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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 to-morrow night.

      —To-night, 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 doruis— 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 patronising him by his friendliness just as he was patronising 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 emphasised 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 friend’s 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 to-morrow 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 the 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 that. 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 lady-like? 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 СКАЧАТЬ