Short Plays

epub:type="z3998:persona">O’Flaherty The only one I could think of was Shakespeare, sir; and she says he was born in Cork. Sir Pearce Exhausted. Well, I give it up. He throws himself into the nearest chair. The woman is⁠—Oh, well! No matter. O’Flaherty Sympathetically. Yes, sir: she’s pigheaded and obstinate: there’s no doubt about it. She’s like the English: they think there’s no one like themselves. It’s the same with the Germans, though they’re educated and ought to know better. You’ll never have a quiet world till you knock the patriotism out of the human race. Sir Pearce Still, we⁠— O’Flaherty Whisht, sir, for God’s sake: here she is. The General jumps up. Mrs. O’Flaherty arrives and comes between the two men. She is very clean, and carefully dressed in the old-fashioned peasant costume; black silk sunbonnet with a tiara of trimmings, and black cloak. O’Flaherty Rising shyly. Good evening, mother. Mrs. O’Flaherty Severely. You hold your whisht, and learn behavior while I pay my juty to his honor. To Sir Pearce, heartily. And how is your honor’s good self? And how is her ladyship and all the young ladies? Oh, it’s right glad we are to see your honor back again and looking the picture of health. Sir Pearce Forcing a note of extreme geniality. Thank you, Mrs. O’Flaherty. Well, you see we’ve brought you back your son safe and sound. I hope you’re proud of him. Mrs. O’Flaherty And indeed and I am, your honor. It’s the brave boy he is; and why wouldn’t he be, brought up on your honor’s estate and with you before his eyes for a pattern of the finest soldier in Ireland. Come and kiss your old mother, Dinny darlint. O’Flaherty does so sheepishly. That’s my own darling boy. And look at your fine new uniform stained already with the eggs you’ve been eating and the porter you’ve been drinking. She takes out her handkerchief; spits on it; and scrubs his lapel with it. Oh, it’s the untidy slovenly one you always were. There! It won’t be seen on the khaki: it’s not like the old red coat that would show up everything that dribbled down on it. To Sir Pearce. And they tell me down at the lodge that her ladyship is staying in London, and that Miss Agnes is to be married to a fine young nobleman. Oh, it’s your honor that is the lucky and happy father! It will be bad news for many of the young gentlemen of the quality round here, sir. There’s lots thought she was going to marry young Master Lawless⁠— Sir Pearce What! That⁠—that⁠—that bosthoon! Mrs. O’Flaherty Hilariously. Let your honor alone for finding the right word! A big bosthoon he is indeed, your honor. Oh, to think of the times and times I have said that Miss Agnes would be my lady as her mother was before her! Didn’t I, Dinny? Sir Pearce And now, Mrs. O’Flaherty, I daresay you have a great deal to say to Dennis that doesn’t concern me. I’ll just go in and order tea. Mrs. O’Flaherty Oh, why would your honor disturb yourself? Sure I can take the boy into the yard. Sir Pearce Not at all. It won’t disturb me in the least. And he’s too big a boy to be taken into the yard now. He has made a front seat for himself. Eh? He goes into the house. Mrs. O’Flaherty Sure he has that, your honor. God bless your honor! The General being now out of hearing, she turns threateningly to her son with one of those sudden Irish changes of manner which amaze and scandalize less flexible nations, and exclaims. And what do you mean, you lying young scald, by telling me you were going to fight agen the English? Did you take me for a fool that couldn’t find out, and the papers all full of you shaking hands with the English king at Buckingham Palace? O’Flaherty I didn’t shake hands with him: he shook hands with me. Could I turn on the man in his own house, before his own wife, with his money in my pocket and in yours, and throw his civility back in his face? Mrs. O’Flaherty You would take the hand of a tyrant red with the blood of Ireland⁠— O’Flaherty Arra hold your nonsense, mother: he’s not half the tyrant you are, God help him. His hand was cleaner than mine that had the blood of his own relations on it, maybe. Mrs. O’Flaherty Threateningly. Is that a way to speak to your mother, you young spalpeen? O’Flaherty Stoutly. It is so, if you won’t talk sense to me. It’s a nice thing for a poor boy to be made much of by kings and queens, and shook hands with by the heighth of his country’s nobility in the capital cities of the world, and then to come home and be scolded and insulted by his own mother. I’ll fight for who I like; and I’ll shake hands with what kings I like; and if your own son is not good enough for you, you can go and look for another. Do you mind me now? Mrs. O’Flaherty And was it the Belgians learned you such brazen impudence? O’Flaherty The Belgians is good men; and the French ought to be more civil to them, let alone their being half murdered by the Boshes. Mrs. O’Flaherty Good men is it! Good men! to come over here when they were wounded because it was a Catholic country, and then to go to the Protestant Church because it didn’t cost them anything, and some of them to never go near a church at all. That’s what you call good men! O’Flaherty Oh, you’re the mighty fine politician, aren’t you? Much you know about Belgians or foreign parts or the world you’re living in, God help you! Mrs. O’Flaherty Why wouldn’t I know better than you? Amment I your mother? O’Flaherty And if you are itself, how can you