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List Of Contents | Contents of Dubliners, by James Joyce
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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 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," be 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 had. 

"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 as 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?" 

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