Дублинцы
The Dead
Momentsoftheirsecretlifetogetherburstlikestarsuponhismemory.Aheliotropeenvelopewaslyingbesidehisbreakfast-cupandhewascaressingitwithhishand.Birdsweretwitteringintheivyandthesunnywebofthecurtainwasshimmeringalongthefloor:hecouldnoteatforhappiness.Theywerestandingonthecrowdedplatformandhewasplacingaticketinsidethewarmpalmofherglove.Hewasstandingwithherinthecold,lookinginthroughagratedwindowatamanmakingbottlesinaroaringfurnace.Itwasverycold.Herface,fragrantinthecoldair,wasquiteclosetohis;andsuddenlyhecalledouttothemanatthefurnace:
“Isthefirehot,sir?”
Butthemancouldnothearwiththenoiseofthefurnace.Itwasjustaswell.Hemighthaveansweredrudely.
Awaveofyetmoretenderjoyescapedfromhisheartandwentcoursinginwarmfloodalonghisarteries.Likethetenderfireofstarsmomentsoftheirlifetogether,thatnooneknewoforwouldeverknowof,brokeuponandilluminedhismemory.Helongedtorecalltoherthosemoments,tomakeherforgettheyearsoftheirdullexistencetogetherandrememberonlytheirmomentsofecstasy.Fortheyears,hefelt,hadnotquenchedhissoulorhers.Theirchildren,hiswriting,herhouseholdcareshadnotquenchedalltheirsouls’tenderfire.
