Dream of Fair to Middling Women (15 page)

Suddenly he turned round, it was not possible to endure more, and he made a definite statement:

“I feel sick, I must get out into the air.”

She was still now and hunched, her face in her lap, her hefty cambered spine presenting anything but an elegant appearance. At least she had stopped dripping.

“Go on” she said, without moving.

Oh, she need not fret, he was going. The question was, was she coming with, or was she staying there.

“No” she said.

Oh, very well, she could please herself, aufwiedersehen then in that case. You can stay there, he thought, stamping down through the snow alone, whining and dripping till the cows come home. There's as much pity, he thought, due to a woman caterwauling as to a goose going barefoot. He scooped a big pad of snow off the bank and crushed it against his face. That did him all the good in the world. Explicit, he said aloud, and gratias tibi Christe. And so it was. For once in his life he was correct in what he said.
Except of course, that certain aspects of her abode in his heart, like wind in a dyspeptic's stomach, and made themselves felt from time to time in the form of a sentimental eructation that was far from being agreeable. She continued to bother him as an infrequent jolt of sentimental heartburn, nothing to write home about. Better, he thought, the odd belch than the permanent gripe.

Thus that was that, and small credit to either of them. She knew and he knew, and God knows it was high time.

To be sure the next few days, ere he took himself off to Hamburg, were more tears and more recriminations and more tears and more huddling and cuddling and catch-as-catch-can hugger-mugger and more tears and sweats and fiascos, a most painful time. But he knew and so did she. It was all over bar the explanations and the jostling when he stepped off in the Wirtschaft on the Height that Silvester's morrow, leaving her to her own devices to begin the new year in whatever way she saw fit. She had an extensive repertory of devises and an accommodating sense of fitness. He saw the last of her through a veil of nausea, and she was metamorphosed into a hiccup.

She salted her chambering with remembrance of him.

Extraordinary how everything ends like a fairy-tale, or can be made to; even the most unsanitary episodes.

The Empress Wu of China took the chair at Cabinet council wearing a false beard. The lily was nearly as fair and the rose as lovely as God Almighty the Empress Wu.

“Bloom!” she cried to the peonies “bloom, blast you!”

No. Not a stir out of them. So they were all extirpated, they were rooted up throughout her dominions, burnt and their culture prohibited.

Now, having got so far, our opinion is we might do worse than slip, in the elegant phrase, our sad spaniels and let them quest. We durst not, our taste, the literary cui bono, precludes it, make a sudden leap, princum-prancum!, from the pleasant land of Hesse, the German garden, to marshy Dublin, its paludal heavens, its big winds and rains and sorrows and puddles of sky-flowers; from the merely snout-fair Smeraldina, that petulant, exuberant, clitoridian puella, who has not the first glimmering of an idea of how to set her cold bath on fire, whom now it is high time to turn round and dislike intensely, like collops of pork gone greasy, to Alba, Alba, royal diminutive, Du, dust of a dove's heart, the eyes the eyes black till the plagal east shall resolve the long night-phrase. Can't hop about like that, really can't, must make lull somehow
or other, let a little breath of the fresh into the thing somehow, little breather all round. Nik?

How would it be then if we took to that end our bearing together and got an idea of just where we are? Supposing precisely as the true mountaineer, loving women, his pipe and wine, stalks, proud pioneer, into the oyster bar of the hallway hut, deposits his ice-axe, rucksack, ropes and other equipment, turns himself this way, reviewing the path he has trod, and that, estimating with a fairly expert eye the labours, not to mention the dangers, yet to be undergone and overcome ere he spurn the peak yet hidden from view in the cloudy, misty, snowy imbroglio, we, extenuate concensus of me, were to pause in our treacherous theme, take a quick look up and down, ponder what has taken place and what threatens to and renew, with the help of Apollo, the reduced circumstances of our naïveté? How would that be? Chi va piano, they say, va sano, and we lontano. Haply.

Pride of place to our boys and girls. Ah these liûs and liūs! How have they stayed the course? Have they been doing their dope? The family, the Alba, the Polar Bear, Chas, that dear friend, and of course Nemo, ranging always from his bridge, seem almost as good as new, so little have they been plucked and blown and bowed, so little struck with the little hammer. But they will let us down, they will insist on being themselves, as soon as they are called on for a little strenuous collaboration. Ping! they will no doubt cry with a sneer, pure, permanent lius, we? We take leave to doubt that. And far be it from us to condemn them on that account. But observe what happens in that event, we mean of our being unable to keep those boys and girls up to their notes. The peak pierces the clouds like a sudden flower. We call the whole performance
off, we call the book off, it tails off in a horrid manner. The whole fabric comes unstitched, it goes ungebunden, the wistful fabric. The music comes to pieces. The notes fly about all over the place, a cyclone of electrons. And then all we can do, if we are not too old and tired by that time to be interested in making the best of a bad job, is to deploy a curtain of silence as rapidly as possible.

At the same time we are bound to admit, placing ourselves for the moment in the thick of the popular belief that there are two sides to every question, that the territorials may behave, at least to the extent of giving us some kind of a meagre codetta. May they. There is many a slip, we all know that, between pontem and fontem and gladium and jugulum. But what that consideration has to do with our counting on the members of the Dublin contingent to perform like decent indivisibilities is not clear. The fact of the matter is, we do not trust them. And why not? Because, firstly, of what has gone before; and, secondly, and here is the real hic, the taproot of the whole tangle, of our principal boy's precarious ipsissimosity.

Consequently, we are rather anxious to dilate briefly of these two things: one, the lius that have let us down; two, Belacqua, who can scarcely fail to keep on doing so.

Shall we consider then in the first instance that powerful vedette that we have been hearing so much about, the Smeraldina-Rima? Shall we? To begin with, then, there was the Dublin edition that bewitched Belacqua, the unopened edition, all visage and climate: the intact little cameo of a bird-face, so moving, and the gay zephyrs of Purgatory, slithering in across the blue tremolo of the ocean with a pinnace of souls, as good as saved, to the
landing-stage, the reedy beach, bright and blue, merging into grass, not without laughter and old K'in music, rising demitonically, we almost said: diademitonically, to the butt of the emerald sugarloaf. When she went away, as go she did, across the wide waters Hesse to seek, again Hesse, unashamed in mind, and left him alone and inconsolable, then her face in the clouds and in the fire and wherever he looked or looked away and on the lining of his lids, such a callow wet he was then, and the thought or dream, sleeping and waking, in the morning dozing and the evening ditto, with the penny rapture, of the shining shore where underneath them the keel of their skiff would ground and grind and rasp and stay stuck for them, just the pair of them, to skip out on to the sand and gather reeds and bathe hands, faces and breasts and broach the foothills without any discussion, in the bright light with the keen music behind them—then that face and site preyed to such purpose on the poor fellow that he took steps to reintegrate the facts of the former and the skin of the zephyr, and so expelled her, for better or worse, from his eye and mind.

Next the stuprum and illicit defloration, the raptus, frankly, violentiæ, and the ignoble scuffling that we want the stomach to go back on; he, still scullion to hope, putting his best… er… foot forward, because he loved her, or thought so, and thought too that in that case the right thing to do and his bounden duty as a penny boyo and expedient and experienced and so on was to step through the ropes of the alcove with the powerful diva and there acquit himself to the best of his ability.

Paullo post, when he decided it would be wise to throw up the sponge, he had her, the third edition, her pages cut and clumsily cut and bespattered with the most
imbecile marginalia, according to his God, i.e. the current Belacqua Jesus.

So to the last scene, though of course she abides in his little heart, to allocate a convenient term to the repository for perilous garbage, the whole four of her and many another that have not been presented because they make us tired; the last scene, when they spring—zeep!—apart, as on collision bodies dowered with high coefficients of elasticity. Zeep!

Now what kind of a liū is that? What is one to think of that for a liū? We assert that we think most poorly of it. Is there as much as the licked shadow of a note there that can be relied on for two minutes? Is there? There may be. No doubt great skill could wring her into some kind of a mean squawk that would do as well as anything else to represent her. We can't be bothered. A respectable overtone is one thing, but this irresponsible squawking bursting up our tune all along the line is quite another. From now on she can hold her bake altogether or damn well get off the platform, for good and all. She can please herself. We won't have her.

Voice of Grock:
Nicht möööögliccchhh…!

Similarly for the others—Liebert, Lucien, the Syra-Cusa, Mammy and the Mandarin. Mammy, whom, by the way, we may need for our tableau mourant, was the best of them. Her letter, for example, and her little explosion on the night of Silvester, they hang together, they produce the desired monotony. The reason for that is, we never let ourselves loose on her, we never called on her to any large extent. So that in a sense she is in the position of the Alba and Co., she has had practically no occasion to be her-selves. Which does not prevent us from being of the opinion,
having up our sleeve certain aspects of that amiable multipara that surprise even us, hardened and all as we are to this kind of work, that when and if we jerk her on for the terminal scena she will collaborate energetically in the general multiplication of tissue. We are of that opinion. Peace be with her, at all events, for a space.

The case of Liebert (such a name!) is self-evident, and does not merit to be treated separately. Did not we marry him away to a professor's daughter? Requiescat.

(Query: why do professors lack the gust to get sons? Elucidate.)

We thought we had got rid of the Syra-Cusa. No such thing, here below, as riddance, good, bad or indifferent. Not having the stomach formally to disprove her let us merely, quickly, cite a circumstance of no importance to tickle our fauces. For days, whole days, she came not abroad, she stayed mewed up in her bedroom. What was she up to? Hold everything now. She was doing
abstract drawing!
Heavenly Father! Abstract drawing! Can you beat that one?

It was crass ever to suppose that Lucien might play his part like a liû. Never yet have we come upon anybody, man, woman or child, so little concerned with abiding in being as our brave Lucien. He was a crucible of volatilisation (bravo!), an efflorescence at every moment, his contours in perpetual erosion. Formidable. Looking at his face you saw the features bloom, as in Rembrandt's portrait of his brother. (Mem.: develop.) His face surged forward at you, coming unstuck, coming to pieces, invading the airs, a red dehiscence of flesh in action. You warded it off. Jesus, you thought, it wants to dissolve. Then the gestures, the horrid gestures, of the little fat hands and the splendid words and the seaweed smile, all coiling and uncoiling and
unfolding and flowering into nothingness, his whole person a stew of disruption and flux. And that from the fresh miracle of coherence that he presented every time he turned up. How he kept himself together is one of those mysteries. By right he should have broken up into bits, he should have become a mist of dust in the airs. He was disintegrating bric-à-brac.

Such a paraphrased abrégé would seem to indicate, unless there be some very serious flaw in our delirium, that the book is degenerating into a kind of Commedia dell'Arte, a form of literary statement to which we object particularly. The lius do just what they please, they just please themselves. They flower out and around into every kind of illicit ultra and infra and supra. Which is bad, because as long as they do that they can never meet. We are afraid to call for the simplest chord. Belacqua drifts about, it is true, doing his best to thicken the tune, but harmonic composition properly speaking, music in depth on the considerable scale is, and this is a terrible thing to have to say, ausgeschlossen.

E.g: we were strongly tempted, some way back, to make the Syra-Cusa make Lucien a father. That was a very unsavoury plan. If new life in this case, with the Syra-Cusa and Lucien, could be the fruit of a collision, well and good. One can always organise a collision. It is to be hoped that we have not sunk quite so low as to be incapable of organising a collision. But how could it? How could it be anything but the fruit of a congruence of enormous improbability? We are too easily tired, we are neither Deus enough nor ex machina enough to go in for that class of hyperbolical exornation, as devoid of valour as it would be of value.

Similarly for all other attractive combinations. We
dare not beckon for a duo much less spread our wings amply for a tutti. We can only wander about vaguely, or send Belacqua wandering about vaguely, thickening the ruined melody here and there.

Bearing now in mind the untractable behaviour of our material up to date, is it surprising that we should be unable to envisage without hurting of conscience (how seldom we approach home without that!) the imminent entrée en scène of its, so to speak, colleague? All that is necessary, it seems for the time being at least to us, in order that to the novel a whipped verisimilitude may be imparted, is a well-stocked gallery of Chesnels and Birot-teaux and Octaves and sposi manzoneschi whose names we forget and such like types, doing their dope from cover to cover without a waver, returning, you know, with commendable symmetry to the dust from which they sprung, or, perhaps better, were forcibly extracted. And we with not a single Chesnel in our whole bag of tricks! (You know Chesnel, one of Balzac's Old Curiosities.)