Дублінці
The Dead
D’Arcycamefromthepantry,fullyswathedandbuttoned,andinarepentanttonetoldthemthehistoryofhiscold.Everyonegavehimadviceandsaiditwasagreatpityandurgedhimtobeverycarefulofhisthroatinthenightair.Gabrielwatchedhiswife,whodidnotjoinintheconversation.Shewasstandingrightunderthedustyfanlightandtheflameofthegaslituptherichbronzeofherhair,whichhehadseenherdryingatthefireafewdaysbefore.Shewasinthesameattitudeandseemedunawareofthetalkabouther.AtlastsheturnedtowardsthemandGabrielsawthattherewascolouronhercheeksandthathereyeswereshining.Asuddentideofjoywentleapingoutofhisheart.
“Mr.D’Arcy,”shesaid,“whatisthenameofthatsongyouweresinging?”
“It’scalledTheLassofAughrim,”saidMr.D’Arcy,“butIcouldn’trememberitproperly.Why?Doyouknowit?”
“TheLassofAughrim,”sherepeated.“Icouldn’tthinkofthename.”
“It’saveryniceair,”saidMaryJane.“I’msorryyouwerenotinvoicetonight.”
“Now,MaryJane,”saidAuntKate,“don’tannoyMr.D’Arcy.Iwon’thavehimannoyed.”
Seeingthatallwerereadytostartsheshepherdedthemtothedoor,wheregood-nightwassaid:
“Well,good-night,AuntKate,andthanksforthepleasantevening.”
“Good-night,Gabriel.
