Дублинцы
A Little Cloud
Hepickedhiswaydeftlythroughallthatminutevermin-likelifeandundertheshadowofthegauntspectralmansionsinwhichtheoldnobilityofDublinhadroystered.Nomemoryofthepasttouchedhim,forhismindwasfullofapresentjoy.
HehadneverbeeninCorless’sbutheknewthevalueofthename.Heknewthatpeoplewentthereafterthetheatretoeatoystersanddrinkliqueurs;andhehadheardthatthewaiterstherespokeFrenchandGerman.Walkingswiftlybyatnighthehadseencabsdrawnupbeforethedoorandrichlydressedladies,escortedbycavaliers,alightandenterquickly.Theyworenoisydressesandmanywraps.Theirfaceswerepowderedandtheycaughtuptheirdresses,whentheytouchedearth,likealarmedAtalantas.Hehadalwayspassedwithoutturninghisheadtolook.Itwashishabittowalkswiftlyinthestreetevenbydayandwheneverhefoundhimselfinthecitylateatnighthehurriedonhiswayapprehensivelyandexcitedly.Sometimes,however,hecourtedthecausesofhisfear.Hechosethedarkestandnarroweststreetsand,ashewalkedboldlyforward,thesilencethatwasspreadabouthisfootstepstroubledhim,thewandering,silentfigurestroubledhim;andattimesasoundoflowfugitivelaughtermadehimtremblelikealeaf.
HeturnedtotherighttowardsCapelStreet.IgnatiusGallaherontheLondonPress!Whowouldhavethoughtitpossibleeightyearsbefore?Still,nowthathereviewedthepast,LittleChandlercouldremembermanysignsoffuturegreatnessinhisfriend.
