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."