Gallaher about it.
He pursued his reverie 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 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 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, gar?on, 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 ageing 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 Gallaher 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, be's in the Land Commission.'
`I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush... Poor O'Hara!
Booze, 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 lie 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.'
`Fran?ois, the same again... Will you smoke, Tommy?'
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 summarized 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 doirus -
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 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 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 emphasized 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 friends'
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
