Дублінці
A Little Cloud
Hepaused.Hefelttherhythmoftheverseabouthimintheroom.Howmelancholyitwas!Couldhe,too,writelikethat,expressthemelancholyofhissoulinverse?Thereweresomanythingshewantedtodescribe:hissensationofafewhoursbeforeonGrattanBridge,forexample.Ifhecouldgetbackagainintothatmood....
Thechildawokeandbegantocry.Heturnedfromthepageandtriedtohushit:butitwouldnotbehushed.Hebegantorockittoandfroinhisarmsbutitswailingcrygrewkeener.Herockeditfasterwhilehiseyesbegantoreadthesecondstanza:
Withinthisnarrowcellreclinesherclay,
Thatclaywhereonce...
Itwasuseless.Hecouldn’tread.Hecouldn’tdoanything.Thewailingofthechildpiercedthedrumofhisear.Itwasuseless,useless!Hewasaprisonerforlife.Hisarmstrembledwithangerandsuddenlybendingtothechild’sfaceheshouted:
“Stop!”
Thechildstoppedforaninstant,hadaspasmoffrightandbegantoscream.Hejumpedupfromhischairandwalkedhastilyupanddowntheroomwiththechildinhisarms.Itbegantosobpiteously,losingitsbreathforfourorfiveseconds,andthenburstingoutanew.Thethinwallsoftheroomechoedthesound.Hetriedtosootheitbutitsobbedmoreconvulsively.Helookedatthecontractedandquiveringfaceofthechildandbegantobealarmed
