She had the natural
curiosity
of a mother in what concerns her child.
Samuel Beckett
" There was no nonsense about the Frica.
When she meant skin she said skin.
"Every stitch" she gloated "must come off at once, this very instant.
"
From the taut cock of the face viewed as a whole, and in particular from the horripilating detail of the upper-lip writhing up and away in a kind of a duck or a cobra sneer to the quivering snout, he derived the impression that something had inflamed her. And right enoifgh a condition of the highest mettle and fettle had followed hard upon her asinine dumfusion. For here indeejlawas an unex- pected little bit of excitement! In a moment she would break into a caper. Belacqua thought it might be as well to take this disposition in time.
"No" he said composedly, "if I might have a towel
. "
"A towel! " The scoff was so shocked that she was obliged to blow her nose better late than never.
"It would take off the rough wet" he said.
The rough wet! But how too utterly absurd to speak of the rough wet when it was clear to be seen that he was soaked through and through.
"To the skin! " she cried.
"No" he said, "if I might just have a towel
Caleken, though deeply chagrined as may well be im-
agined, knew her man well enough to realise that his determination to accept no more final comfort at her hands than the loan of a towel was unalterable. Also in the salon her absence was beginning to make itself heard, the
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mice were beginning to enjoy themselves. So off she pat- tered with a sour look—goose, thought Belacqua, flying barefoot from McCabe—and was back in no time with a hairy towel of great size and a hand-towel.
"You'll get your death" she said, with the adenoidal as- perity that he knew so well, and left him. Rejoining her guests she felt that all this had happened to her before, by hearsay or in a dream.
Chas, conversing in low tones with the Shawly, was waiting in some trepidation to be called on for his con- tribution. This was the famous occasion when Chas, as though he had taken leave of his senses or begun to be irked by his brand new toga virilis, concluded an unex- ceptionable recitation with the quatrain:
Toutes etes, serez ou futes, De fait ou de volonte, putes, Et qui bien vous chercheroit Toutes putes vous trouveroit.
The Alba, whom in order to rescue Belacqua we were obliged to abandon just as with characteristic impetuosity she swallowed the pill, opened her campaign by sending Mr Higgins and the P. B. flying, there is no other word for it, about their business. Upon which, not deigning to have any share in the sinister kiss-me-Charley hugger-mugger that had spread like wildfire throughout the building, till it raged from attic to basement, under the aegis of the rising strumpet and the casual cicisbeo, she proceeded in her own quiet and inimitable style to captivate all those who had curbed their instinct to join in the vile necking expressly in order to see what they could make of this pale little person so self-possessed and urbane in the best sense in the scarlet costume. So that, from the point of
view of her Maker and in the absence of Belacqua, she was quite a power for good that evening in Casa Frica.
It had not occurred to her, fond as she was of that shabby hero in her own rather stealthy and sinuous fashion, to miss him or think of him at all unless possibly as a rather acute spectator whose eyes behind his glasses upon her and vernier of appraisement going like mad might have slightly spiced her fun. Among the many whom the implacable Frica had hounded from the joys of sense she had marked down for her own one of the grave Jews, him with the bile-tinged conjunctivae, and the merchant prince. She addressed herself to the Jew, but too slackly, as to an insipid dish, and was repulsed. Scarcely had she reloaded and trained her charms more nicely upon this interesting miscreant, of whom she pro- posed, her mind full of hands rubbing, to make a most salutary example, than the Frica, still smarting under her frustration, announced in a venomous tone of voice that Monsieur Jean du Chas, too well known to the Dublin that mattered for the most talentuous nonesuch that he was to require any introduction, had kindly consented to set the ball a-rolling. Notwithstanding the satisfaction that would have accrued to the Alba had Chas died the death without further delay, she made no attempt to restrain her merriment, in which of course she was uproariously seconded by the P. B. , when he came out with the iniq- uitous apothegm quoted above, and the less so as she observed how bitter-sweetly the paleographer and Para- bimbi, who had been surprised by the Frica being slightly naughty together, dissociated themselves from the ap- plause that greeted his descent from the estrade.
This, roughly speaking, was the position when Belacqua framed himself in the doorway.
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Surveying him as he stood bedraggled under the lintel, clutching his enormous glasses (a precautionary measure that he never neglected when there was the least danger of his appearing embarrassed, appearing in italics because he was always embarrassed), bothered seriously in his mind by a neat little point that had arisen out of nowhere in the vestibule, waiting no doubt for some kind friend to lead him to a seat, the Alba thought she had never seen anybody, man or woman, look quite such a sovereign booby. Seeking to be God, she thought, in the slavish arrogance of a piffling evil.
"Like something" she said to her neighbour the P. B. "that a dog would bring in. "
The P. B. played up, he overbade.
"Like something" he said "that, on reflection, he would not. "
He cackled and snuffled over his sottish mot as though it were his own.
In an unsubduable movement of misericord the Alba started out of her chair.
"Nino" she called, without shame or ceremony.
The distant call came to Belacqua like a pint of Perrier to drink in a dungeon. He stumbled towards it.
"Move up in the bed" she ordered the P. B. "and make room. "
Everybody in the row had to move up one. Like the totem chorus, thought the Alba with complacency, in Rose Marie. Belacqua came down on the end seat thus freed like a sack of potatoes. Observe, now at last they are juxtaposed. His next difficulty was how to get her on his other side, for he could not bear on any account to be on a person's right hand, without finding himself stuck up against the P. B. as a result. Though it scarcely required an expert statistician to realise that the desired order
could only be established by his changing places with the P. B. , leaving the Alba where she was, yet he wasted much valuable time, in a fever of notes of exclamation, failing to understand that of the six ways in which they could arrange themselves only one satisfied his conditions. He sat not looking, his head sunk, plucking vaguely at his filthy old trousers. When she placed her hand on his sleeve he roused himself and looked at her. To her disgust he was shedding tears.
"At it again" she said.
The Parabimbi could bear it no longer. Clutching and clawing and craning her neck all over the suffocating paleographer she demanded in a general way:
"What's that? Who's that? Is that promessi? "
"I was amazed" said a voice, "truly amazed, to find Sheffield more hilly than Rome/'
Belacqua made a stupendous effort to acknowledge the cordial greeting of the P. B. , but could not. He longed to subside on the floor and pillow his head on the slight madder thigh of his one and only.
"The bicuspid" from the Ovoidologist "monotheistic fiction ripped by the sophists, Christ and Plato, from the violated matrix of pure reason. "
Who shall silence them, at last? Who shall circumcise their lips from speaking, at last?
The Frica insisted that she trod the estrade.
"Maestro Gormely" she said "will now play. "
Maestro Gormely executed Scarlatti's Capriccio, with-
out the least aid or accompaniment, on the viol d'amore. This met with no success to speak of.
"Plato! " sneered the P. B. "Did I hear the word Plato? That dirty little Borstal Boehme! " That was a sockdologer for someone if you like.
"Mr Larry O'Murcahaodha"—the Frica pronounced it
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—
as though he were a connection of Hiawatha "will now
sing. "
Mr Larry O'Murcahaodha tore a greater quantity than
seemed fair of his native speech-material to flat tatters.
"I can't bear it" said Belacqua, "I can't bear it. "
The Frica threw the Poet into the breach. She in-
formed the assistance that it was privileged.
"I think I am accurate in saying" she presented her teeth
for the lie "one of his most recent compositions. " "Vinegar" moaned Belacqua "on nitre. "
"Don't you try" said with forced heartiness the Alba,
who began to fear for her wretched adorer, "to put across the Mrs Gummidge before the coverture on me. "
He had no desire, oh none, to put across the Mrs Gum- midge at any stage of her experience or anything what- ever on her or anyone else. His distress was profound and unaffected. He had abandoned all hope of getting her where he wanted her, he could neither be on her left hand nor at her feet. His only remaining concern, before his soul heaved anchor, was to get some kind friend to scotch a wolf that he could not hold off by the ears very much
longer. He leaned across to the Polar Bear. —
"I wonder" he said "could you possibly
"Motus! " screamed the bibliomaniac, from the back row. The P. B. turned a little yellow, as well he might.
"Let the man say his lines" he hissed "can't you? " Belacqua said in a loud despairing voice, falling back
into position, a foreign word that he would understand. "What is it? " whispered the Alba.
Belacqua was green, he did the King of Brobdingnag
in a quick dumb crambo.
"Curse you" said the Alba, "what is it? "
"Let the man say his lines" he mumbled, "why won't
you let the man say his lines? "
An outburst of applause unprecedented in the annals of the mauve salon suggested that he might have done so at last.
"Now" said the Alba.
Belacqua helped himself to a deep breath of the rank ambience and then, with the precipitation of one ex- hibiting a tongue-teaser, rattled off the borrowed quod- libet as follows:
"When with indifference I remember my past sorrow, my mind has indifference, my memory has sorrow. The mind, upon the indifference which is in it, is indifferent; yet the memory, upon the sorrow which is in it, is not sad. "
"Again" she said, "slower. "
He was getting on nicely with the repeat when the Alba had a sudden idea and stopped him.
"See me home" she said.
"Have you got it" said Belacqua, "because I haven't. " She covered his hand with her hand.
"What I want to know" said the Student.
"Will you? " she said.
"I see" said the Man of Law agreeably to Chas "by the
paper that sailors are painting the Eiffel Tower with no fewer than forty tons of yellow. "
The Frica, returning from having seen off the premises some renegade with a thin tale of a train to catch, made as though to regain the estrade. Her face was suffused with indignation.
"Quick" said Belacqua, "before it starts. "
The Frica came plunging after them, torrents of spleen gushed out of her. Belacqua held the street-door open for the Alba, who seemed half inclined to do the polite, to precede him.
"The lady first" he said.
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He insisted on their taking a taxi to her home. They found nothing to say on the way. Je fadore a Vegal. . . . "Can you pay this man" he said when they arrived "be-
cause I spent my last on a bottle? "
She took money out of her bag and gave it to him
and he paid the man off. They stood on the asphalt in front of the gate, face to face. The rain had almost ceased.
"Well" he said, wondering might he hazard a quick baisemain before he went. He released the gesture but she shrank away and unlatched the gate.
Tire la chevillette, la bobinette cherra.
Pardon these French expressions, but the creature dreams in French.
"Come in" she said, "there's a fire and a bottle. "
He went in. She would sit in a chair and he would sit on the floor at last and her thigh against his baby anthrax would be better than a foment. For the rest, the bottle, some natural tears and in what hair he had left her high- frequency fingers.
Nisscht moddddddglich. . . .
Now it began to rain again upon the earth beneath and greatly incommoded Christmas traffic of every kind by continuing to do so without remission for a matter of thirty-six hours. A divine creature, native of Leipzig, to whom Belacqua, round about the following Epiphany, had occasion to quote the rainfall for December as cooked in the Dublin University Fellows' Garden, ejaculated:
"Himmisacrakruzidirkenjesusmariaundjosefundbliitiges- kreuz! "
Like that, all in one word. The things people come out with sometimes!
But the wind had dropped, as it so often does in Dublin when all the respectable men and women whom it de-
lights to annoy have gone to bed, and the rain fell in a uniform untroubled manner. It fell upon the bay, the lit- toral, the mountains and the plains, and notably upon the Central Bog it fell with a rather desolate uniformity.
So that when Belacqua that uneasy creature came out of Casa Alba in the small hours of the morning it was a case of darkness visible and no mistake. The street-lamps were all extinguished, as were the moon and stars. He stood out well in the midst of the tramlines, inspected every available inch of the firmament and satisfied his mind that it was quite black. He struck a match and looked at his watch. It had stopped. Patience, a public clock would oblige.
His feet pained him so much that he took off his per- fectly good boots and threw them away, with best wishes to some early bird for a Merry Christmas. Then he set off to paddle the whole way home, his toes rejoicing in their freedom. But this small gain in the matter of ease was very quickly more than revoked by such a belly-ache as he had never known. This doubled him up more and more till finally he was creeping along with his poor trunk parallel to the horizon. When he came to the bridge over the canal, not Baggot Street, not Leeson Street, but an- other nearer the sea, he gave in and disposed himself in the knee-and-elbow position on the pavement. Gradually the pain got better.
What was that? He shook off his glasses and stooped his head to see. That was his hands. Now who would have thought that! He began to try would they work, clenching them and unclenching, keeping them moving for the wonder of his weak eyes. Finally he opened them in unison, finger by finger together, till there they were, wide open, face upward, rancid, an inch from his squint, which however slowly righted itself as he began to lose interest
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in them as a spectacle. Scarcely had he made to employ them on his face than a voice, slightly more in sorrow than in anger this time, enjoined him to move on, which, the pain being so much better, he was only too happy to do.
Love and Lethe
Ihe Toughs, consisting of Mr and Mrs and their one and only Ruby, lived in a small house in Irishtown. When dinner, which they took in the middle of the day, was ended, Mr Tough went to his room to lie down and Mrs Tough and Ruby to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a chat. The mother was low-sized, pale and plump, admir- ably preserved though well past the change. She poured the right amount of water into the saucepan and set it to boil.
"What time is he coming? " she said
"He said about three" said Ruby.
"With car? " said Mrs Tough.
"He hoped with car" answered Ruby.
Mrs Tough hoped so most devoutly, for she had an idea
that she might be invited to join the party. Though she would rather have died than stand in the way of her daughter, yet she saw no reason why, if she kept herself to herself in the dicky, there should be any objection to her joining in the fun. She shook the beans into the little mill and ground them violently into powder. Ruby, who was neurasthenic on top of everything else, plugged her ears. Mrs Tough, taking a seat at the deal table against the water would be boiling, looked out of the window at the perfect weather.
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"Where are you going? " she said.
She had the natural curiosity of a mother in what concerns her child.
"Don't ask me" answered Ruby, who was inclined to resent all these questions.
He to whom they referred, who had hopes of calling at three with a car, was the doomed Belacqua and no other.
The water boiling, Mrs Tough rose and added the coffee, reduced the flame, stirred thoroughly and left to simmer. Though it seems a strange way to prepare coffee, yet it was justified by the event.
"Let me put you up some tea" implored Mrs Tough. She could not bear to be idle.
"Ah no" said Ruby "no thanks really. "
It struck the half-hour in the hall. It was half-past two, that zero hour, in Irishtown.
"Half-two! " ejaculated Mrs Tough, who had no idea it was so late.
Ruby was glad that it was not earlier. The aroma of coffee pervaded the kitchen. She would have just nice time to dream over her coffee. But she knew that this was quite out of the question with her mother wanting to talk, bursting with questions and suggestions. So when the coffee was dispensed and her mother had settled down for the comfortable chat that went with it she unex- pectedly said:
"I think, mother, if you don't mind, I'll take mine with me to the lav, I don't feel very well. "
Mrs Tough was used to the whims of Ruby and took them philosophically usually. But this latest fancy was really a little bit too unheard of. Coffee in the lav! What would father say when he heard? However.
"And the rosiner" said Mrs Tough, "will you have that in the lav too? "
Reader, a rosiner is a drop of the hard.
Ruby rose and took a gulp of coffee to make room.
"I'll have a gloria" she said.
Reader, a gloria is coffee laced with brandy.
Mrs Tough poured into the proffered cup a smaller
portion of brandy than in the ordinary way she would have allowed, and Ruby left the room.
We know something of Belacqua, but Ruby Tough is a stranger to these pages. Anxious that those who read this incredible adventure shall not pooh-pooh it as unintel- ligible we avail ourselves now of this lull, what time Belacqua is on his way, Mrs Tough broods in the kitchen and Ruby dreams over her gloria, to enlarge a little on the latter lady.
For a long period, on account of the beauty of her person and perhaps also, though in lesser degree, the dis- tinction of her mind, Ruby had been the occasion of much wine-shed; but now, in the thirty-third or -fourth year of her age, she was so no longer. Those who are in the least curious to know what she looked like at the time in which we have chosen to cull her we venture to refer to the Magdalene1 in the Perugino Pieta in the National Gallery of Dublin, always bearing in mind that the hair of our heroine is black and not ginger. Further than this hint we need not allow her outside to detain us, seeing that Belacqua was scarcely ever aware of it.
The facts of life had reduced her temper, naturally ro- mantic and idealistic in the highest degree, to an almost atomic despair. Her sentimental experience had indeed been unfortunate. Requiring of love, as a younger and more appetising woman, that it should unite or fix her as
1 This figure, owing to the glittering vitrine behind which the canvas cowers, can only be apprehended in sections. Patience, however, and a retentive memory have been known to elicit a total statement approxi- mating to the intention of the painter.
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firmly and as finally as the sun of a binary in respect of its partner, she had come to avoid it more and more as she found, with increasing disappointment and disgust, its effect at each successive manifestation, for she had been in great demand, to be of quite a different order. The re- sult of this erotic frustration was, firstly, to make her eschew the experience entirely; secondly, to recommend her itch for syzygy to more ideal measures, among which she found music and malt the most efficacious; and finally, to send her caterwauling to the alcove for whatever shabby joys it could afford. These however, embarras de richesse as long as she remained the scornful maiden, were naturally less at pains to solicit one whose sense of proportion had been acquired to the great detriment of her allurements. The grapes of love, set aside as abject in the davs of hot blood, turned sour as soon as she discov- ered a zest for them. As formerly she had recoiled into herself because she would not, so now she did because she could not, except that in her retreat the hope that used to solace her was dead. She saw her life as a series of staircase jests.
Belacqua, paying pious suit to the hem of her garment and gutting his raptures with great complacency at a safe remove, represented precisely the ineffable long-distance paramour to whom as a homesick meteorite abounding in it she had sacrificed her innumerable gallants. And now, the metal of stars smothered in earth, the it run dry and the gallants departed, he appeared, like the agent of an ironical Fortune, to put her in mind of what she had missed and rowel her sorrow for what she was missing. Yet she tolerated him in the hope that sooner or later, in a fit of ebriety or of common or garden incontinence, he would so far forget himself as to take her in his arms.
Join to all this the fact that she had long been suffering
from an incurable disorder and been assured positively by no fewer than fifteen doctors, ten of whom were atheists, acting independently, that she need not look forward to her life being much further prolonged, and we feel confi- dent that even the most captious reader must acknowl- edge, not merely the extreme wretchedness of Ruby's situation, but also the verisimilitude of what we hope to relate in the not too distant future. For we assume the irresponsibility of Belacqua, his faculty for acting with in- sufficient motivation, to have been so far evinced in pre- vious misadventures as to be no longer a matter for surprise. In respect of this apparent gratuity of conduct he may perhaps with some colour of justice be likened to the laws of nature. A mental home was the place for him.
He cultivated Ruby, for whom at no time did he much care, and made careful love in the terms he thought best calculated to prime her for the part she was to play on his behalf, the gist of which, as he revealed when he deemed her ripe, provided that she should connive at his felo de se, which he much regretted he could not commit on his own bottom. How he had formed this resolution to destroy himself we are quite unable to discover. The simplest course, when the motives of any deed are found sub- liminal to the point of defying expression, is to call that deed ex nihilo and have done. Which we beg leave to follow in the present instance.
The normal woman of sense asks "what? " in preference to "why? " ( this is very deep ) , but poor Ruby had always been deficient in that exquisite quality, so that no sooner had Belacqua opened his project than she applied for his reasons. Now though he had none, as we have seen, that he could offer, yet he had armed himself so well at this point, forewarned by the study he had made of his cats- paw's mind, that he was able to pelt her there and then
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with the best that diligent enquiry could provide: Greek and Roman reasons, Sturm und Drang reasons, reasons metaphysical, aesthetic, erotic, anterotic and chemical, Empedocles of Agrigentum and John of the Cross reasons, in short all but the true reasons, which did not exist, at least not for the purposes of conversation. Ruby, flattened by this torrent of incentive, was obliged to admit that this was not, as she had inclined to suspect, a greenhorn yield- ing to the spur of a momentary pique, but an adult des- perado of fixed and even noble purpose, and from this concession passed to a state almost of joy. She was done in any case, and here was a chance to end with a fairly beau- tiful bang. So the thing was arranged, the needful meas- ures taken, the date fixed in the spring of the year and a
site near by selected, Venice in October having been re- jected as alas impracticable. Now the fateful day had come and Ruby, in the posture of Philosopher Square be- hind Molly Seagrim's arras, sat winding herself up, while Belacqua, in a swagger sports roadster chartered at untold gold by the hour, trod on the gas for Irishtown.
So fiercely indeed did he do this, though so far from being insured against third-party risks he was not even the holder of a driving-licence, that he scored a wake of objurgation as he sped through the traffic. The better-class pedestrians and cyclists turned and stared after him. "These stream-lined Juggernauts" they said, shaking their heads, "are a positive menace. " Civic Guards at various points of the city and suburbs took his number. In Pearse Street he smote off the wheel of a growler as cleanly as Peter Malchus's ear after the agony, but did not stop. Further on, in some lowly street or other, the little chil- dren playing beds and ball and other games were scat- tered like chaff. But before the terrible humped Victoria
Bridge, its implacable bisection, in a sudden panic at his own temerity he stopped the car, got out and pushed her across with the help of a bystander. Then he drove quietly on through the afternoon and came in due course without further mishap to the house of his accomplice.
Mrs Tough flung open wide the door. She was all over Belacqua, with his big pallid gob much abused with imagined debauches.
"Ruby" she sang, in a third, like a cuckoo, "Rubee! Rubee! "
But would she ever change her tune, that was the ques- tion.
Ruby dangled down the stairs, with the marks of her teeth in her nether lip where she could persuade no bee to sting her any more.
"Get on your bonnet and shawl" said Belacqua roughly "and we'll be going. "
Mrs Tough recoiled aghast. This was the first time she had ever heard such a tone turned on her Ruby. But Ruby got into a coat like a lamb and seemed not to mind. It became only too clear to Mrs Tough that she was not going to be invited.
"May I offer you a little refreshment" she said in an icy voice to Belacqua "before you go? " She could not bear to be idle.
Ruby thought she had never heard anything quite so absurd. Refreshment before they went! It was if and when they returned that they would be in need of refreshment.
"Really mother" she said, "can't you see we must be off. "
Belacqua chimed in with a heavy lunch at the Bailey. The truth was not in him.
"Off where? " said Mrs Tough. "Off" cried Ruby, "just off. "
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What a strange mood she is in to be sure, thought Mrs Tough. However. At least they could not prevent her from going as far as the gate.
"Where did you raise the car? " she said.
If you had seen the car you would agree that this was the most natural question.
Belacqua mentioned a firm of motor engineers.
"Oh indeed" said Mrs Tough.
Mr Tough crept to the window and peeped out from
behind the curtain. He had worked himself to the bone for his family and he could only afford a safety-bicycle. A bitter look stole over his cyanosis.
Belacqua got in a gear at last, he had no very clear idea himself which, after much clutch-burning, and they shot forward in Hollywood style. Mrs Tough might have been waving to Lot for all the response she received. Was the cut-out by way of being their spokesman? Ruby's parting gird, "Expect us when you see us," echoed in her ears. On the stairs she met Mr Tough descending. They passed.
"There is something about that young man" called down Mrs Tough "that I can't relish. "
"Pup" called up Mr Tough.
They increased the gap between them.
"Ruby is very strange" cried down Mrs Tough.
"Slut" cried up Mr. Tough.
Though he might be only able to afford a safety-bicycle
he was nevertheless a man of few words. There are better things, he thought, going to the bottle, there are better things in this stenching world than Blue Birds.
The pup and slut drove on and on and there was dead silence between them. Not a syllable did they exchange until the car was safely stowed at the foot of a high mountain. But when Ruby saw Belacqua open the dicky
and produce a bag she thought well to break a silence that was becoming a little awkward.
"What have you got" she said "in the maternity-bag? "
"Socrates" replied Belacqua "the son of his mother, and the hemlocks. "
"No" she said, "codding aside, what? "
Belacqua let fly a finger for each item.
"The revolver and balls, the veronal, the bottle and
glasses, and the notice. "
Ruby could not repress a shiver.
"In the name of God" she said "what notice? "
"The one that we are fled" replied Belacqua, and not
another word would he say though she begged him to tell her. The notice was his own idea and he was proud of it. When the time came she would have to subscribe to it whether she liked it or not. He would keep it as a little surprise for her.
They ascended the mountain in silence. Wisps of snipe and whatever it is of grouse squirted out of the heather on all sides, while the number of hares, brooding in their forms, that they started and sent bounding away, was a credit to the gamekeeper. They plunged on and up through the deep ling and whortleberry. Ruby was sweat- ing. A high mesh wire fence, flung like a shingles round the mountain, obstructed their passage.
"What are all the trusses for? " panted Ruby.
Right along on either hand as far as they could see there were fasces of bracken attached to the wire. Belacqua racked his brains for an explanation. In the end he had to give it up.
"God I don't know at all" he exclaimed.
It certainly was the most astounding thing.
Ladies first. Ruby scaled the fence. Belacqua, holding
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gallantly back with the bag in his hand, enjoyed a glimpse of her legs' sincerity. It was the first time he had had occasion to take stock of those parts of her and certainly he had seen worse. They pushed on and soon the summit, complete with fairy rath, came into view, howbeit still at a considerable distance.
Ruby tripped and fell, but on her face. Belacqua's strong arms were at hand to raise her up.
"Not hurt" he kindly inquired.
"This foul old skirt gets in my way" she said angrily.
"It is an encumbrance" agreed Belacqua, "off with it. " This struck Ruby as being such a good suggestion that
she acted upon it without further ado and stood revealed as one of those ladies who have no use for a petticoat. Belacqua folded the skirt over his arm, there being no room for it in the bag, and Ruby, greatly eased, stormed the summit in her knickers.
Belacqua, who was in the lead, halted all of a sudden, clapped his hands, spun round and told Ruby he had got it. He was keenly conscious of her standing knee-deep in the ling before him, grateful for a breather and not both- ering to ask what.
"They tie those bundles to the wire" he said "so that the grouse will see them. "
Still she did not understand.
"And not fly against the fence and hurt themselves. " Now she understood. The calm way she took it dis-
tressed Belacqua. It was to be hoped that the notice would have better success than this splendid divulgation. Now the ling was up to her garters, she seemed to be sink- ing in the heath as in a quickstand. Could it be that she was giving at the knees? "Spirits of this mountain" mur- mured the heart of Belacqua "keep me steadfast. "
Now since parking the car they had not seen a living soul.
The first thing they had to do of course when they got to the top was admire the view, with special reference to Dun Laoghaire framed to perfection in the shoulders of Three Rock and Kilmashogue, the long arms of the harbour like an entreaty in the blue sea. Young priests were singing in a wood on the hillside. They heard them and they saw the smoke of their fire. To the west in the valley a plantation of larches nearly brought tears to the eyes of Belacqua, till raising those unruly members to the slopes of Glendoo, mottled like a leopard, that lay beyond, he thought of Synge and recovered his spirits. Wicklow, full of breasts with pimples, he refused to consider. Ruby agreed. The city and the plains to the north meant nothing to either of them in the mood they were in. A human turd lay within the rath.
Like fantoccini controlled by a single wire they flung themselves down on the western "slope of heath. From now on till the end there is something very secco and Punch Judy about their proceedings, Ruby looking more bawdy
Magdalene than ever, Belacqua like a super out of the Harlot's Progress. He kept putting off opening the bag.
"I thought of bringing the gramophone" he said "and
"
Ravel's Pavane. Then
"Then you thought again" said Ruby. She had a most
irritating habit of interrupting.
"Oh yes" said Belacqua, "the usual pale cast. "
Notice the literary man.
"S'pity" said Ruby, "it might have made things easier. " Happy Infanta! Painted by Velasquez and then no more
pensums!
"If you would put back your skirt" said Belacqua vio-
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lently, "now that you have done walking, you would make things easier for me. "
How difficult things were becoming, to be sure. The least thing might upset the apple-cart at this juncture.
Ruby pricked up her ears. Was this a declaration at last? In case it might be she would not oblige him.
"I prefer it off" she said.
Belacqua, staring fiercely at the larches, sulked for a space.
"Weir he grumbled at last, "shall we have a little drink to start off? "
Ruby was agreeable. He opened the bag as little as pos- sible, put in his hand, snatched out the bottle, then the glasses and shut it quick.
"Fifteen year old" he said complacently, "on tick. "
All the money he owed for one thing or another. If he did not pull it off now once and for all he would be broke. "God" he exclaimed, executing a kind of passionate
tick-tack through his pockets, "I forgot the screw.
From the taut cock of the face viewed as a whole, and in particular from the horripilating detail of the upper-lip writhing up and away in a kind of a duck or a cobra sneer to the quivering snout, he derived the impression that something had inflamed her. And right enoifgh a condition of the highest mettle and fettle had followed hard upon her asinine dumfusion. For here indeejlawas an unex- pected little bit of excitement! In a moment she would break into a caper. Belacqua thought it might be as well to take this disposition in time.
"No" he said composedly, "if I might have a towel
. "
"A towel! " The scoff was so shocked that she was obliged to blow her nose better late than never.
"It would take off the rough wet" he said.
The rough wet! But how too utterly absurd to speak of the rough wet when it was clear to be seen that he was soaked through and through.
"To the skin! " she cried.
"No" he said, "if I might just have a towel
Caleken, though deeply chagrined as may well be im-
agined, knew her man well enough to realise that his determination to accept no more final comfort at her hands than the loan of a towel was unalterable. Also in the salon her absence was beginning to make itself heard, the
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mice were beginning to enjoy themselves. So off she pat- tered with a sour look—goose, thought Belacqua, flying barefoot from McCabe—and was back in no time with a hairy towel of great size and a hand-towel.
"You'll get your death" she said, with the adenoidal as- perity that he knew so well, and left him. Rejoining her guests she felt that all this had happened to her before, by hearsay or in a dream.
Chas, conversing in low tones with the Shawly, was waiting in some trepidation to be called on for his con- tribution. This was the famous occasion when Chas, as though he had taken leave of his senses or begun to be irked by his brand new toga virilis, concluded an unex- ceptionable recitation with the quatrain:
Toutes etes, serez ou futes, De fait ou de volonte, putes, Et qui bien vous chercheroit Toutes putes vous trouveroit.
The Alba, whom in order to rescue Belacqua we were obliged to abandon just as with characteristic impetuosity she swallowed the pill, opened her campaign by sending Mr Higgins and the P. B. flying, there is no other word for it, about their business. Upon which, not deigning to have any share in the sinister kiss-me-Charley hugger-mugger that had spread like wildfire throughout the building, till it raged from attic to basement, under the aegis of the rising strumpet and the casual cicisbeo, she proceeded in her own quiet and inimitable style to captivate all those who had curbed their instinct to join in the vile necking expressly in order to see what they could make of this pale little person so self-possessed and urbane in the best sense in the scarlet costume. So that, from the point of
view of her Maker and in the absence of Belacqua, she was quite a power for good that evening in Casa Frica.
It had not occurred to her, fond as she was of that shabby hero in her own rather stealthy and sinuous fashion, to miss him or think of him at all unless possibly as a rather acute spectator whose eyes behind his glasses upon her and vernier of appraisement going like mad might have slightly spiced her fun. Among the many whom the implacable Frica had hounded from the joys of sense she had marked down for her own one of the grave Jews, him with the bile-tinged conjunctivae, and the merchant prince. She addressed herself to the Jew, but too slackly, as to an insipid dish, and was repulsed. Scarcely had she reloaded and trained her charms more nicely upon this interesting miscreant, of whom she pro- posed, her mind full of hands rubbing, to make a most salutary example, than the Frica, still smarting under her frustration, announced in a venomous tone of voice that Monsieur Jean du Chas, too well known to the Dublin that mattered for the most talentuous nonesuch that he was to require any introduction, had kindly consented to set the ball a-rolling. Notwithstanding the satisfaction that would have accrued to the Alba had Chas died the death without further delay, she made no attempt to restrain her merriment, in which of course she was uproariously seconded by the P. B. , when he came out with the iniq- uitous apothegm quoted above, and the less so as she observed how bitter-sweetly the paleographer and Para- bimbi, who had been surprised by the Frica being slightly naughty together, dissociated themselves from the ap- plause that greeted his descent from the estrade.
This, roughly speaking, was the position when Belacqua framed himself in the doorway.
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Surveying him as he stood bedraggled under the lintel, clutching his enormous glasses (a precautionary measure that he never neglected when there was the least danger of his appearing embarrassed, appearing in italics because he was always embarrassed), bothered seriously in his mind by a neat little point that had arisen out of nowhere in the vestibule, waiting no doubt for some kind friend to lead him to a seat, the Alba thought she had never seen anybody, man or woman, look quite such a sovereign booby. Seeking to be God, she thought, in the slavish arrogance of a piffling evil.
"Like something" she said to her neighbour the P. B. "that a dog would bring in. "
The P. B. played up, he overbade.
"Like something" he said "that, on reflection, he would not. "
He cackled and snuffled over his sottish mot as though it were his own.
In an unsubduable movement of misericord the Alba started out of her chair.
"Nino" she called, without shame or ceremony.
The distant call came to Belacqua like a pint of Perrier to drink in a dungeon. He stumbled towards it.
"Move up in the bed" she ordered the P. B. "and make room. "
Everybody in the row had to move up one. Like the totem chorus, thought the Alba with complacency, in Rose Marie. Belacqua came down on the end seat thus freed like a sack of potatoes. Observe, now at last they are juxtaposed. His next difficulty was how to get her on his other side, for he could not bear on any account to be on a person's right hand, without finding himself stuck up against the P. B. as a result. Though it scarcely required an expert statistician to realise that the desired order
could only be established by his changing places with the P. B. , leaving the Alba where she was, yet he wasted much valuable time, in a fever of notes of exclamation, failing to understand that of the six ways in which they could arrange themselves only one satisfied his conditions. He sat not looking, his head sunk, plucking vaguely at his filthy old trousers. When she placed her hand on his sleeve he roused himself and looked at her. To her disgust he was shedding tears.
"At it again" she said.
The Parabimbi could bear it no longer. Clutching and clawing and craning her neck all over the suffocating paleographer she demanded in a general way:
"What's that? Who's that? Is that promessi? "
"I was amazed" said a voice, "truly amazed, to find Sheffield more hilly than Rome/'
Belacqua made a stupendous effort to acknowledge the cordial greeting of the P. B. , but could not. He longed to subside on the floor and pillow his head on the slight madder thigh of his one and only.
"The bicuspid" from the Ovoidologist "monotheistic fiction ripped by the sophists, Christ and Plato, from the violated matrix of pure reason. "
Who shall silence them, at last? Who shall circumcise their lips from speaking, at last?
The Frica insisted that she trod the estrade.
"Maestro Gormely" she said "will now play. "
Maestro Gormely executed Scarlatti's Capriccio, with-
out the least aid or accompaniment, on the viol d'amore. This met with no success to speak of.
"Plato! " sneered the P. B. "Did I hear the word Plato? That dirty little Borstal Boehme! " That was a sockdologer for someone if you like.
"Mr Larry O'Murcahaodha"—the Frica pronounced it
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—
as though he were a connection of Hiawatha "will now
sing. "
Mr Larry O'Murcahaodha tore a greater quantity than
seemed fair of his native speech-material to flat tatters.
"I can't bear it" said Belacqua, "I can't bear it. "
The Frica threw the Poet into the breach. She in-
formed the assistance that it was privileged.
"I think I am accurate in saying" she presented her teeth
for the lie "one of his most recent compositions. " "Vinegar" moaned Belacqua "on nitre. "
"Don't you try" said with forced heartiness the Alba,
who began to fear for her wretched adorer, "to put across the Mrs Gummidge before the coverture on me. "
He had no desire, oh none, to put across the Mrs Gum- midge at any stage of her experience or anything what- ever on her or anyone else. His distress was profound and unaffected. He had abandoned all hope of getting her where he wanted her, he could neither be on her left hand nor at her feet. His only remaining concern, before his soul heaved anchor, was to get some kind friend to scotch a wolf that he could not hold off by the ears very much
longer. He leaned across to the Polar Bear. —
"I wonder" he said "could you possibly
"Motus! " screamed the bibliomaniac, from the back row. The P. B. turned a little yellow, as well he might.
"Let the man say his lines" he hissed "can't you? " Belacqua said in a loud despairing voice, falling back
into position, a foreign word that he would understand. "What is it? " whispered the Alba.
Belacqua was green, he did the King of Brobdingnag
in a quick dumb crambo.
"Curse you" said the Alba, "what is it? "
"Let the man say his lines" he mumbled, "why won't
you let the man say his lines? "
An outburst of applause unprecedented in the annals of the mauve salon suggested that he might have done so at last.
"Now" said the Alba.
Belacqua helped himself to a deep breath of the rank ambience and then, with the precipitation of one ex- hibiting a tongue-teaser, rattled off the borrowed quod- libet as follows:
"When with indifference I remember my past sorrow, my mind has indifference, my memory has sorrow. The mind, upon the indifference which is in it, is indifferent; yet the memory, upon the sorrow which is in it, is not sad. "
"Again" she said, "slower. "
He was getting on nicely with the repeat when the Alba had a sudden idea and stopped him.
"See me home" she said.
"Have you got it" said Belacqua, "because I haven't. " She covered his hand with her hand.
"What I want to know" said the Student.
"Will you? " she said.
"I see" said the Man of Law agreeably to Chas "by the
paper that sailors are painting the Eiffel Tower with no fewer than forty tons of yellow. "
The Frica, returning from having seen off the premises some renegade with a thin tale of a train to catch, made as though to regain the estrade. Her face was suffused with indignation.
"Quick" said Belacqua, "before it starts. "
The Frica came plunging after them, torrents of spleen gushed out of her. Belacqua held the street-door open for the Alba, who seemed half inclined to do the polite, to precede him.
"The lady first" he said.
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He insisted on their taking a taxi to her home. They found nothing to say on the way. Je fadore a Vegal. . . . "Can you pay this man" he said when they arrived "be-
cause I spent my last on a bottle? "
She took money out of her bag and gave it to him
and he paid the man off. They stood on the asphalt in front of the gate, face to face. The rain had almost ceased.
"Well" he said, wondering might he hazard a quick baisemain before he went. He released the gesture but she shrank away and unlatched the gate.
Tire la chevillette, la bobinette cherra.
Pardon these French expressions, but the creature dreams in French.
"Come in" she said, "there's a fire and a bottle. "
He went in. She would sit in a chair and he would sit on the floor at last and her thigh against his baby anthrax would be better than a foment. For the rest, the bottle, some natural tears and in what hair he had left her high- frequency fingers.
Nisscht moddddddglich. . . .
Now it began to rain again upon the earth beneath and greatly incommoded Christmas traffic of every kind by continuing to do so without remission for a matter of thirty-six hours. A divine creature, native of Leipzig, to whom Belacqua, round about the following Epiphany, had occasion to quote the rainfall for December as cooked in the Dublin University Fellows' Garden, ejaculated:
"Himmisacrakruzidirkenjesusmariaundjosefundbliitiges- kreuz! "
Like that, all in one word. The things people come out with sometimes!
But the wind had dropped, as it so often does in Dublin when all the respectable men and women whom it de-
lights to annoy have gone to bed, and the rain fell in a uniform untroubled manner. It fell upon the bay, the lit- toral, the mountains and the plains, and notably upon the Central Bog it fell with a rather desolate uniformity.
So that when Belacqua that uneasy creature came out of Casa Alba in the small hours of the morning it was a case of darkness visible and no mistake. The street-lamps were all extinguished, as were the moon and stars. He stood out well in the midst of the tramlines, inspected every available inch of the firmament and satisfied his mind that it was quite black. He struck a match and looked at his watch. It had stopped. Patience, a public clock would oblige.
His feet pained him so much that he took off his per- fectly good boots and threw them away, with best wishes to some early bird for a Merry Christmas. Then he set off to paddle the whole way home, his toes rejoicing in their freedom. But this small gain in the matter of ease was very quickly more than revoked by such a belly-ache as he had never known. This doubled him up more and more till finally he was creeping along with his poor trunk parallel to the horizon. When he came to the bridge over the canal, not Baggot Street, not Leeson Street, but an- other nearer the sea, he gave in and disposed himself in the knee-and-elbow position on the pavement. Gradually the pain got better.
What was that? He shook off his glasses and stooped his head to see. That was his hands. Now who would have thought that! He began to try would they work, clenching them and unclenching, keeping them moving for the wonder of his weak eyes. Finally he opened them in unison, finger by finger together, till there they were, wide open, face upward, rancid, an inch from his squint, which however slowly righted itself as he began to lose interest
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in them as a spectacle. Scarcely had he made to employ them on his face than a voice, slightly more in sorrow than in anger this time, enjoined him to move on, which, the pain being so much better, he was only too happy to do.
Love and Lethe
Ihe Toughs, consisting of Mr and Mrs and their one and only Ruby, lived in a small house in Irishtown. When dinner, which they took in the middle of the day, was ended, Mr Tough went to his room to lie down and Mrs Tough and Ruby to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a chat. The mother was low-sized, pale and plump, admir- ably preserved though well past the change. She poured the right amount of water into the saucepan and set it to boil.
"What time is he coming? " she said
"He said about three" said Ruby.
"With car? " said Mrs Tough.
"He hoped with car" answered Ruby.
Mrs Tough hoped so most devoutly, for she had an idea
that she might be invited to join the party. Though she would rather have died than stand in the way of her daughter, yet she saw no reason why, if she kept herself to herself in the dicky, there should be any objection to her joining in the fun. She shook the beans into the little mill and ground them violently into powder. Ruby, who was neurasthenic on top of everything else, plugged her ears. Mrs Tough, taking a seat at the deal table against the water would be boiling, looked out of the window at the perfect weather.
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"Where are you going? " she said.
She had the natural curiosity of a mother in what concerns her child.
"Don't ask me" answered Ruby, who was inclined to resent all these questions.
He to whom they referred, who had hopes of calling at three with a car, was the doomed Belacqua and no other.
The water boiling, Mrs Tough rose and added the coffee, reduced the flame, stirred thoroughly and left to simmer. Though it seems a strange way to prepare coffee, yet it was justified by the event.
"Let me put you up some tea" implored Mrs Tough. She could not bear to be idle.
"Ah no" said Ruby "no thanks really. "
It struck the half-hour in the hall. It was half-past two, that zero hour, in Irishtown.
"Half-two! " ejaculated Mrs Tough, who had no idea it was so late.
Ruby was glad that it was not earlier. The aroma of coffee pervaded the kitchen. She would have just nice time to dream over her coffee. But she knew that this was quite out of the question with her mother wanting to talk, bursting with questions and suggestions. So when the coffee was dispensed and her mother had settled down for the comfortable chat that went with it she unex- pectedly said:
"I think, mother, if you don't mind, I'll take mine with me to the lav, I don't feel very well. "
Mrs Tough was used to the whims of Ruby and took them philosophically usually. But this latest fancy was really a little bit too unheard of. Coffee in the lav! What would father say when he heard? However.
"And the rosiner" said Mrs Tough, "will you have that in the lav too? "
Reader, a rosiner is a drop of the hard.
Ruby rose and took a gulp of coffee to make room.
"I'll have a gloria" she said.
Reader, a gloria is coffee laced with brandy.
Mrs Tough poured into the proffered cup a smaller
portion of brandy than in the ordinary way she would have allowed, and Ruby left the room.
We know something of Belacqua, but Ruby Tough is a stranger to these pages. Anxious that those who read this incredible adventure shall not pooh-pooh it as unintel- ligible we avail ourselves now of this lull, what time Belacqua is on his way, Mrs Tough broods in the kitchen and Ruby dreams over her gloria, to enlarge a little on the latter lady.
For a long period, on account of the beauty of her person and perhaps also, though in lesser degree, the dis- tinction of her mind, Ruby had been the occasion of much wine-shed; but now, in the thirty-third or -fourth year of her age, she was so no longer. Those who are in the least curious to know what she looked like at the time in which we have chosen to cull her we venture to refer to the Magdalene1 in the Perugino Pieta in the National Gallery of Dublin, always bearing in mind that the hair of our heroine is black and not ginger. Further than this hint we need not allow her outside to detain us, seeing that Belacqua was scarcely ever aware of it.
The facts of life had reduced her temper, naturally ro- mantic and idealistic in the highest degree, to an almost atomic despair. Her sentimental experience had indeed been unfortunate. Requiring of love, as a younger and more appetising woman, that it should unite or fix her as
1 This figure, owing to the glittering vitrine behind which the canvas cowers, can only be apprehended in sections. Patience, however, and a retentive memory have been known to elicit a total statement approxi- mating to the intention of the painter.
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firmly and as finally as the sun of a binary in respect of its partner, she had come to avoid it more and more as she found, with increasing disappointment and disgust, its effect at each successive manifestation, for she had been in great demand, to be of quite a different order. The re- sult of this erotic frustration was, firstly, to make her eschew the experience entirely; secondly, to recommend her itch for syzygy to more ideal measures, among which she found music and malt the most efficacious; and finally, to send her caterwauling to the alcove for whatever shabby joys it could afford. These however, embarras de richesse as long as she remained the scornful maiden, were naturally less at pains to solicit one whose sense of proportion had been acquired to the great detriment of her allurements. The grapes of love, set aside as abject in the davs of hot blood, turned sour as soon as she discov- ered a zest for them. As formerly she had recoiled into herself because she would not, so now she did because she could not, except that in her retreat the hope that used to solace her was dead. She saw her life as a series of staircase jests.
Belacqua, paying pious suit to the hem of her garment and gutting his raptures with great complacency at a safe remove, represented precisely the ineffable long-distance paramour to whom as a homesick meteorite abounding in it she had sacrificed her innumerable gallants. And now, the metal of stars smothered in earth, the it run dry and the gallants departed, he appeared, like the agent of an ironical Fortune, to put her in mind of what she had missed and rowel her sorrow for what she was missing. Yet she tolerated him in the hope that sooner or later, in a fit of ebriety or of common or garden incontinence, he would so far forget himself as to take her in his arms.
Join to all this the fact that she had long been suffering
from an incurable disorder and been assured positively by no fewer than fifteen doctors, ten of whom were atheists, acting independently, that she need not look forward to her life being much further prolonged, and we feel confi- dent that even the most captious reader must acknowl- edge, not merely the extreme wretchedness of Ruby's situation, but also the verisimilitude of what we hope to relate in the not too distant future. For we assume the irresponsibility of Belacqua, his faculty for acting with in- sufficient motivation, to have been so far evinced in pre- vious misadventures as to be no longer a matter for surprise. In respect of this apparent gratuity of conduct he may perhaps with some colour of justice be likened to the laws of nature. A mental home was the place for him.
He cultivated Ruby, for whom at no time did he much care, and made careful love in the terms he thought best calculated to prime her for the part she was to play on his behalf, the gist of which, as he revealed when he deemed her ripe, provided that she should connive at his felo de se, which he much regretted he could not commit on his own bottom. How he had formed this resolution to destroy himself we are quite unable to discover. The simplest course, when the motives of any deed are found sub- liminal to the point of defying expression, is to call that deed ex nihilo and have done. Which we beg leave to follow in the present instance.
The normal woman of sense asks "what? " in preference to "why? " ( this is very deep ) , but poor Ruby had always been deficient in that exquisite quality, so that no sooner had Belacqua opened his project than she applied for his reasons. Now though he had none, as we have seen, that he could offer, yet he had armed himself so well at this point, forewarned by the study he had made of his cats- paw's mind, that he was able to pelt her there and then
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with the best that diligent enquiry could provide: Greek and Roman reasons, Sturm und Drang reasons, reasons metaphysical, aesthetic, erotic, anterotic and chemical, Empedocles of Agrigentum and John of the Cross reasons, in short all but the true reasons, which did not exist, at least not for the purposes of conversation. Ruby, flattened by this torrent of incentive, was obliged to admit that this was not, as she had inclined to suspect, a greenhorn yield- ing to the spur of a momentary pique, but an adult des- perado of fixed and even noble purpose, and from this concession passed to a state almost of joy. She was done in any case, and here was a chance to end with a fairly beau- tiful bang. So the thing was arranged, the needful meas- ures taken, the date fixed in the spring of the year and a
site near by selected, Venice in October having been re- jected as alas impracticable. Now the fateful day had come and Ruby, in the posture of Philosopher Square be- hind Molly Seagrim's arras, sat winding herself up, while Belacqua, in a swagger sports roadster chartered at untold gold by the hour, trod on the gas for Irishtown.
So fiercely indeed did he do this, though so far from being insured against third-party risks he was not even the holder of a driving-licence, that he scored a wake of objurgation as he sped through the traffic. The better-class pedestrians and cyclists turned and stared after him. "These stream-lined Juggernauts" they said, shaking their heads, "are a positive menace. " Civic Guards at various points of the city and suburbs took his number. In Pearse Street he smote off the wheel of a growler as cleanly as Peter Malchus's ear after the agony, but did not stop. Further on, in some lowly street or other, the little chil- dren playing beds and ball and other games were scat- tered like chaff. But before the terrible humped Victoria
Bridge, its implacable bisection, in a sudden panic at his own temerity he stopped the car, got out and pushed her across with the help of a bystander. Then he drove quietly on through the afternoon and came in due course without further mishap to the house of his accomplice.
Mrs Tough flung open wide the door. She was all over Belacqua, with his big pallid gob much abused with imagined debauches.
"Ruby" she sang, in a third, like a cuckoo, "Rubee! Rubee! "
But would she ever change her tune, that was the ques- tion.
Ruby dangled down the stairs, with the marks of her teeth in her nether lip where she could persuade no bee to sting her any more.
"Get on your bonnet and shawl" said Belacqua roughly "and we'll be going. "
Mrs Tough recoiled aghast. This was the first time she had ever heard such a tone turned on her Ruby. But Ruby got into a coat like a lamb and seemed not to mind. It became only too clear to Mrs Tough that she was not going to be invited.
"May I offer you a little refreshment" she said in an icy voice to Belacqua "before you go? " She could not bear to be idle.
Ruby thought she had never heard anything quite so absurd. Refreshment before they went! It was if and when they returned that they would be in need of refreshment.
"Really mother" she said, "can't you see we must be off. "
Belacqua chimed in with a heavy lunch at the Bailey. The truth was not in him.
"Off where? " said Mrs Tough. "Off" cried Ruby, "just off. "
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What a strange mood she is in to be sure, thought Mrs Tough. However. At least they could not prevent her from going as far as the gate.
"Where did you raise the car? " she said.
If you had seen the car you would agree that this was the most natural question.
Belacqua mentioned a firm of motor engineers.
"Oh indeed" said Mrs Tough.
Mr Tough crept to the window and peeped out from
behind the curtain. He had worked himself to the bone for his family and he could only afford a safety-bicycle. A bitter look stole over his cyanosis.
Belacqua got in a gear at last, he had no very clear idea himself which, after much clutch-burning, and they shot forward in Hollywood style. Mrs Tough might have been waving to Lot for all the response she received. Was the cut-out by way of being their spokesman? Ruby's parting gird, "Expect us when you see us," echoed in her ears. On the stairs she met Mr Tough descending. They passed.
"There is something about that young man" called down Mrs Tough "that I can't relish. "
"Pup" called up Mr Tough.
They increased the gap between them.
"Ruby is very strange" cried down Mrs Tough.
"Slut" cried up Mr. Tough.
Though he might be only able to afford a safety-bicycle
he was nevertheless a man of few words. There are better things, he thought, going to the bottle, there are better things in this stenching world than Blue Birds.
The pup and slut drove on and on and there was dead silence between them. Not a syllable did they exchange until the car was safely stowed at the foot of a high mountain. But when Ruby saw Belacqua open the dicky
and produce a bag she thought well to break a silence that was becoming a little awkward.
"What have you got" she said "in the maternity-bag? "
"Socrates" replied Belacqua "the son of his mother, and the hemlocks. "
"No" she said, "codding aside, what? "
Belacqua let fly a finger for each item.
"The revolver and balls, the veronal, the bottle and
glasses, and the notice. "
Ruby could not repress a shiver.
"In the name of God" she said "what notice? "
"The one that we are fled" replied Belacqua, and not
another word would he say though she begged him to tell her. The notice was his own idea and he was proud of it. When the time came she would have to subscribe to it whether she liked it or not. He would keep it as a little surprise for her.
They ascended the mountain in silence. Wisps of snipe and whatever it is of grouse squirted out of the heather on all sides, while the number of hares, brooding in their forms, that they started and sent bounding away, was a credit to the gamekeeper. They plunged on and up through the deep ling and whortleberry. Ruby was sweat- ing. A high mesh wire fence, flung like a shingles round the mountain, obstructed their passage.
"What are all the trusses for? " panted Ruby.
Right along on either hand as far as they could see there were fasces of bracken attached to the wire. Belacqua racked his brains for an explanation. In the end he had to give it up.
"God I don't know at all" he exclaimed.
It certainly was the most astounding thing.
Ladies first. Ruby scaled the fence. Belacqua, holding
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gallantly back with the bag in his hand, enjoyed a glimpse of her legs' sincerity. It was the first time he had had occasion to take stock of those parts of her and certainly he had seen worse. They pushed on and soon the summit, complete with fairy rath, came into view, howbeit still at a considerable distance.
Ruby tripped and fell, but on her face. Belacqua's strong arms were at hand to raise her up.
"Not hurt" he kindly inquired.
"This foul old skirt gets in my way" she said angrily.
"It is an encumbrance" agreed Belacqua, "off with it. " This struck Ruby as being such a good suggestion that
she acted upon it without further ado and stood revealed as one of those ladies who have no use for a petticoat. Belacqua folded the skirt over his arm, there being no room for it in the bag, and Ruby, greatly eased, stormed the summit in her knickers.
Belacqua, who was in the lead, halted all of a sudden, clapped his hands, spun round and told Ruby he had got it. He was keenly conscious of her standing knee-deep in the ling before him, grateful for a breather and not both- ering to ask what.
"They tie those bundles to the wire" he said "so that the grouse will see them. "
Still she did not understand.
"And not fly against the fence and hurt themselves. " Now she understood. The calm way she took it dis-
tressed Belacqua. It was to be hoped that the notice would have better success than this splendid divulgation. Now the ling was up to her garters, she seemed to be sink- ing in the heath as in a quickstand. Could it be that she was giving at the knees? "Spirits of this mountain" mur- mured the heart of Belacqua "keep me steadfast. "
Now since parking the car they had not seen a living soul.
The first thing they had to do of course when they got to the top was admire the view, with special reference to Dun Laoghaire framed to perfection in the shoulders of Three Rock and Kilmashogue, the long arms of the harbour like an entreaty in the blue sea. Young priests were singing in a wood on the hillside. They heard them and they saw the smoke of their fire. To the west in the valley a plantation of larches nearly brought tears to the eyes of Belacqua, till raising those unruly members to the slopes of Glendoo, mottled like a leopard, that lay beyond, he thought of Synge and recovered his spirits. Wicklow, full of breasts with pimples, he refused to consider. Ruby agreed. The city and the plains to the north meant nothing to either of them in the mood they were in. A human turd lay within the rath.
Like fantoccini controlled by a single wire they flung themselves down on the western "slope of heath. From now on till the end there is something very secco and Punch Judy about their proceedings, Ruby looking more bawdy
Magdalene than ever, Belacqua like a super out of the Harlot's Progress. He kept putting off opening the bag.
"I thought of bringing the gramophone" he said "and
"
Ravel's Pavane. Then
"Then you thought again" said Ruby. She had a most
irritating habit of interrupting.
"Oh yes" said Belacqua, "the usual pale cast. "
Notice the literary man.
"S'pity" said Ruby, "it might have made things easier. " Happy Infanta! Painted by Velasquez and then no more
pensums!
"If you would put back your skirt" said Belacqua vio-
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lently, "now that you have done walking, you would make things easier for me. "
How difficult things were becoming, to be sure. The least thing might upset the apple-cart at this juncture.
Ruby pricked up her ears. Was this a declaration at last? In case it might be she would not oblige him.
"I prefer it off" she said.
Belacqua, staring fiercely at the larches, sulked for a space.
"Weir he grumbled at last, "shall we have a little drink to start off? "
Ruby was agreeable. He opened the bag as little as pos- sible, put in his hand, snatched out the bottle, then the glasses and shut it quick.
"Fifteen year old" he said complacently, "on tick. "
All the money he owed for one thing or another. If he did not pull it off now once and for all he would be broke. "God" he exclaimed, executing a kind of passionate
tick-tack through his pockets, "I forgot the screw.
