A Little Cloud By James Joyce

Hello everyone,

This is Amadeus,

And today I will be reading to you A Little Cloud by James Joyce.

Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the north wall and wished him godspeed,

Galleher had got on.

You could tell that at once by his traveled air,

His well-cut tweed suit and fearless accent.

Few fellows had talents like his,

And fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success.

Galleher's heart was in the right place,

And he had deserved to win.

It was something to have a friend like that.

Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunchtime had been of his meeting with Galleher,

Of Galleher's invitation,

And of the great city of London where Galleher lived.

He was called Little Chandler because,

Though he was but slightly under the average stature,

He gave one the idea of being a little man.

His hands were white and small,

His frame was fragile,

His voice was quiet,

And his manners were refined.

He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief.

The half-moons of his nails were perfect,

And when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth.

As he sat at his desk in the King's Inn,

He thought what changes those eight years had brought.

The friend whom he had known under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London press.

He turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window.

The glow of a late autumn sunset covered a grass plot and walks.

It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and the crappid old man who drowsed on the benches.

It flickered upon all the moving figures,

On the children who ran screaming along the gravel path and on everyone who passed through the gardens.

He watched the scene and thought of life,

And,

As always happened when he thought of life,

He became sad.

A gentle melancholy took possession of him.

He felt how useless he was to struggle against fortune,

Thus being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.

He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home.

He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening.

As he sat in the little room of the hall he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife.

But shyness had always held him back,

And so the books had remained on their shelves.

At times he repeated the lines to himself,

And this consoled him.

When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk,

And of his fellow clerks punctritiously.

He emerged from under the feudal arch of the king's inns,

A neat modest figure.

He walked swiftly down Henrietta Street.

The golden sunset was waning,

And the air had grown sharp.

A horde of grimy children populated the street.

They stood or ran in the roadway,

Or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors,

Or squatted like mice upon the thresholds.

Little Chandler gave them no thought.

He picked his way deftly through all the minute vermin like life and under the shadow of the gone spectral mansions in which the old nobility of Dublin had roistered.

No memory of the past touched him,

For his mind was full of a present joy.

He had never been in Corlisses,

But he knew the value of the name.

He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liquors,

And he had heard that the waitress there spoke French and German.

Walking swiftly by at night he had seen calves drawn up the door and richly dressed ladies escorted by cavaliers alight and enter quickly.

They wore nosy dresses and many wraps.

Their faces were powdered,

And they cut out their dresses when they touched earth,

Like alarm at Atlantis.

He had always passed without turning his head to look.

It was his ability to walk swiftly in the streets even by day,

And whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly.

Sometimes however he courted the causes of his fear and chose the darkest and narrowest streets,

And so he walked boldly forward.

The silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him,

The wandering silent figures troubled him,

And at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.

He turned to the right towards Capel Street.

Ignatius Gellacher on the London Press.

Who would have thought it's possible eight years before?

Still,

Now that he reviewed the past little chandrel could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend.

People used to say that Ignatius Gellacher was wild.

Of course,

He did mix with a rickish set of fellows at the time,

Drank freely and borrowed money from all sides.

In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair,

Some money transaction.

At least that was one version of his flight.

But nobody denied him talent.

There was always a certain something in Ignatius Gellacher that impressed you in spite of yourself.

Even when he was out at Elbow's and at his wit's end for money he kept up a bold face.

Little chandler remembered,

And the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek,

One of Ignatius Gellacher's sayings when he was in a tight corner.

Half time now,

Boys.

He used to say lightheartedly.

Where's my considering cap?

That was Ignatius Gellacher all out.

And dammit,

You couldn't but admire him for it.

Little chandler quickened his pace.

For the first time in his life he felt himself superior to the people he passed.

For the first time his soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capela Street.

There was no doubt about it.

If you wanted to succeed,

You had to go away.

You could do nothing in Dublin.

As he crossed Greaton Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitted the poor stunted houses.

They seemed to him a band of tramps huddled together along the river banks,

Their old coats covered with dust and soot,

Stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night to bid them a rise,

Cheek themselves and be gone.

He wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea.

Perhaps Gellacher might be able to get into some London paper for him.

Could he write something original?

He was not sure what idea he wished to express,

But the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope.

He stepped onward bravely.

Every step brought him nearer to London,

Farther from his own sober and artistic life.

The light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind.

He was not so old.

Thirty-two.

His temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity.

There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse.

He felt them within him.

He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul.

Melancholy was a dominant note of his temperament,

He thought,

But it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy.

If he could give expression to it in a book of poems,

Perhaps man would listen.

He would never be popular.

He saw that.

He could not sway the crowd,

But he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds.

The English critics,

Perhaps,

Would recognize him as one of the Celtic's cool by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems.

Besides that,

He would put in allusions.

He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get.

Mr.

Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse.

A wistful sadness pervades these poems.

The Celtic note.

It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking.

Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname.

Thomas Malone Chandler.

Or better still,

T.

Malone Chandler.

He would speak to Galloway about it.

He pursued his reverie so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back.

As he came near colorless,

His former agitation began to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision.

Finally he opened the door and entered.

The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorway for a few moments.

He looked about him,

But his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine glasses.

The bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously.

He glanced quickly to the right and left,

Frowning slightly to make his errand appear serious,

But when his sight cleared,

But it all he saw that nobody had turned to look at him.

And there,

Fair enough,

Was Ignatius Galloway,

Leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart.

Hello,

Tommy,

Old hero.

Here you are.

What is it to be?

What will you have?

I'm taking whiskey.

Better stuff than we get across the water.

Soda?

Lithia?

No mirro?

I'm the same.

Suppose a flavor.

Here,

Garçon.

Bring us two halves of malt whiskey,

Like a good fellow.

Well,

And how have you been pulling along since I saw you last?

Dear God,

How old we're getting.

Do you see any signs of aging in me?

Huh?

What?

A little gray and thin on the top.

What?

Ignatius Galloway took off his hat and displayed a large,

Closely cropped head.

His face was heavy,

Pale,

And clean-shaven.

His eyes,

Which were of bluish slate color,

Relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore.

Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and colorless.

He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown.

Little Chandler shook his head in denial.

Ignatius Galloway put on his hat again.

It pulls you down,

He said.

Press life,

Always shurry and scurry,

Looking for a copy and sometimes not finding it.

And then?

Always to have something new in your stuff.

Damn proofs and printers,

I say for a few days.

I'm dearest glad.

I can tell you to get back to the old country.

Does a fellow good a bit of a holiday?

I feel a ton better since I learned it again in dear,

Dirty Dublin.

Here we are,

Tommy.

Water?

Say when.

Little Chandler allowed his whiskey to be very much diluted.

You don't know what's good for you,

My boy,

Said Ignatius Galloway.

I drink mine neat.

I drink very little as a rule,

Said Little Chandler,

Modestly.

And I add half one or so when I meet any of the old crowd.

That's all.

Ah,

Well,

Said Ignatius Galloway un-cheerfully.

Here's to us and to old times and old acquaintance.

They clinked glasses and drank the toast.

I met some of the old gang today,

Said Ignatius Galloway.

Ohara seems to be in a bad way.

What's he doing?

Nothing,

Said Little Chandler.

He's gone to the dogs.

But Hogan has a good sit,

Hasn't he?

Yes,

Based on the Land Commission.

I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.

Poor Ohara.

Booze,

I suppose?

Other things,

Too,

Said Little Chandler shortly.

Ignatius Galloway laughed.

Tommy,

He said.

I see you haven't changed an atom.

You're the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had the sore head and the fur in my tongue.

You'd want to knock a bit about the world.

Have you never been anywhere for a trip?

I've been to the Isle of Man,

Said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Galloway laughed.

The Isle of Man,

He said.

Go to London or Paris.

Paris for choice.

That'd do you good.

Have you seen Paris?

I should think I have.

I've knockered about there a little.

Is it really so beautiful,

As they say?

Asked Little Chandler.

He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Galloway finished his boldly.

Beautiful,

Said Ignatius Galloway,

Pausing on the word and on the flavor of his drink.

It's not beautiful,

You know.

Of course it is beautiful.

But it's the life of Paris.

That's the thing.

And there's no city like Paris for gaiety,

Movement,

Excitement.

Little Chandler finished his whiskey,

And after some trouble succeeded in catching the barman's eye,

He ordered the same again.

I've been to the Molle and Rouge,

Ignatius Galloway continued when the barman had removed their glasses.

And I've been to the all-Bohemian cafes.

Hot stuff.

Not for a pious chap like you,

Tommy.

Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses.

Then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former toast.

He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned.

Galloway's accent and way of expressing himself did not please him.

There was something vulgar in his friend which Lye had not observed before.

But perhaps he was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and competition of the press.

The old personal char was still there under this new gaudy manner.

And,

After all,

Galloway had lived.

He had seen the world.

Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.

"'Everything in Paris is gay,

' said Ignatius Galloway.

They believe in enjoying life.

Don't you think they're right?

If you want to enjoy yourself properly,

You must go to Paris.

And,

Mind you,

They've a great feeling for the Irish there.

When they heard I was from Ireland,

They were ready to eat me,

Man.

" Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.

"'Tell me,

' he said.

"'Is it true that Paris is so.

.

.

Immoral?

' as they say.

" Ignatius Galloway made a Catholic gesture with his right arm.

"'Every place is immoral,

' he said.

Of course,

You do find spicy bits in Paris.

Go to one of the student's balls,

For instance.

That's lively,

If you like,

When the coquettes begin to let themselves lose.

' "'You know what they are,

I suppose.

' "'I've heard of them,

' said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Galloway drank off his whiskey and shook his head.

"'Ah,

' he said.

You may say what you like.

There's no woman like the Parisienne for style.

Forgo.

' "'Then it is an immoral city,

' said Little Chandler,

With timid insistence.

I mean,

Compared with London or Dublin.

' "'London?

' said Ignatius Galloway.

"'It's six of one and a half dozen of the other.

' You ask Hogan,

My boy.

I showed him a bit of London when he was over there.

He'd open your eye,

' I say,

Tommy.

"'Don't make punch of that whiskey.

Lick her up.

' "'No,

Really.

Oh,

Come on.

Another one won't do you any harm.

' "'What is it?

The same again,

I suppose?

' "'Well,

All right.

From so.

The same again.

Will you smoke,

Tommy?

' Ignatius Galloway produced his cigar case.

The two friends lit their cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served.

"'I'll tell you my opinion,

' said Ignatius Galloway,

Emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge.

"'It's a rum world.

Talk of immorality.

I've heard of cases.

What am I saying?

I've known them.

Cases of immorality.

' Ignatius Galloway puffed thoroughly at his cigar,

And then,

In a calm historian's tone,

He proceeded to sketch for his friends some pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad.

He summarized the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to aware the palm to Berlin,

Some things he could not vouch for,

His friends had told him.

But of others he had had personal experiences.

He spared neither rank nor castle.

He revealed many of the secrets of religious houses on the continent and described some of the practices which were fashionable in high society,

And ended by telling,

With details,

A story about an English duchess,

A story which he knew to be true.

Little Chandler was astonished.

"'Ah,

Well,

' said Ignatius Galloway,

"'here we are in the old Jagalong,

Dublin,

Where nothing is known of such things.

' "'How dull you must find it,

' said Little Chandler,

"'after all the other places you've seen.

' "'Well,

' said Ignatius Galloway,

"'it is a relaxation to come over here,

You know.

' "'And after all,

It's the old country,

As they say,

Isn't it?

You can help having a certain feeling for it.

That's human nature.

Tell me something about yourself.

Hogan told me you had tasted the joys of cannibal bliss.

Two years ago,

Wasn't it?

' Little Chandler blushed and smiled.

"'Yes,

' he said.

I was married last May,

Twelve months.

"'I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best wishes,

' said Ignatius Galloway.

"'I didn't know your address,

Or I'd have done so at the time.

' He extended his hand,

Which Little Chandler took.

"'Well,

Tommy,

' he said,

"'I wish you and yours every joy in life,

Old chap,

And tons of money.

And may you never die till I shoot you.

And that's the wish of a sincere friend.

An old friend.

You know that.

' "'I know that,

' said Little Chandler.

"'Any youngsters?

' said Ignatius Galloway.

Little Chandler blushed again.

"'We have one child,

' he said.

"'Son or daughter?

' "'A little boy.

' Ignatius Galloway slapped his friend snorrily on the back.

"'Bravo,

' he said.

"'I wouldn't doubt you,

Tommy.

' Little Chandler smiled,

Looked confusedly at his glass,

And bit his lower lip with three childishly white front teeth.

"'I hope you'll spend an evening with us,

' he said,

Before you go back.

"'My wife will be delighted to meet you.

We can have a little music,

And—' "'Thanks,

Awfully,

Old chap,

' said Ignatius Galloway.

"'I'm sorry we didn't meet earlier.

But I must leave tomorrow night.

' "'Tonight,

Perhaps.

' "'I'm awfully sorry,

Old man.

You see,

I'm over here with another fellow.

Clever young chap he is,

Too.

And we arrange to go to a little card party.

Only for that.

' "'Oh,

In that case.

But who knows,

' said Ignatius Galloway considerably.

"'Next year I may take a little skip over here now that I've broken the ice.

It's only a pleasure,

The third.

' "'Very well,

' said little Chandler.

"'The next time you come,

We must have an evening together.

' "'That's agreed now,

Isn't it?

' "'Yes,

That's agreed,

' said Ignatius Galloway.

"'Next year if I come,

Parole de neure.

' "'And to clinch the bargain,

' said little Chandler.

"'We'll just have one more now.

' Ignatius Galloway took out a large gold watch and looked at it.

"'Is it to be the last?

' he said.

"'Because,

You know,

I have an AP.

' "'Oh,

Yes,

Positively,

' said little Chandler.

"'Very well,

Then,

' said Ignatius Galloway.

"'Let us have another one as a Dioque and Doris.

' "'That's good vernacular for a small whiskey,

I believe.

' Little Chandler ordered the drinks.

The blush which had risen to his face a few moments before was establishing itself.

A trifle made him blush at any time,

And now he felt warm and excited.

Three small whiskies had gone to his head,

And Galloway's strong cigar had confused his mind.

For he was a delicate and abstinent person.

The adventure of meeting Galloway after eight years,

Of finding himself with Galloway in core lists surrounded by lights and noise,

Of listening to Galloway's stories,

And of sharing for a brief space Galloway's vagrant and triumphant life upset the equipause of his sensitive nature.

He felt acutely the contrast between inferior in birth and education.

He was sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done.

Or could ever do something higher than mere torture journalism if he only got the chance.

What was it that stood in his way?

His unfortunate timidity.

He wished to vindicate himself in some way,

To assert his manhood.

He saw behind Galloway's refusal of his invitation.

Galloway was only patronizing him by his friendliness,

Just as he was patronizing Ireland by his visit.

The barman brought their drinks.

Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly.

Who knows,

He said,

As the lift of their glasses.

When you come next year,

I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr.

And Mrs.

Ignatius Galloway.

Ignatius Galloway in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively over the rim of his glass.

When he had drunk he smacked his lips decisively,

Sat down his glass,

And said,

No,

Bluing fear of that,

My boy.

I'm going to have my fling first and see a bit of life,

And the world before I put my head in the sack,

If I ever do.

Someday you will,

Said Little Chandler calmly.

Ignatius Galloway turned his orange tie and slate blue eyes full upon his friend.

You think so?

He said.

You'll put your head in the sack,

Repeated Little Chandler stoutly,

Like everyone else if you find a girl.

He had slightly emphasized his tone,

And he was aware that he had betrayed himself.

But though the color had heightened in his cheek,

He did not flinch from his friend's gaze.

Ignatius Galloway watched him for a few moments,

And then said,

If ever it occurs,

You may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no moaning and spooning about it.

I mean to marry money.

She'll have a good fat account at the bank,

Or she won't do for me.

Little Chandler shook his head.

Why,

Man alive,

Said Ignatius Galloway vehemently.

Do you know what it is?

I've only to save the word,

And tomorrow I can have the woman and the cash.

You don't believe it?

Well,

I know it.

There are hundreds,

What am I saying,

Thousands of rich Germans and Jews rotten with money that'll only be too glad.

You wait a while,

My boy.

See if I don't play my cards properly.

When I go about a thing,

I mean business,

I tell you.

You just wait.

He tossed his glass to his mouth,

Finished his drink,

And laughed loudly.

Then he looked thoughtfully before him,

And said in a calmer tone.

But I'm in no hurry.

They can wait.

I don't fancy tying myself up to one woman,

You know.

He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting,

And made a wry face.

Let's get a bit stale.

I should think,

He said.

Little Chandler sat in the room of the hall,

Holding a child in his arms.

To save money,

They kept no servant,

But Annie's young sister Monica came for an hour or so in the morning,

And an hour or so in the evening to help.

But Monica had gone to tea,

And moreover he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of her mother.

Of course,

She was in a bad humor,

And gave him short answers.

She said she would do without any tea,

But when it came near the time at which the shop in the corner closed,

She decided to go out herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar.

She put the sleeping child deftly in his arms,

And said,

Here,

Don't wake him.

A little lamb with a white chine on it,

Shades stood upon the table,

Then its light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled horn.

It was Annie's photograph.

Little Chandler looked at it,

Pausing at the thin,

Tight lips.

She wore the pale blue summer blouse which had bought her home as a present one Saturday.

It had cost him ten and eleven pence.

But what an agony of nerve!

She was so upset that she had forgotten to bring her purse.

She was so upset that she was at the end of the day,

Waiting at the shop door until the shop was empty,

Standing at the counter and trying to appear at ease while the girl piled ladies' blouses before him,

Paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd penny of his change,

Being called back by the cashier,

And finally striving to hide his blusher as he left the shop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied.

When he brought the blouse home,

Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and stylish.

But when she heard a price,

She threw the blouse on the table and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and eleven pence for it.

At first she wanted to take it back,

But then she tried it on and she was delighted with it,

Especially with the make of the sleeves,

And kissed him and said he was very good to think of her.

Hmm.

He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph,

And they answered coldly.

Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty,

But he found something mean in it.

Why was it so unconscious and ladylike?

The composure of the eyes irritated him.

They repelled him and defied him.

There was no passion in them,

No rapture.

He thought of what Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses.

Those dark oriental eyes,

He thought.

How full they are of passion,

Of voluptuous longing.

Why had he married the eyes in the photograph?

He caught himself up the question and glanced nervously around the room.

He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the higher system.

Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her.

It too was prim and pretty.

The dull resentment against his life awoke within him.

Could he not escape from his little house?

Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher?

Could he go to London?

There was the furniture still to be paid for.

If he could only write a book and get it published,

That might open the way for him.

A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the table.

He opened it cautiously with his left hand lest he should wake the child and began to read the first poem in the book.

Hushed are the winds and steel the evening gloom.

Not even a zephyr wanders through the grove,

Whilst I return to view my margaret tomb and scatter flowers on the dust I love.

He paused.

He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room.

How melancholy it was.

Could he,

Too,

Write like that?

Express the melancholy of his soul in verse.

There were so many things he wanted to describe.

His sensation of few hours before Angerton Bridge,

For example.

If he could get back again into that mood.

The child awoke and began to cry.

He turned for the page and tried to hush it,

But it would not be hushed.

He began to rock it,

Too,

And from his arms,

But its wailing cry grew keener.

He rocked it faster,

While his eyes began to read the second stanza.

Within this narrow cell,

Where clients her clay,

The clay were once.

He was useless.

He couldn't read.

He couldn't do anything.

The wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear.

He was useless.

Useless.

He was a prisoner for life.

His arms trembled with anger,

And suddenly,

Bending the child's face,

He shouted.

Stop!

The child stopped for an instant,

Had a spasm of fright,

And began to scream.

He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the room with the child in his arms.

It began to sob,

Piteously,

Losing his breath for four or five seconds.

And then bursting out anew.

The thin walls of the room echoed the sound.

He tried to soothe it,

But it sobbed more convulsively.

He looked at the contracted and quivering face of the child,

And began to be alarmed.

He counted seven sobs without a break between them,

And caught the child to his breast in fright.

If it died.

The door was burst open,

And the young woman ran in,

Panting.

What is it?

What is it?

What is it?

She cried.

The child,

Hearing its mother's voice,

Broke out into a paroxym of sobbing.

It's nothing,

Annie.

It's nothing.

He began to cry.

She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.

What have you done to him?

She cried,

Glaring to his face.

The little chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes,

And his heart closed together as he met the hatred in them.

He began to stammer,

And the child began to cry.

He began to stammer.

It's nothing.

He… He… Began to cry.

I couldn't… I didn't do anything.

What?

Giving no heed to him,

She began to walk up and down the room,

Clasping the child tightly in her arms and murmuring.

My little man,

My little manny,

Who do you frighten,

Love?

There now,

Love.

There now,

Lamb-a-bon.

Momma's little lamb of the world.

There now.

Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffuse with shame,

And he stood back out of the lamplight.

He listened while the paroxym of the child's sobbing grew less and less.

And tears of remorse started to his eyes.