The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

  Balthazar B went down the hall. Past the double doors of all these rooms. By portraits of ancestors and stallions held by grooms. Under the great high skylight and step by step down so silently. She brought me in the back door. Means she likes me. Touch these porcelain and alabaster urns. Six candles in the gleaming glass octagonal chandelier. She sat all those months, blue stockinged legs twisted on the stool as she wrote out labels for her collection of marine and fresh water fauna. And now to see Fitzdare here. In all this palace splendour. Where does she sleep. And bathe and take off her clothes. Her back would be white. Lay my hands on her shoulder blades. Must pause. Let my swollen perpendicular die at the bottom of these stairs. So randy in the countryside. And by my watch it's time for tea.

  From a soft green velvet sofa chair Miss Fitzdare's father stood up and smiled. Putting out his biggish hand to softly shake mine. His reddish hair, and neat tweed coat. Grey flannel trousers pointing out over thick brown well repaired shoes. A tie with twin white stripes. And freckles on his tan hands. Shorter than Fitzdare. Of a kindly saddish fleshy face. A gold watch chain across his waistcoat. Takes out a great round clock. We all want to know the time.

  "Should be tea any moment now. Did you have a pleasant trip."

  "Yes thank you."

  "Do you like our sad green countryside."

  "Yes, it's very beautiful."

  "Things look good this time of year. Not so pleasant in the winter. You could have come via Dundalk on the train, a long but rewarding journey. Anyway you got here and I must apologise for my daughter bringing you in the back door."

  "That's alright."

  "She doesn't mean to be rude. Boodles scolds her the way she plods round the house in gum boots. Kicking off the mud. Not so funny if one has to do the cleaning. How is dear old Trinity."

  "Fine."

  "I lived up top there in Number Five, overlooking the Bank of Ireland. Used to be the old parliament. And so did my father and grandfather. When the horse cabs went bumping over the cobbles in College Green. Had to rough it then. Suppose things have changed."

  "No sir, they haven't."

  "Ah well a lot of other things have. Nothing stands still these days. You young people like to rush things along. Natural enough. Get these old stogies out of the way. Do you play billiards."

  "Not quite sir.' "Well perhaps you'd like to have a try. I'm sure Elizabeth has a lot of things for you to do. But when one is so far away from the bustle it's hard to get anyone to come over of an evening. People hate to stir. Do you shoot."

  "Well not really."

  "Ha ha, you mustn't get alarmed. I know how it feels when sporty people start their subtle examinations. But you do look very fit for the field. That's always nine tenths the battle. It's all mostly for the fresh air. Elizabeth's out back there. She has a steeplechaser with a lame hoof. Jumping a bit of wretched wire. Rather a worry for her poor girl. She very much loves and lives for her horses. And her pappy foots the bill. Never mind. It gets up some good mushrooms in the fields. Here's tea. Boodles, port tonight, please. Ah lots of Mary's scones I see. And her gooseberry jam. Thank you."

  "Very good sir."

  "Mr. B here is with us. At Trinity with Elizabeth."

  "Welcome sir."

  "Thank you."

  "Boodles tell Elizabeth in the yard we're waiting. Just give her a shout."

  Fitzdare came through the great wide door, wiping her hands across her tweed skirt. Neat little laced walking shoes on her feet. She smiles at us both and sits on the thick woolly rug before the hearth. Her face makes purring laughter float through me. Curling back her legs under her bottom. Never without her string of pearls. To watch her eat. And sip tea, cup and saucer neatly in hand. Put gooseberry jam between her lips. And chew. Where I would go and taste it there. Just to be that jam. Between her radiant teeth. My legs crossed here on the soft cushions of this chair. In the warmth of eiderdown. A whole moment beyond belief. A daughter and her father. Out the wide windows the blossoms and blooms and over the velvet grass to the haunted dark vines weaving up through the trees. Whither goest that Beefy who said I should marry her. Take her as a wife. Climb up on your mare dear boy. Spend these splendid years ahead. Cantering over the table lands. Where westward all the dark hills lie out upon the blue. And sun goldened bracken between the boggy sharp pointed clumps of grass. How can I ever say, just to squeak out the words. I want to marry you. Take you as a beautiful wife as you will take me with all my hopeless sins. Caught in Donnybrook gardens. Trapped in college rooms. Watching helpless during turmoils crushing a landlady's false teeth. Another throbbing painful erection now. Untrained to keep its place. Gets up to antics in the country. All that green. As Uncle Edouard said a great vintage my boy you will feel between the legs. O God Fitzdare. Your knees. The muscle rising in your calf. You prostrate me. You do. All your black and flowing Celtic hair.

  The rooster cries. The sun shone on the purple hills just as she said it would in the morning. And last night we dined in candle light in a great long columned room. With high arched cathedral ceilings. Fitzdare in a long blue flowing dress. Diamonds sparkling on her bosom. I struggled with my black bow tie. Pounding my fist blue on the dressing table. Lost my studs and blackened my cuff. When desperately I wanted to look so nice. Saw all her stables. Her thin leathery faced jodhpured trainer. The boy brushing down the sleek sides of Dingle. And jumping like a cat as a hoof slammed out and splintered the stall. In my sudden fear I shied back and nearly ran. And again gathering up a sporting bravery I tip toed close. To this strange dark stallion with his red glinting eyes. Weaving his head back and forth beyond the bars. And nibbling with his lips and teeth at Fitzdare's hand as I nearly reached up to pull her arm away. And saw this stallion's organ from where I stood grow huge and stiffen long under his belly and my God so did mine and I trembled faint hearted that she might ever see and know the saucy racy thing happening there. And then to whisper a little prayer, please Miss Fitz- dare don't tomorrow ask me to get up on a horse. With visions through the night of those hooves smashing down the great front door. And comes that Dingle pounding up the marble stairs and galloping wildly along the hall to break not through my door but come smashing out and down the whole wall of the room which fell in on me. And so encouraged, all the other horses came too. The whole giant pounding steaming lot of them. Pouring out across the rugs, hooves sliding on the floors. I woke shouting with my fists knotted and held high, grabbing at the halters and reins lashing everywhere. Saying they're coming they're coming right through the wall. Crashing out the stones. Making a storm on this moonlit night. With the heavens passing fast. And there standing over me. A lantern held in his hand. In tasseled night cap and long flowing gown, was Boodle. I said please where am I, turn on the light and he said I'm sorry the electricity is off for the night. And I remembered now. Flying in a plane through the clouds to come here and visit with Fitzdare. Neatly packed and spruce with my gladstone bag. And I said I'm afraid I had a nightmare. Horses came pounding through there out of that wall. And Boodles who slept in a room above said, here, this will help you sleep. I bolted back a whisky. And hoarsely said goodnight, wrapped tight in the blue silk warmth of my pyjamas and head buried in pillows, neck tucked up safely in linen sheet. To see the dawn at the window and thank God that now it's morning. Awake at cock crow. Hear footsteps pass down the hall. Soft rug on my bare feet. And slap water on my face. Look out a window, see if the world is still here just as it was last night. I walk down the stairs, and across the great hall. Lift up the latches. Pull back the heavy door. The air smells young and free. Blanket of sparkling dew out across the grass. And there. Caught in the morning sun. She goes. Galloping. Her hair flying from her head as Dingle's flows out from his mane. A gleaming black body rippling of muscle. Great long legs stretching out on the emerald turf. Please Elizabeth. Please Fitzdare. I feel for the time being a nervous wreck.

  Balthazar B stepped across the gravel and up on the grass. Fitzdare gone now behind the trees and
hear the hooves pounding as she turns and comes back racing along the lake. Crouching forward her head turned a little aside. Clods of earth thrown in the air. Closer and closer. The sound bigger and bigger coming up under me. As she reins up to the wall. Walk to her across this croquet lawn. And not show any fear. Nor run outright if she comes up close. Feel so utterly wrong now in my plus twos. Just a sham shy of beasts. With the world so fresh and sunny. Eight o'clock on this morn.

  Miss Fitzdare her back straight and face asmile. A flowing pink bandana at her neck, black jacket, boots and hunting hat. See Dingle still charging across my room last night leading all the other quadrupeds. Scattering my cuff links. Sending me clutching up the wall. As he moves close upon me now. This seventeen hands of horse. Towering living pedestal for Fitzdare.

  "My you're up already."

  "Yes."

  "Will you come a ride."

  "Well really I'd rather just watch you. The splendid speed."

  "Dingle's superbly trim. He's in excellent form. Aren't you Dingle, in excellent form. Specially when the going's firm. You big rascal. Say good morning to Balthazar.' "O no, he needn't do that."

  "O you mustn't run. Dingle won't hurt you."

  "O my God, hold him back Miss Fitzdare."

  "O you awful man calling me Miss Fitzdare."

  "I'm just a little shy of horses this morning. Elizabeth."

  "Please, Lizzie."

  "Lizzie."

  "I don't really like the name. But at least it's friendly. Isn't that so Dingle. You wouldn't hurt Balthazar down there now would you. No you wouldn't. He lashes out now and again when he gets nerves. You just mustn't get in close behind him. And he only makes believe he bites."

  "I see."

  "Let's saddle you up a horse. Have you had breakfast."

  "Not yet."

  "Come on then. I have a good old hunter. We'll both have roaring appetites.' "I'm not really a riding man. Perhaps I should sit this one out. Here on the wall.' "Daisy's so mild she'll pick you up when you fall off."

  "Well that would be awfully nice. Of Daisy. But."

  "Yes come on. I'll take you up on the hills and then we'll have a marvellous breakfast."

  Balthazar B walked back across the lawns by the gleaming windows of the house. In there we dined last night. Right in that noble room. Fitzdare's father poured out the port. All dark and splendid. Flowing down the crystal. An eternal sweetness buried deep in the somber ruby red. Under the antlers high up round the walls in the billiard room. Miss Fitzdare gave out with her purring laughter. As I tried so desperately to carom the balls. Giving great attention to chalking my cue. Meaning watch out for my next shot chaps. Send these spheres of elephant tusks dancing a rumba along the cushions. With full masse. But at last to be left deliberating lengthily. Lip pursing and the lot. And all to no avail. As both Fitzdares were gracious and each of unnerving calibre. Reach then for my glass and triumph at quaffing port.

  A grey haired ancient groom helped Balthazar B into the saddle. Leading him by the bridle past the stable door. Ah you're right now sir, ready for the St. Leger. With droopy walk and two hanging heads, horse and man crossed out from the courtyard and clip clopped down the farm road and left through an opening into the fields. Fitzdare waiting there. Laughing gay encouragement and greeting. To lead them along a cypress avenue and steeply up a rocky path from these bottom fields climbing to the table land. This great wide animal beneath me. Female. A wafting breeze could bring a signal to a male. O my Lord, Dingle may try and jump her. Bite my ass right out of the saddle. Like last night. I wouldn't stand a chance.

  Fitzdare racing ahead into the morning sunlight. Soft summer breeze blowing across the hills. And up at last now to see the great arching strides of Dingle stretching over the hard packed grass. Rising up like a great invincible ghost over walls without a change of stride. As I dismounted to go through the gates. Pulling and tugging to get back up on Daisy again. Until she leaned suddenly down to gobble up some succulent herb and I slid forward and spun clinging round her neck to land spreadeagled on the moist ground.

  The curlews whistling and kestrels hovering against the wind. As I came walking back. To sit with her at the open breakfast room windows, a bow front jutting out in the rays of sun. A great painting along the wall "Coming Together Of The Meet By The Shores Of The Lough.' Spotted leaping hounds and red coated gentlemen on long bodied horses. The sideboard of hot plates and silverware. Sausages, tomatoes, bacon and butters. Hen's eggs and gull's eggs, syrups and creams. Toast and urns of steaming tea and coffee. With most memorable and delectable of all. Gooseberry jam.

  "I thought you did awfully well, I really did. A lot of people are shy of horses. I shouldn't have been mean and made you ride."

  "Going up the hill was fine. But I got used to leaning forward so that when she leaned forward to eat the grass it turned awkward."

  And we went off through the mornings and wandered along the lake. Strolling past a field of mares and foals. Another of milk cows. She was so good to me. Not to ask that I should ride again. We watched a blackbird wiping its orange beak on a green bronzed apple branch. All these avian creatures looking so proud sitting in the trees. And I said that really and most honestly I would tell the truth that I was a picnic man. To proceed so bravely now. With this wicker basket of picnic things. Build Fitzdare a fire. Pass her chunks of cucumber or biscuits sweet with chocolate specks. I could be a cave man too if only a cave could be found somewhere nice.

  "Balthazar."

  "What."

  "OI just wanted to say your name."

  "O."

  "I like it. And also just today you know Fm so happy that you're here. Took all my courage to ask you to come. I wanted you to meet my father. He's nice isn't he."

  "Yes. He's very nice."

  "A lonely man. I don't think he's ever got over losing my mother. And it's so many years ago. I had a little brother too. He was drowned with his nannie in a boat out on the lough. Just a few yards from shore. Daddy has his two spinster sisters who come to visit. They spend nearly all their time weaving and making jam. The gooseberry you like. My skirt's their cloth. Daddy should have married again. I sometimes wish he did. At twelve one still needs a mother. Some nice woman. He has friends who come to shoot. But he's lost interest now. I suppose that this, this whole place will have to go. The ruined castle there on the little island. The land reeks with history. I often think what sorrows passed here. Long before one's own."

  Gulls wheeling by under the greying heavens. And the far away moaning of a cow. The distant web of stone walls making little fields on the hill sides dotted with specks of sheep. The mountaintops purple. And east the sky a rusty tint. As Balthazar B stood, a hogskin gloved hand holding tightly the picnic basket and turning to see two blue eyes made bluer by the sky. The splendid laughing voice.

  "O gosh come on, I'll race you to that dead tree."

  Miss Fitzdare ran. In her strange and horsey way. Feet flying out to her sides. The thick green tweed she wore with all the tiny little bits of colour. The long coat belted round the middle with its big square pleated pockets. A golden scarf at her throat and her hair flying free. We stopped by a little stretch of sand by the lough shore. And I went finding stones and built a fireplace while Fitzdare gathered sticks and brush. I said watch it will only take me one match. And it took eighteen. To start the flames. She lay along her side in the thick clumps of grass contemplating me. As I enacted so urgently one little catastrophe after another. Till finally I managed a stone slab bridged over the flames and put the sausages roasting there. She smiled and was pleased.

  "They're really cooking aren't they. I think you're wonderful."

  The tiny kettle placed to boil. A pot of tea was served. Light yellow little cups and saucers. Stirred with silver spoons. We were covered in great linen napkins, swallowing down slices of quince and orange chunks of Leicester cheese. Patches of light in the southern sky. Westwards there must sink a redless sun. And I remembered a strange
moment which seems so long ago. In the chemistry laboratory. Fitzdare working at a titration. Turning the glass stirrer in her solution. As she does now the spoon in her tea. And I watched spellbound as she took a spatulate of sulfur and melted it on an iron ladle over her bunsen flame. While I stood blank minded and bemused with my own haphazard group of substances, staring at her beauty and I nearly died when I thought she glanced and winked at me.