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

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СКАЧАТЬ were still toddling round the table, walking on each other’s heels, getting in each other’s way and giving each other unheeded orders. Mr Browne begged of them to sit down and eat their suppers and so did Gabriel, but they said there was time enough, so that at last Freddy Malins stood up and, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped her down on her chair amid general laughter.

      When everyone had been well served Gabriel said, smiling:

      —Now, if anyone wants a little more of what vulgar people call stuffing let him or her speak.

      A chorus of voices invited him to begin his own supper and Lily came forward with three potatoes which she had reserved for him.

      —Very well, said Gabriel amiably, as he took another preparatory draught, kindly forget my existence, ladies and gentlemen, for a few minutes.

      He set to his supper and took no part in the conversation with which the table covered Lily’s removal of the plates. The subject of talk was the opera company which was then at the Theatre Royal. Mr Bartell D’Arcy, the tenor, a dark-complexioned young man with a smart moustache, praised very highly the leading contralto of the company, but Miss Furlong thought she had a rather vulgar style of production. Freddy Malins said there was a negro chieftain singing in the second part of the Gaiety pantomime who had one of the finest tenor voices he had ever heard.

      —Have you heard him? he asked Mr Bartell D’Arcy across the table.

      —No, answered Mr Bartell D’Arcy carelessly.

      —Because, Freddy Malins explained, now I’d be curious to hear your opinion of him. I think he has a grand voice.

      —It takes Teddy to find out the really good things, said Mr Browne familiarly to the table.

      —And why couldn’t he have a voice too? asked Freddy Malins sharply. Is it because he’s only a black?

      Nobody answered this question and Mary Jane led the table back to the legitimate opera. One of her pupils had given her a pass for Mignon. Of course it was very fine, she said, but it made her think of poor Georgina Burns. Mr Browne could go back farther still, to the old Italian companies that used to come to Dublin—Tietjens, Ilma de Murzka, Campanini, the great Trebelli, Giuglini, Ravelli, Aramburo. Those were the days, he said, when there was something like singing to be heard in Dublin. He told too of how the top gallery of the old Royal used to be packed night after night, of how one night an Italian tenor had sung five encores to Let me like a soldier fall, introducing a high C every time, and of how the gallery boys would sometimes in their enthusiasm unyoke the horses from the carriage of some great prima donna and pull her themselves through the streets to her hotel. Why did they never play the grand old operas now, he asked, Dinorah, Lucrezia Borgia? Because they could not get the voices to sing them: that was why.

      —O, well, said Mr Bartell D’Arcy, I presume there are as good singers to-day as there were then.

      —Where are they? asked Mr Browne defiantly.

      —In London, Paris, Milan, said Mr Bartell D’Arcy warmly. I suppose Caruso, for example, is quite as good, if not better than any of the men you have mentioned.

      —Maybe so, said Mr Browne. But I may tell you I doubt it strongly.

      —O, I’d give anything to hear Caruso sing, said Mary Jane.

      —For me, said Aunt Kate, who had been picking a bone, there was only one tenor. To please me, I mean. But I suppose none of you ever heard of him.

      —Who was he, Miss Morkan? asked Mr Bartell D’Arcy politely.

      —His name, said Aunt Kate, was Parkinson. I heard him when he was in his prime and I think he had then the purest tenor voice that was ever put into a man’s throat.

      —Strange, said Mr Bartell D’Arcy. I never even heard of him.

      —Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right, said Mr Browne. I remember hearing old Parkinson, but he’s too far back for me.

      —A beautiful pure sweet mellow English tenor, said Aunt Kate with enthusiasm.

      Gabriel having finished, the huge pudding was transferred to the table. The clatter of forks and spoons began again. Gabriel’s wife served out spoonfuls of the pudding and passed the plates down the table. Midway down they were held up by Mary Jane, who replenished them with raspberry or orange jelly or with blancmange and jam. The pudding was of Aunt Julia’s making and she received praises for it from all quarters. She herself said that it was not quite brown enough.

      —Well, I hope, Miss Morkan, said Mr Browne, that I’m brown enough for you because, you know, I’m all brown.

      All the gentlemen except Gabriel ate some of the pudding out of compliment to Aunt Julia. As Gabriel never ate sweets the celery had been left for him. Freddy Malins also took a stalk of celery and ate it with his pudding. He had been told that celery was a capital thing for the blood and he was just then under doctor’s care. Mrs Malins, who had been silent all through the supper, said that her son was going down to Mount Melleray in a week or so. The table then spoke of Mount Melleray, how bracing the air was down there, how hospitable the monks were and how they never asked for a penny-piece from their guests.

      —And do you mean to say, asked Mr Browne incredulously, that a chap can go down there and put up there as if it were a hotel and live on the fat of the land and then come away without paying anything?

      —O, most people give some donation to the monastery when they leave, said Mary Jane.

      —I wish we had an institution like that in our Church, said Mr Browne candidly.

      He was astonished to hear that the monks never spoke, got up at two in the morning and slept in their coffins. He asked what they did it for.

      —That’s the rule of the order, said Aunt Kate firmly.

      —Yes, but why? asked Mr Browne.

      Aunt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that was all. Mr Browne still seemed not to understand. Freddy Malins explained to him, as best he could, that the monks were trying to make up for the sins committed by all the sinners in the outside world. The explanation was not very clear for Mr Browne grinned and said: —I like that idea very much, but wouldn’t a comfortable spring bed do them as well as a coffin?

      —The coffin, said Mary Jane, is to remind them of their last end.

      As the subject had grown lugubrious it was buried in a silence of the table, during which Mrs Malins could be heard saying to her neighbour in an indistinct undertone: —They are very good men, the monks, very pious men.

      The raisins and almonds and figs and apples and oranges and chocolates and sweets were now passed about the table, and Aunt Julia invited all the guests to have either port or sherry. At first Mr Bartell D’Arcy refused to take either, but one of his neighbours nudged him and whispered something to him, upon which he allowed his glass to be filled. Gradually as the last glasses were being filled the conversation ceased. A pause followed, broken only by the noise of the wine and by unsettlings of chairs. The Misses Morkan, all three, looked down at the tablecloth. Someone coughed once or twice and then a few gentlemen patted the table gently as a signal for silence. The silence came and Gabriel pushed back his chair and stood up.

      The patting at once grew louder in СКАЧАТЬ