The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

by J. P. Donleavy

  The great glass roof over us in the terminus. A porter, already shouting his services to the emerging first class passengers, pushed a noisy iron wheeled barrow in front of him and at Mr Arland’s direction took our luggage. Turning continually to speak back to us.

  ‘This way now gentlemen if you please.’

  And Mr Arland absent mindedly turned right down grey granite steps. To then hear the porter calling after us from the top, to say he had a carriage waiting at the other entrance. Where he hefted our luggage up on the brougham’s roof and then made vague mutterings over his tip until Mr Arland gave him an extra shilling.

  ‘Well there you are Kildare, evidence of the greed overcoming modern society.’

  The horsecab driver with his big crimson nose sticking out from under his top hat, folding his whip and climbing up on his perch to sit pulling an old piece of burlap across his legs. Giving his thin nag a feeble belt across the quarters, and off we trotted down this incline, the candle fluttering behind the gleaming glass of our sidelights. Turning right, out through great grey gates to suddenly stop. This morning Kern and Olav loped beside us all the way to the lodge and then just sat, their great hulking shaggy shapes, disconsolate as we disappeared down the road. And this city street aswarm with bicycles. Coming by in a great wave as we waited. And here and there were motor cars. The huge garda finally putting up his white gloved hand to halt them all. And we pulled out, passing this policeman nearly as tall as the roof of our horse carriage and as wide as a full grown bull across the shoulders.

  ‘Well Kildare, we made it multa gemens. Five hours nearly, to go sixty miles. Translate please.’

  ‘With many an agony.’

  ‘With many a groan Kildare, with many a groan.’

  A sign at the door of a dirty red bricked building said Coroner’s Court. And next to it written on closed big dark wooden gates, City Morgue. Newsboys on the street corners shouting out Herald and Mail. Their tattered jackets too small and their white naked legs and blue white feet on the wet blocks of granite, phlegm streaming from their noses. The evening herd of cold pinched dark coated figures waiting to cross at the pavement’s edge, their breath making steam from their mouths. The strange purple of the sky. A ship hooting on the river. Great stack of barrels quayside being loaded by a ship’s derrick under lights. And bouncing on the cobbles, clattering huge carts tugged by massive horses. Followed here and there by impatient automobiles. Must be sadness where so many of the lower orders live inside the big broken windows. Behind these mournful unloved walls.

  ‘Kildare cheer up. It will appear much better to you in the morning, I assure you.’

  ‘It looks so appalling. Down those streets.’

  ‘In a moment or two and just over this bridge we shall be in a better part of town. A bath, a little supper in you, will put a completely new complexion on it. Now in that building there, once when the college baths were closed, I cleansed myself as an undergraduate.’

  Past pubs, a coal merchant, gentleman’s clothiers and a shop selling yeast. And on the right, a massive edifice with porticoes and pillars blackened by age and bleached by rain. Another garda even as big as the previous one, his nose and face red in the cold mist, directing traffic outside the gates of the college. At which Mr Arland seemed longingly to look. Beyond the railings either side of the entrance path, a statue standing up out of lawns flat velvet and green. And we trotted on behind a tram, clanging its bell, roaring and grinding on its track. Indeed one felt without being jubilant, at least a little more hopeful. And now the tram with its two tiers of dim yellow lighted windows, turning as we head straight. The horses’ hooves slipping on the wet wooden blocks.

  ‘That Kildare is the Provost’s House and here we are now in the lap of elegance. On your left, Mitchell’s for yummy creamy cakes and tea. Now Brown Thomas’s for the best in silks, cashmeres, lace, linen and I suppose ladies’ knickerbockers. And coming on your right. Bewley’s Oriental emporium of coffee, spice buns, butter balls and jersey milk.’

  Turning left at the top of the street. The winter shadowy trees of St Stephen’s Green. Trotting along, a sweet smell of turf smoke pushing down from the roof top chimney pots on the terraced row of tall Georgian houses. Standing cheek by jowl like the giant faces of people who sit with big empty eyes staring. Pulling up in front of a big red brick building. The doorman opening the horsecab, assisting Mr Arland to alight. Two porters attentively collecting down our luggage. Mr Arland plonking two half crowns into the jarvey’s upturned hand. And turning to me as we mounted the step under the hotel’s glass awning.

  ‘Well Kildare, whatever amenities this city may possess most are, to use that favoured expression of Sexton’s, sine dubio to be found right in here.’

  There was welcoming warmth and bustle in the lobby of the hotel and faint smells of ladies’ perfume passing. And with some interest I regarded their legs. And with much interest their bottoms, especially those well delineated by snug tailoring. Mr Arland made reservations for dinner, while a boy much smaller than myself, hair slicked back and parted in the middle, carried my bags as the porter led me with his big key into the cage of the lift and up we went three floors. My room long and narrow. Thick crimson carpet on the floor. I could see out my window across the winter trees of the park and all the way to the far outskirts of the city. And beyond the faint outlines of the rising mountains. And there downward just below on the street, those tinker women to whom Mr Arland gave a coin, squatting on the wet pavement with the patched red and blue skin of their legs showing and babies held in their arms. And their toothless mouths begging.

  ‘Give us a couple of coppers mister, will you now, and may no burden after ever be too much for you.’

  Darcy Dancer holding aside the curtains from the window. The sky clearer, the clouds moving. Patches of blue purple and pink. Down there, a lake and a summer house. And big dark buildings the other side of the large square of Stephen’s Green. Small figures scurrying along the park’s black fence. Without friendly company. In this city. Where my father somewhere is. And where behind walls and under roofs, books and records are kept. Juries sit and cases are heard by big important judges. Mr Arland seemed so pleased when we passed his University. There behind its high wall and railings. I hear a seagull cry. This port where ships come up the river. And away in the world across the water there has been all sorts of war. My feet still chilled and hands cold. And as I always wished at the whim room window, like my mother did when February came. That soon it would go.

  And come

  Summer

  With your

  Swallows

  Swimming in

  The air

  10

  Stylishly wrapping a towel at my throat and after peering to see that no one was about to witness my rather tattered dressing gown, I hurried to bathe in the piping hot waters of a monstrous tub down at the end of the hall. The steamy slightly brown water came blazing out of the taps. Lying back in the liquid comfort, my red knob was soon sticking out of the water like a periscope. If Miss von B were here she would lunge with her mouth upon it and I think I might howl with rapture. As I did anyway when I pulled it Feeling warm once more.

  All spiffy and tingling just that little bit with moral evil, I went down in the iron cage of the lift. Watching the green uniformed attendant with his little lever lowering me from floor to floor. Thinking apropos of nothing at all that Nurse Ruby was forever pulling my sister Beatrice Blossom’s pigtails and making her cry. Just as she used to play with my penis and make me laugh. And Miss von B. She wanted to kiss me goodbye as we stood with the breeze blowing in the front hall. I kept leaning back quite naughtily out of her reach. And then, the moment Catherine retreated from delivering our sandwiches and Mr Arland had gone down the steps to mount the cart, she grabbed me. Said I was looking elegant. Her lips soft. Quite substantial tears came into her eyes. I was glad. Clearly it meant I would be missed.

  In the lobby, within the space of only a few minutes, I
saw three monocles being worn and shudderingly thought each time it was my father. I lurked by one of the pillars and watched into the great high ceilinged lounge. Crowded now with tweedy gentlemen looking like human branches of hawthorn. They sat, walked and loudly talked. The constant refrain, yes yes, quite quite. And when not discoursing on horses, they seemed to be speaking of snipe, fox, grouse, salmon or pheasant. And it appeared that they were, as Mr Arland suggested, hysterically pukka. And had hunting fishing and shooting appointment books instead of souls. And matters of cultural beauty could not possibly cross their outdoor minds. Except if it had wings. And then it would be promptly blasted from the sky.

  I followed Mr Arland through a small cosy sitting and writing room of flower covered deep soft sofas. Up stairs to a balcony and out into a hall and down stairs again and into another hall. Through curtained french doors we stepped into a blue large room, white splendid medallions on the walls. The colour seemed that of our faded blue north east parlour when on winter sunny mornings the sun flooded in our tinted window panes. A blonde lady with her undulating curves held voluptuously in a long blatantly orange gown, swept in. Her gently bouncing alabaster bosoms nakedly swelling forth and nearly popping out. Her nose repeatedly sniffing upwards and hooking a little as if she were smelling a fume drifting in over her left shoulder. She joins a red haired moustachioed gentleman at the bar who bows deeply, kissing her hand. A cigarette between her lips wagging up and down. Her voice reverberating.

  ‘Ronald, Ronald. You are so pleasantly flattering with your attentions. Especially when I feel I shall faint with the noise and the people. Buy me a drink quickly.’

  ‘For you madam, only a bottle of the house’s best champagne will do.’

  ‘O Ronald darling you are dear dear.’

  In here under the soft white marble mantel, a turf fire roared. The cold black bleak city shut out. Hiding all those poor and hungering, all those cold and lonely. And hunched backs carrying their tattered garments. The gentleman called Ronald dressed for dinner. His dark elegance and long ivory cigarette holder. As we sit at our glass topped table in our wicker chairs. In this warmth and safety. One other gentleman in the corner reading a book which, judging by his concentration, must be saucy indeed. The waiter retreating backwards out of our presence. To bring us sherry. Mr Arland with his one usual grey suit, sporting a tie I had not seen before.

  ‘What is that tie, Mr Arland.’

  ‘Trinity College. I wear it while in Dublin, Kildare. In some places it would get you excellent service, in others perhaps, you might get a kick in the pantaloon.’

  Following our first sherry and upon completion of half our second, the lady in the fiery gown was tippling back the last drops of her champagne. And then both Mr Arland and I faltered in our conversation. For it appeared that the shapely lady had pulled down that part of her dress which previously covered and now prominently exposed her left breast. Pressing it up with her hand, showing it to Ronald.

  ‘You see Ronald can’t you, where that wretched stallion bit me. I can’t help that I arouse horses. Look, one two three teeth marks, quite black and blue. Even geldings get into a frenzy when they sniff me.’

  Ronald then, quite deliberately slowly I thought, took a pair of spectacles from his inside pocket. Placing them half way down his nose. He leaned deeply over to make a lengthy inspection. All the while making suitable sympathetic noises through a large gap between his protruding front teeth.

  ‘Indeed quite so my dear, you were well and truly bitten. Clearly however, if I may say so, judging by the tooth marks, by a thoroughbred.’

  ‘Yes, a Derby winner, he just missed my nipple.’

  ‘Yes, he did. I rather noticed that.’

  Following more of Ronald’s scrutiny and a final appreciative pat, the breast was replaced under its coverings. The gentleman in the corner, no longer regarding his book, absolutely gaped with his mouth open wide enough for doves to fly in. And the waiter and bartender brought their eyes back down again from the ceiling. Mr Arland and I departed through the passage crossing the little sitting room once more.

  ‘That lady back there Kildare, acts also upon the Dublin stage. Where her performances are not nearly so good. And that chap Ronald, I’ll tell you more about later.’

  The dining room waiters in plenty scurried around us. For starters we had saumon fumé. I ordered steak, spinach and chips. And felt quite pleasantly inebriated taking a glassful of the Pommard Mr Arland ordered with his roast beef, as I, even with my rudimentary French, pointed out mistakes in the French menu. Mr Arland saying wistfully.

  ‘They mean well but it would be so much better and accurate if things were said in English.’

  ‘What if they were said in Irish, Mr Arland.’

  ‘The gentry would starve Kildare.’

  Great crimson drapes drawn closed across the windows. The faint sweet smells of cooking sprouts, cabbage and other green things. Sauces pouring from the sauce boats. Wines of sacred vintages cradled carefully across the carpets. Altogether the sort of setting of which Crooks would approve. The most distinguished looking of black tail coated waiters, giving their lofty orders down through a chain of command. Till it reached some little boy who had to run and do all the dirty work. And was stationed standing by some empty table adding polishing touches to the silverware and sneaking looks at the nearby guests. Or rushing back and forth following urgent hisses from under waiters to fetch this or that. As still other little boys went pageing by mournfully intoning people’s names.

  Throughout the meal I still had the uncomfortable feeling that my father was somewhere near. Half expecting him to suddenly turn round and be one of those tweedy thin gentlemen who kept pausing to look at the Fox Hunting fixtures posted on the wall in the hall. Mr Arland eating with gusto. Smiling at me, and shaking his head in agreement as I smiled back and chewed down another chunk I’d sliced off my slab of blood rare steak. Dublin suddenly most agreeable. Mr Arland happily putting his nose over the edge of his Pommard. But I could tell he was still distressed over Baptista Consuelo and he would apropos of nothing at all refer to the subject of fox hunting. Asking me of lady Masters of Foxhounds.

  ‘Sir they do frequently want to have that honour, especially as the one who leads the hunt gets no splatter. And a lady might then appear at the end of a day’s hunting just as splendidly fresh and radiant as she was at the beginning.’

  I was nearly on the verge of launching into the more scandalous aspects of hunting. Of how ladies with their blood up were constantly attempting to entice even the Master at the end of the day into some seemly copse and there dismounted to have lively congress with him upon the cold wet moss and grass. But I was so distracted with the arrival of my favourite pudding, trifle. And while Mr Arland was having cheese, port and a cigar, I with fork and spoon rapidly shovelled it with accompanying scads of thick cream, most deliciously between my lips. But soon as I was finished, Mr Arland, never one to waste time when he could be imparting knowledge, discoursed upon the Constitution of the United States. When suddenly who should leap up from a distant corner in the room smiling ear to ear. And waving as he came, cross over to our table. Barging quite unceremoniously between the other diners. One of whose elbows was knocked sending a fork into that part of his face where there was no mouth. And leaving I think four little bloody puncture holes. The Count Blandus MacBuzuranti O’Biottus pausing to somewhat hysterically commiserate and apologize. Until he finally reached us flushed and red faced but bubbling with excitement.

  ‘Hello, ah hello. How are my dear friends. How good to see you. And how are you, my former little victim. The very worst you were. Yes, the very worst little pupil that I have ever had the insanity to try to teach. Who now looks so grown up. Have you yet got the élan of the gazelle, my little darling. O I know I push by accident of course that poor man’s fork into his head. But his elbow it is too far stuck out. But surely you have come to attend my marvellous party I am giving this evening to celebrate the o
pening of my new school. But of course my dear friends you are coming.’

  Mr Arland and I sat there waiting till the Count was out of breath. Which was clearly not going to be tonight. As he shifted his weight from leg to leg, and continued to be heard by the entire dining room. Many of whom were whispering in somewhat awestruck tones that the Count had received thirty curtain calls when he last danced in Milan. I found the attention paid us quite pleasing. And even Mr Arland, not one to be showy or grand, was sitting just that little bit more upright. The Count’s blond handsome looks and white flashing teeth. And I could see at the table from whence he had come that there sat a dark haired woman of austere beauty.

  ‘O but I must go. But come. Of course you shall. And bring all your nice friends with you. And even those who may not be so nice.’

  The Count reeled off an address which he said was merely around the corner. And dancingly returning across the dining room he executed an attitude alongée on point followed by a grand jeté. Some of the more cultivated and easily amused diners politely clapped but most ducked. The Count bowing before he sat down at his table across from the dark beauty. Who reached out to pat her hand on his and smilingly formed her lips into a kiss. And they kissed. While we retired to the lounge for coffee. I told Mr Arland how the Count used to scream at us, ‘Let us have for god’s sake the perpendicularity, the natural elegance the ethereal lightness, the carriage of the body and arms, the motions graceful and easy.’ But Mr Arland seemed rather in a dither. And said, completely straying from the point in question, that the Count was not so entitled, and might merely be a papal count but that there was no doubt but he was related to some very splendid people indeed and could, if one stretched the point, be considered ennobled.

  ‘Of course, I can’t bring you to a party, Kildare. Not that sort of party.’