‘O my dear chap. How cruel. How cruel. And you know, whatever happened to that beautiful creature, Clarissa I believe was her name, that you were with that evening in the Buttery.’
One watched Rashers’ eyes fill with tears. And the Marquis leaning forward to see closer. And my god one is simply amazed at his stories and his turns of emotions. Who does he speak of. To love. O god. A flash of white, white, white of a wedding just blazed a second in one’s mind. Terrible jealousy gives such painful visions. He won’t. He wouldn’t think of such a thing. But my god he is not above behaving in the most eccentric manner possible. Put his arm around Rashers’ shoulders as if to comfort him. Rashers’ voice stealing out upon the air. I went dozing off in the chair. At whatever it was that Rashers had chosen to tell him now. But woke, tears inexplicably dropping out of my eyes. For I had a dream in my sudden sleep. Of Stephen’s Green. And the early morn upon which Clarissa died. I had come running out of the park. To her. Trying to tear from under her body the spears of fence. I loved her. So loved her. Because she loved him, Mr Arland. And the life he would have so lived with her. That dear man. A song singing, a choir raising their voices in a great cathedral. And then stirring distant drums and voices rising. And approaching from all the streets. A flooding procession of Dubliners. Candles aloft alight in the winter air. Singing, black hatted high priests in long emerald robes, their hands lifting her up above their heads. The swelling throb of choir voices as they came. Gliding so softly, so silently do they go.
While her
Bleeding
Drops of red
Fell
Upon my hands
14
Hobbling to the shutters, in the dawn. Awakened by the sound of hoofs pounding out up the drive. The tips of one’s toes frozen. One’s senses smashed to smithereens this long night. To look down into the darkness and see the shadow of the Mental Marquis of Farranistic, insatiable man, aloft again flying on his poor horse, who will surely be dead before he gets half a parish away. And upon once more stretching out under my double layer of eiderdowns and passing into blissful unconsciousness one was awakened again at dawn. Out of a dream. And witnessing in awe, hoofs lashing, teeth snapping, as Midnight Shadow’s shaft shoved deep up Petunia’s quarters. A warm hand pressing hard on my cold arm to still my thrashing about. Stare up into these eyes. So pleasantly reassuring. Of Miss von B. In a tweed suit. Her bowler on top of her bag parked at the door.
‘I am saying goodbye.’
‘O please, you must not go.’
‘Why not. I already wait for you. You do not even come to see me, the whole night. I am of course much miffed. In a freezing cold room. I am awake. Horses galloping around the house.’
‘The Mental Marquis, madam, who takes to the saddle in his sleep I think. And observing protocol, one could not depart while he was in the middle of his stories.’
‘Mein Gott. And also too, there is much noise and shouting and running.’
‘Crooks hung himself.’
‘Grosser Gott.’
‘In his intoxicated attempt, he did of course bungle it. But Madam please. Don’t go. Nor make me plead with song, mirth, dance and gyration to make you stay. I’m far too fragile.’
‘I have responsibilities. I work.’
‘Then you too need calming redeeming sustenance. Please my pretty princess. Get with me cosy in bed.’
‘I should be angry with you.’
‘Ah Madam please don’t be. Nor distress a poor exhausted farmer at this ungodly time of the morning. Be a good lady, and shut up. Strip off. And do in the interests of love, lay your good body by me I beg. Also lock the doors.’
‘Ah who is the exhausted little farmer boy. Maybe who is not so exhausted.’
Miss von B, her sad face in the faint light, big baleful eyes hesitating. She sits so solemn on the edge of the bed. Strong fingers asplay on her skirt. Her shiny pale pink nails so neatly manicured. On her strong slender tapering fingers. Of those hands which can so gently touch. O god, will she get up. Go lock the doors. Please do, dear lady. On this day when a whole countryside will be alive with whispers. Of our embrace in the wet of a winter meadow. Nor can one take much comfort from Sexton’s oft repeated remark. Liars, of course they’re liars, Master Darcy, sure they’re descended from liars, related to liars and lie to other liars, but by god when there’s a scandalous rumour going the rounds you can bet on it that it’s the gospel truth and that’s a fact. Ah Miss von B. Removes her clothes so elegantly. Folding each garment. Laying them neatly upon the chair. Stepping out of her furry boots. She is really quite youthful. What pleasure to see such strappingly robust reliable thighs. What long dependable work one could get out of her. If one ended up without a pot to piss in. Or all the servants in this house hung themselves.
‘Ah it is so good to see your splendid form again. And to warm my hands on your genial bosoms. So good to stick my chill knees between your thighs. So good to plunge my cold feet between your ankles. Ah this close clasped soothing warmth of you.’
‘I am not just a hot water bottle in the mattress for you.’
‘O no Madam, you are not, you are much, much more. But I cannot refrain from asking. Who was he.’
‘Who was who mister chilly boy.’
‘I must know. On moral principles. Before I can allow the passionate juices of our bodies to again unite.’
‘What. You utterly impossible little pup. Such heights of stupidity you reach.’
‘Who was he. That man with whom you sat to dinner in the Royal Hibernian Hotel. You put your hand on his.’
‘I do not even know what or who you are talking about. Now you have too much of the covers. I am cold.’
‘You sat adoring him. He had long flowing grey hair. And he bent to kiss your hand.’
‘There is much long flowing grey hair of gentlemen in Dublin. And at least more than a few who kiss occasionally the hands of ladies.’
‘And he looked like an aristocrat.’
‘Grosser Gott. That subject again. You are not jealous of me. You are jealous because you, bog trotter, think someone else is better socially than you are.’
‘That is positively, arrantly and totally untrue.’
‘Well I have sat with many in the Hibernian Hotel and who have long flowing grey hair. Please. I was beginning to enjoying here with you. Now I am not enjoying here with you. And now I am freezing. My feet are out.’
‘And I am not jealous. Nor care the least damn about anyone. But we may never have in this cosy household another peaceful moment like this together.’
‘Ah how dramatic you still are, my little poppet.’
‘And you Madam. You are distressing me. You can be immoral.’
‘Mein Gott. What immoral. You silly boy. About what immoral. There is anyway no such thing.’
‘Are you still in love with that man.’
‘My private life is not for you to know.’
‘Certainly if you so prefer, I shan’t inquire further. And I shall stay this side of the bed. But you must have some morals. I think it would be most inconvenient for your soul, Madam, if you do not.’
‘But how stupid. Of course of women you expect that they have morals. But men, they need not. What woman for two seconds could afford such luxury of morals. When it take one second for a man to be immoral. That is not what you want to hear. Is it.’
‘Well Madam, your English appears quite grammatically effective. But no. Perhaps that is not what I want to hear. But I think that women are capable of giving gentlemen damn shabby treatment, like pushing them into ponds, abandoning them on trains, conducting affairs behind their backs, taking their money, and even trying to kill them off. And then writing it all down in a book. Perhaps to gloat over the profits from publication or at least to amuse themselves with in their old age.’