The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

by J. P. Donleavy

  Darcy Dancer at the top of the stairs. Rashers Ronald at the bottom smiling back up. As I hesitate. Looking down. In fear. Plunging into hell. After the most despicable incident of one’s life. Only thing worse than blackmail is not succeeding at it. But now my nobility of person tarnished. Ready for the devil. Feel like a lone chicken at Andromeda Park. After the fox had killed all the others. And the bird perched high up in the rafters of the barn. Waiting for death. As the fox waited sitting below. Till at last this feathered tidbit would fall in frozen terror down into its jaws. Just as I fall. In shallowness and deceit. Planning to perpetrate ignominious shenanigans. In the company of this fellow. So totally abbreviated in his code and conduct. Without scruples. Already claiming me as an accomplice. When I should demur. Depart.

  ‘Do please, my good chap. Proceed to join me. Indeed you must. As I am totally impecuniously unable to cater for myself. You’ll find the Buttery this time of day a most suitably charming place.’

  Darcy Dancer stepping down the thick carpeted steps. To go below ground into this late afternoon darkness. Where is she now. My Miss von B. In another man’s eyes. In his arms. Turn left into shadows full of tinkling glasses. Scents of perfumes. Voices murmuring. Through the shoulders and laughter. Follow Rashers. Right up to the bar.

  ‘Now. Dear me. My friend I must allow you to ask me what it is I am drinking. And from the bottom of my heart I do apologize for the seeming extravagance but I would so like to have my usual champagne. It has become a habit with me. The vitamin C it contains I believe creates a dependency. Or else it’s the vitamin D. In any event I failed at applied physiology. O god the sadness sometimes of one’s life. With only its very briefest sparks of joy. When one has had a big winner at the races.’

  Darcy Dancer ordering a bottle of champagne. Such a nice dry name, Heidsieck. From a bartendering chap who would appear to be momentarily suspicious of me. When I demanded it be put on my hotel bill. Until my suitably haughty demeanour put him at his ease. And he hefts up a two handled silver chalice with panels of gold wire filigree. Clanks in ice. And places the bottle to rest snugly in among the chill cubes. With Rashers lighting another borrowed cigarette in his holder.

  ‘Now my dear chap. You see. Although ice is utterly new to the country, the style of my own wine cooler is not. It is an enlarged replica of the Ardagh Chalice. Had it made by the best of silversmiths as soon as the invention of frigid water came to pass. Most precious thing I possess. Would not part with it for the world. Every time I have stood outside the pawn shop with it, its semi precious blue and red gems have shed silver gilt tears. I simply couldn’t do the mean thing. But I do rush on. Who on earth in Dublin are you anyway. Not that one doesn’t think you already such a splendid young chancer. Please. Don’t object. Just as you are about to do. To that word. Be instead proud of it. Now, my young fine feathered friend who are you.’

  ‘I’d really rather not say.’

  ‘Triumphant Absolutely triumphant. Precisely as you should. You have said. That you’d really rather not say. The nuance is perfect. One already senses the hint of your debrett entitlement, the rolling endless acres of grazing. The fox hunting. The polo. The bloodstock. The right people left and right.’

  ‘I think you are rather making over much of it. I merely said I’d rather not say who I am.’

  ‘Ah you are touchy my dear chap. But it is the way in which you said it. But then in our line of adventuring mountebankism it is best if one can use the old nom de guerre instead of the old nom de famille and thereby keep the old incognito intact. But between professionals dear chap there should be an exchange of confidences. Especially while the champagne is cooling. Now let me tell you the plans. We shall take our refreshment here till the noise and the people dictate otherwise hoping of course to avoid the doom of closing time. But a bash at which we shall attend should present itself long before that. Ah shall we now fill our glasses. Awaken our senses to this pale golden wine. There. Ah my god, what bliss. Now to my distant future plans. In my fortune hunting you especially will be pleased to hear that I have laid hold of a lady. Whose stout build I did not object to nor from whose full false upper and lower dentures did I cower. Owns the freeholds of three Dublin pubs. Two of them in squalid but good trading positions in North Dublin. She has another pub in the country. The profits from which purchased all the others. Together with her in wedlock we shall convert her eighty acres to a small stud farm. Of course I don’t want you to think for one second that I am an unfeeling person. I am not. I would worship the very expensive deep pile carpets the lady walked on. But as recently as this morning I was shirtily refused my daily ration of cigarettes from her tobacconist’s shop. Shows one churlishness is always but a breath away. And I hope you won’t mind dear chap getting me a mere pack of ten. That kind of thing would send one in pursuit of rich American divorcees. By god then you’d soon see some bloodstock in my ruddy paddocks. But my dear chap the secret is never be less than compassionate. How do. How are you. So desperately glad to see you.’

  Rashers greeting new arrivals. Appearing between our every sip of champagne. Faces one sees at the races. And in other pubs and in other lobbies. Streets like the halls of some vast country house. All just as Miss von B once said it was. Except they’ve not fought, washed off the blood, shook hands and fought again. And o my God. There just entered, I see through the waving heads. The Marquis in his tartans and the blonde tresses of Baptista Consuelo. Amid the crowd and din. Back slaps and laughter. Sit here. Swept away. Out to sea. On a raft of blossoming dreams with all these people. Their gaiety. And the self assurance of those who have won at the races. Drinks coming hard and fast. One wants so much to know. Where are you. Miss von B. And to ask. Where is Mr Arland. Where is his Clarissa.

  ‘But I think the time has come for you to say something, my good young chap. For a start, what shall I call you. I really must call you something.’

  ‘Macgillicudy.’

  ‘Ah. One could never ask for a name more portending in promise of great future fortune hunting than that. Let us drink to it. Macgillicudy. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘To both our fortunes. To white ties. To our swallow tail coats. To that girl in pink. Just over there. When I was a handsome undergraduate at that university down the street. In my rooms in New Square. I had every morning. Two young ladies call. And she, radiantly beautiful dear girl, from a family of rich fishmongers, was one. Both were members of the school of modern languages. The other girl was the daughter of an eminent surgeon. But one does sometimes prefer the successful mercantile class of Dublin society. Surgeons are such bullies when they get you on the operating table knocked out cold. Slashing you often in the most vulnerably wrong places, in a hurry to play golf. Of course I speak from wretched experience as a failed medical student. Doing my bit of stabbing as well. But my dear chap. These girls were vying to make me breakfast. While I disported bollocks naked in the altogether. One’s frozen testicles giving one’s penis the most marvellous pneumatic bounce as one went to close the shutters to passing prying eyes. Hungering over my rashers. The latter after which of course I am unfortunately named. And women are so marvellous. The way they will utterly tolerate jealousy to snare some poor bugger. June in Trinity week, on the day of the College Races, I rogered both in continuo. As one groaned the other rejoiced. We three, we loved each other. I shall remember that day till I die. Trinity Week Dance at the Gresham Hotel. Both of them. One on each of my arms. So staggeringly beautiful in their gowns. Days my dear chap. Days never to come again. The Lawn Tennis Championships in College Park. God. Too soon does ecstatic beauty and joy pass from one’s life. Too soon. And damn too soon without warning does sadness descend. To pinion in death the most utter beauty of all.’

  Tears welling in Rashers’ eyes. As he turns his head away. Lips quivering. The light of his smile faded. The world dark. Heads turn and talk. With hardly a murmur of love. Or whisper of compassion. Or a thought for those sorrowing or hungering. Ju
st horses. Bashes. Hunt balls. Last night’s larks. And champagne.

  ‘Forgive me my dear chap. That was most uncalled for. What I have just said. I do think I was attempting to impress you. One’s youthful moments of love. I suppose fills one some times with the most terrible longing. To go back. Back on those graceful college squares. But I don’t tell you these things to be a showoff. Rather be it known I am a man of compassion. I say it with all sincerity. Persistent pecuniary impoverishment has driven one to the precipice of the unprincipled. And I have jumped downwards. And one upon occasion has even landed among the gurrier element. Among whom I have, in too numerous an extremity, had to reside at the Iveagh House. That most practical but somewhat humbling premises over on Bride Street. Ah but let me introduce, my friend here.’

  A massive man. Lurching like a tottering tower. A pink cravat at his velvet collared throat. Brows frowning, eyes blinking to see in my direction. And attempting to fix somewhere on one’s face. As he bows.

  ‘This is Macgillicudy, Leo.’

  ‘I am charmed. Charmed to meet you sir. Have a drink.’

  ‘Of course Macgillicudy, Leo paints ladies’ portraits with every bit as much artistry as he does when he fucks them.’

  ‘I object Ronald to your mentioning my two professions as if one depended on the other. However, bartender replace that bottle in Ronald’s cooler if you please. With another of the same brand and vintage. And who is this. Behind me. You madam. Please. Don’t split your infinitives and leave your gerunds dangling so uncomfortably close.’

  A woman in black standing behind this giant man’s shoulders. Who pushes forward between the elbows. A black sequined purse clutched in her hand. Her mouth darkened with lip paint.

  ‘I shall not from you you big bear, take any of your semantic battering in this Buttery.’

  ‘Ah madam you are in every respect in the ablative absolute. And I beg your forgiveness.’

  Feel the champagne less and less as one consumes more and more. Wonder now in the heady delight, was there ever such a thing as loneliness, and despair. Up out on the street darkness overtaking the late afternoon. These voices bubbling. The laughter. Turn one’s ears in any direction. Hear of horses, hernias, holocaust, heroes, harlots, hashish and hell. An abyss widening all round. To jump across. Or be swallowed up. And one is swallowed. As more and more of these euphoric come. To whom I am introduced. As the son of a baronet. Then a baron. Till the present bottle of champagne emptied. And one was a viscount, up to town selling cattle. A moment ago I was an earl, up to town for a new scarlet coat. And now, Rashers Ronald has just conferred upon me the entitlement The Marquis of Delgany and Kilquade up to town for the racing. Said I was the highest ranking peer there. That Major Jones the Mental Marquis was merely titled in the French peerage. And this black engowned lady. Comes swaying close.

  ‘You darling. You absolurely gorgeous darling. What eyes. Absolurely magic. Absolurely medieval. Good lord. You’re a leprechaun. Out of what celtic ether have you come. I invite you right this very moment absolurely virginal as you are to later take me in your arms.’

  ‘Well thank you.’

  ‘Thank me. Don’t dare thank me like that. Even though I have said I shall go willingly I shall fight bitterly but helplessly. I’m to be taken. Conquered. Swept away.’

  ‘Well I am not quite, I mean I’m rather not, I should say.’

  ‘What indeed should you say. Have you something to say. Have you.’

  ‘No. I haven’t.’

  ‘Ah that is what I love. Silence. Still waters my dear boy run deep. With my body enclosed about your own. You darling absolurely gorgeous creature. Crush you to death like a woodland flower. Squeeze from you your nectar. Who bred you. What vibrant man stallion covered your mother. Stunning creature she must have been. Of course in mourning with my hair dyed black, one does look gloomy, wearing only black gems. Is that why you are wide eyed looking at me. Do you know who I am.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am one of four scandalous sisters. And better known as the Black Widow. Now only three of us are left. As Ireland’s most beautiful creatures we are totally wasted on this utter desert. What have we to choose from but boorish big handed farmers. All with their favourite hounds peeing round the baseboards of their bedrooms and sharing their fleas with their masters in bed. Wouldn’t you like to put your hand upon my breast. Press your lips to my throat. As I lay.’

  ‘Well,’

  ‘I mean figuratively my dear boy. Figuratively. Well. Would you.’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘Well bloody what.’

  ‘Well madam I just don’t know what to say to your overtures.’

  ‘Overtures. What overtures. I speak my dear boy. Of love. Indeed not Irish love steeped in the greed of money. I mean great love. Love that destroys dynasties. Love that sacrifices thrones.’

  ‘But could that not be lust you speak of madam.’

  ‘Do you have the nerve to stand there in this Buttery and use the word lust to me.’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘There you go again. You’re totally repetitive. Must I take out your tongue and teach it to speak. Must I.’

  ‘Why are you doing this to me madam.’

  ‘Doing to you. I’m not doing a damn thing to you.’

  ‘Well you are rather acting like a femme galante.’

  ‘Of course I am. Because you are the most darling gorgeous creature I’ve seen for days. Don’t you find me as attractive as I find you.’

  ‘Yes. But you are extremely forward too.’

  ‘Can a woman be any other way in a land of wife beaters and onanists. I say Ronald I shall have champagne.’

  ‘Of course you shall my darling. And you have I see haven’t you, met my most marvellous friend. His Lordship the Marquis of Delgany and Kilquade. Not that either of us give a damn about Debrett. But I saw him darling, perform the most excruciatingly delightful triumph above our heads, on the black and white lino tiles of this hotel’s lobby. Which has long been the altar upon which the most sacred of Irish society have been either worshipped or sacrificed. A treat.’

  Darcy Dancer hardly able to move. Crunched elbow to elbow. The lady Black Widow turning to other faces. Voices roaring. Eyes smarting in the smoke. Drinking one’s dreams. The present future rearing marvellously. And racing away out of one’s past. A green tweeded gentleman. Called the White Prince. His face as black as a lump of Welsh coal. Rashers’s wine cooler again and again refilled. Bottle after bottle. Making him look ever more benign. Leaning in towards my ear to confide.

  ‘Of course my dear chap, that’s the secret, one gets a first bottle and my Ardagh Chalice does the rest.’

  ‘But who are all these people.’

  ‘Ah. Marvellous question that. Marvellous. Your naïveté is stunning dear chap. Never lose it. In a nut shell. They are for the most part the multitude and many from the landless class. And then there are the singular and few of the landed class. The former mingling with and chancing their arms with the latter. He, with his ears sticking out, is a gas meter reader. Whom I dare say is in search of intellectual stimulus. Or more likely, free drink. That bousy looking chap who just poured his drink over his head is a housepainter from Crumlin. That more obnoxious bastard there is a wall plasterer from Dolphin’s Barn. Who propounds his sensitive nature as he curries favour among the bloodstock breeders from Meath and Kildare. But ah. There. That chap. He has just come in from the Stock Exchange. Over in Anglesea Street. Of course it’s only a ruddy room with a circle of chairs enclosing barely enough space to decently fart in. But dear me, nice work if you can get it.’

  ‘But why are they all here like this.’

  ‘Ah marvellous question that. Marvellous. But for your recent performance one would by your question think that you were only the most recently arrived of arrivistes. They want, my dear chap. Simply to get each other’s goat. However that chap. The stunted one, thin and all hunched up. Euphemistically one refers to him as the Royal Rat. He
wants your money first. Made his first roulette wheel out of an old car tyre. Since then the Royal Rat has in various dungeon basements, helped relieve chaps of their fivers. He actually pawned his dying mother’s bed. Chucked her on to an old pile of burlap to breathe her last. I thought it damn cruel. Sensible chaps like myself of course take a damn dim view of him having profitlessly to the spirit, encouraged as he does the frittering away of chaps’ inheritances in his dingy dank casino. But ah, dissipation. That’s what it’s all about. Hold death away by intemperance, unchastity and extravagance. Then death is welcomed. Those entering these Buttery precincts do so to squander their fortunes to the wind. Scattering fivers like autumn leaves. It’s too sad sometimes. To then see them slink off with their tails between their legs. That’s the marvellous thing about not having been left a bean. One does not spend. One only helps to spend.’

  A baggy grey suited chap. Cigarette dangling between his lips. Pushing himself forward to squeeze in behind Rashers’ back. His hand up to the side of his mouth as he whispers. And Rashers turns and roars.

  ‘You blatant cunt. And I hate using the word. But regrettably it is the only one which applies. Coming to whisper about the plight of the creative artist in my ear. Can one imagine anything more ghastly. In the Buttery. As if I gave one boring damn about your awful nonsense. Had a rhyme published in your local country village newspaper, have you. And now you bring your abysmal ignorance to Dublin. Expecting for your pathetic lyric scribbles to be patted on the back and be thrown free lamb chops from one’s dining table. Fuck off.’