Дублинцы
Araby
Ihadneverspokentoher,exceptforafewcasualwords,andyethernamewaslikeasummonstoallmyfoolishblood.
Herimageaccompaniedmeeveninplacesthemosthostiletoromance.OnSaturdayeveningswhenmyauntwentmarketingIhadtogotocarrysomeoftheparcels.Wewalkedthroughtheflaringstreets,jostledbydrunkenmenandbargainingwomen,amidthecursesoflabourers,theshrilllitaniesofshop-boyswhostoodonguardbythebarrelsofpigs’cheeks,thenasalchantingofstreet-singers,whosangacome-all-youaboutO’DonovanRossa,oraballadaboutthetroublesinournativeland.Thesenoisesconvergedinasinglesensationoflifeforme:IimaginedthatIboremychalicesafelythroughathrongoffoes.HernamesprangtomylipsatmomentsinstrangeprayersandpraiseswhichImyselfdidnotunderstand.Myeyeswereoftenfulloftears(Icouldnottellwhy)andattimesafloodfrommyheartseemedtopouritselfoutintomybosom.Ithoughtlittleofthefuture.IdidnotknowwhetherIwouldeverspeaktoherornotor,ifIspoketoher,howIcouldtellherofmyconfusedadoration.Butmybodywaslikeaharpandherwordsandgestureswerelikefingersrunninguponthewires.
OneeveningIwentintothebackdrawing-roominwhichthepriesthaddied.Itwasadarkrainyeveningandtherewasnosoundinthehouse.ThroughoneofthebrokenpanesIheardtherainimpingeupontheearth,thefineincessantneedlesofwaterplayinginthesoddenbeds.
