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

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      The hall-door was closed, and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane came down the hall, still laughing.

      —Well, isn’t Freddy terrible? said Mary Jane. He’s really terrible.

      Gabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairs towards where his wife was standing. Now that the hall-door was closed the voice and the piano could be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up his hand for them to be silent. The song seemed to be in the old Irish tonality and the singer seemed uncertain both of his words and of his voice. The voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer’s hoarseness, faintly illuminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief:

      O, the rain falls on my heavy locks

      And the dew wets my skin,

      My babe lies cold…

      —O, exclaimed Mary Jane. It’s Bartell D’Arcy singing, and he wouldn’t sing all the night. O, I’ll get him to sing a song before he goes.

      —O do, Mary Jane, said Aunt Kate.

      Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, but before she reached it the singing stopped and the piano was closed abruptly.

      —O, what a pity! she cried. Is he coming down, Gretta?

      Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw her come down towards them. A few steps behind her were Mr Bartell D’Arcy and Miss O’Callaghan.

      —O, Mr D’Arcy, cried Mary Jane, it’s downright mean of you to break off like that when we were all in raptures listening to you.

      —I have been at him all the evening, said Miss O’Callaghan, and Mrs Conroy too, and he told us he had a dreadful cold and couldn’t sing.

      —O, Mr D’Arcy, said Aunt Kate, now that was a great fib to tell.

      —Can’t you see that I’m as hoarse as a crow? said Mr D’Arcy roughly.

      He went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others, taken back by his rude speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt Kate wrinkled her brows and made signs to the others to drop the subject. Mr D’Arcy stood swathing his neck carefully and frowning.

      —It’s the weather, said Aunt Julia, after a pause.

      —Yes, everybody has colds, said Aunt Kate readily, everybody.

      —They say, said Mary Jane, we haven’t had snow like it for thirty years, and I read this morning in the newspapers that the snow is general all over Ireland.

      —I love the look of snow, said Aunt Julia sadly.

      —So do I, said Miss O’Callaghan. I think Christmas is never really Christmas unless we have the snow on the ground.

      —But poor Mr D’Arcy doesn’t like the snow, said Aunt Kate, smiling.

      Mr D’Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed and buttoned, and in a repentant tone told them the history of his cold. Everyone gave him advice and said it was a great pity and urged him to be very careful of his throat in the night air. Gabriel watched his wife, who did not join in the conversation. She was standing right under the dusty fanlight and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair, which he had seen her drying at the fire a few days before. She was in the same attitude and seemed unaware of the talk about her. At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart.

      —Mr D’Arcy, she said, what is the name of that song you were singing?

      —It’s called The Lass of Aughrim, said Mr D’Arcy, but I couldn’t remember it properly. Why? Do you know it?

      The Lass of Aughrim, she repeated. I couldn’t think of the name.

      —It’s a very nice air, said Mary Jane. I’m sorry you were not in voice to-night.

      —Now, Mary Jane, said Aunt Kate, don’t annoy Mr D’Arcy. I won’t have him annoyed.

      Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded them to the door, where good-night was said:

      —Well, good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for the pleasant evening.

      —Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta!

      —Good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Good-night, Aunt Julia.

      —O, good-night, Gretta, I didn’t see you.

      —Good-night, Mr D’Arcy. Good-night, Miss O’Callaghan.

      —Good-night, Miss Morkan.

      —Good-night, again.

      —Good-night, all. Safe home.

      —Good-night. Good-night.

      The morning was still dark. A dull yellow light brooded over the houses and the river, and the sky seemed to be descending. It was slushy underfoot and only streaks and patches of snow lay on the roofs, on the parapets of the quay and on the area railings. The lamps were still burning redly in the murky air and, across the river, the palace of the Four Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky.

      She was walking on before him with Mr Bartell D’Arcy, her shoes in a brown parcel tucked under one arm and her hands holding her skirt up from the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude, but Gabriel’s eyes were still bright with happiness. The blood went bounding along his veins and the thoughts went rioting through his brain, proud, joyful, tender, valorous.

      She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he longed to run after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and say something foolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to him so frail that he longed to defend her against something and then to be alone with her. Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup and he was caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could not eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform and he was placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standing with her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in the cold air, was quite close to his, and suddenly she called out to the man at the furnace: —Is the fire hot, sir?

      But the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It was just as well. He might have answered rudely.

      A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went coursing in warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fires of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers. Their children, his writing, her household cares had not quenched all their souls’ tender fire. In one letter that he had written to her then he had said: Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there СКАЧАТЬ