J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

The Club

London S.W.i

My dear Balthazar,

This city now abounds with matters many of which are very gay and others decidedly detrimental and dismayed. But London goes modern as fast as some others are slow to lose the indulgent splendours of the old days. Meanwhile I am so delighted that you are coming. And look forward to seeing you Harrods at one. Where alas some few days ago I was passing one of those plaster mannequins and as is my friendly wont, I administered a light fingered goose delux. It suddenly brought both its hands behind it. It also leaped in the air and screamed. My attire at the time did not afford me much protection and I said rather too many times I beg your pardon madam, I thought you were a statue. She glared as I walked away backwards over the toes of several assembled assistants. Sad when only minutes before I'd helped an old lady across the road. It could be the moment for me to swim the Channel both ways, French and British flags between the toes and the usual inflated French letters for buoyancy. I find all my acquaintances booked up. Even I suppose for their funerals. I say there, one says, are you booked in for a shit old man, better be, the best places are awfully crowded. God I miss the ways of Erseland where one was lucky just to wake for the next day's doggish proclivities. I am taking my colonic irrigations like a man and cry out only for town house, country estate and polo ponies as a little embellishment and garnish in my life. But to add to my dangerous difficulties I went recently to an all night do it your ruddy self laundry just opened here to cleanse my clothes at one A.M. when there wasn't a bugger in sight. I delicately stripped down and washed my shirt, socks and lacy underthings. A passing woman walking her unpleasant dog saw me and called the police. They arrived in force as I sat stark naked and lonely reading a copy of Country Life. Only that I bedazzled them with ecclesiastic and legal mummeries I would have been had up. As it was they helped me dry my garments and drove me home. You will gather from this that it is a far away time when one was pushed by nannie in one's pram looking down from one's lofty wheeled height at the ranks of other men below. All I now hear whispered at me from the unprivileged comers of this London world is, sir may we be of assistance in your failure. It's not too funny when one thinks of all the time spent growing one's eyebrows long in a good London club. But I still do have my little bevy of fluffy delights who polish my instrument like a doorknob before turning it open to frolic and frisson with my soul. Needless to add, a mare of much fortune eludes me more and more. And so, blessed are they who rat on their principles and trample their codes for profit, provided the friend is dear who suffers and dies betrayed.

By a pubic hair I still remain a member in good standing of the brave ruling classes.

Beefy

A smooth crossing of the Channel. Rearwards, in second class, people sang around a man who played a mandolin. And down in first class with the suspicious immigration officer as the ship plied its way. I sat before his desk as he thrust out his lower lip and sucked air between his dentures.

"How long are you staying.' "I don't know."

"Have you come for a visit."

"I don't know."

"How do you support yourself."

"Privately."

"You may be required to give proof. However you will be permitted to land as a visitor provided you don't enter employment or engage in any business or profession. And leave the United Kingdom not later than such date as may be specified by the Secretary of State."

And there ahead lay England. Suddenly a green and welcoming land. The great high darkness of Victoria Station. To taxi through the bustling streets. Where the people sauntered looking hopeful again. The fountain sprinkling under the leafy trees of Sloane Square. And dead ahead at the end of a straight road, the turreted red brick eminence of this peaceful hotel.

Balthazar B went to look at 78 Crescent Curve. To push open the heavy oak door. A scattering of brown envelopes inside. Footprints on the parquet. His boxes and trunks stacked in the hall. To walk in across the grimy dusty floors. All once new paint grown shades darker in the stale air. And this is where I would have sat and smoked perhaps a pipe. Might have been little laughing voices racing by. And no. I must not go on thinking. For the pain will never go away. You just go on and live. In the dust of desertion.

Still

Falling

Where last

I loved.

To walk out under the big crystal chandelier past the wide brown marble balustrade. Touch the brass handrail and go down the green carpeted steps. And out into this warm sunny day.

Take this morning stroll through the park, a light wind shaking the leaves. Couples lying on the grass. And striped sails fluttering on boats bumping across the Serpentine. An Afghan hound goes loping around the deck chairs. Nice to see an Alsatian locked in cohabitation with a little white poodle as the owners hysterically dance and belabour all around. And there two little babies, a boy and girl, come wading through the grass hand in hand. And I look up. A blue jay catches a moth. Now it lands to sit on a branch and devour and dine. As the tiny bits of moth wings come fluttering down.

And again to march out into life after lunch, a tune in my head. Step lively, stride long. Under a sky flooded blue. And over blackened slate rooftops and greening copper rain gutters clouds float puffy white and moisty. Turn this corner away from traffic humming on the mild afternoon air. The houses of this street all their red sooty fronts mellowed umber. And there, that's the house where I still might live. Behind the bits of ivy. Me and my volumes of comparative anatomy. Mr. Pleader, who comes after Horn and before Hoot, not to mention Bother and Writson, said yesterday these brooding blocks of flats nearby are graced with leading stage actors and psychologists. They graze here on these calm spring pastures. Of soft brick, gentle curtains, gleaming glass and goodish surnames. Terribly nice, all of it.

Balthazar B went through the double swing doors of this russet stone walled emporium. Suppliers of fancy goods to the Monarch. Past the ties, shoes and shirtings. The glove counter and the stairs down to the safety deposit vaults. Where many documents and various ready cashes have lain locked away between the mirrored walls, lonely in the fireproof silence.

Ahead the waiting hall. Vast marble room of creamy browns. Six fluted pillars hold up a ceiling lit with funereal glass trays shrouding neon lights. A gauntlet of dowagers in last year's wedding hat. Seated with unmarried sons in the green leather chairs. They confide little jokes. Nod and flicker timidly at their random passing friends. And sometimes they pause to talk of weddings and christenings. And my God. There. Is it, it must be. Beefy. And his clothes. As he sits dejected. Suede leather on his feet smudged with something like plaster and powdered cement. His grey flannels spattered with crusts of mud. But higher up near the throat he looks splendidly the same. Silk crimson hanky and a moss green cravat tucked in the neck of his yellow shirt.

"My God Beefy. I hardly recognised you."

"Yes. I know. Note the colours of my jacket match nicely with the encrusted clay. Clearly no tonsorial artist or tailor is doing his fortnightly nut to keep me beautiful. But my glands sustain in the lack of gaudery. Goodness I am glad to see you.

I need a friend in my world these days. If Fm away from the building site much longer Fll be sacked. Say Fm shirking. When I have the most awful case of the runs. Together with my piles, which attacked recently, I can barely stand up. Chaps keep accusing me of not pulling my weight."