The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

by J. P. Donleavy

  When I see all of you just cutting open your dogfishes the way you do, and somehow I cut into mine, and in my dogfish it simply didn't have a ninth and fifth nerve. I looked all over.

  I'm absolutely positive."

  "You are funny."

  "Miss Fitzdare, I am, really I am, utterly bewildered."

  "Odear."

  "I can't learn. I keep thinking what good is it to know ontogeny repeats phylogeny. I am sometimes most discouraged." "So you do know something."

  "Only because those two words rhyme. I really do swear to that. It was the ogeny that made me remember the phylo and onto."

  "You are not quite what I expected. Mr. B. I don't know whether to believe you or not. Or whether you're having me on."

  "I swear I'm not having you on."

  "You mustn't swear. I hope you don't think I am just a little innocent girl and you pity me. In some things I am innocent. God now you've got me all blushing. This is awful."

  "I am sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. Do you play the harpsicord, Miss Fitzdare."

  "How did you know that."

  "I knew. I don't know how. I can hardly meet anyone in Dublin who doesn't."

  "O God what a thing to say."

  "I don't mean it in its crudest sense. I in fact mean it from the heart. You see I often sit and wonder if my way of life is a true one. That I shall take my place in some sort of society. Not high or low. Not too low. Make comments on the wine. Tell my host or hostess that the ceiling plaster is divine."

  "Mr. B. Hmmmn. Yes you are rather more than one bargained for. We don't seem to be dancing. Shall we go back to the mantelpiece. Where we first met."

  "You're not meaning to leave me."

  "No. Good gracious no."

  "I'm in need of another sherry.' "And HI get it for you."

  "Miss Fitzdare. The way you cross your legs now on the chair."

  "Chair. What chair.' "Sorry stool, at lecture. And you wear those blue woolly looking stockings. You know I have looked at you many times. From behind. I even thought of asking you to accompany me to the gramophone society. And then I thought, no I was just sure you wouldn't come.' "You should have asked."

  "If I did. Would you have come."

  "I would have adored to."

  "Now that's what I mean Miss Fitzdare. You say you would adore to come. And the word adore. That troubles me. I almost feel that how can one really, deep down in one's heart, adore to go to the gramophone society. My first night was awful. I had paid my shilling, and four pence for tea. And on a cold black night five to eight on what I thought was a Friday evening I walked across the playing field. At the other side all was darkness. I nearly stopped and went back to my rooms. But I couldn't face just sitting there. And I went on. For the first time I knew what it was like for those chaps at the pole. And how it was only their will to forge on. Ever on. And that's what I felt when I stopped mid way across the playing field. I thought. No. Courage. You must go on. Even though one sees no light. Somehow remembering as it said about the society, anyone who is interested in music should get in touch. And I had straight off paid my five shillings membership. You mustn't laugh, Miss Fitzdare. I was quite really a very desperate man."

  "I'm sorry. I just somehow don't know just how seriously to take you. I've not quite heard anyone talk like you before."

  "Well you may not know it. But I burst into tears in the middle of, I think it's the rugby pitch as a matter of fact. Like a scimitar had struck a bag of water on my head. Tears came tumbling down all round me."

  Miss Fitzdare looking slightly away. And suddenly reaching for the decanter she poured Balthazar's glass over full and sherry dripped from his wrist and went coolly along under his sleeve.

  "O dear Fm most awfully sorry I did that. Here let me wipe your glass. And your hand. I mean, I must say, I think because you must be alarming me. But do say. Did you get there. To the gramophone society."

  "Yes. I did. I got there. Feeling every inch of the way that they would not want me when I did. And it was all far worse than I imagined. I saw a light on. And I went close and looked in the window. In the room that has all the plants.

  There was a man sprinkling something on top of a fish tank. I knocked at the window and he was paralytic with terror. And I nearly fell over when a toad jumped up my trouser leg. I guess my waving arms out in the dark were disconcerting. He became awfully angry because I had given him such a fright. Kept trembling and shaking and asking who my tutor was. He said the gramophone society was in the Physics Building. And not the Botany Building. And when I got round there. It was all locked up. It wasa Thursday night.'

  "O dear I am sorry. You seem to have had awfully bad luck.

  But why don't you join the Christian Student Movement.

  Fm on the council. Annual subscription only five shillings.

  You seem to me, I don't know, perhaps Fm prying a little, but you seem as if you hadn't found out where you want to go in life."

  "Have you Miss Fitzdare."

  "Yes I think I have."

  "And where are you going."

  "Well I feel that one should devote part of one's life for the benefit of others."

  "And do you."

  "Yes. I do. In a small way. I know it sounds rather self proud to say a thing like that. Not everyone feels as I do. I don't really mind. Callous and cynical views have never changed mine. There's an awful lot of suffering in Dublin. In a room like this, with people like us, I don't suppose it appears that such a thing could be. I guess it's awfully un-modern but I have tried to take a Christian attitude to questions which confront man in his daily life."

  Miss Fitzdare moved her sparkling bracelet lightly to and fro on her wrist. Balthazar B wavering slightly.To straighten and come to attention for Miss Fitzdare. Her sudden cool dark elegance. Strange silence in her eyes. All those hours of her back facing me. As I pondered, amid erotic images, the early stages of a mammal. All utter Gaelic to me. Then to look up and see Miss Fitzdare's legs refold themselves. I thought she was so aloof to life. With appointments up and down Grafton Street and all over Merrion and Fitzwilliam Squares. Where briefly she would appear and disappear beyond the bright lacquered doors, paying respects to dowagers. And here in all this twinkling splendour of candle light. She talks. And I can almost hear. Her fearless handling of a horse. Nibbling and nuzzling her. As her own nostrils flair. Fluttering out at the end of the narrow bridge of bone so delicately straight. And the question which confronts me much in my daily life. To sow, please, one's desperate bag of wild oats in this country. Somewhere there must be a fissure in this granite ground.

  "Miss Fitzdare what do you feel one should do with one's problems."

  "Well I can sound awfully prim I imagine but if there is no Christian answer, then I should think to follow one's heart is best."

  Miss Fitzdare bowed her head. She picked up her pearls and put them in her mouth. Can I ever say. May I take them, your reins, your pearls, hold them. A bit between your lips. Miss Fitzdare. And ride you. All your white galloping skin. Lord I mustn't think of such a thing. That could warm me in all these shivering months. To let us go dancing quite indelicately in the sky. Would she. Touching under her satin and my silk. Embrace me to taste all her splendid little bits of beauty. I've had an awful lot of sherry. Chaps. Surrounded by all of you. Glistening with your welcoming gentle smiles. Faces scrubbed and shining. I just somehow know there are no motives low. I know it just as I thought I knew so many years ago that my redeemer liveth. That each gentleman here will one day walk up the aisle in his freshly aired and pressed morning suit solemn and above board. Between the collected tinted relatives and friends, titles and all described. From one whisper to another. Some winking above their smiles. Marriage. The organ music. O God Fitzdare. Have I found you. Can I hold back my unspeakable desperations. Till a ring is put along your finger. As wedded we will be. All the friends waving and maybe hating for us to go. Hand in hand to a honeymoon. Where God help me I would want to
ride you in the bed. Across all the good racing years. Looking out from windows of our country house. To the grey and winterish conditions. Sherry in inclemencies. Vintage port in storms. Of a time. In June. When the white and delicate wine flows. A sun beaming over England. Gentle breeze that blows tender puffs of sky. Westerly fair across Britain. Over Henley's quiet straight waters. Down upon Ascot's perfumed carpets of turf. All the hues. Gay lads and maidens. We newly wed. Wicker hampers. Early afternoon feasting upon one's lap. Chicken, asparagus and yummy plums. One noble day after another. And like. The pound sterling. How does it waft, how does it wane. As England's flag waves. Fitzdare. Fluttering high over its parliament. You will be nervous. Just like the pound. In all its foreign markets. And I will admire you for being so. As sterling tends lower. But tomorrow always nudges forward again. Like we in our marriage do. Or remain quiet. For so many years. To never be devalued. As we get old together. The pound looking strong. Sterling firming up. You have two faces now Miss Fitzdare. I see them there. I shall point to one of them now don't you move.

  "Are you all right Mr. B. You're swaying."

  "Am I. Whoops."

  "Heavens."

  "I'm a little elevated. I think. A little. But I know. O God I know that my redeemer liveth. I mean Miss Fitzdare he could lead me and you beside the still waters. You know."

  "Mr. B I don't want to say. But really I do. I think I must say. I do hope you're not blaspheming.' "O God no. Really I'm not. Not blaspheming."

  "Ought you to have any more sherry."

  "Just a jot."

  "Steady now. Dear me. Steady."

  "Forgive me. I think. Yes. Put my elbow on the mantel here. Firm up matters."

  "Do you always drink as much as this."

  "O I'm an old roue Miss Fitzdare. Drink like a drain.

  Always did. Glug glug. I mean that's the sound of it going down. The hatch I think. But surely we were talking. Yes of the Irish. They always lapse into what they call Urdu. Miss Fitzdare. Can you explain that."

  "O yes. The Irish never want to be what they are. It's why they so envy the black men. The three black men rumoured to be in Dublin and the two in Trinity are always followed by a little crowd wherever they go."

  "O God if only I were black."

  "Yes."

  "You feel that way too Miss Fitzdare."

  "Yes. It makes one's teeth so white."

  "O God Fitzdare."

  "Is something the matter."

  "No. Nothing. I just have to say. O God Fitzdare. O God."

  "You're not, are you, blaspheming."

  "No no. You see. This somehow is like walking into heaven. Meeting you. Being here. Every Sunday I am in Rathgar for an arranged Sunday dinner. I speak boldly I know. But it must be said. I simply must find some outlet.

  Your frock looks black but it's really purple isn't it."

  "Yes."

  "And what rustles. When you move."

  "Mr. B7 now now."

  "What rustles. Please. Tell me."

  "My petticoats.'

  "O God."

  "Mr. B. Really."

  "You know Miss Fitzdare you hurt me to the quick a moment ago."

  "O."

  "Yes. You did. When you said steady. Steady now."

  "O."

  "Just as if you were talking to a horse."

  "O I never meant, honestly, such a thing."

  "Well. I did feel I might be being led back to the stables."

  "Heavens I hope I didn't sound like that."

  "I suppose it's all right, really."

  "You baffle me. You do Mr. B."

  "Stepaside Wednesday."

  "Yes."

  "We can look down on Dublin."

  "I'd like that very much."

  A hall door swung open. Faces slowly turning. The beatific grinning face. Of Beefy. Grey top hat on his head. Morning coat and striped trousers. An ivory cane held in his grey gloved hand. He cut a quick motion on the parquet. Lifted his hat.

  And choo choo choo. The locomotive shuffle he said.

  "Mr. B, that's your friend Beefy, wherever did he get those clothes."

  Beefy went choo choo choo. Out on to the drawing room dance floor and back again into the dining room. Followed by a flushed hostess. Who put her hands up to her eyes and face.

  As Beefy climbed up on the dining table. Hurrying hands clearing his way of drinks and saumon fume. His boots carving swirling ruts on the dark red gleaming mahogany.

  Amid claps and laughter and our hostess's dismay.

  "O poor Philippa, I fear her party is about to end on a rather expensive note."

  Beefy capered. The gathering laughed. Some doubled up and clapped. And the band tippled. Miss Fitzdare on her pleasant slender legs, took her leave. Followed by me. Said she had not far to go. Just down the road. I said no I must see you out and home. And with coats donned in the cool hall.

  And the gay stamping noise left behind. Here with all the hats and canes. The silver salver for calling cards. Architectural prints of Dublin city. And our hostess. Face alarmed and creased with an ever friendly frown. Shaking hands goodbye.

  Outside on the dark roadway covered over with arching trembling branches. Balthazar tripping down the steps. Between the white globes of light and on the pebbles underfoot. His arm held by Miss Fitzdare. Her warm understanding smile. The moisty night lies out around us. From Ailesbury Road all the way across a green Kildare. To the Curragh stretched flat as a moonlit land. Where horses apounding go. And with me. To England, perhaps, Miss Fitzdare might you come. To my little house there. Where we would be and no one else would know.

  "Balthazar. Balthazar. Can you see."

  "I think so."

  "You'd better hold my arm."

  To feel close to her. Through our respective thick woollen garments. All those weeks she sat so untouchable. Distantly far away. In her own world huddled over her drawing of plasmodium. I watched the tip top of her pencil moving back and forth on the drawing paper. And mine an empty whiteness. Save where my pencil had wandered. Making round faces of little men, some who smiled and others who were awfully sad with their ears very small.

  "I never thought we would meet like this Mr. B."

  "Nor I, Miss Fitzdare."

  By a high iron fence Balthazar paused, swayed and leaned against the black spokes. Slowly he slid down and down. Miss Fitzdare holding him by the arm as he sank to his knees and looked up at her face and into her cool blue eyes. A gleam of silk flowing with colour between her black lapels. Balthazar shaking his head and pulling himself up again. Looking round at this large stone entrance.

  "Balthazar you cannot be left alone."

  "I'm absolutely tops. Down for a moment. But up now.

  Very tops."

  "You're not tops. You're squiffy."

  "I'm tops not squiffy."

  "Dear you've no transport back."

  "Never squiffy. Not that. Tops."

  "I could put you up for the night."

  "Miss Fitzdare I could never never impose. I mean Fm topping. You think it's shocking that I say I'm topping."

  "No. But we should go back and find you a lift. Or I may be able to call a taxi out from Dublin. You'll catch your death on the road."

  "Would you care Miss Fitzdare if I died."

  "Of course I would."

  "My uncle was a great explorer. At the drop of a barometer.

  He went immediately to one of the poles. It's in my family. I will make it back safely to my rooms."

  "I hope so."

  "Miss Fitzdare do you really know me. How can you be certain I am not some mustachioed man, with the ends waxed and twirled. And that now I have cut off my mustache. You don't know that."

  "I know you're squiffy."

  "How do you know I'm not a dashy dandy."

  "You're anything but."

  "I'm just so so ordinary."

  "Mr. B are you fishing for compliments."

  "But do you know me from within. Miss Fitzdare. My little
shortcomings, my little heartfelt troubles, my yearnings."

  "No but I know you're a very nice person."

  "How can you know that Miss Fitzdare."

  "I do. From your eyes. You are a nice person."

  "Where Miss Fitzdare have you been all these months.

  Why haven't we spoken before."

  "You never troubled to look at me I fear."

  "You must not say that Miss—"

  "My God don't fall."

  "Ah I am down."

  "O dear. I've got you. Up up you come."

  "Down and down. I go. But I love you Miss Fitzdare. I have no friends in Ireland. Nowhere to go. Sit at my fireside night after night.' "But I thought you were so very popular Mr. B. I'm sorry I had no idea."

  "No I am not popular. I am down for the count.' "Dear me. You must not fall again. The grass is wet. You'll catch cold."

  "I want to catch you Miss Fitzdare."

  Miss Fitzdare shyly turning away. Her black gloved hand reaching to tuck upon the silk at her throat. A wind casting a lock of her dark hair in gleaming stray strands across her so white temples. Somewhere behind the hurrying cloud a moon basks. And it feels that my fingers clutch and haul me on the sands from an eastern chilly sea.

  "Is this where you live Miss Fitzdare."

  "Yes. It's my uncle's house."

  "It's very nice what I can see of it."

  "You know I'm really worried to let you go."

  "Can I tell you Miss Fitzdare that I don't know what I'm doing in this country at all. They wrote in such a friendly welcoming fashion. That I just packed up. Got on the train to be here by October first. They never told me I would be cold and lonely and friendless all these months."

  "You know you say this. And each time I wonder if you're having me on. Dear you're sliding down again. You must get up. There's a couch you could sleep on over the stable."

  "Ah once more you think I am your horse, Miss Fitzdare."

  "Heavens. Really I don't."

  "Ah Miss Fitzdare why not. Saddle me up. Hear me I'm munching the grass."

  "Please get up."

  "I have been too careful for too long. It is only this evening, the first time I have ever stepped forth from my rooms and went in public without my gloves. I make my servant laugh.

  We have chats. Ah no Miss Fitzdare, I have been careful far too long. I will not take advantage of your extreme kindness.