EIGHT
years before
he
had seen
his
friend
off
at
the North
Wall
and
wished
him
godspeed. 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.
As
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 roystered. 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 riverbanks,
their
old
coats covered
with
dust
and
soot, stupefied
by
the
panorama
of
sunset
and
waiting
for
the first chill
of
night
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
recognise
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."... "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
revery
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 doorways
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, garcon,
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
aging
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
cleanshaven.
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 Galaher
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?" "Yes; he's
in
the
Land
Commission." "I met
him
one
night
in
London
and
he
seemed
to
be
very
flush....
Poor
O'Hara! Boose, 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
cafes.
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
he
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." "Francois, 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.
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:
He
paused.
He
felt the
rhythm
of
the
verse
about
him
in
the room.
How
melancholy
it
was!
Could
he, too,
write
like
that, express the melancholy
of
his
soul
in
verse? There
were
so
many
things
he
wanted
to
describe:
his
sensation
of
a
few
hours before
on
Grattan Bridge,
for
example.
If
he
could
get
back
again
into
that
mood.... The
child
awoke
and
began
to
cry.
He
turned
from
the
page
and
tried
to
hush
it: but
it
would not
be
hushed.
He
began
to
rock
it
to
and
fro
in
his
arms but its wailing
cry
grew keener.
He
rocked
it
faster
while
his
eyes began
to
read the
second
stanza:
It
was
useless.
He
couldn't read.
He
couldn't
do
anything. The wailing
of
the
child
pierced the
drum
of
his
ear.
It
was
useless, useless!
He
was
a
prisoner
for
life.
His
arms trembled
with
anger
and
suddenly bending
to
the child's face
he
shouted: "Stop!" The
child
stopped
for
an instant, had
a
spasm
of
fright
and
began
to
scream.
He
jumped
up
from
his
chair
and
walked hastily
up
and
down
the
room
with
the
child
in
his
arms.
It
began
to
sob
piteously, losing its
breath
for
four
or
five
seconds,
and
then
bursting
out
anew. The
thin
walls
of
the
room
echoed the sound.
He
tried
to
soothe
it
but
it
sobbed
more
convulsively.
He
looked
at
the contracted
and
quivering face
of
the
child
and
began
to
be
alarmed.
He
counted
seven
sobs without
a
break
between
them
and
caught the
child
to
his
breast
in
fright.
If
it
died!... The
door
was
burst
open
and
a
young
woman
ran in, panting. "What
is
it?
What
is
it?"
she
cried. The child, hearing its mother's voice,
broke
out
into
a
paroxysm
of
sobbing. "It's nothing, Annie... it's nothing....
He
began
to
cry..."
She
flung her parcels
on
the
floor
and
snatched the
child
from
him. "What
have
you
done
to
him?"
she
cried, glaring
into
his
face.
Little
Chandler
sustained
for
one
moment
the gaze
of
her eyes
and
his
heart
closed
together
as
he
met the
hatred
in
them.
He
began
to
stammer: "It's nothing.... He...
he
began
to
cry.... I couldn't... I didn't
do
anything.... What?" Giving no heed
to
him
she
began
to
walk
up
and
down
the room, clasping the
child
tightly
in
her arms
and
murmuring: "My
little
man! My
little
mannie!
Was
'ou frightened, love?... There now, love! There now!... Lambabaun! Mamma's
little
lamb
of
the world!... There now!"
Little
Chandler
felt
his
cheeks suffused
with
shame
and
he
stood
back
out
of
the lamplight.
He
listened
while
the
paroxysm
of
the child's sobbing grew less
and
less;
and
tears
of
remorse
started
to
his
eyes.