J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

"Beefy, come, look."

Beefy peering out into the night. The branches of the nearby tree. The tangled snaky boughs. Beefy taking his cigar out of his mouth. His eyes cold.

"That wretch. Out there spying in the tree. Betraying us.

Thinks he's going to delight in our apprehension. The jealous Greek scholar, the bogman Muggins. He's laughing. By God wait till I get my hands on him."

"Beefy open the door please. They're beginning to use force."

"An innocent man is never in a hurry Balthazar."

"But we're not innocent."

"In spirit and heart, yes. We are. That's why I wear this look of permanent bewilderment. Whoops, yes, that was rather a loud bang. Thought they might give up."

"I know you have women in there. I will not ask again that this door be opened. I am not going to stand out here all night."

Beefy advancing to the door. Drawing back the bolts. One high one low. Lifting his eyebrows as he turned the lock and pulled open the big black door. The Proctor in a brown ankle length bathrobe. Designed perhaps for such evening missions. Pair of red skiing socks and scuffed pair of leather slippers. A sky blue scarf wrapped high up round his throat and flowing over a shoulder. Rowed stroke or bow or something for Cambridge. A year when Oxford sank with all hands in the river. These two small porters look from under their blue bulging hard hats. Peering out from the college secrets piled up over the years. And one steps forward to put his lantern atop the turf cupboard.

"All right Beefy, where are the women."

"Sir, women."

"Yes, the women. Don't play games with me. Where are the women. I want this over without delay. You may as well come clean. Where are they."

"Sir, you do know Fm reading divinity."

"I should not attempt, if I were you, to start clouding the issue. Which is quite grave."

"Sir I'm afraid I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. With all respect, really sir. I do not."

"Don't try my patience."

"Honestly, Balthazar B here. Why we came back this evening to college, having missed vespers and taken a walk about Stephen's Green, and we set about slogging. Quite above board. Books there on the table. Mr. B's Littlego exam. Latin is giving him a good bit of trouble. Thought it would polish him up nicely if I took him through some of—"

"That's quite enough. I'm not going to stand here all night listening to your explanations. Either you admit now to the women or I shall go into that room and expose them myself. As distasteful as that may be. But you've only yourself to blame if this cannot be dealt with in a civil manner. I have not got all night. Come on. Don't trifle with me longer. I see. Very well. Let us have that door there opened."

A nod from the Proctor. A pointing finger raised. To these dark uniformed porters in their peaked hunting hats. Who step forward. Across this ornamentaled tapestried room. They turn the knob and push shoulders against the locked door.

"All right, Beefy, the key. Let us have the key."

"Sir, what key."

"The key Beefy."

"Sir as you know."

"I know nothing except this is most tiresome. Give me that key."

"Upon my word, sir, one has desperately been pursuing the doctrine of atonement, Christian ethics."

"You are really bringing me to the end of my endurance. I can see this little evening has all the appearances of a tutorial."

"Fructu non foliis arborem aestima, sir."

''Do not Latin me. There's quite sufficient fruit to be seen and judged here"

"Sir I think you should look out the window in the tree outside."

This tall handsome man, waves of quietly greying hair across his head. One hand tightly holding the wrist of the other. Stealing a frowning glance at the green ecclesiastic tomes. As he steps forward. Porter coughing into the hollow of his fist. A satin sash with bright red tassels round the Proctor's robe. To wake up again in one's own life. Delirious in this suicidal dilemma. Just as the golden moments are gone. Fading lighthearted elegances of a Sunday afternoon. As raindrops begin to hit the window panes.

"Beefy I'm warning you, either you produce these ladies instantly or something much worse will happen to you than you think will happen."

"Sir upon my crossed squash rackets I swear and with all due respect, you are barking up the wrong tulip tree. I mean really, how can I otherwise consider that you are not, without malice perhaps, but persistently, making unintentional slanderous accusations here. In front of witnesses."

"Are you daring to try me. Are you."

"Sir there is no need to shout."

"You do try me."

"No sir. I am distinctly not doing. Nor trying."

"All right break down that door."

"Please sir no."

"Break it in."

"O sir, you really shouldn't. This is awful."

"Quite."

"I don't think I can bear to watch. I am cut to the quick that my word should not be believed. What am I anyway but a mere student. Giving of my best. And getting back the worst."

"Keep quiet."

"Yes sir."

The two porters taking up positions. A signal and the dark shoulders crashed upon the door. A groan and raised eyebrows as the black portal refused to budge. A stepping back of three paces, another onslaught. Beefy covering his eyes. A splintering. Two panels cracked through. One porter down. Holding his shoulder in pain.

"Sir please, allow me, I can't bear to watch anymore. I've got the key here. I'll open the door. It's the principle of the thing. It really is. Not to be believed. To have had a command in a regiment with which, sir, I know you are acquainted. There. It's open. Get them. Eighty ladies. Twenty of them dusky. Before they get out the window."

The two porters rushing into the room. Pulling back the deep blue satin window drapes. Opening the clothing cupboard. Tearing blankets from the bed. Beefy giving a nervous start as something clatters on the floor. The pushing aside of stacks of towels and shirts. And finally standing hesitating over a great iron deed box. Room enough for two well packed midgets. The Proctor thin lipped, white faced. Stepping forward. Pointing with a finger.

"Open up that box."

"Sir, that is confidential."

"I said open it."

"Sir you have no warrant."

"I can tell you Beefy, that my anger shall be sufficient warrant at this moment."

"But sir there is no room for ladies in there. Not nice ladies anyway."

The porters triumphantly holding up the foot long key fallen from the bedcovers. Smiles as they plunge it into the top of the great box. Four hands turning it. A click inside. Lifting the heavy lid open, propping it back. The great locking teeth round the lid rim. And the porters standing staring silently down.

"Yes, what is it."

"I don't know sir. It must be thousands and thousands."

"Thousands of what."

"Pounds sir. Five pound notes. Hundreds of them."

"O dear. I'm not ready for more jokes."

"It's not joking sir. See for yourself."

"Good Lord. What's the meaning of this Beefy."

"Nothing is the meaning of it sir, except that you have searched my apartments, opened my confidential strong box and failed to find any crumpet, fluff or frill."

"How did this come to be here. All this money."

"I put it there sir."

"Are you completely out of your senses. You have no right to keep money in this quantity in a college room."

Beefy crossing to close down the great iron lid with a crunching bang. Turning the huge key. Lifting it out again and slipping the iron circle over his wrist. Making an about face. A clatter of slipper. A slow march back to the sitting room. Plumping into his leather sofa, Beefy crossed his carrot haired legs and opened a tome across his lap. Book One of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics. Balthazar B reflecting apostate, down hearted and sad, raising his chin momentarily as the Proctor stepped back into the sitting room.