . .” There is no neuter “it” in Irish Gaelic.

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.
)