(_As almost any modern Irishman would have written it_)
(_The circumlocution of the play--there is no action--takes place I
don’t know where and I can’t think when. But the scene is the corner
of the village square. Mrs. Joner is discovered sitting in front of
her house, knitting, washing socks, or perhaps just thinking. In the
distance can be seen the figure of a male statue, very new, with a long
inscription on the pedestal. Timothy James O’Leary walks by, gazing at
the statue._)
_T.J._ Good day to you, Bridget Ellen Joner. And it’s many’s the day
since I was seeing you. (_With a jerk of his head._) And isn’t it the
fine statue you have on himself there?
_Mrs. J._ It is so. Though, indeed, it is like no husband I ever
had--or ever will have, I’m hoping.
_T.J._ It is not--and why would it be? Who wants likenesses in a statue
when they have all that writing and printing below to tell who it is
above--(_piously_)--“Michael Flannigan Joner, that gave his life for
his fellow-travelers”?
_Mrs. J._ Aye, it was the only time he ever gave anything away in his
life, to my knowing, unless it would be them sermons and prophecies
that he would be handing to the folk in the public street, and none
wanting them any more than the cows in the bog.
_T. J._ Ah, it was a queer thing entirely! Have you heard any more now
what was the way of it, for I am not understanding how it was at all.
_Mrs. J._ It was the sailors of the ship that did be saying they would
sail the ship no longer when they found that himself was in the Post
Office, and him travelling for the Government. And there was a great
storm and the ship was tossing the way you wouldn’t know was she a
ship at all, or a cork that a boy throws in the water out of a bottle;
and the sailors said it was the English Government--and why would it
not be?--and they cried out against himself and said it was having the
ship sunk on them he would be, and he rose up out of his bed and “Is it
sinking the ship I would be?” he said, and he threw himself over the
side into the water--and that was the way of it.
_T. J._ (_reflectively_). And him with the rheumatics--God rest his
soul! And have you any pension taken from the Government?
_Mrs. J._ I have so. And it’s worth more to me he is now he’s dead than
ever he was when he was alive with all his praying and preaching and
prophesying----
_T. J._ Maybe it’s thinking of marrying again you might be?
_Mrs. J._ And how would I be marrying again, Timothy James, and I a
lone widow woman with no money to pay for the roof over my head--let
alone weddings?
_T. J._ And why would you not be? Sure, you have the pension for
himself, and what better use can a woman find for a pension that is for
her man that is dead than to get another that is alive and well?
_Mrs. J._ Will you tell me now where I would find a husband that would
be the equal of a man who gave his life for his fellow-travellers--and
him with the rheumatics?
_T. J._ Sure, it’s the grand position you have entirely now, and every
man and woman in the whole country-side scheming and scraping to give a
few pennies to the collection for the statue, and the Lord-Lieutenant
himself coming down for the unveiling--and it’s difficult it would
be to find a man that was fine enough to marry you at all--but--but
(_looking round_) don’t I know the very man for you?
_Mrs. J._ And who might that be, for goodness sake?
_T. J._ (_confidentially_). Come within now and I’ll tell you. I’d be
fearful here that one of the lads would maybe hear me.
(_They go into the house._)
(_A man strolls along the road, looking about him with keen
interest; he is wild and mysterious of aspect, with shaggy hair and
travel-stained, untidy clothes. He stops with a start in front of
the statue and gazes at it with amazement; then he slowly reads the
inscription._)
_Mr. J._ “Michael Flannigan Joner, who gave his life for his
fellow-travellers.” (_In stupefaction._) Glory be to God! (_Turning to
the house._) Bridget Ellen--are you within there? (_He turns and gazes
at the statue again._)
(_There is a sound of laughter in the house. Mrs. J. and Timothy J.
come out, arm-in-arm and affectionate; they see the man and stop dead
in the doorway._)
_T. J._ Glory be to God!
_Mrs. J._ The Saints preserve us!
_T. J._ If it isn’t Michael Joner himself!
_Mr. J._ It is so (_pointing indignantly_). And what call had you to
make a graven image of him in the public street the like of the Kings
of England or Parnell himself?
_Mrs. J._ And what call had you to come back from the dead without a
word of warning and I after promising myself to a better man?
_Mr. J._ (_still full of statue_). “Gave his life for his
fellow-trav----” And is it mad you all are?
_Mrs. J._ Then you did not do so? (_To T. J._) Wasn’t I telling you?
_Mr. J._ I did not indeed. And why would I--the low heathen--and I that
had my fare paid to Tarshish?
_Mrs. J._ and _T. J. raise their eyebrows at this suspicious utterance._
_Mrs. J._ Tarshish! Sure it’s drunk he is!... Then how came you
lepping into the water like a young dog or a boy that does be diving in
the hot weather, and you with----
_Mr. J._ It was not lepping I was nor diving neither, but it’s thrown
in I was by a lot of heathen sailors because I was after prophesying
the wrath of the Lord upon them----
_Mrs. J._ Didn’t I tell you now that no good would come of the
prophesying, and you that was brought up a decent lad by your own
father in Kilbay?
_T. J._ And what happened to you when you were thrown in at all?
_Mr. J._ Sure, I was swallowed by a great whale, and the Lord said to
the whale----
_T. J._ Holy Mother! It’s mad he is and not drunk at all!
_Mr. J._ It is not mad I am nor drunk either. Wasn’t I three days and
three nights in the belly of the whale, and the sea roaring without,
the same as a man would lie in his warm bed and it raining----
_Mrs. J._ Three days and three nights!--and isn’t it nine months since
you lepped out of the ship? Will you tell me now where you have been in
the meanwhile and what you were doing at all?
_Mr. J._ Sure the Lord spoke to the whale, and the whale threw me up on
the dry land----
_Mrs. J._ (_suspicious soul_). And where would that be now?
_Mr. J._ Sure I don’t know now----
_Mrs. J._ I should think not indeed----
_Mr. J._ --but it was a small little island and devil a ship came there
at all to take me away----
_Mrs. J._ (_to T. J., lifting her hands_). Did you ever hear the like
of that? And were there any fine young ladies or mermaids maybe on that
same small little island?
_Mr. J._ There were not then--nor statues either.
_T. J._ (_humouring him_). And what might ye be doing while you were in
the belly of the whale, Michael Flannigan?
_Mr. J._ And why wouldn’t I be prophesying and praying unto the Lord,
the way he would calm the whale, and it roaring and lepping in the sea
like a trout that has the hook swallowed, and it tickling...?
_Mrs. J._ It’s well you might be praying unto the Lord, Michael
Flannigan, for it’s a queer thing entirely if a lone widow woman can
no more be left in peace without her man coming back from the dead to
frighten her out of her wits with whales and the like, the way she
would be the laughing stock of the whole country-side! And it’s devil
a penny will I have from the Government now seeing you are alive again
and not dead at all.
_T. J._ It’s a true word, Michael Flannigan, and it’s queer uneasy I am
myself that had set my heart on marrying your own wife.
_Mrs. J._ And will you tell me now what will we be after doing with the
grand statue we have put up on you, Michael Flannigan, and it’s myself
that has the flesh worn from my fingers with working to put a few
shillings together to pay for it?
_Mr. J._ (_infuriated_). Is it I that was asking for a statue at all?
(_He regards it._) But sure it is a fine thing entirely--and why would
it not stay where it is?
_Mrs. J._ And the whole world coming here by the train to make a mock
of me, the way they would be seeing the statue of the man who “gave his
life for his fellow-travellers,” and him sleeping in his own bed all
the time like a common man!
_Mr. J._ Common, is it? Is it _every_ day you have a man coming from
the dead that was three days and three nights in the belly of a whale?
_Mrs. J._ It is not--thanks be to God!
_T. J._ What ails you now, Bridget Ellen! Why wouldn’t we be altering
the writing that is below the statue and write down this story about
the whale, or any other fairy-story that he might be thinking of in the
night and him lying awake--for sure it is a grand story and I wouldn’t
wonder would the folk be travelling out from the big towns to see the
man that was in the belly of a whale, when they wouldn’t walk across
the road to see a man that gave his life for his fellow-travellers, and
they English as like as not.
_Mrs. J._ It’s little the money I’ll be getting out of that, I’m
thinking.
_T. J._ And why will you not? It could be that them music-halls in
the big towns and the theayters themselves would pay money to Michael
Flannigan for no more than walking on the stage and telling the people
what went on while he was in the whale--the same as they would for a
cow that has five legs or the smallest woman in the world. Sure, didn’t
they give Peter O’Flaherty three pounds for the loan of his duck that
had no legs at all?
_Mrs. J._ It could be that they might, Timothy James.
_Mr. J._ There is money in them whales, ’tis true, and they full of
whalebone, the same as the fine ladies do use in Dublin for their dress
and all. And when I was smoking my tobacco-pipe in the whale, the oil
did be running down the inside of the creature the way I was afeered he
would take fire and the two of us be destroyed altogether.
_T. J._ (_admiringly_). Did you ever hear the like of that? There’s
them at the theayters that would pay you a mint of money for that same
story, Michael Flannigan!
_Mr. J._ They might so.
_T. J._ But tell me now, Michael Flannigan, is it the truth or no that
them whales have the queer small throats on them, the way they couldn’t
swallow a little whiting, let alone a big man? It could be that one
of them writing fellows would rise up in the theayter and say there
was no man yet was swallowed by a whale, nor will be neither, because
of the queer small throat they have on them! How would it be if you
were to give it out that you were swallowed by a _big fish_, the way
the ignorant folk would guess it was a whale and the people that do
understand whales wouldn’t be able to say you were telling a lie?
_Mr. J._ ’Tis a great head you have on you, Timothy James, and it’s
sorry I am it was myself was in the whale and not you.
_T. J._ Faith, ’tis glad I am I was never in a whale, for they do say
they belong to the English King, the creatures, and God knows what may
come of the like of that!
_Mr. J._ Is it the King of England’s they are? Then, Glory be to God,
I’ll have no more to do with them!
_T. J._ Sure, and there’s nothing wrong with the King’s money, is
there? And it’s plenty of that there will be, I’m thinking. I tell you,
it’s the grand story they’ll make in the history-books till the world’s
end of Michael Flannigan Joner that was ate by a whale!
_Mrs. J._ And devil a word will they say of Bridget Ellen, his wife,
that was married to a mad fellow.
_T. J._ Let you not be vexing yourself now. I wouldn’t wonder would
one of them writing fellows be writing a book about you, or maybe a
play, and it’s the grand talk there will be of Joner’s wife at the
latter end.
_Mrs. J._ It might.
(CURTAIN)