Dubliners / Дублинцы. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Джеймс Джойс

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      “Ah, poor James!” she said. “God knows we done all we could, as poor as we are – we wouldn’t see him want anything[14] while he was in it.”

      Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed about to fall asleep.

      “There’s poor Nannie,” said Eliza, looking at her, “she’s wore out. All the work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to wash him and then laying him out and then the coffin and then arranging about the Mass in the chapel. Only for Father O’Rourke I don’t know what we’d have done at all. It was him brought us all them flowers and them two candlesticks out of the chapel and wrote out the notice for the Freeman’s General and took charge of all the papers for the cemetery and poor James’s insurance.”

      “Wasn’t that good of him?” said my aunt Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.

      “Ah, there’s no friends like the old friends,” she said, “when all is said and done, no friends that a body can trust.”

      “Indeed, that’s true,” said my aunt. “And I’m sure now that he’s gone to his eternal reward he won’t forget you and all your kindness to him.”

      “Ah, poor James!” said Eliza. “He was no great trouble to us. You wouldn’t hear him in the house any more than now. Still, I know he’s gone and all to that…”

      “It’s when it’s all over that you’ll miss him,” said my aunt.

      “I know that,” said Eliza. “I won’t be bringing him in his cup of beef-tea any more, nor you, ma’am, sending him his snuff. Ah, poor James!”

      She stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then said shrewdly:

      “Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over him latterly. Whenever I’d bring in his soup to him there I’d find him with his breviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his mouth open.”

      She laid a finger against her nose and frowned; then she continued:

      “But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer was over he’d go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old house again where we were all born down in Irishtown and take me and Nannie with him. If we could only get one of them new-fangled carriages that makes no noise that Father O’Rourke told him about – them with the rheumatic wheels – for the day cheap – he said, at Johnny Rush’s over the way there and drive out the three of us together of a Sunday evening. He had his mind set on that[15]… Poor James!”

      “The Lord have mercy on his soul!” said my aunt.

      Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Then she put it back again in her pocket and gazed into the empty grate for some time without speaking.

      “He was too scrupulous always,” she said. “The duties of the priesthood was too much for him. And then his life was, you might say, crossed.”

      “Yes,” said my aunt. “He was a disappointed man. You could see that.”

      A silence took possession of the little room and, under cover of it, I approached the table and tasted my sherry and then returned quietly to my chair in the corner. Eliza seemed to have fallen into a deep revery. We waited respectfully for her to break the silence: and after a long pause she said slowly:

      “It was that chalice he broke… That was the beginning of it. Of course, they say it was all right, that it contained nothing, I mean. But still… They say it was the boy’s fault. But poor James was so nervous, God be merciful to him!”

      “And was that it?” said my aunt. “I heard something…”

      Eliza nodded.

      “That affected his mind[16],” she said. “After that he began to mope by himself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So one night he was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn’t find him anywhere. They looked high up and low down[17]; and still they couldn’t see a sight of him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested to try the chapel. So then they got the keys and opened the chapel and the clerk and Father O’Rourke and another priest that was there brought in a light for to look for him… And what do you think but there he was, sitting up by himself in the dark in his confession-box, wide-awake and laughing-like softly to himself?”

      She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was no sound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still in his coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an idle chalice on his breast.

      Eliza resumed:

      “Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself… So then, of course, when they saw that, that made them think that there was something gone wrong with him…”

      An Encounter

      It was Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a little library made up of old numbers of The Union Jack, Pluck and The Halfpenny Marvel. Every evening after school we met in his back garden and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo, the idler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to carry it by storm; or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well we fought, we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with Joe Dillon’s war dance of victory. His parents went to eight-o’clock mass every morning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs. Dillon was prevalent in the hall of the house. But he played too fiercely for us who were younger and more timid. He looked like some kind of an Indian when he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his head, beating a tin with his fist and yelling:

      “Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!”

      Everyone was incredulous[18] when it was reported that he had a vocation for the priesthood. Nevertheless it was true.

      A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its influence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We banded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost in fear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant Indians who were afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one. The adventures related in the literature of the Wild West were remote from my nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape. I liked better some American detective stories which were traversed from time to time by unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing wrong in these stories and though their intention was sometimes literary they were circulated secretly at school. One day when Father Butler was hearing the four pages of Roman History clumsy Leo Dillon was discovered with a copy of The Halfpenny Marvel.

      “This page or this page? This page. Now, Dillon, up! ‘Hardly had the day’… Go on! What day? ‘Hardly had the day dawned’… Have you studied it? What have you there in your pocket?”

      Everyone’s heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the pages, frowning.

      “What is this rubbish?” he said. “The Apache Chief! Is this what you read instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find any more of this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote it, I suppose, was some wretched fellow who СКАЧАТЬ