Dream of Fair to Middling Women (27 page)

The Gael said to the P.B. in an injured voice:

“Here's a man who wants to know what Owen!”

“Not possible!” said the P.B. “you astonish me.”

“Is it of the sweet mouth?” said a sandy son of Han.

Now the prong of the Polar Bear's judgement was keen and bright.

“That emmerdeur!” he jeered. “The strange sweet mouth!”

The Countess of Parabimbi started back. “You said?” she said.

The Frica emerged from the ruck, she came to the fore.

“What can be keeping the girls” she said. It was not exactly a question.

“And your sister” enquired the pastoralist “your charming sister, where can she be, I wonder.”

“Unfortunately” said the Beldam, precipitately, “in bed, unwell. A great disappointment for us all.”

“Nothing serious, Madame,” said the Man of Law “let us hope?”

“Thank you, no. Happily not. A slight indisposition. Poor little Pissabed!”

Madame passed a heavy sigh.

The Polar Bear looked significantly at the Gael.

“What girls?” he said.

“Pansy”—the Poet's heart went pit-a-pat—”Lilly Neary, Olga, Miriam, Alga, Ariana, tall Tib, slender Sib, Katty, Alba…” they were too numerous for the harried Frica to name.

“Alba!” ejaculated the P.B. “Alba! She!”

“And why” interposed the Countess “not Alba, whoever she may be, rather than, say, the Wife of Bath?”

A nondescript came up with the good tidings. The girls had arrived.

“They are girls” said the pastoralist “beyond any doubt. But are they
the
girls?”

By God, they were girls, he was quite right. But were they
the
girls.

“I suppose we can start now” said Frica the younger and, the elder being aware of no let or hindrance, up on to the estrade smartly she stepped and unveiled the refreshments. Then, turning her back on the high dumb-waiter, with a great winged gesture of lapidated piety, she instituted the following variety:

“Claret-cup! Lemon-squash! Tea! Coffee! Cocoa! Oval-tine! Force!”

“Great cry” said the pastoralist “and little wool.”

The more famished faithful surged towards her.

Two novelists, a bibliomaniac and his mistress, a paleographer,
a violist d'amore with his instrument in a bag, a popular parodist with his sister and six daughters, a still more popular professor of Bullscrit and Comparative Ovoidology, the macaco the worse for drink, an incontinent native speaker, a prostated arithmomaniac, a communist decorator just back from the Moscow reserves, a merchant, two grave Jews, a rising whore, three more poets with Lauras to match, a disaffected cicisbeo, the inevitable envoy of the Fourth Estate, a phalanx of Grafton Street Stürmers and Jem Higgins arrived now in a body. No sooner had they been assimilated than the Parabimbi, very much the lone bird on this occasion in the absence of her husband the Count who had been unable to escort her on account of his being b--- if he would, got in her attributions of the Frica for which, as has been shown, she was carefully thanked by the beldam.

“I do no more” said the Countess “than constate.”

She held the saucer under her chin like a communion-card. She lowered the cup into its socket without a sound.

“Excellent” she said “most excellent Force.”

Madame Frica smiled from the teeth outward.

“So glad” she said “so glad.”

The Professor of Bullscrit and Comparative Ovoidology was not to be seen. But that did not matter, that was not his business, that was not what he was paid for. His business was to be heard. He was widely and clearly heard.

“When the immortal Byron” he bombled “was about to leave Ravenna, to sail in search of some distant shore where a hero's death might end his immortal spleen…”

“Ravenna!” exclaimed the Countess, memory tugging at her carefully cultivated heart-strings, “Did I hear someone say Ravenna?”

“Allow me” said the rising whore “a sandwich. Egg, tomato, cucumber.”

“Did you know” blundered the Man at Law “that the Swedes have no fewer than seventy varieties of Smörrbröd?”

The voice of the arithmomaniac was heard:

“The arc” he said, stooping to all in the great plainness of his words, “is longer than its chord.”

“Madame knows Ravenna?” said the paleographer.

“Do I know Ravenna!” exclaimed the Parabimbi “Sure I know Ravenna. A sweet and noble city.”

“You know of course” said the Man of Law “that ‘twas there that Dante died?”

“To be sure” said the Parabimbi “so he did.”

“You know of course” said the paleographer “that his tomb is in the Piazza Byron? I translated his epitaph into heroic couplets.”

“You know of course” said the Man of Law “that under Belisarius…”

“My dear” said the Parabimbi to the beldam “how well it goes! What a happy party and how at home they all seem. I declare” she declared “I envy you your flair for making people feel at their ease.”

The beldam disclaimed faintly any such faculty. It was Calaken's party really. It was Calaken who had arranged everything really. She had had very little to do with the arrangements. She just sat there and looked mauve and exhausted. She was just a weary exhausted old Norn.

“To my mind” boomed presumptuously the ovoidologist “the greatest triumph of human thought was the calculation of Neptune from the observed vagaries of the orbit of Uranus.”

“And yours” said the P.B. That was an apple of gold and a picture of silver if you like.

The Parabimbi waxed stiff.

“Who's that?” she cried. “What does he say?”

A terrible hush fell upon the assembly. The macaco had slapped the communist decorator.

Supported by Mr Higgins the Frica was on the scene of the disturbance at once.

“Go” she said to the macaco “and let there be no scene.”

Mr Higgins led him away. The Frica now addressed herself to the decorator. “I do not propose” she said “to tolerate any political brawls at any party of mine.”

“He called me a bloody Bolshy” protested the decorator “and he a labour man himself.”

“Let there be no more of it” said the Frica “let there be no more of it.”

She was very optative. “I beg of you” she said, and stepped back fleetly to the altar.

“You heard what she said” said the Gael.

“Let there be no more of it” said the native speaker.

“I beg of you” said the Polar Bear.

But now the lady cometh that all this may disdain, the Alba, dauntless daughter of desires. She made her entry just on the turn of the hush, she advanced like a midinette to pay her respects to the beldam, and voices sprang up in her wake. She suffered herself to be presented to the Parabimbi and then, without further ado, she mounted the estrade and there, in profile to the assistance, silent and still before the elements of refreshment, she cast her gravitational nets.

The rising whore studied how to do it. The daughters of the parodist passed on to such as were curious the little they knew. She was much spoken of in certain circles to
which they had access. But how much of what one heard was true and how much mere gossip they were really not in a position to say. However, for what it was worth, it appeared…

The Gael, the incontinent native speaker, the reporter and the violist d'amore got together as though by magic.

“Well?” invited the reporter.

“Pret-ty good” said the Gael.

“Dee-licious” said the violist d'amore.

The incontinent native speaker said nothing.

“Well?” repeated the reporter “Larry?”

Larry turned his eyes away from the estrade at last and said, drawing his palms slowly up the thighs of his trousers:

“Jaysus!”

“Meaning?” said the reporter.

Larry turned his wild gaze back upon the estrade. “You don't happen to know” he said finally “does she do it?”

“They all do” said the violist d'amore.

“Like hell they do” said the Gael.

“What I want to know” said the Student “what we all want to know…”

“Some do abstain” said the reporter “our friend here is right, through bashfulness from Venery. It is a pity, but it is so.”

From widely divergent points the Polar Bear and Mr Higgins approached the estrade.

“You look pale” said the Frica “and ill, my dear.”

The Alba raised her big head from the board and looked longly at the Frica.

“Pale” she repeated “and ill. Then keep them away.”

“Keep them away!” echoed the Frica “keep whom away?”

“Who is here?”

“Chas, Jem, the Polar Bear…”

The Frica was anxious to calm her. Such stories were related of the Alba. It was always to be feared that she would make a scene. Tricks and turns and games were food and drink to the Frica. The party, as far as she was concerned, did not begin to be a party until the tricks and turns and games started. Scenes only held up things, besides risking to frighten people away. One on whom she might count, Chas or a willing poet or musician, for a little contribution if all were going quietly and smoothly, might well be frightened away by the unpleasantness of a scene.

“We go through the world” said the Alba “like sunbeams through cracks.”

“The Polar Bear” said the Frica, thoroughly alarmed, “you know, and Jem of course I know you know. Take a little cup, dear, it will do you good.”

“Keep them away!” cried the Alba, clenching the altar, “keep them away.”

But the P.B. and Jem were on the estrade. They closed in upon her.

“All right” said the Alba “make it a strong one.”

Phew! the Frica was inexpressibly relieved.

Half-nine. The guests, led by the rising whore and the cicisbeo, began to scatter through the house. The Frica let them go. In half-an-hour she would visit the alcoves, she would round them all up for the party proper to begin. Had not Chas promised a piece of old French? She had seen the viol d'amore in its bag in the hall. So they would have a little music.

*    *    *

Half-nine. Belacqua stood in the mizzle in Lincoln Place, taking his bearings. But he had bought a bottle. He set off unsteadily by the Dental Hospital. He hated the red of the Dental Hospital. Suddenly he felt clammy. He leaned against the little gate set in the College wall and looked at J. M. & O'B.'s clock. Had he any sense of his responsibilities as an epic liû he would favour us now with an incondite meditation on time. He has none and he does not. To his vague dismay it looks like a quarter to ten by the clock, and he scarcely able to stand, let alone walk. And the rain. He lifted his hands and held them close to his face, so close that even in the dark he could discern the lines. Then he pressed them over his eyes, he pressed the heels viciously against the eyeballs, he let himself sag heavily against the gate and the sill of the wall fitted into the groove of his nape. Stupefied and all as he was he could feel the pressure crushing little quirts of pain out of the baby anthrax that he always wore just above his collar. He forced his neck hard back against the stone sill.

The next he knew was his hands torn roughly away from his eyes. He opened them on a large red hostile face. For a moment it was still, a plush gargoyle. Then it moved, it was convulsed. This, he thought, must be the face of somebody talking. It was. It was the face of a Civic Guard abusing him. Belacqua closed his eyes, there was no other way of ceasing to see it. He felt a great desire to lie down on the pavement. He was sick quietly and abundantly, mainly on the boots and trousers of the Guard. The Guard struck him fiercely on the breast and Belacqua dropped hip and thigh into his vomit. He felt weak, but not hurt in any way. On the contrary, he felt calm and lucid and well and anxious to be on his way. It must be after ten. He bore no
animosity to the Guard, though now he could hear what he was saying. He knelt before him in the vomit, he heard every word he was saying in the recreation of his duty, and bore him no ill will of any kind. He reached up for a purchase on the Guard's coat and pulled himself to his feet. The apology he made when firmly established on his feet for what had occurred was profusely rejected. He furnished his name and address, where he was coming from and where he was going to, and why, his profession and immediate business, and why. He was sorry to hear that the Guard had a good mind to bring him to the Station, but he appreciated the Guard's position.

“Wipe them boots” said the Guard.

Belacqua was only too happy. He made two loose balls of the Twilight Herald and stooped down and cleaned the boots and trouser ends as best he might. Then he stood up, clutching the two soiled swabs of newspaper, and looked timidly at the Guard, who seemed rather at a loss as to how his advantage might be best pressed home.

“I trust” said Belacqua “that you can see your way to overlooking this regrettable incident.”

The Guard said nothing. Belacqua wiped his right hand on his coat and extended it. The Guard spat. Belacqua strangled a shrug and moved away in a tentative manner.

“Hold on there” said the Guard.

Belacqua halted and waited.

“Move on” said the Guard.

Belacqua walked away, holding tightly on to the two swabs of newspaper. Once safe round the corner of Kildare Street he let them fall. Then, after a few paces forward, he stopped, turned and hastened back to where they were fidgeting on the pavement. He picked them up and threw them into an area. Now he felt extraordinarily light and
active and haeres cœli. He followed briskly through the mizzle the way he had chosen, exalted, fashioning intricate festoons of words. It occurred to him, and he took great pleasure in working out this little figure, that the locus of his fall from the vague grace of the drink must have intersected with that of his climb to that grace at its most agreeable point. That was certainly what must have happened. Sometimes the line of the drink graph looped back on itself like an eight, and if you had got, what you were looking for on the way up you got it again on the way down. The bumless eight of the drink figure. You did not end up where you started, but coming down you met yourself going up. Sometimes, as now, you were glad; other times you were sorry, and you hastened on to your new home.