`Yes, be's in the Land Commission.'
`I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush... Poor O'Hara!
Booze, 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 lie 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.'
`Fran?ois, 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 summarized 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 and bit his lower lip with three
childishly white front teeth.
`I 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 tomorrow night.'
`Tonight, 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 doirus -
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 patronizing him by his friendliness just as he was patronizing
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 emphasized 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 friends'
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 tomorrow 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 he 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 it. 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 ladylike? The composure of the gyes 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 caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the room. He found
something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire
system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. It too was prim and
pretty. A dull resentment against his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from
his little house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher? Could he
go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a
book and get it published, that might open the way for him.
A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the table. He opened it cautiously with
his left hand lest he should waken the child and began to read the first poem in the
book:
