J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

Two dark blue peak hatted porters, pulling back the great doors. They looked in the horse cab window. And I said with nothing else to say that I am Balthazar. They saluted and said very good sir. And I thought I had done terribly well. Clip clopping we went across this cobbled square. Groups of students in dark gowns standing at the open doorways and dotted on the paths between the velvet grass.

Down by a grey grand building and into a large square. Gnarled ancient trees fading yellow. A man in a battered brown hat stood on the granite steps. His hands on his hips, bicycle clips on his trouser legs. And as the horse cab stopped, he looked and frowned. Balthazar alighted. The man looked at the entrance wall upon a newly painted name.

"Begging your pardon sir. But are you the gentleman as is expected at number seventy six.' "Yes."

"The name is Balthazar is it sir."

"Yes."

"Fm Horace sir, your servant. Will I be giving you a little help now with your luggage sir."

The two big cases lifted from the cab. Horace giving little commands to the horseman. As they backed away into the dark hall. Stand here now on this step. The grass so greeny green beyond the iron fluted pointed posts holding a suspended chain. The air fresh and fragrant. A boot scraper here on the step. Take off my hat and let it blow my hair.

Along a shadowy stone paved hall. Up steps to a landing and up more stairs to another. And behind a thick big black door. There was a crash. Balthazar B stepping quickly forward. Into a large high ceilinged sitting room. Where one trunk lay on the floor on top of the pieces of a chair.

"Ah sir that chair was long in need of repair. Weak in the knees. Tired of being sat on. Well send it straight to purgatory right there in the fire. Sure it will never see the sight of God."

Outside the clip clop of the horse cab went under the window and faded away. A pale glass shade over a weighted pulley light hung from the ceiling. A brown table and three more chairs. A light tan tiled fireplace. A turf fire glowing.

"With a little turf left over from the gentleman leaving I thought Fd air out a bit hearing as you were coming. Now sir, my duties are to keep the rooms well dusted out. Do the washing up. Get in the water. Lay a fire and will you be wanting breakfast sir of a morning.' "Please."

"Very good sir. And will you be requiring any of the fundamentals of living sir. Such as a mattress."

"Yes please."

"Very good sir. I can see to that very thing for you. Ah we've been having some shocking weather. Shocking. Well have it right here sir in short order. And you'll be needing the odd blanket. I'm suggesting now that Henry Street is your man. Quality for the price, wool for the warmth. Is nine your time of rising sir, of a morning."

"That will do fine."

"There'll be a good big pitcher of hot water for you on the washstand there. Should I knock to wake you sir. Some of the professors are ones for the waking. Have to tear the covers back from the bed before they stir at all."

"Just a knock will do."

"Very good sir. Now I wouldn't be not minding my own business sir but sometimes it's handy to know. May I enquire what you are reading sir."

"Natural science."

"That's a dandy subject. I have meself many unnatural matters on my mind, ah we'll have plenty of time to discuss that, eh, heh heh sir. The last gentleman here sir was an engineer. Ah he was a one for cylinders and motor bike parts all over the place. A devil to keep tidy. Didn't I see him once having his breakfast out of a hubcap. Well now we'll be getting on a bit. A good sweeping out while you settle in. Ah I had to laugh sir, as you came down the square in the cab. I says to meself who's this gentleman now, he has the notion to do it right. The only sure way to travel. Why the streets are blocked outside there with these yokes gasping for the petrol. Sure a horse you throw a fork full a hay to in the night and while you're sleeping isn't he being refuelled. Ah you wouldn't know what the world was coming to and that's a fact. Before you know it they'll be trying to put wings on a donkey and him only trying to graze."

Opening tall cupboard doors in the bedroom. Laying out on these empty shelves shirts, socks and the last remnants of Uncle Edouard's silk underwear. The yellowing thick masonry walls. The iron bedstead arid naked springs. Tall cream shutters folded back at the sides of the windows. Look out across these trees and falling leaves. A solitary lamp post at the corner of the square. The lip of lawn and cobble stone gutter. Tiny flashes of dark blue in the sky. And a wind rattles the big window.

Balthazar B opened his bedroom door into the sitting room and fell back again and closed it shut.

"Is there something amiss sir."

"No."

Balthazar B bracing himself and taking in a great lungful of air. Opening the door again and setting forth across the roomr Horace vaguely outlined crouched behind his broom plunging it forward as it curled rolling volumes of dust up against the ceiling. Horace paused and held a shielding hand above his eyes.

"Ah you're on your way out sir."

"Yes."

"Ah we'll have it spic and span on your return sir. And Fll be knocking you up at nine sharp sir."

"Splendid. Thank you."

Across the cobbles between these scatterings of eager faces. Through the mild and soft air. To go in under the portico and past the porter's little cozy room. Hung with keys, piled with parcels. A fire blazing in the grate. And out now into the bustling city. A phalanx of bicycles released by the tall policeman's white gloved hand as he urgently beckoned them on. And last night asleep. High up over St. Stephen's Green. The early morning coming down with its blue white light from the hills beyond the city. And revelries far below. Went to my window to look down. Saw figures in long flowing dresses and men in evening clothes. A casual gladness in the voices and their laughing shouts. And one voice which nearly seemed a voice I knew. Singing out above the others. On the distant hills the sun was rising. Full of an orange tickling and the last of an autumn's warmth. To go spreading redly down over this stone built city.

Out now to flow along with these pedestrians. Alive this gay afternoon on the great slabs of granite. Past giant green gates of the Provost's house. Green and yellow trams grinding and clanging by. Citizens as they nod and cock their heads in silent passing greeting. Sometimes stopping to give urgent earward whispers. Tiny scurrying white faced children, the wind blowing through their rags. Begging as one passed. Give us a penny mister. And an open shirted black curly headed man said to an open shirted burning eyed man, how's your hammer hanging Sean.

Through an aroma of roasted coffee and a glass mahogany swing door. By light eyed ladies with packages and gloves and sparkling eyes. In grey flannel suits and silken voices who let the breeze of passing people blow their cigarette smoke away. Everywhere, faces. And ahead past counters of cakes and breads and sweet smelling loaves, a great high ceilinged room of glass topped tables.

Balthazar B sat down on a crimson seat beneath a stained glass window and perused this oriental menu. The black dressed waitress brought a large cup of coffee and plate of glistening brown topped currant buns. A dish of gold balls of butter. A woman with a priest Two red coated girls with refined small fingers sticking out from their cups of tea. Little clanks of cutlery on the glass. Heaped pots of sugar pieces.

Warm fragrant coffee in the mouth. To open an evening newspaper and read that a cow escaped onto a road and gave the garda a wild chase into a village where the beast entered a public house and set the occupants to holding their pints high over their heads so as not to have them spilled. A wondrous simple peace. Without years of lonely grey. And upturned rafters in brick debris. With bombs and cannons chattering up against the night and searchlights waving over a terror torn sky.