A Little Cloud Page #2

"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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of the Celtic school 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 Gallaher about it.

He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had to
turn back. As he came near Corless’s 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 doorways 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 right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand
appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody
had turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius
Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted
far apart.

“Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you
have? I’m taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water.
Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I’m the same. Spoils the flavour.... Here,
garçon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, 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—eh,
what? A little grey and thin on the top—what?”

Ignatius Gallaher 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-colour, 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
colourless. He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the
thin hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a denial.
Ignatius Galaher put on his hat again.

“It pulls you down,” he said. “Press life. Always hurry and scurry,
looking for 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 deuced 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
landed again in dear dirty Dublin.... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say
when.”

Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.

“You don’t know what’s good for you, my boy,” said Ignatius Gallaher.
“I drink mine neat.”

“I drink very little as a rule,” said Little Chandler modestly. “An odd
half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that’s all.”

“Ah, well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, 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 Gallaher. “O’Hara
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; he’s in the Land Commission.”

“I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.... Poor
O’Hara! Boose, I suppose?”

“Other things, too,” said Little Chandler shortly.

Ignatius Gallaher 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 a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You’d want to knock about a bit
in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?”

“I’ve been to the Isle of Man,” said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher 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 knocked about there a little.”

“And is it really so beautiful as they say?” asked Little Chandler.

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

“Beautiful?” said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the
flavour of his drink. “It’s not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it
is beautiful.... But it’s the life of Paris; that’s the thing. Ah,
there’s no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement....”

Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded
in catching the barman’s eye. He ordered the same again.

“I’ve been to the Moulin Rouge,” Ignatius Gallaher continued when the
barman had removed their glasses, “and I’ve been to all the Bohemian
cafés. 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.
Gallaher’s accent and way of expressing himself did not please him.
There was something vulgar in his friend which he had not observed
before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the
bustle and competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still
there under this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived,
he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.

“Everything in Paris is gay,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “They believe in
enjoying life—and 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 Gallaher 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 students’ balls, for instance. That’s lively,
if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You
know what they are, I suppose?”

“I’ve heard of them,” said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his head.

“Ah,” he said, “you may say what you like. There’s no woman like the
Parisienne—for style, for go.”

“Then it is an immoral city,” said Little Chandler, with timid
insistence—“I mean, compared with London or Dublin?”

“London!” said Ignatius Gallaher. “It’s six of one and half-a-dozen of
the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when
he was over there. He’d open your eye.... I say, Tommy, don’t make
punch of that whisky: liquor up.”

“No, really....”

“O, come on, another one won’t do you any harm. What is it? The same
again, I suppose?”

“Well ... all right.”

“François, the same again.... Will you smoke, Tommy?”
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