"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.