‘Well it’s not that I would want to be spiteful. But when hasn’t a man concerned with dignified manners not been enforced upon occasion to employ instant justice when some of your niceties had to become scarce.’
Macfugger from his elegant regalia putting forth his hand upon introduction. As Macdurex takes it sheepishly and nods his head. Clementine shifting slowly away as their conversation blossomed concerning the proper manner in which to take a fortified height held in strength with mortars and bren guns.
The evening developing nicely. The victuals being swept off the plates, lobster, oysters, shrimps, jugged hare and roast pigeon. Imelda, Oscar and Percival ferrying the delicate meat pastes, goodies and salmon delights. Stand here as everyone beams at me. Bravely smile back. Even Elmer who gulped down the one and only pheasant tries to lick my face. A fright he gave me this morning as I bent disrobed over my wash bowl slapping up the lathers. And he put in from behind a bumping cold nose investigating against my testiculars. And I thought it was a mamba.
‘Sir sir.’
‘What is it Percival.’
‘We’ve run out of candles. Not to mention the curry, fruit, shortbread and anchovy. The wicks are going out one by one. Hear the hounds. The hunt will be here any minute. With us plunging into blackness by the second. And there be a lot of people around tonight that might do in the dark what they wouldn’t do in the light.’
A roar out in the hall. A gasp of ladies and the gathering parting. A man, a potato sack over his head, two holes cut for a pair of wild eyes, comes charging in with a hedge hook in his hand. Scattering guests in the last flickers of light. The high pitched screams and low growling shouts arising.
‘The roulette’s a fraud.’
‘Down with frugality.’
‘Give the woman in the bed a plutocrat.’
‘By God I’ll puncture your aqueous humour.’
‘Who did that.’
‘Stop thief my udometer’s been stolen.’
‘Take your hand out of my mouth.’
‘God sir, listen to them. This is it. That’s Padrick in the sack. That fearsome scourge of the countryside would drive a team of horses over you laughing while he made a juice of your guts. And by God hasn’t he got his sheep and lambs with him. Listen to the bleating. Hear them out there roaring down the halls. We’re already destroyed this night and it will be worse if the hounds get in the castle. Where are you your majesty. I’ve lost me monocle.’
The crack of Macfugger’s whip. Four revolver shots. And I am distantly here cowering between a pair of finely carved post medieval gilt wood console tables. The commandant shouting. All troops rendezvous. In the flickering firelight the beastly bombast continues. The band playing on. Grab this bottle of champagne out of this poor momentarily stunned guest’s hand. As his mouth drops further open and speaks to the priest next to him.
‘Forgive them father for they know not what they do.’
‘I’ve been forgiving them all night and it’s time now I had a rest if you don’t mind.’
Clementine putting the bottle to his lips. Draining the foaming grape liquid. Just as one last candle reawakened on a chandelier and finally flickered out. Time to head for the routes of escape. Whoops. Back down. Something whistling overhead. And smashing. O my god I can tell by the impact. That the showering pieces are Meissen. Scattering everywhere in the bitterness unbelievable. The silhouette of the Baron. Standing in the doorway.
‘Someone hast peed upon die turntable of der gramophone. In die middle of der fifth symphony. Vere is he. I will kill him.’
A collapse of floor boards. Thinning shadows along the east wall. Enough writs will be pouring in to keep the fires raging in the grates. Bloodmourn. The unmistakable flat backed shadow of his head. A bottle upended over his mouth. Looks so at home in his court attire. Could have begun a kingdom. Swarming with serfs. What’s this. Nudging fat lump of wool. A lamb. Thinking I’m its mother. Giving me a case of the shudders. When only looking for udders. As the voices in the wilderness roar.
‘You adventist. I’ll fix you. Or I’m not Lead Kindly Light of the Partial Previous Paroxysm for nothing.’
‘Take your filthy hands off my solicitor.’
‘It’s your wife I’m after.’
‘Give us your truffles and we’ll give you a taste of our fucking bad evil.’
A tiny man arms outstretched standing on a chair. Pleading out over the milling heads. With a voice of moderation in the cataclysm.
‘Will the misfits among you speak up and be conducted to safety. Those with religious training please assist survivors. Let the children out. I beg of you.’
‘If you’ll take his colossus why not try my proboscis as well.’
‘Up the republic.’
The little lamb between Clementine’s knees bleating for its mother. Who will be somewhere butting among the guests. As the hounds bay and hooves clatter down in the forecourt. Peaceful it was back in that hospital bed slowly dying. Waiting till the sheets were pulled up over my face. Just before lunch I would have been quietly rolled away. Slid into the refrigerator. Cold and still. With all the others. Stacked up and beaten. To whisper in the gates of heaven. I’m here. And thank you for having me.
Clementine suddenly crownless cowering further in under the table. Only moments ago on the verge of the best of health. The carnage at least is much as usual. Vituperative visitors up to their elbows in misunderstanding and distress. People adore not paying for the damage that’s done. Trampling sauce boats and graceful tureens. Kicking a portable silver egg boiler to pieces. Making sure none of us capture a moment of pastoral peace. Like the kind you find in the front halls of embassies. Where I dreamt I wandered last night. Desperate for decorum. Among the sweet breathed staff in their gleaming shirtsleeves and glazed smooth brown eyes. Two had blue. Oozing ease and relaxation As they sat in their spotless cubicles. The right angles of grey. Cool stiffness everywhere. White printed forms between their pink long fingers. I came to ask them please. Would you endow my castle for posterity. And they said. Now sir. Just gaze here on the small print and questions. Did you wear white socks from your last abode to your most recent destination. And have you in the last five years been a mother fucker, cocksucker or any variation thereof. Please fill in and sign. We like to have a friendly record. In case you get murdered out there in the lonely countryside. Folk will want to know if you were solvent before you died. And that your tightfisted grand aunt was your next of kin. The embassy so calm. With the same kind of cunts who nudged me to my doom back at the office. And now I see them all grinning behind their glasses to make me raise my right hand and say. I do solemnly swear I deserve what the whole goddamn bunch of you are trying to do to me.
With a gilt crest emblazoned sauce boat on the head, Clementine crawling past a rosewood couch where someone was getting theirs. One underneath and one on top. Just take a peek. To see who’s gasping and kicking in the air. Whoops. It’s Gloria. Gladly supple and supine, death mask and all. Covered by the tweedy dark complexioned gentleman. Haying his fill at her oasis. Get past that sorrow. Of poor Erconwald. Just a few more feet to the double door. Out of this hostile hootenanny. Where a grateful voice asks.
‘What pale hand touches me with tenderness.’
‘It’s fucking well not mine I can tell you.’
North along the corridor. Elmer charging after the thundering hooves of sheep and lambs. As I step back out of the stampede. Into the narrow entrance and down the spiral stone stairs. Stop here against the cold wall to catch my breath. How will I ever recline. Saved in bath waters laced with scent. Unleashing wisdoms to soothe the mind. To make peace now to have ass later. Charlene where are you. Pink and mild of tit. Two flowers alive. Waving on your bosom. Nestle up against your skin. Before any more glooms gather. Or members of the hunt with hounds come crashing through. And cries of I’ve been goosed rise. Or the motto of my forbears is sounded for the last time.
Be
Without bitternes
s
Be
Without gall
And you’ll
Be
Completely
Without
Fuck all
22
A barren dawn. After the ball. Reared up strange. Creeping east. Across the wild dark heathers. A pale purple light rising. Warming Macfugger’s pastures beyond the mountains. And turning pink the chill mist over the sea.
Charlene lay down deep under the mountain of covers behind the bed tapestries drawn. A tiny naked friend. Into whom as she lay sobbing I pushed my pole. And planted a seed. With my handy gardening tool.
Last night Commander Macdurex crushed a message in my fist. Not to be read till morning. And on the stained crumpled sheet a poem.
Deep down
In that derry
The ball last night
Was merry
The dance
They did
Was for
Two legs
Because the third
Was sticking out
A mile
For balance
In a hushed household this morning Percival made breakfast. Stood at the bed pouring my coffee and said there was no sign of Charlene. And that the ballroom had the greatest collection of nervous wrecks around which a civilized man ever had to manoeuvre. Only for the exits being guarded by the insurgents one bunch would have got away with a valuable piece of statuary. But the commandant stepped in and said the artistic fitting would be a handy feature for state banquets in the new regime.
Touches of dark green now on the hillsides. That rise up brown and purple in the evening. After a long day lying delectably abed. To get up now and dress. Go collect my gladstone bag due to arrive on the train.
Clementine in long leather great coat walking alone with Elmer. Up the stony winding road. Pheasants chattering somewhere beyond the fuchsia in the briars and laurels. Seagulls back there in the turrets looming of Charnel Castle. From which last night the banker Mr Oboe and his wife fled. As the hunt on horseback went pounding in. Watched at the gates by the shy farmers laughing behind their big hands. Macfugger challenged to a duel a man accusing him that his name was originally Macfuggerborn. And Nails with his bull whip wrapped a lash around the poor chap’s ankles and upended him on his arse, saying it was true but no one was going to suggest thereby that he was a born fugger. Then he took a flying leap to the roof of his state coach. And with whip snapping and reins shivering thundered off four horsed down the road shouting.
‘Where’s my unfaithful wife I want to fuck her.’
At these crossroads. Great grey clouds pass. Leave a sky lonely dark and blue. The same ancient cold chill in my feet. Elmer sniffing and spreading his legs lady like to pee. Found Erconwald last night seated in a corner darkness of the library. Hands folded in his lap. In the light of the glowing turf embers his face awet with tears. The Baron and Bloodmourn nearby across the chess table with a Jeroboam of port. On the verge of checkmate. The veins standing out blue and throbbing from Bloodmourn’s temples. And as I crossed the great hall in the dawn I saw Franz fixing a new sign to the mine shaft door.
CLOSED FOR REPAIRS
The last light of sun. Sinking at the edge of the sea. Hear the whistle of the train. Puffing and passing over what must now be mamba meadows. Give Clarence something to hop from behind the boulders.
‘Good evening.’
The antiquarian standing smiling. As Clementine spins around. Elmer wagging his long grey tail. This man’s ash plant tapping the toe of his shoe sticking out from the same bespattered spats. His brown fedora rim low over his eyes. Collar up at his throat. As I squeak out a greeting. Surprised once again from the rear.
‘Good evening.’
‘I see you and your fine big dog are waiting for the train.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well I won’t disturb your peace while you do anything as important as that. But I’m glad hear tell you’ve settled nicely in the castle. It’s a comfort knowing there’s someone out there beyond keeping the loneliness at bay. God bless you this night.’
‘Thank you.’
The train chugging to a stop. A salute from the driver giving me an urgent message to be delivered to Dr Franz Pickle. And Micko off the goods van greeting one warmly and handing down my bag. Together with parcels of coffee beans, barmbracks and crystallized ginger for the castle.
The train click clacking down the track. A fading echoing hoot. The arrival of unpaid for goods cheers the heart. Give me energy to go on thinking how to afford it all. And now with burdens ashoulder. Walk this pebbly road. Where a curlew flies up from the land. Its long sad whistle could be a call to another hooley starting in the castle. Awakening bodies hungry for entwinements. Don’t you dare slip me your peninsula. Not while I’m panting anyway.
Walk now over this little bridge. Where the brook tumbles under. And grey speckled trout speed for cover. Franz’s mother may have died. Or he’s found gold in the castle. The road here starts up. Between the trees of the demesne. Out there far away the rest of the world has gone modern. With whole new jumping generations. And holy hell is the only thing we have up to date here. To make the stars bark. When the west’s awake. Over the cliffs and roaring sea. Where the moon hides and weeps at night.
And
The weary
Wind
Bewilders
Me
About the Author
J. P. Donleavy was born in New York City in 1926 and educated there and at Trinity College, Dublin. In addition to The Onion Eaters his works include The Ginger Man, A Singular Man, The Saddest Summer of Samuel S and The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B (1968); a book of short pieces, Meet My Maker The Mad Molecule and four plays, The Ginger Man, Fairy Tales of New York, A Singular Man and The Saddest Summer of Samuel S. All these have been published in Penguins as has A Fairy Tale of New York. His latest books are The Unexpurgated Code (1975) and The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman (1978).
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher.
First published 2012 by
The Lilliput Press
62–63 Sitric Road,
Arbour Hill
Dublin 7, Ireland
www.lilliputpress.ie
Copyright © J.P. Donleavy, 2012
ISBN eBook 978 18 435 12769
A CIP record for this title is available from The British Library.
The Lilliput Press receives financial assistance from
An Chomhairle Ealaion / The Arts Council of Ireland
J. P. Donleavy
THE PLAYS
THE GINGER MAN
Presented at the Fortune Theatre, London, in 1959. Presented at The Orpheum Theatre, New York, in 1963.
FAIRY TALES OF NEW YORK
Presented at the Pembroke Theatre, Croydon, England, in December 1960 and then transferred to the Comedy Theatre, London, in January 1961. Winner of the Evening Standard ‘Most Promising Playwright of the Year’ Award in 1960.
A SINGULAR MAN
Presented at the Cambridge Arts Theatre, Cambridge, England, in October 1964 and at the Comedy Theatre, London, later that month.
and
THE SADDEST SUMMER OF SAMUEL S
J. P. Donleavy
THE GINGER MAN
‘In the person of The Ginger Man, Sebastian Dangerfield, Donleavy created one of the most outrageous scoundrels in contemporary fiction, a whoring, boozing young wastrel who sponges off his friends and beats his wife and girl friends. Donleavy then turns the moral universe on its head by making the reader love Dangerfield for his killer instinct, flamboyant charm, wit, flashing generosity – and above all for his wild, fierce, two-handed grab for every precious second of life’ – Time Magazine
‘No one who encounters him will forget Sebastian Dangerfield’– New York Herald Tribune
THE DESTINIES OF
DARCY DANCER,
GENTLEMAN
His future is disastrous, his present indecent, his past divine. He is Darcy Dancer, scion of the gentry, youthful squire of Andromeda Park and rider of horses and housekeepers to hounds and to bed. His adventures as a vagabond across country and in bohemian Dublin in search of the lost glories to which he was born are ferociously comic, and hilariously sad.
And what else did you expect from the great Donleavy? This is one of his finest novels, brim-full of zest and life.
J. P. Donleavy
THE BEASTLY BEATITUDES OF BALTHAZAR B
Balthazar B is the world’s last shy elegant young man. Born to riches in Paris and raised in lonely splendour, his life spreads to prep school in England. There he is befriended by the world’s most beatific sinner, the noble little Beefy. And in holidays spent in Paris Balthazar B falls upon love and sorrow with his beautiful governess Miss Hortense, to lose her and live out lonely London years, waking finally to the green sunshine of Ireland and Trinity College. Here, reunited with Beefy, he is swept away to the high and low life of Dublin until their university careers are brought to an inglorious end. They return to London, there to take their tricky steps into marriage, Beefy in search of riches, Balthazar in search of love.
‘Donleavy at his best, eloquent, roguish and at last at one with his world and the terrible sadness it contains’ – Newsweek
THE SADDEST SUMMER OF SAMUEL S
‘It can’t be, you’re not, are you?’
‘Not what.’
‘Samuel S.’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘You are. Gee, I mean I’ve never seen a picture of you, but somehow I wouldn’t miss you anywhere. You know a friend of my uncle who’s a professor at NYU, he knows you. He said you were one of the points of interest in Europe.’