It was a bright Sunday morning of early summer, promising heat, but with a fresh
breeze blowing. All the windows of the boarding house were open and the lace
curtains ballooned gently towards the street beneath the raised sashes. The belfry of
George's Church sent out constant peals, and worshippers, singly or in groups,
traversed the little circus before the church, revealing their purpose by their self-
contained demeanour no less than by the little volumes in their gloved hands.
Breakfast was over in the boarding house, and the table of the breakfast-room was
covered with plates on which lay yellow streaks of eggs with morsels of bacon-fat and
bacon-rind. Mrs Mooney sat in the straw arm-chair and watched the servant Mary
remove the breakfast things. She made Mary collect the crusts and pieces of broken
bread to help to make Tuesday's bread-pudding. When the table was cleared, the
broken bread collected, the sugar and butter safe under lock and key, she began to
reconstruct the interview which she had had the night before with Polly. Things were
as she had suspected: she had been frank in her questions and Polly had been frank in
her answers. Both had been somewhat ewkward, of course. She had been made
awkward by her not wishing to receive the news in too cavalier a fashion or to seem
to have connived, and Polly had been made awkward not merely because allusions of
that kind always made her awkward, but also because she did not wish it to be thought
that in her wise innocence she had divined the intention behind her mother's tolerance.
Mrs Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt clock on the mantelpiece as soon as
she had become aware through her reverie that the bells of George's Church had
stopped ringing. It was seventeen minutes past eleven: she would have lots of time to
have the matter out with Mr Doran and then catch short twelve at Marlborough Street.
She was sure she would win. To begin with, she had all the weight of social opinion
on her side: she was an outraged mother. She had allowed him to live beneath her
roof, assuming that he was a man of honour, and he had simply abused her
hospitality. He was thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, so that youth could not be
pleaded as his excuse; nor could ignorance be his excuse, since he was a man who had
seen something of the world. He had simply taken advantage of Polly's youth and
inexperience: that was evident. The question was: What reparation would he make?
There must be reparation made in such a case. It is all very well for the man: he can
go his ways as if nothing had happened, having had his moment of pleasure, but the
girl has to bear the brunt. Some mothers would be content to patch up such an affair
for a sum of money: she had known cases of it. But she would not do so. For her only
one reparation could make up for the loss of her daughter's honour: marriage.
She counted all her cards again before sending Mary up to Mr Doran's room to say
that she wished to speak with him. She felt sure she would win. He was a serious
young man, not rakish or loud-voiced like the others. If it had been Mr Sheridan or
Mr Meade or Bantam Lyons, her task would have been much harder. She did not
think he would face publicity. All the lodgers in the house knew something of the
affair; details had been invented by some. Besides, he had been employed for thirteen
years in a great Catholic wine-merchant's office, and publicity would mean for him,
perhaps, the loss of his job. Whereas if he agreed all might be well. She knew he had
a good screw for one thing, and she suspected he had a bit of stuff put by.
Nearly the half-hour! She stood up and surveyed herself in the pier-glass. The
decisive expression of her great florid face satisfied her, and she thought of some
mothers she knew who could not get their daughters off their hands.
Mr Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday morning. He had made two attempts
to shave, but his hand had been so unsteady that he had been obliged to desist. Three
days' reddish beard fringed his jaws, and every two or three minutes a mist gathered
on his glasses so that he had to take them off and polish them with his pocket-
handkerchief. The recollection of his confession of the night before was a cause of
acute pain to him; the priest had drawn out every ridiculous detail of the affair, and in
the end had so magnified his sin that he was almost thankful at being afforded a
loophole of reparation. The harm was done. What could he do now but marry her or
run away? He could not brazen it out. The affair would be sure to be talked of, and his
employer would be certain to hear of it. Dublin is such a small city: everyone knows
everyone else's business. He felt his heart leap warmly in his throat as he heard in his
excited imagination old Mr Leonard calling out in his rasping voice: `Send Mr Doran
here, please.'
All his long years of service gone for nothing! All his industry and diligence thrown
away! As a young man he had sown his wild oats, of course; he had boasted of his
free-thinking and denied the existence of God to his companions in public-houses.
But that was all passed and done with... nearly. He still bought a copy of Reynolds
Newspaper every week, but he attended to his religious duties, and for nine-tenths of
the year lived a regular life. He had money enough to settle down on; it was not that.
But the family would look down on her. First of all there was her disreputable father,
and then her mother's boarding house was beginning to get a certain fame. He had a
notion that he was being had. He could imagine his friends talking of the affair and
laughing. She was a little vulgar; sometimes she said `I seen' and `If I had've known.'
But what would grammar matter if he really loved her? He could not make up his
mind whether to like her or despise her for what she had done. Of course he had done
it too. His instinct urged him to remain free, not to marry. Once you are married you
are done for, it said.
While he was sitting helplessly on the side of the bed in shirt and trousers, she tapped
lightly at his door and entered. She told him all, that she had made a clean breast of it
to her mother and that her mother would speak with him that morning. She cried and
threw her arms round his neck, saying:
`O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to do at all?'
She would put an end to herself, she said.
He comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry, that it would be all right, never fear.
He felt against his shirt the agitation of her bosom.
It was not altogether his fault that it had happened. He remembered well, with the
curious patient memory of the celibate, the first casual caresses her dress, her breath,
her fingers had given him. Then late one night as he was undressing for bed she had
tapped at his door, timidly. She wanted to relight her candle at his, for hers had been
blown out by a gust. It was her bath night. She wore a loose open combing-jacket of
printed flannel. Her white instep shone in the opening of her furry slippers and the
blood glowed warmly behind her perfumed skin. From her hands and wrists too as she
lit and steadied her candle a faint perfume arose.
On nights when he came in very late it was she who warmed up his dinner. He
scarcely knew what he was eating, feeling her beside him alone, at night, in the
sleeping house. And her thoughtfulness! If the night was anyway cold or wet or windy
there was sure to be a little tumbler of punch ready for him. Perhaps they could be
happy together...
They used to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each with a candle, and on the third
landing exchange reluctant good nights. They used to kiss. He remembered well her
eyes, the touch of her hand and his delirium...
But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase, applying it to himself: `What am I to do?'
The instinct of the celibate warned him to hold back. But the sin was there; even his
sense of honour told him that reparation must be made for such a sin.
While he was sitting with her on the side of the bed Mary came to the door and said
that the missus wanted to see him in the parlour. He stood up to put on his coat and
waistcoat, more helpless than ever. When he was dressed he went over to her to
comfort her. It would be all right, never fear. He left her crying on the bed and
moaning softly: `0 my God!'
Going down the stairs his glasses became so dimmed with moisture that he had to
take them off and polish them. He longed to ascend through the roof and fly away to
another country where he would never hear again of his trouble, and yet a force
pushed him downstairs step by step. The implacable faces of his employer and of the
Madam stared upon his discomfiture. On the last flight of stairs he passed Jack
Mooney, who was coming up from the pantry nursing two bottles of Bass. They
saluted coldly; and the lover's eyes rested for a second or two on a thick bulldog face
and a pair of thick short arms. When he reached the foot of the staircase he glanced up
and saw Jack regarding him from the door of the return-room.
Suddenly he remembered the night when one of the music-hall artistes, a little blond
Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to Polly. The reunion had been almost
broken up on account of Jack's violence. Everyone tried to quiet him. The music-hall
artiste, a little paler than usual, kept smiling and saying that there was no harm meant;
but Jack kept shouting at him that if any fellow tried that sort of a game on with his
sister he'd bloody well put his teeth down his throat: so he would.
Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then she dried her eyes and
went over to the looking-glass. She dipped the end of the towel in the water-jug and
refreshed her eyes with the cool water. She looked at herself in profile and readjusted
a hairpin above her ear. Then she went back to the bed again and sat at the foot. She
regarded the pillows for a long time, and the sight of them awakened in her mind
secret, amiable memories. She rested the nape of her neck against the cool iron
bedrail and fell into a reverie. There was no longer any perturbation visible on her
face.
She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm, her memories gradually
giving place to hopes and visions of the future. Her hopes and visions were so
intricate that she no longer saw the white pillows on which her gaze was fixed, or
remembered that she was waiting for anything.
At last she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran to the banisters.
`Polly! Polly!'
`Yes, mamma?'
`Come down, dear. Mr Doran wants to speak to you.'
Then she remembered what she had been waiting for.
A Little Cloud
Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him God-
speed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-
cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few fellows had talents like his, and fewer still
could remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he
had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.
Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with
Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation, and of the great city London where Gallaher lived.
He was called Little Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average
stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his
frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the
greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache, and used perfume discreetly on his
handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect, and when he smiled you
caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth.
Ac he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes those eight years had
brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and necessitous guise had
become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome
writing to gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset covered
the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses
and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving
figures - on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on everyone
who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as
always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy took
possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being
the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.
He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in
his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had
been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his
wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their
shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.
When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of his fellow-
clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King's Inns, a neat
modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was
waning and the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street.
They stood or ran in the roadway, or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors, or
squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought. He
picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of
the gaunt spectral mansions in which the old nobility of Dublin had roistered. No
memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy.
He had never been in Corless's, but he knew the value of the name. He knew that
people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard
that the waiters there spoke French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had
seen cabs drawn up before the door and richly-dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers,
alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were
powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed
Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to
walk swiftly in the street even by day, and whenever he found himself in the city late
at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he
courted the causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he
walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him;
the wandering, silent figures troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive
laughter made him tremble like a leaf.
He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press!
Who would have thought it possible eight years before? Still, now that he reviewed
the past, Little Chandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend.
People used to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with a
rakish set of fellows at that time; drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. In the
end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money transaction: at least, that
was one version of his flight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a
certain... something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even
when he was out at elbows and at his wits' end for money he kept up a bold face.
Little Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to
his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight corner:
`Half-time now, boys,' he used to say light-heartedly. `Where's my considering cap?'
That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but admire him for it.
Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he felt himself
superior to the people he passed. For the first time his soul revolted against the dull
inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you
had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he
looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses.
They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the river-banks, their
old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting
for the first chill of night to bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. He
wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might
be able to get it into some London paper for him. Could he write something original?
He was not sure what idea he wished to express, but the thought that a poetic moment
had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely.
Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober inartistic life. A
light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old - thirty-two. His
temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity. There were so many
different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them
within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy was
the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered
by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to
it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw
that. He could not sway the crowd, but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred
minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognize him as one of the Celtic school
by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in
allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book
would get. `Mr Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse'... `A wistful sadness
pervades these poems'... `The Celtic note'. It was a pity his name was not more Irish-
looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname:
Thomas Malone Chandler; or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to
Gallaher about it.
He pursued his reverie so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back. As
he came near Corless's his former agitation began to overmaster him and he halted
before the door in indecision. Finally he opened the door and entered.
The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorway for a few moments. He looked
about him, but his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine-
glasses. The bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were
observing him curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to
make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody
had turned to look at him: and there, Sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with
his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart.
`Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you have? I'm
taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral?
I'm the same. Spoils the flavour... Here, gar?on, bring us two halves of malt whisky,
like a good fellow... Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last?
Dear God, how old we're getting! Do you see any signs of ageing in me - eh, what? A
little grey and thin on the top - what?'
Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely-cropped head. His face
was heavy, pale, and clean-shaven. His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour,
relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore.
Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless.
He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown.
Little Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Gallaher put on his hat again.
`It pulls you down,' he said. `Press life. Always hurry and scurry, looking for copy
and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have something new in your stuff.
Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to get
back to the old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since
I landed again in dear, dirty Dublin... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say when.'
Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.
`You don't know what's good for you, my boy,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `I drink mine
neat.'
`I drink very little as a rule,' said Little Chandler modestly. `An odd half-one or so
when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all.'
`Ah well,' said Ignatius Gallaher cheerfully, `here's to us and to old times and old
acquaintance.'
They clinked glasses and drank the toast.
`I met some of the old gang today,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `O'Hara seems to be in a
bad way. What's he doing?'
`Nothing,' said Little Chandler. `He's gone to the dogs.'
`But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?'
