The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

by J. P. Donleavy

  Darcy Dancer wandering back out again on the street and woeful through the afternoon. Turning right and left. Passing these broken windows. Gaping fanlights over the open doorways. Grimy tattered curtains hanging down inside. A three legged dog with one eye, hopping along the gutter. The blackened red haunting buildings. This tenement street. A line of people behind a small coffin held on shoulders. Women on a stoop. Their hands on the black twisted railings. The voice of one coming across the cold air.

  ‘Ah the little darling girl was only nine autumns old, her mother poor creature she’s never out of black with all the dying.’

  Ragged barefoot children lined along the kerbstones watching other children following the cortège neatly dressed. Take my feet away. Ghosts and ghosts are in there behind the panes. Secret within the walls of old red brick. Stalk through halls and up and down stairs they mumble. And they live. Cackling as they jump from the side of your eyes just when you think you see them. In this their city. All over here they roam. Their minds wear windows for eyes. The chimney tops are their ears. The slates their hair. Ghosts, ghosts watching. Watching as one moves by.

  Darcy Dancer walked to the big grey granite blocks along the Liffey quays. Back up past the bridge Mr Arland and I trundled over last night. And all along that route, past Trinity College and its tall strong railings and along to my father’s club and past the little animal carvings on its stonework that I used to watch as a tiny boy. And even some long time ago Mr Arland in one of his rare heart to hearts said it would be useful for you Kildare, in order that you should know what to avoid, to acquire a knowledge of the worldly vices, of women, gambling, drinking and smoking. And now. A lover. And where is love. Disappeared like hoots of an owl. Means something for other people. And nothing for me.

  The sky a darker greyer blue up this street to the Shelbourne. Just past tea time. The lobby flourishing inside with afternoon people. Gay and noisy. Turn right into the high ceilinged smoky lounge. The clink of cups. The din of chatter. The tall coated majestic waiters, trays aloft in their hands. As I look over the heads of people. To see for Mr Arland. Not in the middle. Nor there in those big sofas by the windows. Not in either corner. O my God if he’s not here. Or doesn’t come soon. Or never comes. That would be just doom.

  Darcy Dancer, a frowning face turning away. Till suddenly right at one’s immediate side. A tugging. And laughter. Of a girl. To look and there nearly beneath my elbow, the blonde head and not that much further down the white alabaster bosoms of the actress. As these two temptations swell out of her pink low cut dress. And Mr Arland’s fingers let go of my coat.

  ‘Kildare, you’re awfully blind.’

  ‘My goodness, I didn’t see you. I was looking back there.’

  ‘And of course, we are here. Come sit. Have tea. And Clarissa, may I present to you Reginald Kildare, whose more intimate friends refer to him as Darcy Dancer.’

  ‘And I hope I can too, Darcy Dancer.’

  ‘Kildare, this is Clarissa.’

  ‘How do you do.’

  ‘Well for a start I’m on my third cup of tea with your tutor. Who has so kindly invited me to partake of. And I hear so much about you. That you’re very clever. Lazy at Latin. But a brilliant and brave horseman. And you’re going to be quite important some day. Not that you are not already but you know what I mean.’

  ‘I think, ma’am, Mr Arland is somewhat biased in my favour.’

  ‘Now Kildare what alternative have I but to be biased in your favour when you work so little and I teach you so hard. And now what would you like in the way of sandwiches. How about a smoked salmon, eh.’

  ‘That would be very nice, thank you.’

  ‘And I being the lady present, Clarissa will pour you tea. And then I shall of course only be too delighted to ladle you salmon or cakes, or to comfortingly hold either of your hands. Or indeed mop your brow should it urgently be required and I had the necessary mop.’

  The skin so soft on her long white magic fingers of this actress. The blue of a gem stone sparkling on her knuckle. Never before in my entire knowledge have I ever heard Mr Arland utter the word eh. Something has distinctly changed. Even his crossed leg has his foot gigging somewhat up and down. A movement he told me no gentleman ever makes. Since it might be deemed he had just nervously peed in his pants. And Mr Arland’s shirt changed from the one he wore this morning. Even his tie would give an appearance that its wearer might be at the race track. His hair brushed shining back along his temples. Shoe tips just this side of gleaming. And not a single speck of darkness under a fingernail. And his shoulder is but a hair’s breadth away from Clarissa. And as she leans forward to pour, her bosoms make me gulp.

  ‘And Darcy Dancer, you don’t mind do you, if I call you that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I shall ask you Darcy Dancer, how would you like your tea, weak or strong.’

  ‘Weak please, thank you.’

  ‘Ah sensibilities. The certain sign of sensibilities. Weak tea. I have mine strong. But then I have no sensibilities. All I am is too noisy, too loud, and in the politest of places I show too much flesh. Isn’t it awful. And everyone is afraid of knowing me. Isn’t that true Mr Arland. I like calling you Mr Arland. It does something to make our tea together more serious and profound. Not something silly and nonsensical. Here you are Darcy Dancer. Do you take milk.’

  ‘A little please.’

  ‘And of course, as always after awful wars, there’s a shortage of sugar.’

  ‘I don’t take any thank you.’

  ‘Ah another sign. Of a young man intent upon grave but noble destinies. Maybe even guiding big nations. O dear but they’re all such a bore really, big nations. The horrid despicable things they do to the little nations. But then I was never any good at politics. They say don’t they, leave politics to men and leave famous men to beautiful women. And of course the women will do worse things to the men than nations do to nations. Or do they say that. Or is it that I’m just saying it. God I think I will say anything. Even though I am most respectably from Rathgar. And poor Mr Arland, Darcy, he’s just been so absolutely good and patient tolerating me. He is as I’m sure you already know, a treasure. Yes that’s exactly what he is. A real true treasure. And I adore him.’

  The blood coming to Mr Arland’s cheeks. His eyes blinking and his lower lip moving back and forth over his upper. All the silvery greys in the blonde blonde of Clarissa’s hair. Her melodious voice, a tiny girl’s, full of sap and juice. And like my mother’s, the pure white white skin of her face. Un-wrinkled even when she frowns and smiles. Eyes of greeny grey flecked with brown, dancing and darting as she speaks. And we had tea all the way till nearly six o’clock. I had four cups, two big buttery pieces of toast coated with bramble jam and three cream cakes. People now in the lounge taking their sherry and whiskey. Talk of shooting and hunting fixtures. And I nearly forgot all my woe and what my father said. With Clarissa leaning forward, bosoms aflow to put her hand gently on my knee. And as she did whenever she laughed really hard, putting back her head and then all of her cascading forward. Then a moment later her other hand would move over a fraction of the inch of faded flowered pillow of the couch and grasp Mr Arland’s. And I thought, that at least upon this day, when so many ill moments pursued me from last night. That not all was bleak and miserable. I told Mr Arland my father would be pleased to see him as soon as possible. And at least by six o’clock. Which sent Mr Arland jumping to his feet.

  ‘Then good gracious Kildare, you should have told me, it’s nearly that time now.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir. I have I’m afraid been just rather happily daydreaming here.’

  ‘Darcy Dancer, what a nice thing to say. That I set you with all my silly chatter to daydreaming.’

  ‘O no ma’am, you are a most interesting person. I mean only that you really set me to pleasantly thinking.’

  ‘Ah that is more flattering.’

  Mr Arland brushing away his crumbs. As I rose to say I would rep
air now to my room. And I requested permission of Mr Arland to attend the cinema. The one which we passed in the narrow street up to St Stephen’s Green. Where a film of the wild wild west was playing.

  ‘Of course you may, Kildare.’

  When I bowed, Clarissa offered up her hand. And as much as I wanted to sink my kisses upon her flesh and go osculating up her arm, I merely brushed her metacarples lightly with my lips. And turned back to look as I left. To see Mr Arland standing over her and I could tell she was shaking her head yes to him. I rose upwards in the lift with an awful feeling. That I might not ever see Mr Arland again. Stood looking out my window. And prayed. That Mr Arland would not be disappointed in love. That this actress would not now ever again take out her breast in a public place. For that would, more than anything, certainly mortify Mr Arland. Who tried all these months to gain the notice of Baptista Consuelo. And got nothing but a look down her nose at him. As she sat so high and haughty on her horse. And I hear. Even now and so far away. Westwards. Over the bog lands. And further out across the gently rolling winter bare hills. The huntsman speaking to hounds. Horizons all around us. The huntsman shouting. Find him. Cheering the pack forward. Down on hillsides. Nostrils steaming, hooves thumping and thundering. Charlie is the fox. Puss is the hare. Try up old fellows try. Cool moist winds on the face. The warmth of horse between your thighs. The horn’s slow mournful wail of the covert drawing blank. Has Mr Arland found a vixen. Be killed instead of killing. Or a goddess ungodly come to him. To give life to his life. To go on living. Never have death. Through the tears in my eyes. My mother. Ankles so slender. Gold pin closing the silks around her throat. The still still way she lay. So dead. To leave woe.

  And her

  Blood bleeding

  Red

  When

  The sky was

  Blazing blue

  13

  Mr Arland knocking early on my door in the morning. And saying neither sad nor glad that he would await me in the lobby. And that we must hurry. I quickly brushed my hair in order to warm up my brain and found a long grey strand. Clearly turned that way from all my recent cares. It was all twisted and I plucked it out.

  The lobby this morning full of traffic. Of business men arriving and country squires departing. Mr Arland being very businesslike checking through our hotel bill. Wouldn’t tell me how much it was as I tried to look but said it was substantial. We called at gentlemen’s outfitters the top of Grafton Street. Where Mr Arland said he obtained his silk Trinity ties. And where a most agreeable shop assistant officiated over my purchase of shirts socks and underwear. And we stepped back out on the street.

  ‘And what did my father say to you.’

  ‘Kildare, it would do no good to tell you.’

  ‘You are no longer my tutor.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘What will you do.’

  ‘Find a teaching post I suppose.’

  ‘Will you like that.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Isn’t there something else you could do.’

  ‘Yes. But I probably won’t.’

  ‘Why.’

  ‘O I don’t know. There’s much to recommend merely remaining a stick in the mud.’

  ‘Sir, this is one of the saddest days in my life.’

  ‘Come Kildare, buck up.’

  ‘I can’t sir jump up and down in joy and be jolly.’

  ‘I know you can’t Kildare. I know you can’t.’

  We were passing the cinema where last night I saw the cowboy film with everyone being shot off horses and gentlemen in saloons downing whiskeys while pulling out their guns and between the briefest of insults blasting each other to death. Well pardner if you don’t reckon to get yourn head shot clean off you’d all better vamoose. Any normal person would be exhausted losing their tempers so often on the brink of death. And most of the film was quite utterly silly. But they were amazing good horsemen. And following some amusing cartoons and at the end of a travelogue concerning a trip to Mexico I went by myself to have supper. In the cinema’s cosy café upstairs. Upholstered seats and little lamps on the tables. Five different teas you could order on the menu. Among which were The Tasty, The Savoury and The Epicure. All consisting of tea, bread and butter but with the variation of eggs boiled, fried or poached and with either tomato, sausage or bacon. The girl who served me had a big freckled cheeked country face and spied from behind a cupboard watching me eat. To rush out smiling the instant I finished anything on my plate, asking would I be wanting more. Before I could say no, with my mouth still full, she said sure you’ll have another helping. Rushing away and returning with more sausage, tomato, poached egg, tea, bread, jam and butter. Out of politeness for her hospitality I kept on eating as best as I spiritually could. Till I was physically gorged groaning. But I knew she knew I was from the country, and out of that comradeship she was only trying to give me the best of service and hospitality. As well as clearly depriving her employers of a profit.

  Ten thirty by the blue dial of Trinity’s clock. As we crossed this wide street and went by the big grey bank. The clanging roaring trams. The street aswarm with bicycles. Big rumbling horse carts stacked with barrels. Replenishing Mr Arland said, the empty cellars of the pubs following the weekend. And getting ready for Monday night which would leave them even emptier. The pavements astir with expressionless faces on their way. A blond young man on the bridge holding out a tin cup and stoically turning the handle of a street organ. Who had also stood there as a young boy through Mr Arland’s undergraduate years. Past an ice cream parlour of cold faces seated inside the windows. And further on under the gloomy granite portico of the post office. Where we turned down a street called Henry. To buy me a suitcase and two blue blankets. And with all my new supplies packed in, we took a train.

  In the empty chill first class carriage, Mr Arland spoke of Clarissa’s friend Rashers Ronald who, aided and abetted by the actress, was in feverish hot racing pursuit to marry a very fat, dyed blonde lady widow who owned four pubs, an eighty acre farm, two newsagents and a tobacconist’s shop. From the latter of which Rashers was already collecting a daily ration of twenty free cigarettes of a brand nicely named Mr Arland said Passing Clouds.

  In a drizzling rain, six stations down the track, a motor car met us. To take us further cross country several miles from this town and up a winding drive to a big stone country house. From which as we mounted its wide bleak steps, I swore instantly to run away. Mr Arland I thought had moisture in his eyes as he shook my hand in this large barren cold front hall. He said he’d just been to put in a good word with a master he knew. And I felt a shuddering in my breast and globules in my own eyes hearing the motor car door shut, the engine rev and the wheels move away over the pebbles. Two small boys carrying my bags took me back through a long passage and up stone winding stairs into a long dormitory. The day now darkening out the windows. Parklands and fields. A lake. Over which I could see the distant slow progress of swans flying. And as I stood, my bags stacked next to a mattress doubled back on the bed another larger boy my size came up to me.

  ‘You are in our form. I’ve come to present the compliments of Supreme number one. What’s your name.’

  ‘Kildare.’

  ‘And your christian name.’

  ‘Reginald.’

  ‘Reggie.’

  ‘I’m afraid I do not want to be called that.’

  ‘Alright then. Kildare. Well Kildare, you look a good sort. Who would you like to challenge for supremacy. There are those ranking from one down to twenty seven.’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Well then you shall be everyone’s slave.’

  ‘I shall not be anyone’s slave.’

  ‘O well we shall see about that. Unless you challenge for supremacy you are at the bottom of the ladder. Where have you been before this.’

  ‘That is my business.’

  ‘You are, aren’t you, a rather cheeky fellow. Especially coming brand new here. I am second in
supreme here. That is how we rank each other. With a number. First second and so on. There’s a mediocre chap Jones from Wales. You could I think just pop him one straight in the kisser and you would then be fourth in supreme.’

  ‘I would like nothing better than to be nothing in supreme here.’

  ‘O it is like that is it. Come come now. You are being a most tedious fellow you know. I think you may be nervous in your new surroundings. Are you anyone who matters.’

  ‘What do you mean by that.’

  ‘O I mean does your father have a title or own estates. The usual sort of thing. It helps you know if you are of the right sort. Are you the right sort.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent.’

  ‘Ah you are of the most brazen sort. Dear me. Don’t be impertinent. You know that is a misdemeanour to speak to me like that. You’re not a potato digger are you. Or a boggie. Or a shopkeeper’s son.’

  ‘I said don’t be impertinent.’

  ‘And what Reggie are you going to do about it if I am.’

  ‘I shall sock your jaw off in quick fashion.’

  ‘Ah you challenge me to supremacy.’

  ‘I challenge you to nothing. I will merely do as I have just said if you continue along with your stupid little childish game.’

  ‘Well let me warn you. I am the sixth best fighter in this whole school. But you are a spunky. My name is Purejoy. And of course as you prefer I shall call you Kildare. But Kildare if you want my honest opinion, I think you are very much a type usually referred to as a curmudgeonly fellow. If you are scholarly enough to be familiar with the word. And perhaps should be left to your own sad devices. And miss out completely on all the goodies that the influential top members of this school are in the habit of enjoying. Including, of course, having your own private personal room and slave. O well maybe you’ve been sent down from another school for being similar to how you are now. But if you have any brains at all, you will change your tune.’