Дублінці
The Dead
Thehall-doorwasclosed;andAuntKate,AuntJuliaandMaryJanecamedownthehall,stilllaughing.
“Well,isn’tFreddyterrible?”saidMaryJane.“He’sreallyterrible.”
Gabrielsaidnothingbutpointedupthestairstowardswherehiswifewasstanding.Nowthatthehall-doorwasclosedthevoiceandthepianocouldbeheardmoreclearly.Gabrielhelduphishandforthemtobesilent.ThesongseemedtobeintheoldIrishtonalityandthesingerseemeduncertainbothofhiswordsandofhisvoice.Thevoice,madeplaintivebydistanceandbythesinger’shoarseness,faintlyilluminatedthecadenceoftheairwithwordsexpressinggrief:
O,therainfallsonmyheavylocksAndthedewwetsmyskin,Mybabeliescold...
“O,”exclaimedMaryJane.“It’sBartellD’Arcysingingandhewouldn’tsingallthenight.O,I’llgethimtosingasongbeforehegoes.”
“O,do,MaryJane,”saidAuntKate.
MaryJanebrushedpasttheothersandrantothestaircase,butbeforeshereacheditthesingingstoppedandthepianowasclosedabruptly.
“O,whatapity!”shecried.“Ishecomingdown,Gretta?”
Gabrielheardhiswifeansweryesandsawhercomedowntowardsthem.AfewstepsbehindherwereMr.BartellD’ArcyandMissO’Callaghan.
“O,Mr.
