Dear Mr. B,
It is not allowed for It is not allowed for an undergraduate to park a motor in College Square. Nor is it advised to set such motor running at an ungodly hour and wake those sleeping. Ample parking facilities are at the back gate of College.
I should be pleased if you could come and have tea at four this Tuesday coming.
Yours sincerely,
The College Authority
It was easier to stay irregular. And saunter down the square and through College Park to the Zoology Building. Go through the vestibule and into the centrally heated warmth. A momentary peek at the great room of museum animals. And when no one was looking quietly make for a neat mahogany water closet tucked away beyond the skulls and heads of beasts. And here with zoology notes on the knee pray again to shift the burden. Which earthworms do so easily.
Each day to sit at these high planks with their thin gently curving taps of running water. One's fellow classmates come in. Three always together, bundled up in great tweeds, Tuffy, Hinds and Byrne. They come happily larking into the room. I try so to show I'm friendly. And wished the girl in the thick grey sweater over amply nice bosoms who says, look at those three ruddy handsome fellows. Would say the same about me. With my pale silence as I wait quietly hoping someone will ask that I go for cakes and coffee out the back gate. And sit as they do gaily laughing and chatting under the great skylight of Johnston, Mooney & O'Brien's.
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.
14
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 di
ning 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.
And at another table I could hear a voice. Of elegant graceful quivering civility. Beefy. I look down on my plate of ham again. And hope someone will pass the salt. Bad manners everywhere. And tonight go back. Sit the evening out. Pretending some feeble joy at the remembered morphology of Annelida. Where the central nervous system consists of a pair of preoral ganglia connected by commissures to a postoral ventral ganglionated chain. When I am absolutely insane to be laid. Mind putting afloat one obscene thought after another. And through this darkness after commons I returned lonely to rooms. Pumped the bellows at the fire. Sharpened pencils, pulled on my ear lobes, shook my head and sat with elbows planted holding the palms of my hands against my face.
When there was a knock. And I opened the door.
"You are a singular chap, Mr. B. Huddle yourself away at commons. You should have come to sit with me. Bloody awful evening. Come to pay my respects. May I come in."
"Of course, but yes."
"Saw your light. What is this awful stuff."
"Zoology."
"O very handy, that. I hope you don't think Fm barging in.
Fact of the matter is, I've come to ask you along to a little soiree. Will you come."
"I'd be very pleased."
"You are a terrible shy man. You know you haven't changed one bit. I saw you several times. Crossing Front Square. My rooms are up in the corner. Overlooking the ladies who go to and fro in number four. I said that chap I know him. But one doesn't want to intrude. I wonder often what brought me here. And it's always that no one else would have me."
Beefy in black thick tweed sitting back in the hard worn wooden chair. Knees fallen widely apart. As rain tapped the great panes of glass. And spreading and streaking pressed by the wind. Wild shadows against a dark sky. The shaking branches of the old trees. To see this round and ruddy face that went jaunting fearlessly through the woods. Those years ago. His hands now gently folded across his waistcoat.
They walked together through a dark rainy college. At the front gate Beefy tipping water from his black chapeau hailed a taxi. To ask the driver to go down Fenian Street between the dark houses. Shadows behind the tattered candle lit broken windows. Newspapers pressed as patches and torn curtains over the glowing sacred hearts. The Grand Canal lock and past the yeasty smell of gas works. Till the evergreen thickets of Trinity College Botanic Gardens went streaking by. And the world widened to lawn and warm golden lights.
Turning down this Ailesbury Road. Under the winter branches of the trees. Walls and fences of large houses. Aloof and stately in the dark. They stopped before a gate and path up to a lighted entrance porch. And went up the steep granite steps. Beefy pulled down a great brass handle on the door and it opened. Inside was warmth and gaiety. A room with greeting eyes. When one doesn't know what to do with hands.
Step forward or stay where you are. Say hello. Or how do you do.
And as each was introduced round this circle of college people. Faces I knew passing in the squares. So full of colour now. A supper laid out through the wide doors on a great mahogany. Pinks and blues and light laughter. And at a high mantel. Its cold marble level with her shoulders. In the blackest of shimmering satin. Her chin held high and a small smile upon her face. Miss Fitzdare.
Across the wide salon. Four musicians played. The little band of college people took partners and swept waltzing away to outer rooms. I stand and swallow and so try to remain still. Not trip flat on my face. To go across and say hello to her. Dear God tell me. Just some more words I can add. To hello. Yes. That's it. I saw you with your horse. No. That will never do. Approach with a blank mind. Out which something stunning must come.
"Hello. I saw you with your horse."
"My horse."
"Yes. I think it was your horse."
"Horse."
"Yes."
"Horse. Goodness."
"Yes. It was a horse."
"Dear me what are you trying to say."
"I don't know."
"O well you mustn't look all upset about it. Please let me get you a drink."
Miss Fitzdare with a steady sure hand around the neck of a decanter. Just as she held reins that day. To pass her perfume so near under my nose now and pour forth a nutty sherry. She smiles and seems to like me. So strange and precious. After all the bundling up in tweed, and her boots tramping through the mud. Now a glittering diamond bracelet on her wrist.
"There."
"Thank you."
"That will make you feel much better. I think. Now the word was horse. You said horse to me."
"Yes I did. I saw you with your horse. Or somebody's horse.
AtBaldoyle."
"You race."
"I hardly do anything else."
"O surely not."
"I won seven pounds on your horse."
"I'm so glad. That was good of you to put a bet on Fasciola.
Let me pour you some more sherry."
"Thank you."
"You must go racing often."
"I go racing nearly every day there's racing."
"You have that enormous car. It's so enormous."
"O it's not really."
"You must give me a ride in it one time."
"I'd love to. If you would come."
"Certainly I'd come."
"Wednesday. After zoology practical.' "Yes. I'd love to."
"We could drive to Stepaside. And up the mountain.' "That would be wizard."
"Well I think it really would be too. Would it be all right if I helped myself to more sherry.' "Do. But let me."
"I haven't really been invited."
"O but you were."
"Was I."
"Your hostess asked Beefy to bring you. She thought your car darling. But you're not a rich rich prince, are you."
"Good Lord. Who said that."
"Rumour all over college."
"My God."
"You are then a rich rich prince."
"Would you mind if I just had another little bit of sherry.
This news is very worrying."
"Why don't you ever talk. You just never talk to anyone."
"I don't know how."
"Nonsense. You're one of the most interesting people. I don't think anyone has been seen in college in knickerbockers for years. So nice to see, I don't think they flatter older men.
You look so well. Your yellow gloves and cane."
"Miss Fitzdare. Will you dance with me."
"I'd love to."
To take her hand. And put mine on the soft satin of her back. The blazing log fire throws red shadows. So far away from all the rain. One wakes shivering with cold this Sunday morning. To find after a long drawn day such kind welcome.
Glad to see me. Their eyes sparkled and shone. To chatter away all the emptiness. Lowering on the dark afternoons when the horses have run. And I stray into a country pub. By the cold eastern shore of the sea. And sit. And let the winter stay and stay in my mind. The dark clothed natives steal up near. En
quiring in French or German whether I speak either tongue. And as I replied that one did not, they plowed on darkly in tongues invented on the spot. Until I would ask them what they were drinking. Ah well since ye ask that question and I wouldn't want to confuse you with a foreign tongue I'll have a ball of malt. A world alive in the world.
With all its own land and sky. And Mick here he's a friend of mine who has stood on Broadway and Forty Second Street Fm telling you that's a fact with all them lights blazing in his eyes. To smile and feel the gentle beauty. No mixed bathing in Ireland. Nakedness long banned from pubs. And here amid the chippendale. Faintest powder upon her face, reddish purple of her lips. This mixed evening of young ladies and gentlemen. Generous gladness. Some arms bared above the elbow. If at five in darkness I sat in my rooms. Horace said ah wait till you have the great doings in Trinity Week sir, then there'll be some great lookers about and you can take your pick.
"I know I shouldn't but I feel so silly not to. Use your Christian name, may I. It's Balthazar."
"Yes."
"Funny isn't it, if one keeps very much to oneself and lets others think as they may, one can seem so mysterious and strange. I never would have thought you were lonely and didn't lead the gayest of lives. You dance beautifully too. And now I can't say your name. But I will. Yes. Balthazar. Beefy says you're from France."
"That was many years ago."
"Do you like Ireland."
"Yes except when they suddenly step out on the street and direct traffic."
"I'm not surprised. When you come along in your motor.
But you do like it here."
"Miss Fitzdare I think it would really be better for me to admit right now to you that I am utterly and absolutely bewildered by this land. From the moment I stepped off the boat till now. I'm dazed. I'm frozen out of my wits in my rooms. And forgive me. I have been constipated for weeks. I haven't an idea what's being said by the professor in zoology.
The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B Page 12
