A Little Cloud
Eight years before
he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him God-speed. Gallaher
had got on. You could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut
tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few fellows had talents like his, and fewer
still could remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right
place and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.
Little Chandler's
thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of
Gallaher's invitation, and of the great city London where Gallaher lived. He
was called Little Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the
average stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man. His hands were
white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners
were refined. He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache,
and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails
were perfect, and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish
white teeth.
As he sat at his
desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes those eight years had brought.
The friend whom he had known under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a
brilliant figure on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome writing
to gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the
grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy
nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all
the moving figures - on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths
and on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and
thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became
sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to
struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had
bequeathed to him.
He remembered the
books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor
days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had
been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his
wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on
their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.
When his hour had
struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks
punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King's Inns, a neat
modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was
waning and the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the
street. They stood or ran in the roadway, or crawled up the steps before the
gaping doors, or squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave
them no thought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like
life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the old
nobility of Dublin had roistered. No memory of the past touched him, for his
mind was full of a present joy.
He had never been
in Corless's, but he knew the value of the name. He knew that people went there
after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the
waiters there spoke French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen
cabs drawn up before the door and richly-dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers,
alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces
were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like
alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head to look. It
was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day, and whenever he found
himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and
excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the
darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence
that was spread about his footsteps troubled him; the wandering, silent figures
troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble
like a leaf.
He turned to the
right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press! Who would
have thought it possible eight years before? Still, now that he reviewed the past,
Little Chandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend.
People used to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with
a rakish set of fellows at that time; drank freely and borrowed money on all
sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money
transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody denied
him talent. There was always a certain... something in Ignatius Gallaher that
impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out at elbows and at his
wits' end for money he kept up a bold face. Little Chandler remembered (and the
remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek) one of Ignatius
Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight corner:
`Half-time now,
boys,' he used to say light-heartedly. `Where's my considering cap?'
That was Ignatius
Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but admire him for it.
Little Chandler
quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he felt himself superior to
the people he passed. For the first time his soul revolted against the dull
inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to
succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed
Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the
poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together
along the river-banks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by
the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night to bid them
arise, shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem
to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some London
paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure what idea he
wished to express, but the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took
life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely.
Every step brought
him nearer to London, farther from his own sober inartistic life. A light began
to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old - thirty-two. His
temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity. There were so
many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He
felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's
soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it
was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple
joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would
listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd,
but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics,
perhaps, would recognize him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the
melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions. He began
to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. `Mr
Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse'... `A wistful sadness
pervades these poems'... `The Celtic note'. It was a pity his name was not more
Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother's name before
the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler; or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He
would speak to Gallaher about it.
He pursued his
reverie so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back. As he came
near Corless's his former agitation began to overmaster him and he halted
before the door in indecision. Finally he opened the door and entered.
The light and noise
of the bar held him at the doorway for a few moments. He looked about him, but
his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine-glasses. The
bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were
observing him curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning
slightly to make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a
little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, Sure enough,
was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet
planted far apart.
`Hallo, Tommy, old
hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you have? I'm taking whisky:
better stuff than we get across the water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the
same. Spoils the flavour... Here, garcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky,
like a good fellow... Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you
last? Dear God, how old we're getting! Do you see any signs of ageing in me -
eh, what? A little grey and thin on the top - what?'
Ignatius Gallaher
took off his hat and displayed a large closely-cropped head. His face was
heavy, pale, and clean-shaven. His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour,
relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie
he wore. Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless
and colourless. He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin
hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius
Gallaher put on his hat again.
`It pulls you
down,' he said. `Press life. Always hurry and scurry, looking for copy and
sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have something new in your stuff.
Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell
you, to get back to the old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I
feel a ton better since I landed again in dear, dirty Dublin... Here you are,
Tommy. Water? Say when.'
Little Chandler
allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.
`You don't know
what's good for you, my boy,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `I drink mine neat.'
`I drink very
little as a rule,' said Little Chandler modestly. `An odd half-one or so when I
meet any of the old crowd: that's all.'
`Ah well,' said
Ignatius Gallaher cheerfully, `here's to us and to old times and old
acquaintance.'
They clinked
glasses and drank the toast.
`I met some of the
old gang today,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `O'Hara seems to be in a bad way.
What's he doing?'
`Nothing,' said
Little Chandler. `He's gone to the dogs.'
`But Hogan has a
good sit, hasn't he?'
`Yes, be's in the
Land Commission.'
`I met him one
night in London and he seemed to be very flush... Poor O'Hara! Booze, I
suppose?'
`Other things,
too,' said Little Chandler shortly.
Ignatius Gallaher
laughed.
`Tommy,' he said,
`I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the very same serious person that
used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my
tongue. You'd want to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never been
anywhere even for a trip?'
`I've been to the
Isle of Man,' said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher
laughed.
`The Isle of Man!'
he said. `Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. That'd do you good.'
`Have you seen
Paris?'
`I should think I
have! I've knocked about there a little.'
`And is it really
so beautiful as they say?' asked Little Chandler.
He sipped a little
of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly.
`Beautiful?' said
Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink. `It's
not so beautiful, you know. Of course it is beautiful... But it's the life of
Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's no city like Paris for gaiety, movement,
excitement... '
Little Chandler
finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching the barman's
eye. He ordered the same again.
`I've been to the
Moulin Rouge,' Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their
glasses, `and I've been to all the Bohemian cafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious
chap like you, Tommy.'
Little Chandler
said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses: then he touched his
friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former toast. He was beginning to
feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher's accent and way of expressing himself
did not please him. There was something vulgar in his friend which lie had not
observed before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid
the bustle and competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there
under this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen
the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.
`Everything in
Paris is gay,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `They believe in enjoying life - and
don't you think they're right? If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must
go to Paris. And, mind you, they've a great feeling for the Irish there. When
they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man.'
Little Chandler
took four or five sips from his glass.
`Tell me,' he said,
`is it true that Paris is so... immoral as they say?'
Ignatius Gallaher
made a catholic gesture with his right arm.
`Every place is
immoral,' he said. `Of course you do find spicy bits in Paris. Go to one of the
students' balls, for instance. That's lively, if you like, when the cocottes
begin to let themselves loose. You know what they are, I suppose?'
`I've heard of
them,' said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher
drank off his whisky and shook his head.
`Ah,' he said, `you
may say what you like. There's no woman like the Parisienne - for style, for
go.'
`Then it is an
immoral city,' said Little Chandler, with timid insistence - `I mean, compared
with London or Dublin?'
`London!' said
Ignatius Gallaher. `It's six of one and half a dozen of the other. You ask
Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when he was over there. He'd
open your eye... I say, Tommy, don't make punch of that whisky: liquor up.'
`No, really.'
`O, come on,
another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The same again, I suppose?'
`Well... all
right.'
`Francois, the same
again... Will you smoke, Tommy?'
Ignatius Gallaher
produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their cigars and puffed at them in
silence until their drinks were served.
`I'll tell you my
opinion,' said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some time from the clouds of
smoke in which he had taken refuge, `it's a rum world. Talk of immorality! I've
heard of cases - what am I saying? - I've known them: cases of... immorality...
'
Ignatius Gallaher
puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm historian's tone, he
proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures of the corruption which was
rife abroad. He summarized the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to
award the palm to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch for (his friends had
told him), but of others he had had personal experience. He spared neither rank
nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of religious houses on the Continent
and described some of the practices which were fashionable in high society, and
ended by telling, with details, a story about an English duchess - a story
which he knew to be true. Little chandler was astonished.
`Ah, well,' said
Ignatius Gallaher, `here we are in old jog-along Dublin where nothing is known
of such things.'
`How dull you must
find it,' said Little Chandler, `after all the other places you've seen!'
`Well,' said
Ignatius Gallaher, `it's a relaxation to come over here, you know. And, after
all, it's the old country, as they say, isn't it? You can't help having a
certain feeling for it. That's human nature... But tell me something about
yourself. Hogan told me you had... tasted the joys of connubial bliss. Two
years ago, wasn't it?'
Little Chandler
blushed and smiled.
`Yes,' he said. `I
was married last May twelve months.'
`I hope it's not
too late in the day to offer my best wishes,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `I didn't
know your address or I'd have done so at the time.'
He extended his
hand, which Little Chandler took.
`Well, Tommy,' he
said, `I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and
may you never die till I shoot you. And that's the wish of a sincere friend, an
old friend. You know that?'
`I know that,' said
Little Chandler.
`Any youngsters?'
said Ignatius Gallaher.
Little Chandler
blushed again.
`We have one
child,' he said.
`Son or daughter?'
`A little boy.'
Ignatius Gallaher
slapped his friend sonorously on the back.
`Bravo,' he said,
`I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy.'
Little Chandler
smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower lip with three
childishly white front teeth.
`I hope you'll
spend an evening with us,' he said, `before you go back. My wife will be
delighted to meet you. We can have a little music and--'
`Thanks awfully,
old chap,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `I'm sorry we didn't meet earlier. But I
must leave tomorrow night.'
`Tonight,
perhaps... ?`
`I'm awfully sorry,
old man. You see I'm over here with another fellow, clever young chap he is
too, and we arranged to go to a little card-party. Only for that... '
`O, in that case...
'
`But who knows?'
said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. `Next year I may take a little skip over
here now that I've broken the ice. It's only a pleasure deferred.'
`Very well,' said
Little Chandler, `the next time you come we must have an evening together.
That's agreed now, isn't it?'
`Yes, that's
agreed,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `Next year if I come, parole d'honneur.'
`And to clinch the
bargain,' said Little Chandler, `we'll just have one more now.'
Ignatius Gallaher
took out a large gold watch and looked at it.
`Is it to be the
last?' he Said. `Because, you know, I have an a.p.'
`O, yes,
positively,' said Little Chandler.
`Very well, then,'
said Ignatius Gallaher, `let us have another one as a deoc an doirus - that's
good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe.'
Little Chandler
ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his face a few moments before
was establishing itself. A trifle made him blush at any time: and now he felt
warm and excited. Three small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's
strong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person.
The adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with
Gallaher in Corless's surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to
Gallaher's stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher's vagrant and
triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt acutely
the contrast between his own life and his friend's, and it seemed to him
unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was sure that he
could do something better than his friend had ever done, or could ever do,
something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only got the chance. What
was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate timidity! He wished to vindicate
himself in some way, to assert his manhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal of
his invitation. Gallaher was only patronizing him by his friendliness just as
he was patronizing Ireland by his visit.
The barman brought
their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up
the other boldly.
`Who knows?' he
said, as they lifted their glasses. `When you come next year I may have the
pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr and Mrs Ignatius Gallaher.'
Ignatius Gallaher
in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively over the rim of his glass.
When he had drunk he smacked his lips decisively, set down his glass and said:
`No blooming fear
of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling first and see a bit of life and the
world before I put my head in the sack - if I ever do.'
`Some day you
will,' said Little Chandler calmly.
Ignatius Gallaher
turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon his friend.
`You think so?' he
said.
`You'll put your
head in the sack,' repeated Little Chandler stoutly, `like everyone else if you
can find the girl.'
He had slightly
emphasized his tone, and he was aware that he had betrayed himself; but, though
the colour had heightened in his cheek, he did not flinch from his friends'
gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for a few moments and then said:
`If ever it occurs,
you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no mooning and spooning about it. I
mean to marry money. She'll have a good fat account at the bank or she won't do
for me.'
Little Chandler
shook his head.
`Why, man alive,'
said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, `do you know what it is? I've only to say
the word and tomorrow I can have the woman and the cash. You don't believe it?
Well, I know it. There are hundreds - what am I saying? - thousands of rich Germans
and Jews, rotten with money, that'd only be too glad... You wait a while, my
boy. See if I don't play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean
business, I tell you. You just wait.'
He tossed his glass
to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. Then he looked
thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:
`But I'm in no
hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up to one woman, you know.'
He imitated with
his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.
`Must get a bit stale,
I should think,' he said.
--------------------------------------
Little Chandler sat
in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms. To save money they kept
no servant, but Annie's young sister Monica came for an hour or so in the
morning and an hour or So in the evening to help. But Monica had gone home long
ago. It was a quarter to nine. Little Chandler had come home late for tea and,
moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from
Bewley's. Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She
said she would do without any tea, but when it came near he time at which the
shop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter of a
pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child deftly in his
arms and said:
`Here. Don't waken
him.'
A little lamp with
a white china shade stood upon the table and its light fell over a photograph
which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled horn. It was Annie's photograph.
Little Chandler looked at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale
blue summer blouse which he had brought her home as a present one Saturday. It
had cost him ten and elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost
him! How he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was
empty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while the girl
piled ladies' blouses before him, paying at the desk and forgetting to take up
the odd penny of his change, being called back by the cashier, and finally,
striving to hide his blushes as he left the shop by examining the parcel to see
if it was Securely tied. When he brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and
said it was very pretty and stylish; but when she heard the price she threw the
blouse on the table and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and
elevenpence for it. At first she wanted to take it back, but when she tried it
on she was delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and
kissed him and said he was very good to think of her.
Hm!...
He looked coldly
into the eyes of the photograph and they answered coldly. Certainly they were
pretty and the face itself was pretty. But he found something mean in it. Why
was it so unconscious and ladylike? The composure of the eyes irritated him.
They repelled him and defied him: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He
thought of what Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental
eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing!... Why had
he married the eyes in the photograph?
He caught himself
up at the question and glanced nervously round the room. He found something
mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire
system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. It too was prim
and pretty. A dull resentment against his life awoke within him. Could he not
escape from his little house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely
like Gallaher? Could he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid
for. If he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the
way for him.
A volume of Byron's
poems lay before him on the table. He opened it cautiously with his left hand
lest he should waken the child and began to read the first poem in the book:
Hushed are the
winds and still the evening gloom, Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb And scatter flowers on the dust I
love.
He paused. He felt
the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it was! Could he,
too, write like that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse? There were
so many things he wanted to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan
Bridge, for example. If he could get back again into that mood...
The child awoke and
began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to hush it: but it would not be
hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in his arms, but its wailing cry grew
keener. He rocked it faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza:
Within this narrow
cell reclines her clay, That clay where once...
It was useless. He
couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The wailing of the child pierced the
drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! He was a prisoner for life. His arms
trembled with anger and suddenly bending to the child's face he shouted:
`Stop!'
The child stopped
for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began to scream. He jumped up from
his chair and walked hastily up and down the room with the child in his arms.
it began to sob piteously, losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then
bursting out anew. The thin walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to
soothe it, but it sobbed more convulsively. He looked at the contracted and
quivering face of the child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs
without a break between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If
it died!...
The door was burst
open and a young woman ran in, panting.
`What is it? What
is it?' she cried.
The child, hearing
its mother's voice, broke out into a paroxysm of sobbing.
`It's nothing,
Annie... it's nothing... He began to cry... '
She flung her
parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.
`What have you done
to him?' she cried, glaring into his face.
Little Chandler
sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his heart closed together as
he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:
`It's nothing...
He... he... began to cry... I couldn't... I didn't do anything... What?'
Giving no heed to
him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping the child tightly in her
arms and murmuring:
`My little man! My
little mannie! Was 'ou frightened, love?'... There now, love! There now!...
Lambabaun! Mamma's little lamb of the world!... There now!'
Little Chandler
felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back out of the lamplight. He
listened while the paroxysm of the child's sobbing grew less and less; and
tears of remorse started to his eyes.
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