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- Джеймс Джойс
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"
Polly
!
Polly
!
"
"
Yes
,
mamma
?
"
"
Come
down
,
dear
.
Mr.
Doran
wants
to
speak
to
you
.
"
Then
she
remembered
what
she
had
been
waiting
for
.
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
.
