A Little Cloud

"A Little Cloud" is one of the short stories in James Joyce's collection "Dubliners." It follows the story of a man named Little Chandler, who is discontent with his mundane life in Dublin. The arrival of his old friend Ignatius Gallaher, who is now a successful journalist living in London, forces him to reflect on his own life choices with a mix of envy, dissatisfaction and regret. Joyce uses this narrative to expose the struggle and desolation of common individuals in early 20th-century Ireland.

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Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and
wished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once
by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few
fellows had talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiled by
such success. Gallaher’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 lunch-time had been of his
meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher’s invitation and of the great city
London where Gallaher 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 Inns 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 the grass plots
and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses
and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all
the moving figures—on the children who ran screaming along the gravel
paths 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 it was to struggle against fortune, this 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 off 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 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 punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch
of the King’s Inns, a neat modest figure, and 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 that minute vermin-like
life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the
old nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past touched
him, for his mind was full of a present joy.

He had never been in Corless’s but he knew the value of the name. He
knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink
liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and
German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before
the door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and
enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were
powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth,
like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head
to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street 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. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as
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 Gallaher on the
London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before?
Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember
many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that
Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of
fellows at that time, drank freely and borrowed money on 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
Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out
at elbows and at his wits’ 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 Gallaher’s sayings when he was in a
tight corner:

“Half time now, boys,” he used to say light-heartedly. “Where’s my
considering cap?”

That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, 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 Capel 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 Grattan Bridge he looked down the
river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They
seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks,
their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama
of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise,
shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem
to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it 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
inartistic life. A 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 the 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 men 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 recognise him as one

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