Free More Pricks Than Kicks by Samuel Beckett

Frica, supported by Mr Higgins, pounced on the disturbance.
    “Go” she said to the saprophile “and let there be no scene.”
    Mr Higgins, who kicked up his heels in the scrum for the Rangers, made short work of the nuisance. The Frica turned on the poor P. and D.
    “It is not my intention” she said “to tolerate hooligans in this house.”
    “He called me a bloody Bolshy” protested the glorious Komsomolet, “and he a labour man himself.”
    “Let there be no more of it” said the Frica, “let there be no more of it.” She was very optative. “I beg of you.” She stepped back fleetly to the altar.
    “You heard what she said” said the Gael.
    “Let there be no more of it” said the native speaker.
    “I beg of you” said the P.B.
    But now she cometh that all this may disdain, Alba, dauntless daughter of desires. Entering just on the turn of the hush, advancing like a midinette to pay her ironical respects to the Beldam, she fired the thorns under every pot. Turning her scarlet back on the crass crackling of the Parabimbi she mounted the estrade and there, silent and still before the elements of refreshment, in profile to the assistance, cast her gravitational nets.
    The rising strumpet studied how to do it. The sister of the parodist passed on to such as were curious what little she and her dear nieces knew of the Alba who was much spoken of in certain virtuous circles to which they had access, though to be sure how much of what they heard was true and how much mere idle gossip they were really not in a position to determine. However, for what it was worth, it appeared…
    The Gael, the native speaker, a space-writer and the violist d'amore got together as though by magic.
    “Well” invited the space-writer.
    “Pret-ty good” said the Gael.
    “Ex-quisite” said the violist d'amore.
    The native speaker said nothing.
    “Well” insisted the space-writer, “Larry?”
    Larry tore his eyes away from the estrade and said, drawing his palms slowly up the flanks of his kilt:
    “Jaysus!”
    “Meaning to say?” said the space-writer.
    Larry turned his wild gaze back on the estrade.
    “You don't happen to know” he said finally “does she?”
    “They all do” said the violist d'amore.
    “Like hell they do” groaned the Gael, ricordandosi del tempo felice .
    “What I want to know” said the Student, “what we all are most anxious to know…”
    “Some do abstain” said the space-writer, “our friend here is right, through bashfulness from venery. It is a pity, but there you are.”
    Great wits will jump and Jemmy Higgins and the P.B. converged on the estrade.
    “You look pale” said the Frica “and ill, my pet.”
    The Alba raised her big head from the board, looked longly at the Frica, closed her eyes and intoned:
Woe and Pain, Pain and Woe,
Are my lot, night and noon…
    Caleken fell back.
    “Keep them off” said the Alba.
    “Keep them off!” echoed Caleken, “keep them off?”
    “We go through this world” observed the Alba “like sunbeams through cracks in cucumbers.”
    Caleken was not so sure about the sunbeams.
    “Take a little cup” she urged, “it will do you good. Or a Ching-Ching.”
    “Keep them off” said the Alba, “off off off off.”
    But the P.B. and Higgins were on the estrade, they hemmed her in.
    “So be it” said the Alba, “let it run over by all means.”
    Phew! The Frica was unspeakably relieved.
    Half-past nine. The guests, led by the rising strumpet and declining cicisbeo, began to scatter through the house. The Frica let them go. In due course she would visit the alcoves, she would round them up for the party proper to begin. Had not Chas promised a piece of old French? Had not the Poet written a poem specially? She had peeped into the bag in the hall and seen the viol d'amore. So they would have a little music.

    Half-past nine. It was raining bitterly when Belacqua, keyed up to take his bearings, issued forth into the unintelligible world of