The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

14

One hour past noon this gently raining Sunday. In blue pin striped suit, stiff white collar and small knotted black and white dotted tie I set off for the green front lawns of Rathgar. Past the flower beds and subtropical trees. Where at one red brick semidetached house I go by arrangement with my trustees, for dinner.

To stand at the fire in the sky blue room. Served two sherries by this bubbling lady with her big long hysterical nose and three marriageable daughters. Who appear one by one to nod and smile and curtsy. I bow. They each hold a hand at their pearls. And silently sit on the cold pink damask couch. And sometimes a Belfast doctor would stay as a paying guest. And following the ladies we went in to dine.

The doctor and I broke off our lively chat on Fasciola and Entamoeba as the black uniformed servant girls carried in the steaming joint of lamb. A silver bowl of mint sauce and one of golden roast potatoes and another of steaming sprouts. The trifle came under mounds of cream and soaked in sherry. Plates passed down table amid the smiles of our hostess and the three alabaster daughters. With candles lit on the quartet stand we tipped port and the doctor puffed a rare cigar in the withdrawing room. When the youngest of three sat to the harp and another to the piano and accompanied the eldest to Lieder. While I was so desperate to get laid.

At sometimes six fifteen P.M. I suddenly jump up to take my leave. For if I don't, hours go by as I figure out words upon which to take a carefree pleasant departure. And reach the cold hallway. Prints of Dublin and Edinburgh on the wall. Malacca canes in the hall stand and her late husband's military medals under glass. Lieutenant Colonel, Poona Light Horse.

"So nice having you Balthazar. We do look forward you know. To next Sunday. O dear. If s quite about to be inclement once more. You must put up the roof of your motor."

"Goodbye, thank you for having me.'

Back now down the empty Sunday evening roads. The pubs not open yet. Wet softness against the face. The leviathan Landship forging through the night. Cross over the stone bridge of the Grand Canal. Down Harcourt Street past the big doors of the station. And hope always to come upon some gentle lonely lovely female along the ghostly granite pavements of the west of St. Stephen's Green. To motor with me. See only chasing barefoot children, their hands clutching each other. They shout and jeer and point. As I sail by the grim great pillars of the College of Surgeons. In there. Bodies propped up on tables all stiff and dry.

All these lonely Sunday evenings. Dublin shut. Odd lights here and there in College. To stare out the window. And wait for commons. Put on one's gown for warmth. The bell rings. Down the dark stairs. Gas lamps glowing along the dark squares. Figures on the steps of the dining hall and collecting in the foyer on the stone floor. In this great vestibule, two glowing fires with coals redly held against the bars of the grate. The blue uniformed man with gold buttons down his breast and his hair combed flat back on his head and parted in the middle. He watches the faces and marks his big book.

The great mahogany doors open. Into the vast room. The long tables. The huge portraits against the high panelled wall. The Senior Dean goes by, holding his big silver ear horn. And there was warmth from the night winterish air.

A tall scholar rushes up the steps to the lectern and Latins out grace. Beseated. A great clatter of shifting chairs. The carvers stand at their long tables sharpening knives. The great joints heaved up on their platters at the serving hatch. Thin harassed faces of these little women stared out across the dark gowned gathering. To catch their breath and go plunging back down again deep into the bowels of this dungeon kitchen. The clank of cutlery. The passing of the jug of beer. Light refreshing ale, a gift from a prosperous brewer.

And at another table I could hear a voice. Of elegant graceful quivering civility. Beefy. I look down on my plate of ham again. And hope someone will pass the salt. Bad manners everywhere. And tonight go back. Sit the evening out. Pretending some feeble joy at the remembered morphology of Annelida. Where the central nervous system consists of a pair of preoral ganglia connected by commissures to a postoral ventral ganglionated chain. When I am absolutely insane to be laid. Mind putting afloat one obscene thought after another. And through this darkness after commons I returned lonely to rooms. Pumped the bellows at the fire. Sharpened pencils, pulled on my ear lobes, shook my head and sat with elbows planted holding the palms of my hands against my face.

When there was a knock. And I opened the door.

"You are a singular chap, Mr. B. Huddle yourself away at commons. You should have come to sit with me. Bloody awful evening. Come to pay my respects. May I come in."

"Of course, but yes."

"Saw your light. What is this awful stuff."

"Zoology."

"O very handy, that. I hope you don't think Fm barging in.

Fact of the matter is, I've come to ask you along to a little soiree. Will you come."

"I'd be very pleased."

"You are a terrible shy man. You know you haven't changed one bit. I saw you several times. Crossing Front Square. My rooms are up in the corner. Overlooking the ladies who go to and fro in number four. I said that chap I know him. But one doesn't want to intrude. I wonder often what brought me here. And it's always that no one else would have me."

Beefy in black thick tweed sitting back in the hard worn wooden chair. Knees fallen widely apart. As rain tapped the great panes of glass. And spreading and streaking pressed by the wind. Wild shadows against a dark sky. The shaking branches of the old trees. To see this round and ruddy face that went jaunting fearlessly through the woods. Those years ago. His hands now gently folded across his waistcoat.

They walked together through a dark rainy college. At the front gate Beefy tipping water from his black chapeau hailed a taxi. To ask the driver to go down Fenian Street between the dark houses. Shadows behind the tattered candle lit broken windows. Newspapers pressed as patches and torn curtains over the glowing sacred hearts. The Grand Canal lock and past the yeasty smell of gas works. Till the evergreen thickets of Trinity College Botanic Gardens went streaking by. And the world widened to lawn and warm golden lights.

Turning down this Ailesbury Road. Under the winter branches of the trees. Walls and fences of large houses. Aloof and stately in the dark. They stopped before a gate and path up to a lighted entrance porch. And went up the steep granite steps. Beefy pulled down a great brass handle on the door and it opened. Inside was warmth and gaiety. A room with greeting eyes. When one doesn't know what to do with hands.

Step forward or stay where you are. Say hello. Or how do you do.

And as each was introduced round this circle of college people. Faces I knew passing in the squares. So full of colour now. A supper laid out through the wide doors on a great mahogany. Pinks and blues and light laughter. And at a high mantel. Its cold marble level with her shoulders. In the blackest of shimmering satin. Her chin held high and a small smile upon her face. Miss Fitzdare.

Across the wide salon. Four musicians played. The little band of college people took partners and swept waltzing away to outer rooms. I stand and swallow and so try to remain still. Not trip flat on my face. To go across and say hello to her. Dear God tell me. Just some more words I can add. To hello. Yes. That's it. I saw you with your horse. No. That will never do. Approach with a blank mind. Out which something stunning must come.

"Hello. I saw you with your horse."

"My horse."

"Yes. I think it was your horse."

"Horse."

"Yes."

"Horse. Goodness."

"Yes. It was a horse."

"Dear me what are you trying to say."

"I don't know."

"O well you mustn't look all upset about it. Please let me get you a drink."

Miss Fitzdare with a steady sure hand around the neck of a decanter. Just as she held reins that day. To pass her perfume so near under my nose now and pour forth a nutty sherry. She smiles and seems to like me. So strange and precious. After all the bundling up in tweed, and her boots tramping through the mud. Now a glittering diamond bracelet on her wrist.

"There."

"Thank you."

"That will make you feel much better. I think. Now the word was horse. You said horse to me."

"Yes I did. I saw you with your horse. Or somebody's horse.

AtBaldoyle."

"You race."

"I hardly do anything else."

"O surely not."

"I won seven pounds on your horse."

"I'm so glad. That was good of you to put a bet on Fasciola.

Let me pour you some more sherry."

"Thank you."

"You must go racing often."

"I go racing nearly every day there's racing."

"You have that enormous car. It's so enormous."

"O it's not really."

"You must give me a ride in it one time."

"I'd love to. If you would come."

"Certainly I'd come."

"Wednesday. After zoology practical.' "Yes. I'd love to."

"We could drive to Stepaside. And up the mountain.' "That would be wizard."

"Well I think it really would be too. Would it be all right if I helped myself to more sherry.' "Do. But let me."

"I haven't really been invited."

"O but you were."

"Was I."

"Your hostess asked Beefy to bring you. She thought your car darling. But you're not a rich rich prince, are you."

"Good Lord. Who said that."

"Rumour all over college."

"My God."

"You are then a rich rich prince."

"Would you mind if I just had another little bit of sherry.

This news is very worrying."

"Why don't you ever talk. You just never talk to anyone."

"I don't know how."

"Nonsense. You're one of the most interesting people. I don't think anyone has been seen in college in knickerbockers for years. So nice to see, I don't think they flatter older men.

You look so well. Your yellow gloves and cane."

"Miss Fitzdare. Will you dance with me."

"I'd love to."

To take her hand. And put mine on the soft satin of her back. The blazing log fire throws red shadows. So far away from all the rain. One wakes shivering with cold this Sunday morning. To find after a long drawn day such kind welcome.

Glad to see me. Their eyes sparkled and shone. To chatter away all the emptiness. Lowering on the dark afternoons when the horses have run. And I stray into a country pub. By the cold eastern shore of the sea. And sit. And let the winter stay and stay in my mind. The dark clothed natives steal up near. Enquiring in French or German whether I speak either tongue. And as I replied that one did not, they plowed on darkly in tongues invented on the spot. Until I would ask them what they were drinking. Ah well since ye ask that question and I wouldn't want to confuse you with a foreign tongue I'll have a ball of malt. A world alive in the world.

With all its own land and sky. And Mick here he's a friend of mine who has stood on Broadway and Forty Second Street Fm telling you that's a fact with all them lights blazing in his eyes. To smile and feel the gentle beauty. No mixed bathing in Ireland. Nakedness long banned from pubs. And here amid the chippendale. Faintest powder upon her face, reddish purple of her lips. This mixed evening of young ladies and gentlemen. Generous gladness. Some arms bared above the elbow. If at five in darkness I sat in my rooms. Horace said ah wait till you have the great doings in Trinity Week sir, then there'll be some great lookers about and you can take your pick.

"I know I shouldn't but I feel so silly not to. Use your Christian name, may I. It's Balthazar."

"Yes."

"Funny isn't it, if one keeps very much to oneself and lets others think as they may, one can seem so mysterious and strange. I never would have thought you were lonely and didn't lead the gayest of lives. You dance beautifully too. And now I can't say your name. But I will. Yes. Balthazar. Beefy says you're from France."

"That was many years ago."

"Do you like Ireland."

"Yes except when they suddenly step out on the street and direct traffic."

"I'm not surprised. When you come along in your motor.

But you do like it here."

"Miss Fitzdare I think it would really be better for me to admit right now to you that I am utterly and absolutely bewildered by this land. From the moment I stepped off the boat till now. I'm dazed. I'm frozen out of my wits in my rooms. And forgive me. I have been constipated for weeks. I haven't an idea what's being said by the professor in zoology.

When I see all of you just cutting open your dogfishes the way you do, and somehow I cut into mine, and in my dogfish it simply didn't have a ninth and fifth nerve. I looked all over.

I'm absolutely positive."

"You are funny."

"Miss Fitzdare, I am, really I am, utterly bewildered."

"Odear."

"I can't learn. I keep thinking what good is it to know ontogeny repeats phylogeny. I am sometimes most discouraged." "So you do know something."

"Only because those two words rhyme. I really do swear to that. It was the ogeny that made me remember the phylo and onto."

"You are not quite what I expected. Mr. B. I don't know whether to believe you or not. Or whether you're having me on."

"I swear I'm not having you on."

"You mustn't swear. I hope you don't think I am just a little innocent girl and you pity me. In some things I am innocent. God now you've got me all blushing. This is awful."

"I am sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. Do you play the harpsicord, Miss Fitzdare."

"How did you know that."

"I knew. I don't know how. I can hardly meet anyone in Dublin who doesn't."

"O God what a thing to say."

"I don't mean it in its crudest sense. I in fact mean it from the heart. You see I often sit and wonder if my way of life is a true one. That I shall take my place in some sort of society. Not high or low. Not too low. Make comments on the wine. Tell my host or hostess that the ceiling plaster is divine."

"Mr. B. Hmmmn. Yes you are rather more than one bargained for. We don't seem to be dancing. Shall we go back to the mantelpiece. Where we first met."

"You're not meaning to leave me."

"No. Good gracious no."

"I'm in need of another sherry.' "And HI get it for you."

"Miss Fitzdare. The way you cross your legs now on the chair."

"Chair. What chair.' "Sorry stool, at lecture. And you wear those blue woolly looking stockings. You know I have looked at you many times. From behind. I even thought of asking you to accompany me to the gramophone society. And then I thought, no I was just sure you wouldn't come.' "You should have asked."

"If I did. Would you have come."

"I would have adored to."

"Now that's what I mean Miss Fitzdare. You say you would adore to come. And the word adore. That troubles me. I almost feel that how can one really, deep down in one's heart, adore to go to the gramophone society. My first night was awful. I had paid my shilling, and four pence for tea. And on a cold black night five to eight on what I thought was a Friday evening I walked across the playing field. At the other side all was darkness. I nearly stopped and went back to my rooms. But I couldn't face just sitting there. And I went on. For the first time I knew what it was like for those chaps at the pole. And how it was only their will to forge on. Ever on. And that's what I felt when I stopped mid way across the playing field. I thought. No. Courage. You must go on. Even though one sees no light. Somehow remembering as it said about the society, anyone who is interested in music should get in touch. And I had straight off paid my five shillings membership. You mustn't laugh, Miss Fitzdare. I was quite really a very desperate man."

"I'm sorry. I just somehow don't know just how seriously to take you. I've not quite heard anyone talk like you before."

"Well you may not know it. But I burst into tears in the middle of, I think it's the rugby pitch as a matter of fact. Like a scimitar had struck a bag of water on my head. Tears came tumbling down all round me."

Miss Fitzdare looking slightly away. And suddenly reaching for the decanter she poured Balthazar's glass over full and sherry dripped from his wrist and went coolly along under his sleeve.

"O dear Fm most awfully sorry I did that. Here let me wipe your glass. And your hand. I mean, I must say, I think because you must be alarming me. But do say. Did you get there. To the gramophone society."

"Yes. I did. I got there. Feeling every inch of the way that they would not want me when I did. And it was all far worse than I imagined. I saw a light on. And I went close and looked in the window. In the room that has all the plants.

There was a man sprinkling something on top of a fish tank. I knocked at the window and he was paralytic with terror. And I nearly fell over when a toad jumped up my trouser leg. I guess my waving arms out in the dark were disconcerting. He became awfully angry because I had given him such a fright. Kept trembling and shaking and asking who my tutor was. He said the gramophone society was in the Physics Building. And not the Botany Building. And when I got round there. It was all locked up. It wasa Thursday night.'

"O dear I am sorry. You seem to have had awfully bad luck.

But why don't you join the Christian Student Movement.

Fm on the council. Annual subscription only five shillings.

You seem to me, I don't know, perhaps Fm prying a little, but you seem as if you hadn't found out where you want to go in life."

"Have you Miss Fitzdare."

"Yes I think I have."

"And where are you going."

"Well I feel that one should devote part of one's life for the benefit of others."

"And do you."

"Yes. I do. In a small way. I know it sounds rather self proud to say a thing like that. Not everyone feels as I do. I don't really mind. Callous and cynical views have never changed mine. There's an awful lot of suffering in Dublin. In a room like this, with people like us, I don't suppose it appears that such a thing could be. I guess it's awfully un-modern but I have tried to take a Christian attitude to questions which confront man in his daily life."

Miss Fitzdare moved her sparkling bracelet lightly to and fro on her wrist. Balthazar B wavering slightly.To straighten and come to attention for Miss Fitzdare. Her sudden cool dark elegance. Strange silence in her eyes. All those hours of her back facing me. As I pondered, amid erotic images, the early stages of a mammal. All utter Gaelic to me. Then to look up and see Miss Fitzdare's legs refold themselves. I thought she was so aloof to life. With appointments up and down Grafton Street and all over Merrion and Fitzwilliam Squares. Where briefly she would appear and disappear beyond the bright lacquered doors, paying respects to dowagers. And here in all this twinkling splendour of candle light. She talks. And I can almost hear. Her fearless handling of a horse. Nibbling and nuzzling her. As her own nostrils flair. Fluttering out at the end of the narrow bridge of bone so delicately straight. And the question which confronts me much in my daily life. To sow, please, one's desperate bag of wild oats in this country. Somewhere there must be a fissure in this granite ground.

"Miss Fitzdare what do you feel one should do with one's problems."

"Well I can sound awfully prim I imagine but if there is no Christian answer, then I should think to follow one's heart is best."

Miss Fitzdare bowed her head. She picked up her pearls and put them in her mouth. Can I ever say. May I take them, your reins, your pearls, hold them. A bit between your lips. Miss Fitzdare. And ride you. All your white galloping skin. Lord I mustn't think of such a thing. That could warm me in all these shivering months. To let us go dancing quite indelicately in the sky. Would she. Touching under her satin and my silk. Embrace me to taste all her splendid little bits of beauty. I've had an awful lot of sherry. Chaps. Surrounded by all of you. Glistening with your welcoming gentle smiles. Faces scrubbed and shining. I just somehow know there are no motives low. I know it just as I thought I knew so many years ago that my redeemer liveth. That each gentleman here will one day walk up the aisle in his freshly aired and pressed morning suit solemn and above board. Between the collected tinted relatives and friends, titles and all described. From one whisper to another. Some winking above their smiles. Marriage. The organ music. O God Fitzdare. Have I found you. Can I hold back my unspeakable desperations. Till a ring is put along your finger. As wedded we will be. All the friends waving and maybe hating for us to go. Hand in hand to a honeymoon. Where God help me I would want to ride you in the bed. Across all the good racing years. Looking out from windows of our country house. To the grey and winterish conditions. Sherry in inclemencies. Vintage port in storms. Of a time. In June. When the white and delicate wine flows. A sun beaming over England. Gentle breeze that blows tender puffs of sky. Westerly fair across Britain. Over Henley's quiet straight waters. Down upon Ascot's perfumed carpets of turf. All the hues. Gay lads and maidens. We newly wed. Wicker hampers. Early afternoon feasting upon one's lap. Chicken, asparagus and yummy plums. One noble day after another. And like. The pound sterling. How does it waft, how does it wane. As England's flag waves. Fitzdare. Fluttering high over its parliament. You will be nervous. Just like the pound. In all its foreign markets. And I will admire you for being so. As sterling tends lower. But tomorrow always nudges forward again. Like we in our marriage do. Or remain quiet. For so many years. To never be devalued. As we get old together. The pound looking strong. Sterling firming up. You have two faces now Miss Fitzdare. I see them there. I shall point to one of them now don't you move.

"Are you all right Mr. B. You're swaying."

"Am I. Whoops."

"Heavens."

"I'm a little elevated. I think. A little. But I know. O God I know that my redeemer liveth. I mean Miss Fitzdare he could lead me and you beside the still waters. You know."

"Mr. B I don't want to say. But really I do. I think I must say. I do hope you're not blaspheming.' "O God no. Really I'm not. Not blaspheming."

"Ought you to have any more sherry."

"Just a jot."

"Steady now. Dear me. Steady."

"Forgive me. I think. Yes. Put my elbow on the mantel here. Firm up matters."

"Do you always drink as much as this."

"O I'm an old roue Miss Fitzdare. Drink like a drain.

Always did. Glug glug. I mean that's the sound of it going down. The hatch I think. But surely we were talking. Yes of the Irish. They always lapse into what they call Urdu. Miss Fitzdare. Can you explain that."

"O yes. The Irish never want to be what they are. It's why they so envy the black men. The three black men rumoured to be in Dublin and the two in Trinity are always followed by a little crowd wherever they go."

"O God if only I were black."

"Yes."

"You feel that way too Miss Fitzdare."

"Yes. It makes one's teeth so white."

"O God Fitzdare."

"Is something the matter."

"No. Nothing. I just have to say. O God Fitzdare. O God."

"You're not, are you, blaspheming."

"No no. You see. This somehow is like walking into heaven. Meeting you. Being here. Every Sunday I am in Rathgar for an arranged Sunday dinner. I speak boldly I know. But it must be said. I simply must find some outlet.

Your frock looks black but it's really purple isn't it."

"Yes."

"And what rustles. When you move."

"Mr. B7 now now."

"What rustles. Please. Tell me."

"My petticoats.'

"O God."

"Mr. B. Really."

"You know Miss Fitzdare you hurt me to the quick a moment ago."

"O."

"Yes. You did. When you said steady. Steady now."

"O."

"Just as if you were talking to a horse."

"O I never meant, honestly, such a thing."

"Well. I did feel I might be being led back to the stables."

"Heavens I hope I didn't sound like that."

"I suppose it's all right, really."

"You baffle me. You do Mr. B."

"Stepaside Wednesday."

"Yes."

"We can look down on Dublin."

"I'd like that very much."

A hall door swung open. Faces slowly turning. The beatific grinning face. Of Beefy. Grey top hat on his head. Morning coat and striped trousers. An ivory cane held in his grey gloved hand. He cut a quick motion on the parquet. Lifted his hat.

And choo choo choo. The locomotive shuffle he said.

"Mr. B, that's your friend Beefy, wherever did he get those clothes."

Beefy went choo choo choo. Out on to the drawing room dance floor and back again into the dining room. Followed by a flushed hostess. Who put her hands up to her eyes and face.

As Beefy climbed up on the dining table. Hurrying hands clearing his way of drinks and saumon fume. His boots carving swirling ruts on the dark red gleaming mahogany.

Amid claps and laughter and our hostess's dismay.

"O poor Philippa, I fear her party is about to end on a rather expensive note."

Beefy capered. The gathering laughed. Some doubled up and clapped. And the band tippled. Miss Fitzdare on her pleasant slender legs, took her leave. Followed by me. Said she had not far to go. Just down the road. I said no I must see you out and home. And with coats donned in the cool hall.

And the gay stamping noise left behind. Here with all the hats and canes. The silver salver for calling cards. Architectural prints of Dublin city. And our hostess. Face alarmed and creased with an ever friendly frown. Shaking hands goodbye.

Outside on the dark roadway covered over with arching trembling branches. Balthazar tripping down the steps. Between the white globes of light and on the pebbles underfoot. His arm held by Miss Fitzdare. Her warm understanding smile. The moisty night lies out around us. From Ailesbury Road all the way across a green Kildare. To the Curragh stretched flat as a moonlit land. Where horses apounding go. And with me. To England, perhaps, Miss Fitzdare might you come. To my little house there. Where we would be and no one else would know.

"Balthazar. Balthazar. Can you see."

"I think so."

"You'd better hold my arm."

To feel close to her. Through our respective thick woollen garments. All those weeks she sat so untouchable. Distantly far away. In her own world huddled over her drawing of plasmodium. I watched the tip top of her pencil moving back and forth on the drawing paper. And mine an empty whiteness. Save where my pencil had wandered. Making round faces of little men, some who smiled and others who were awfully sad with their ears very small.

"I never thought we would meet like this Mr. B."

"Nor I, Miss Fitzdare."

By a high iron fence Balthazar paused, swayed and leaned against the black spokes. Slowly he slid down and down. Miss Fitzdare holding him by the arm as he sank to his knees and looked up at her face and into her cool blue eyes. A gleam of silk flowing with colour between her black lapels. Balthazar shaking his head and pulling himself up again. Looking round at this large stone entrance.

"Balthazar you cannot be left alone."

"I'm absolutely tops. Down for a moment. But up now.

Very tops."

"You're not tops. You're squiffy."

"I'm tops not squiffy."

"Dear you've no transport back."

"Never squiffy. Not that. Tops."

"I could put you up for the night."

"Miss Fitzdare I could never never impose. I mean Fm topping. You think it's shocking that I say I'm topping."

"No. But we should go back and find you a lift. Or I may be able to call a taxi out from Dublin. You'll catch your death on the road."

"Would you care Miss Fitzdare if I died."

"Of course I would."

"My uncle was a great explorer. At the drop of a barometer.

He went immediately to one of the poles. It's in my family. I will make it back safely to my rooms."

"I hope so."

"Miss Fitzdare do you really know me. How can you be certain I am not some mustachioed man, with the ends waxed and twirled. And that now I have cut off my mustache. You don't know that."

"I know you're squiffy."

"How do you know I'm not a dashy dandy."

"You're anything but."

"I'm just so so ordinary."

"Mr. B are you fishing for compliments."

"But do you know me from within. Miss Fitzdare. My little shortcomings, my little heartfelt troubles, my yearnings."

"No but I know you're a very nice person."

"How can you know that Miss Fitzdare."

"I do. From your eyes. You are a nice person."

"Where Miss Fitzdare have you been all these months.

Why haven't we spoken before."

"You never troubled to look at me I fear."

"You must not say that Miss—"

"My God don't fall."

"Ah I am down."

"O dear. I've got you. Up up you come."

"Down and down. I go. But I love you Miss Fitzdare. I have no friends in Ireland. Nowhere to go. Sit at my fireside night after night.' "But I thought you were so very popular Mr. B. I'm sorry I had no idea."

"No I am not popular. I am down for the count.' "Dear me. You must not fall again. The grass is wet. You'll catch cold."

"I want to catch you Miss Fitzdare."

Miss Fitzdare shyly turning away. Her black gloved hand reaching to tuck upon the silk at her throat. A wind casting a lock of her dark hair in gleaming stray strands across her so white temples. Somewhere behind the hurrying cloud a moon basks. And it feels that my fingers clutch and haul me on the sands from an eastern chilly sea.

"Is this where you live Miss Fitzdare."

"Yes. It's my uncle's house."

"It's very nice what I can see of it."

"You know I'm really worried to let you go."

"Can I tell you Miss Fitzdare that I don't know what I'm doing in this country at all. They wrote in such a friendly welcoming fashion. That I just packed up. Got on the train to be here by October first. They never told me I would be cold and lonely and friendless all these months."

"You know you say this. And each time I wonder if you're having me on. Dear you're sliding down again. You must get up. There's a couch you could sleep on over the stable."

"Ah once more you think I am your horse, Miss Fitzdare."

"Heavens. Really I don't."

"Ah Miss Fitzdare why not. Saddle me up. Hear me I'm munching the grass."

"Please get up."

"I have been too careful for too long. It is only this evening, the first time I have ever stepped forth from my rooms and went in public without my gloves. I make my servant laugh.

We have chats. Ah no Miss Fitzdare, I have been careful far too long. I will not take advantage of your extreme kindness.

By the stars I will find a way through these raging suburban jungles back to Dublin."

"There are no stars.'

"I will feel my way through the laurels. Please don't let me keep you from your bed you have already been far too kind to me. I am not popular. That is certain. Today I dined with a mother, her three daughters and a doctor guest in Rathgar. Refined members of society. I a poor Frenchman who does not know what it's all about. They sit and I sit. We make remarks about the weather, the races. I am asked will I have more trifle. I say that is most kind of you. But then I say whoops that perhaps my remark that it is most kind, is wrong, that I have trodden too heavily in the etiquette, should have just said please and thank you. And not that I should be too delighted to have more trifle. In such dilemmas I perspire heavily. Sometimes I am so nervous that I cannot take my leave till midnight, all of us sitting and beginning to shiver around a dying fire. I never know what to say to get myself out of the house. I never know how to refuse when they say do please, come next Sunday. I am to put it mildly Miss Fitzdare in an awful rut.'

"O but that's awful for you."

"Yes, I know."

"Can't you refuse."

"There is something wrong with me Miss Fitzdare. I do not know how to be unkind. I can suffer unkindnesses but I cannot be unkind. Again and again each Sunday I go back to Rathgar and we all sit on the settee. And the daughters change their frocks, one wears the frock the other wore the week before."

"How awful for you."

"But tonight. Beefy has taken me from all that. It is why I have had too much to drink. It is so kind of you to listen Miss Fitzdare to all my troubles like this. I must not keep you longer. I must take leave of you. I don't want to go. But already I've been far too much of an imposition."

"You mustn't feel that, please.' "What way do I go."

"If you proceed down to the end of this road and turn right it will take you straight to Dublin. But I really shouldn't let you go."

"Have faith in me Miss Fitzdare. I am really related to explorers. It's the absolute truth. Just give me some natural phenomenon to head for and my instincts will do the rest."

"Tell me you'll take every care."

"Yes."

"There's a river. Walk straight as far as you can go. The River Dodder. Then turn right along Donnybrook Road straight into Leeson Street and St. Stephen's Green."

Balthazar B bowing. Slowly stepping backwards. Miss Fitz-dare wore a silver jumping horse pinned to her coat. And she walks away between the high iron railings. Through a gate which creaks closed. A cement path to looming wide stone steps. A big shadowy house standing on dark lawns. Can see a stone porch and beyond looks like gardens. The fat upturned limbs of a monkey tree and others thick and tropical in the passing bits of moonlight. Door opening. She stands a silhouette. Her hand raised to wave goodbye.

My finger

Dips

Into the cold

Indelicacy

Of

Dublin.