Public Life, Private Life, and Identity Theme Analysis

Private: You are full conscious of all the consequences of your decision?

Public: Yessir.

Private: Of leaving the country of your birth, the land of the curlew and the snipe, the Aran sweater and the Irish Sweepstakes?

Public: (with fitting hesitation) I-I-I-I have considered all these. Sir.

Private: Of going to a profane, irreligious, pagan country of gross materialism?

Public: I am fully sensitive to this. Sir.

Public: Whether he says good-bye to me or not, or whether he slips me a few miserable quid or not, it’s a matter of total indifference to me, Madge.

Madge: Aye, so. Your tea’s on the table—but that’s a matter of total indifference to me.

Public: Give me time to wash, will you?

Madge: And another thing: just because he doesn’t say much doesn’t mean that he hasn’t feelings like the rest of us.

Public: Say much? He’s said nothing!

Madge: He said nothing either when your mother died.

Private: Yeah. You mentioned that your father was a businessman. What’s his line?

Public: Well, Sir, he has—what you would call—his finger in many pies—retail mostly—general dry goods—assorted patent drugs—hardware—ah—ah—dehydrated fish—men’s king-size hose—snuffs from the exotic East . . . of Donegal—a confection for gourmets, known as Peggy’s Leg—weedkiller—(Suddenly breaking off: in his normal accent: rolling on the bed.) Yahoooooo! It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles—

Private: Let’s git packin’, boy.

Private: (quietly, rapidly insisting) Are you going to take her photograph to the States with you? When are you going to say good-bye to her? Will you write to her? Will you send her cards and photographs? You loved her once, old rooster; you wanted so much to marry her that it was a bloody sickness. Tell me, randy boy; tell me the truth: have you got over that sickness? Do you still love her? Do you still lust after her? Well, do you? Do you? Do you?

Public: Bugger! (Public suddenly stops dancing, switches—almost knocks—off the record-player, pulls a wallet out of his hip pocket and produces a snap. He sits and looks at it.)

Private: (wearily) Mrs Doctor Francis King. September 8th. In harvest sunshine. […] By God, Gar, aul sod, it was a sore hoke on the aul prestige, eh? Between ourselves, aul son, in the privacy of the bedroom, between you and me and the wall, as the fella says, has it left a deep scar on the aul skitter of a soul, eh? What I mean to say like, you took it sort of bad, between you and me and the wall, as the fella says—

Public: (sings)
‘Philadelphia, here I come, right back—’

Private: But then there’s more fish in the sea, as the fella says […].

Screwballs, we’ve eaten together like this for the past twenty-odd years, and never once in all that time have you made as much as one unpredictable remark. Now, even though you refuse to acknowledge the fact, Screwballs, I’m leaving you for ever. I’m going to Philadelphia, to work in an hotel. And you know why I’m going. Screwballs, don’t you. Because I’m twenty-five, and you treat me as if I were five—I can’t order even a dozen loaves without getting your permission. Because you pay me less than you pay Madge. But worse, far worse than that Screwballs, because—we embarrass one another. If one of us were to say, ‘You’re looking tired’ or ‘That’s a bad cough you have’, the other would fall over backways with embarrassment.

So tonight d’you know what I want you to do? I want you to make one unpredictable remark, and even though I’ll still be on that plane tomorrow morning, I’ll have doubts: Maybe I should have stuck it out; maybe the old codger did have feelings; maybe I have maligned the old bastard.

They open the door. Ned hesitates and begins taking off the broad leather belt with the huge brass buckle that supports his trousers.

Ned: (shyly, awkwardly) By the way. Gar, since I’ll not see you again before you go –

Tom: Hi! What are you at? At least wait till you’re sure of the women!

Ned: (impatiently to Tom) Agh, shut up! (to Public) If any of them Yankee scuts try to beat you up some dark night, you can…(Now he is very confused and flings the belt across the room to Public.) You know… there’s a bloody big buckle on it… manys a get I scutched with it…

[…]

Ned: You’ll make out all right over there…have a…

Tom: I know that look in his eyes!

Ned wheels rapidly on Tom, gives him a more than playful punch, and says savagely:

Ned: Christ, if there’s one get I hate, it’s you!

Joe and Tom and big, thick, generous Ned . . . No one will ever know or understand the fun there was; for there was fun and there was laughing—foolish, silly fun and foolish, silly laughing; but what it was all about you can’t remember, can you? Just the memory of it—that’s all you have now—just the memory; and even now, even so soon, it is being distilled of all its coarseness; and what’s left is going to be precious, precious gold…

Listen, if someone were to come along to me tonight and say, ‘Ballybeg’s yours—lock, stock, and barrel,’ it wouldn’t make that (cracks his fingers) much difference to me. If you’re not happy and content in a place— then—then—then you’re not happy and content in a place! It’s as simple as that. I’ve stuck around this hole far too long. I’m telling you: it’s a bloody quagmire, a backwater, a dead-end! And everybody in it goes crazy sooner or later! Everybody!

[…] there’s an affinity between Screwballs and me that no one, literally, no one could understand—except you, Canon (deadly serious), because you’re warm and kind and soft and sympathetic—all things to all men—because you could translate all this loneliness, this groping, this dreadful bloody buffoonery into Christian terms that will make life bearable for us all. And yet you don’t say a word.

S.B.: (justly, reasonably) There was a brown one belonging to the doctor, and before that there was a wee flat-bottom—but it was green—or was it white? I’ll tell you, you wouldn’t be thinking of a punt—it could have been blue—one that the curate had down at the pier last summer—

Private’s mocking laughter increases. Public rushes quickly into the shop. Private, still mocking, follows.

—a fine sturdy wee punt it was, too, and it could well have been the…

He sees that he is alone and tails off.

I can see him, with his shoulders back, and the wee head up straight, and the mouth, aw, man, as set, and says he this morning, I can hear him saying it, says he, ‘I’m not going to school. I’m going into my daddy’s business’—you know—all important—and, d’you mind, you tried to coax him to go to school, and not a move you could get out of him, and him as manly looking, and this wee sailor suit as smart looking on him, and—and—and at the heel of the hunt I had to go with him myself, the two of us, hand in hand, as happy as larks—we were that happy, Madge—and him dancing and chatting beside me—mind?—you couldn’t get a word in edge-ways with all the chatting he used to go through…