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1Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could
2tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few fellows had talents like his
3and fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he had deserved to
4win. It was something to have a friend like that. Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his
5meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation and of the great city London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little
6Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man. His
7hands were white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the
8greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of
9his nails were perfect and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth. As he sat at his desk
10in the King's Inns he thought what changes those eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby
11and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome writing to
12gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of
13kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the
14moving figures--on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on everyone who passed through the gardens.
15He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle
16melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of
17wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him. He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought
18them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take
19one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books
20had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him. When his hour had struck he
21stood up and took leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch of the
22King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air
23had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or ran in the roadway or crawled up the
24steps before the gaping doors or squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought. He picked
25his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the
26old nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy. He had
27never been in Corless's but he knew the value of the name. He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat
28oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and German. Walking swiftly by at night
29he had seen cabs drawn up before the door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and enter quickly.
30They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched
31earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly
32in the street even by day and whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively
33and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as
34he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him, the wandering silent figures
35troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf. He turned to the right towards
36Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before? Still, now
37that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to
38say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of fellows at that time, drank freely and
39borrowed money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money transaction: at least, that
40was one version of his flight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a certain ... something in Ignatius
41Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out at elbows and at his wits' end for money he kept
42up a bold face. Little Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek) one of
43Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight corner: "Half time now, boys," he used to say light-heartedly.
44"Where's my considering cap?" That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but admire him for it.
45Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he felt himself superior to the people he passed. For
46the first time his soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it: if you wanted
47to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river
48towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along
49the riverbanks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the
50first chill of night bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to express
51his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some London paper for him. Could he write something original? He
52was not sure what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him
53like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely. Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober
54inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old--thirty-two. His temperament
55might be said to be just at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to
56express 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
57dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation
58and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be
59popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English
60critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides
61that, he would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. "Mr
62Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse." ... "A wistful sadness pervades these poems." ... "The Celtic note."
63It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother's name before the
64surname: Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it. He pursued
65his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back. As he came near Corless's his former agitation
66began to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he opened the door and entered.
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