THE JAMES JOYCE COLLECTION - 5 Books in One Edition. James Joyce

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      —Yes, he’s in the Land Commission.

      —I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush… Poor O’Hara! Boose, 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 cafés. 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 he 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.

      —François, 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 summarised 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 СКАЧАТЬ