A Little Cloud Page #3

"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.

• Children

								


Ignatius Gallaher 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 Gallaher, 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 Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm
historian’s tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures
of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarised the vices of
many capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some
things he could not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others
he had had personal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. 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 Gallaher, “here we are in old jog-along
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 Gallaher, “it’s a relaxation to come over here,
you know. And, after all, it’s the old country, as they say, isn’t it?
You can’t help having a certain feeling for it. That’s human nature....
But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had ... tasted
the joys of connubial 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 Gallaher. “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 Gallaher.

Little Chandler blushed again.

“We have one child,” he said.

“Son or daughter?”

“A little boy.”

Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously 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 Gallaher, “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 arranged to go to a little
card-party. Only for that....”

“O, in that case....”

“But who knows?” said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. “Next year I may
take a little skip over here now that I’ve broken the ice. It’s only a
pleasure deferred.”

“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 Gallaher. “Next year if I come,
parole d’honneur.”

“And to clinch the bargain,” said Little Chandler, “we’ll just have one
more now.”

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

“Is it to be the last?” he said. “Because you know, I have an a.p.”

“O, yes, positively,” said Little Chandler.

“Very well, then,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “let us have another one as
a deoc an doruis—that’s good vernacular for a small whisky, 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 Gallaher’s strong cigar had confused
his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of
meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher in
Corless’s surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher’s
stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher’s vagrant and
triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt
acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend’s and it
seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was his 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 tawdry 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 Gallaher’s refusal of his invitation.
Gallaher was only patronising him by his friendliness just as he was
patronising 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 they lifted their glasses. “When you come next
year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr
and Mrs Ignatius Gallaher.”

Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively
over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips
decisively, set down his glass and said:

“No blooming 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.”

“Some day you will,” said Little Chandler calmly.

Ignatius Gallaher 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 can find the girl.”

He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had
betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek,
he did not flinch from his friend’s gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him
for a few moments and then said:

“If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there’ll be no
mooning 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 Gallaher, vehemently, “do you know what
it is? I’ve only to say 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’d 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
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