Peter Stevens was an architect of distinction with many substantial clients and creations to his credit. He was also a man of honour who played a part in recent corruption enquiries.
A compassionate person, he privately helped many less fortunate people. Fearless in principle, he once threatened with more public action an august body which shamelessly dragged its heels over an invalid's urgently needed extension permission.
Peter was a hard-working professional who took pride in his work with his Sandymount team. A shy and private man, it was only after hours that he became more sociable and gave fuller rein to his richly inventive mind.
He paid scant attention to haute couture and his rumpled tweeds advertised a rare individuality and intelligence. He could speak knowledgeably on any subject and bring Dublin's most boring hostelry alive with his wit and eruditon. "Only Joyce, Bertrand Russell or Leonardo could keep up with him!" one overwhelmed colleague remarked.
Peter's savage Swiftian indignation at humbug and Paddywhackery ensured many a confrontation, but all wilted before his transparent reasoning. His pronouncements, sadly, were sometimes mistaken for arrogance by those who could not understand him. But he was the least arrogant of men. In fact he possessed in great measure that quality which wealth, status and achievement cannot bring but which all so readily shed - a rare undiluted innocence. A much-travelled man, he often recalled with schoolboy glee his meeting with some Cambodian children whose English was rudimentary.
"When they saw me coming, they all cheered `Goodbye'. And when I left, they chorused `Hello'. And of course I shouted `Hello' in return!" Peter was a thoughtful man.
A lover of art and a romantic in the Byronic mould, he was found one evening savouring a modest painting presented by an admiring female artist. "What are millions compared with this - can you imagine anything more meaningful or more personal?" he said.
Peter had already had one heart alarm. But he wasn't cut out for staid retirement or lingering illness. He didn't alter his lifestyle. He gave his prodigious energy to his work and social life as before. He was a consistent man.
His friends are left with indelible memories of a rare multi-dimensional Renaissance presence. They will sadly miss that familiar "Hallelulah" greeting which always presaged another full and memorable evening. And they will forever be torn between wonder at their good fortune in having enjoyed such precious and stimulating friendship, and unremitting resentment of the obscenity of all that intelligence, honour, wit and generosity so peremptorily turned to mocking dust.
Well may they plead their Milton: "Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep/ Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?"
B.L.