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Authors: Samuel Beckett
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he gushed, his big brown eyes looking della Robbia babies at the Frica, “don't tell me I'm the first!”
“Don't distress yourself” said Caleken, who could smell a poet against the wind, “only by a short gaffe.”
Hard on the heels of the Poet came a gaggle of non-descripts, then a public botanist, then a Galway Gael, then the Shetland Shawly with her Chas. Him the Student, mindful of his pledge, accosted.
“In what sense”—he would have it out of him or perish—“did you use sense when you said…?”
“He said that?” exclaimed the botanist.
“Chas” said Caleken, as though she were announcing the name of a winner.
“Adsum” admitted Chas.
A plum of phlegm burst in the vestibule.
“What I want to know” complained the Student, “what we all want to know, is in what sense he was using sense when he said…”
The Gael, in the heart of a cabbage of nondescripts, was bungling Duke Street's thought for the day to the crone.
“Owen …” he began again, when a nameless ignoramus, anxious to come into the picture as early on in the proceedings as possible, said rashly:
“What Owen?”
“Good evening” squalled the Polar Bear, “good evening good evening. Wat a night, Madame” he addressed himself vehemently, out of sheer politeness, directly to his hostess, “God wat a night!”
The crone was as fond of the P.B. as though she had bought him in Clery's toy fair.
“And you so far to come!” She wished she could dandle him on her knee. He was a shabby man and often moody. “Too good of you to come” she hushabied, “too good of you.”
The Man of Law, his face a blaze of acne, was next, escorting the Parabimbi and three tarts dressed for the backstairs.
“I met him” whispered Chas “zigzagging down Pearse Street, Brunswick Street, you know, that was.”
“En route?” ventured Caleken. She was a bit above herself with all the excitement.
“Hein?”
“On his way here?”
“Well” said Chas, “I regret, my dear Miss Frica, that he did not make it ab sol utely clear if he comes or not.”
The Gael said to the P.B. in an injured voice:
“Here's a man wants to know what Owen.”
“Not possible” said the P.B., “you astonish me.”
“Is it of the sweet mouth?” said a sandy son of Ham.
Now the prong of the P.B.'s judgment was keen and bright.
“That emmerdeur ” he jeered, “the strange sweet mouth!”
The Parabimbi jumped.
“You said?” she said.
Caleken emerged from the ruck, she came to the fore.
“What can be keeping the girls” she said. It was not exactly a question.
“And your sister” enquired the botanist, “Your charming sister, where can she be this evening now I wonder.”
The Beldam sprang into the breach.
“Unfortunately” she said, in ringing tones and with great precipitation, “in bed, unwell. A great disappointment to us all.”
“Nothing of moment, Madam” said the Man of Law “let us hope?”
“Thank you, no. Happily not. A slight indisposition. Poor little Dandelion!” The Beldam heaved a heavy sigh.
The P.B. exchanged a look of intelligence with the Gael.
“What girls?” he said.
Caleken expanded her lungs:
“Pansy”—the Poet had a palpitation, why had he not brought his nux vomica?—“Lilly Neary, Olga, Elliseva, Bride Maria, Alga, Ariana, tall Tib, slender Sib, Alma Beatrix, Alba—” They were really too numerous, she could not go through the entire list. She staunched her mouth.
“Alba!” ejaculated the P.B., “Alba! She!”
“And why” interposed the Countess of Parabimbi “why not Alba, whoever she may be, rather than, say, the Wife of Bath?”
A nondescript appeared in their midst, he panted the glad tidings. The girls had arrived.
“They are gurrls” said the botanist “beyond question. But are they the gurrls?”
“Now I hope we can start” said the younger Frica, and, the elder being aware of no let or hindrance, up on to the estrade smartly she stepped and unveiled the
“Don't distress yourself” said Caleken, who could smell a poet against the wind, “only by a short gaffe.”
Hard on the heels of the Poet came a gaggle of non-descripts, then a public botanist, then a Galway Gael, then the Shetland Shawly with her Chas. Him the Student, mindful of his pledge, accosted.
“In what sense”—he would have it out of him or perish—“did you use sense when you said…?”
“He said that?” exclaimed the botanist.
“Chas” said Caleken, as though she were announcing the name of a winner.
“Adsum” admitted Chas.
A plum of phlegm burst in the vestibule.
“What I want to know” complained the Student, “what we all want to know, is in what sense he was using sense when he said…”
The Gael, in the heart of a cabbage of nondescripts, was bungling Duke Street's thought for the day to the crone.
“Owen …” he began again, when a nameless ignoramus, anxious to come into the picture as early on in the proceedings as possible, said rashly:
“What Owen?”
“Good evening” squalled the Polar Bear, “good evening good evening. Wat a night, Madame” he addressed himself vehemently, out of sheer politeness, directly to his hostess, “God wat a night!”
The crone was as fond of the P.B. as though she had bought him in Clery's toy fair.
“And you so far to come!” She wished she could dandle him on her knee. He was a shabby man and often moody. “Too good of you to come” she hushabied, “too good of you.”
The Man of Law, his face a blaze of acne, was next, escorting the Parabimbi and three tarts dressed for the backstairs.
“I met him” whispered Chas “zigzagging down Pearse Street, Brunswick Street, you know, that was.”
“En route?” ventured Caleken. She was a bit above herself with all the excitement.
“Hein?”
“On his way here?”
“Well” said Chas, “I regret, my dear Miss Frica, that he did not make it ab sol utely clear if he comes or not.”
The Gael said to the P.B. in an injured voice:
“Here's a man wants to know what Owen.”
“Not possible” said the P.B., “you astonish me.”
“Is it of the sweet mouth?” said a sandy son of Ham.
Now the prong of the P.B.'s judgment was keen and bright.
“That emmerdeur ” he jeered, “the strange sweet mouth!”
The Parabimbi jumped.
“You said?” she said.
Caleken emerged from the ruck, she came to the fore.
“What can be keeping the girls” she said. It was not exactly a question.
“And your sister” enquired the botanist, “Your charming sister, where can she be this evening now I wonder.”
The Beldam sprang into the breach.
“Unfortunately” she said, in ringing tones and with great precipitation, “in bed, unwell. A great disappointment to us all.”
“Nothing of moment, Madam” said the Man of Law “let us hope?”
“Thank you, no. Happily not. A slight indisposition. Poor little Dandelion!” The Beldam heaved a heavy sigh.
The P.B. exchanged a look of intelligence with the Gael.
“What girls?” he said.
Caleken expanded her lungs:
“Pansy”—the Poet had a palpitation, why had he not brought his nux vomica?—“Lilly Neary, Olga, Elliseva, Bride Maria, Alga, Ariana, tall Tib, slender Sib, Alma Beatrix, Alba—” They were really too numerous, she could not go through the entire list. She staunched her mouth.
“Alba!” ejaculated the P.B., “Alba! She!”
“And why” interposed the Countess of Parabimbi “why not Alba, whoever she may be, rather than, say, the Wife of Bath?”
A nondescript appeared in their midst, he panted the glad tidings. The girls had arrived.
“They are gurrls” said the botanist “beyond question. But are they the gurrls?”
“Now I hope we can start” said the younger Frica, and, the elder being aware of no let or hindrance, up on to the estrade smartly she stepped and unveiled the
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