Dubliners
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.”
“_François_, 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 summarised 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.