John Bulls Other Island | Page 8

the ice for me. He can gain the confidence of the people there, and
make them friendly to me. Eh? [He seats himself on the office stool,
and tilts it back so that the edge of the standing desk supports his back
and prevents his toppling over].

DOYLE. A nice introduction, by George! Do you suppose the whole
population of Ireland consists of drunken begging letter writers, or that
even if it did, they would accept one another as references?
BROADBENT. Pooh! nonsense! He's only an Irishman. Besides, you
don't seriously suppose that Haffigan can humbug me, do you?
DOYLE. No: he's too lazy to take the trouble. All he has to do is to sit
there and drink your whisky while you humbug yourself. However, we
needn't argue about Haffigan, for two reasons. First, with your money
in his pocket he will never reach Paddington: there are too many public
houses on the way. Second, he's not an Irishman at all.
BROADBENT. Not an Irishman! [He is so amazed by the statement
that he straightens himself and brings the stool bolt upright].
DOYLE. Born in Glasgow. Never was in Ireland in his life. I know all
about him.
BROADBENT. But he spoke--he behaved just like an Irishman.
DOYLE. Like an Irishman!! Is it possible that you don't know that all
this top-o-the-morning and broth-of-a-boy and more-power-to-
your-elbow business is as peculiar to England as the Albert Hall
concerts of Irish music are? No Irishman ever talks like that in Ireland,
or ever did, or ever will. But when a thoroughly worthless Irishman
comes to England, and finds the whole place full of romantic duffers
like you, who will let him loaf and drink and sponge and brag as long
as he flatters your sense of moral superiority by playing the fool and
degrading himself and his country, he soon learns the antics that take
you in. He picks them up at the theatre or the music hall. Haffigan
learnt the rudiments from his father, who came from my part of Ireland.
I knew his uncles, Matt and Andy Haffigan of Rosscullen.
BROADBENT [still incredulous]. But his brogue!
DOYLE. His brogue! A fat lot you know about brogues! I've heard you
call a Dublin accent that you could hang your hat on, a brogue. Heaven
help you! you don't know the difference between Connemara and
Rathmines. [With violent irritation] Oh, damn Tim Haffigan! Let's drop
the subject: he's not worth wrangling about.
BROADBENT. What's wrong with you today, Larry? Why are you so
bitter?
Doyle looks at him perplexedly; comes slowly to the writing table; and
sits down at the end next the fireplace before replying.

DOYLE. Well: your letter completely upset me, for one thing.
BROADBENT. Why?
LARRY. Your foreclosing this Rosscullen mortgage and turning poor
Nick Lestrange out of house and home has rather taken me aback; for I
liked the old rascal when I was a boy and had the run of his park to play
in. I was brought up on the property.
BROADBENT. But he wouldn't pay the interest. I had to foreclose on
behalf of the Syndicate. So now I'm off to Rosscullen to look after the
property myself. [He sits down at the writing table opposite Larry, and
adds, casually, but with an anxious glance at his partner] You're
coming with me, of course?
DOYLE [rising nervously and recommencing his restless movements].
That's it. That's what I dread. That's what has upset me.
BROADBENT. But don't you want to see your country again after 18
years absence? to see your people, to be in the old home again? To--
DOYLE [interrupting him very impatiently]. Yes, yes: I know all that
as well as you do.
BROADBENT. Oh well, of course [with a shrug] if you take it in that
way, I'm sorry.
DOYLE. Never you mind my temper: it's not meant for you, as you
ought to know by this time. [He sits down again, a little ashamed of his
petulance; reflects a moment bitterly; then bursts out] I have an instinct
against going back to Ireland: an instinct so strong that I'd rather go
with you to the South Pole than to Rosscullen.
BROADBENT. What! Here you are, belonging to a nation with the
strongest patriotism! the most inveterate homing instinct in the world!
and you pretend you'd rather go anywhere than back to Ireland. You
don't suppose I believe you, do you? In your heart--
DOYLE. Never mind my heart: an Irishman's heart is nothing but his
imagination. How many of all those millions that have left Ireland have
ever come back or wanted to come back? But what's the use of talking
to you? Three verses of twaddle about the Irish emigrant "sitting on the
stile, Mary," or three hours of Irish