Дублінці
The Dead
Inoneletterthathehadwrittentoherthenhehadsaid:“Whyisitthatwordsliketheseseemtomesodullandcold?Isitbecausethereisnowordtenderenoughtobeyourname?”
Likedistantmusicthesewordsthathehadwrittenyearsbeforewerebornetowardshimfromthepast.Helongedtobealonewithher.Whentheothershadgoneaway,whenheandshewereintheroominthehotel,thentheywouldbealonetogether.Hewouldcallhersoftly:
“Gretta!”
Perhapsshewouldnothearatonce:shewouldbeundressing.Thensomethinginhisvoicewouldstrikeher.Shewouldturnandlookathim....
AtthecornerofWinetavernStreettheymetacab.Hewasgladofitsrattlingnoiseasitsavedhimfromconversation.Shewaslookingoutofthewindowandseemedtired.Theothersspokeonlyafewwords,pointingoutsomebuildingorstreet.Thehorsegallopedalongwearilyunderthemurkymorningsky,dragginghisoldrattlingboxafterhisheels,andGabrielwasagaininacabwithher,gallopingtocatchtheboat,gallopingtotheirhoneymoon.
AsthecabdroveacrossO’ConnellBridgeMissO’Callaghansaid:
“TheysayyounevercrossO’ConnellBridgewithoutseeingawhitehorse.”
“Iseeawhitemanthistime,”saidGabriel.
“Where?”askedMr.BartellD’Arcy.
Gabrielpointedtothestatue,onwhichlaypatchesofsnow.Thenhenoddedfamiliarlytoitandwavedhishand.
