Дублінці
The Dead
Hecouldhaveflunghisarmsaboutherhipsandheldherstill,forhisarmsweretremblingwithdesiretoseizeherandonlythestressofhisnailsagainstthepalmsofhishandsheldthewildimpulseofhisbodyincheck.Theporterhaltedonthestairstosettlehisgutteringcandle.Theyhalted,too,onthestepsbelowhim.InthesilenceGabrielcouldhearthefallingofthemoltenwaxintothetrayandthethumpingofhisownheartagainsthisribs.
Theporterledthemalongacorridorandopenedadoor.Thenhesethisunstablecandledownonatoilet-tableandaskedatwhathourtheyweretobecalledinthemorning.
“Eight,”saidGabriel.
Theporterpointedtothetapoftheelectric-lightandbeganamutteredapology,butGabrielcuthimshort.
“Wedon’twantanylight.Wehavelightenoughfromthestreet.AndIsay,”headded,pointingtothecandle,“youmightremovethathandsomearticle,likeagoodman.”
Theportertookuphiscandleagain,butslowly,forhewassurprisedbysuchanovelidea.Thenhemumbledgood-nightandwentout.Gabrielshotthelockto.
Aghastlylightfromthestreetlamplayinalongshaftfromonewindowtothedoor.Gabrielthrewhisovercoatandhatonacouchandcrossedtheroomtowardsthewindow.Helookeddownintothestreetinorderthathisemotionmightcalmalittle.Thenheturnedandleanedagainstachestofdrawerswithhisbacktothelight.
