J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

On this Saturday zoology practical dissection kits were slapped closed. Wait among these fellow students as we file out through the doors and down the granite steps. The cold greyness lays hold of me. They talk of a ball. A college hop. I go yes with my eyes and smile with my lips and plan to make some comment and never can. Out here now as I always am. Heading for the leviathan Landship waiting on the cinders at the back gate. To roar out past the porter's grey little lodge and towards the races.

Flags over the stand. Bookmakers wagging hands. Out here on the grassy slopes tip toeing over the churned up turf. Air moist and soft near the smell of the sea. Elbows on the paddock fence. The tight trousered figures in cavalry twill. Passing glistening haunches and snorting horses' heads blowing out twin clouds of steam. A girl in her heavy green tweed suit. A black silk scarf drawn tightly round her head. Goodness. Miss Fitzdare who has sat in class in front of me. She has dazzling blue gay eyes and leads a rather elegant chestnut mare. And she holds reins as the jockey mounts and pats the horse's neck. I could rush and say hello but can't. What would I say next.

Balthazar B put a pound on this seven to one outsider. And it won. Under purple pink and yellow colours. Pounding and steaming down the stretch by three lengths. I went to the bar and smashed back a double brandy. To buoy up one's lonely hope of a friend. Instead of figuring out the phylum chordata. Miss Fitzdare sometimes pushed the end of her pencil into her peach white cheek. And never said a word. She sat with her blue stockinged legs tucked on the cross bar of her stool. Sometimes an ecclesiastic gentleman in a chauffeured car called for her. And one unbelievable day when I accidently brushed her scalpel to the floor and picked it up? she smiled at me.

From Baldoyle I went via the heathery windy hill of Howth. To drive by these precipitous lonely houses hanging out over the sea. And then back to Dublin to dine this night. Bringing the Landship to a safe halt in the Suffolk Street. I crossed the Grafton and went in the alley by the stained glass window. Gave my coat, shooting stick and binoculars to the nice man. And climbed the stairs of this sprawling restaurant, across rooms and down again to the white tables and gleaming glass and gentle solitude in a little corner by the fire. And settled to smoked salmon, wild duck and rice eased into the spirit with wine from the vine of the Infant Jesus. To thaw the heart. And look for love. And take part in college life.

Aglow and gently tipsy Balthazar B proceeded at speed to Dalkey and back. Giving many an evening motorist a ghostly scare. And taking the breezes against the face and through the hair. To draw the Landship to a halt in front of my rooms. Fold my map, collect my binoculars and shooting stick. Reach over to turn down the handle and open the door. And hear the crunch of feet. In the darkness over there on the pebbles approaching. The College Authority. To give me what for. And the figure loomed close into the gas light glow.

'That is one very fine motor you have there."

"Thank you."

"How many horses."

"I don't know.'

"You are a very modest chap not knowing the number of horses of such a fine motor.'

"It has twelve cylinders.'

"Very sporty. Dare say it would take you over the hills and far away. In quick order.'

"Yes."

"I don't suppose you know who I am."

"No, I don't think so."

"Well I know who you are."

"Do you."

"Yes. I don't suppose you remember a little boy. A most awfully naughty little boy. Who got you in heaps of trouble.

Called Beefy."

Balthazar B looked down upon this chunky figure. Whose hand reached up and took off a wide brimmed black chapeau.

To see in the faint light a shock of carrot hair. And round smiling cheeks. This Saturday twelve o'clock midnight.

Bells ring

And seagulls

Come diving through

The dark.

One hour past noon this gently raining Sunday. In blue pin striped suit, stiff white collar and small knotted black and white dotted tie I set off for the green front lawns of Rathgar. Past the flower beds and subtropical trees. Where at one red brick semidetached house I go by arrangement with my trustees, for dinner.

To stand at the fire in the sky blue room. Served two sherries by this bubbling lady with her big long hysterical nose and three marriageable daughters. Who appear one by one to nod and smile and curtsy. I bow. They each hold a hand at their pearls. And silently sit on the cold pink damask couch. And sometimes a Belfast doctor would stay as a paying guest. And following the ladies we went in to dine.

The doctor and I broke off our lively chat on Fasciola and Entamoeba as the black uniformed servant girls carried in the steaming joint of lamb. A silver bowl of mint sauce and one of golden roast potatoes and another of steaming sprouts. The trifle came under mounds of cream and soaked in sherry. Plates passed down table amid the smiles of our hostess and the three alabaster daughters. With candles lit on the quartet stand we tipped port and the doctor puffed a rare cigar in the withdrawing room. When the youngest of three sat to the harp and another to the piano and accompanied the eldest to Lieder. While I was so desperate to get laid.

At sometimes six fifteen P.M. I suddenly jump up to take my leave. For if I don't, hours go by as I figure out words upon which to take a carefree pleasant departure. And reach the cold hallway. Prints of Dublin and Edinburgh on the wall. Malacca canes in the hall stand and her late husband's military medals under glass. Lieutenant Colonel, Poona Light Horse.

"So nice having you Balthazar. We do look forward you know. To next Sunday. O dear. If s quite about to be inclement once more. You must put up the roof of your motor."

"Goodbye, thank you for having me.'

Back now down the empty Sunday evening roads. The pubs not open yet. Wet softness against the face. The leviathan Landship forging through the night. Cross over the stone bridge of the Grand Canal. Down Harcourt Street past the big doors of the station. And hope always to come upon some gentle lonely lovely female along the ghostly granite pavements of the west of St. Stephen's Green. To motor with me. See only chasing barefoot children, their hands clutching each other. They shout and jeer and point. As I sail by the grim great pillars of the College of Surgeons. In there. Bodies propped up on tables all stiff and dry.

All these lonely Sunday evenings. Dublin shut. Odd lights here and there in College. To stare out the window. And wait for commons. Put on one's gown for warmth. The bell rings. Down the dark stairs. Gas lamps glowing along the dark squares. Figures on the steps of the dining hall and collecting in the foyer on the stone floor. In this great vestibule, two glowing fires with coals redly held against the bars of the grate. The blue uniformed man with gold buttons down his breast and his hair combed flat back on his head and parted in the middle. He watches the faces and marks his big book.

The great mahogany doors open. Into the vast room. The long tables. The huge portraits against the high panelled wall. The Senior Dean goes by, holding his big silver ear horn. And there was warmth from the night winterish air.

A tall scholar rushes up the steps to the lectern and Latins out grace. Beseated. A great clatter of shifting chairs. The carvers stand at their long tables sharpening knives. The great joints heaved up on their platters at the serving hatch. Thin harassed faces of these little women stared out across the dark gowned gathering. To catch their breath and go plunging back down again deep into the bowels of this dungeon kitchen. The clank of cutlery. The passing of the jug of beer. Light refreshing ale, a gift from a prosperous brewer.