A Little Cloud
[...]
Little Chandlers
thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher,
of Gallahers invitation, and of the great city London where Gallaher
lived. [...] 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.
[...]
Every step brought
[Little Chandler] 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 poets 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 mothers 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.
[...]
-Beautiful? said
Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink.
Its not so beautiful, you know. Of course it is beautiful
But
its the life of Paris; thats the thing. Ah, theres no city like Paris
for gaiety, movement, excitement
Little Chandler finished
his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching the barmans
eye. He ordered the same again.
-Ive been to the
Moulin Rouge, Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed
their glasses, and Ive been to all the Bohemian cafés. Hot stuff!
Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.
[...; Little Chandler returns home.]
Little Chandler sat
in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms. [...] 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.
[...]
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 [of Byrons poem]:
Within this narrow
cell reclines her clay,
That clay where
once
It was useless. He
couldnt read. He couldnt 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 childs face
he shouted:
-Stop!
[...; his wife returns to find the child in tears.]
-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:
-Its nothing
He
he
began to cry
I couldnt
I didnt 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! Mammas 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 childs sobbing grew less and less;
and tears of remorse started to his eyes.
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