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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 68/192
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Sometimes
in
return
for
his
theories
she
gave
out
some
fact
of
her
own
life
.
With
almost
maternal
solicitude
she
urged
him
to
let
his
nature
open
to
the
full
:
she
became
his
confessor
.
He
told
her
that
for
some
time
he
had
assisted
at
the
meetings
of
an
Irish
Socialist
Party
where
he
had
felt
himself
a
unique
figure
amidst
a
score
of
sober
workmen
in
a
garret
lit
by
an
inefficient
oil-lamp
.
When
the
party
had
divided
into
three
sections
,
each
under
its
own
leader
and
in
its
own
garret
,
he
had
discontinued
his
attendances
.
The
workmen
's
discussions
,
he
said
,
were
too
timorous
;
the
interest
they
took
in
the
question
of
wages
was
inordinate
.
He
felt
that
they
were
hard-featured
realists
and
that
they
resented
an
exactitude
which
was
the
produce
of
a
leisure
not
within
their
reach
.
No
social
revolution
,
he
told
her
,
would
be
likely
to
strike
Dublin
for
some
centuries
.
She
asked
him
why
did
he
not
write
out
his
thoughts
.
For
what
,
he
asked
her
,
with
careful
scorn
.
To
compete
with
phrasemongers
,
incapable
of
thinking
consecutively
for
sixty
seconds
?
To
submit
himself
to
the
criticisms
of
an
obtuse
middle
class
which
entrusted
its
morality
to
policemen
and
its
fine
arts
to
impresarios
?
He
went
often
to
her
little
cottage
outside
Dublin
;
often
they
spent
their
evenings
alone
.
Little
by
little
,
as
their
thoughts
entangled
,
they
spoke
of
subjects
less
remote
.
Her
companionship
was
like
a
warm
soil
about
an
exotic
.
Many
times
she
allowed
the
dark
to
fall
upon
them
,
refraining
from
lighting
the
lamp
.
The
dark
discreet
room
,
their
isolation
,
the
music
that
still
vibrated
in
their
ears
united
them
.
This
union
exalted
him
,
wore
away
the
rough
edges
of
his
character
,
emotionalised
his
mental
life
.
Sometimes
he
caught
himself
listening
to
the
sound
of
his
own
voice
.
He
thought
that
in
her
eyes
he
would
ascend
to
an
angelical
stature
;
and
,
as
he
attached
the
fervent
nature
of
his
companion
more
and
more
closely
to
him
,
he
heard
the
strange
impersonal
voice
which
he
recognised
as
his
own
,
insisting
on
the
soul
's
incurable
loneliness
.
We
can
not
give
ourselves
,
it
said
:
we
are
our
own
.
The
end
of
these
discourses
was
that
one
night
during
which
she
had
shown
every
sign
of
unusual
excitement
,
Mrs.
Sinico
caught
up
his
hand
passionately
and
pressed
it
to
her
cheek
.
Mr.
Duffy
was
very
much
surprised
.
Her
interpretation
of
his
words
disillusioned
him
.
He
did
not
visit
her
for
a
week
,
then
he
wrote
to
her
asking
her
to
meet
him
.
As
he
did
not
wish
their
last
interview
to
be
troubled
by
the
influence
of
their
ruined
confessional
they
meet
in
a
little
cakeshop
near
the
Parkgate
.
It
was
cold
autumn
weather
but
in
spite
of
the
cold
they
wandered
up
and
down
the
roads
of
the
Park
for
nearly
three
hours
.
They
agreed
to
break
off
their
intercourse
:
every
bond
,
he
said
,
is
a
bond
to
sorrow
.
When
they
came
out
of
the
Park
they
walked
in
silence
towards
the
tram
;
but
here
she
began
to
tremble
so
violently
that
,
fearing
another
collapse
on
her
part
,
he
bade
her
good-bye
quickly
and
left
her
.
A
few
days
later
he
received
a
parcel
containing
his
books
and
music
.
Four
years
passed
.
Mr.
Duffy
returned
to
his
even
way
of
life
.
His
room
still
bore
witness
of
the
orderliness
of
his
mind
.
Some
new
pieces
of
music
encumbered
the
music-stand
in
the
lower
room
and
on
his
shelves
stood
two
volumes
by
Nietzsche
:
Thus
Spake
Zarathustra
and
The
Gay
Science
.
He
wrote
seldom
in
the
sheaf
of
papers
which
lay
in
his
desk
.
One
of
his
sentences
,
written
two
months
after
his
last
interview
with
Mrs.
Sinico
,
read
:
Love
between
man
and
man
is
impossible
because
there
must
not
be
sexual
intercourse
and
friendship
between
man
and
woman
is
impossible
because
there
must
be
sexual
intercourse
.
He
kept
away
from
concerts
lest
he
should
meet
her
.
His
father
died
;
the
junior
partner
of
the
bank
retired
.
And
still
every
morning
he
went
into
the
city
by
tram
and
every
evening
walked
home
from
the
city
after
having
dined
moderately
in
George
's
Street
and
read
the
evening
paper
for
dessert
.
One
evening
as
he
was
about
to
put
a
morsel
of
corned
beef
and
cabbage
into
his
mouth
his
hand
stopped
.
His
eyes
fixed
themselves
on
a
paragraph
in
the
evening
paper
which
he
had
propped
against
the
water-carafe
.
He
replaced
the
morsel
of
food
on
his
plate
and
read
the
paragraph
attentively
.
Then
he
drank
a
glass
of
water
,
pushed
his
plate
to
one
side
,
doubled
the
paper
down
before
him
between
his
elbows
and
read
the
paragraph
over
and
over
again
.
The
cabbage
began
to
deposit
a
cold
white
grease
on
his
plate
.
The
girl
came
over
to
him
to
ask
was
his
dinner
not
properly
cooked
.
He
said
it
was
very
good
and
ate
a
few
mouthfuls
of
it
with
difficulty
.
Then
he
paid
his
bill
and
went
out
.
He
walked
along
quickly
through
the
November
twilight
,
his
stout
hazel
stick
striking
the
ground
regularly
,
the
fringe
of
the
buff
Mail
peeping
out
of
a
side-pocket
of
his
tight
reefer
overcoat
.
On
the
lonely
road
which
leads
from
the
Parkgate
to
Chapelizod
he
slackened
his
pace
.
His
stick
struck
the
ground
less
emphatically
and
his
breath
,
issuing
irregularly
,
almost
with
a
sighing
sound
,
condensed
in
the
wintry
air
.
When
he
reached
his
house
he
went
up
at
once
to
his
bedroom
and
,
taking
the
paper
from
his
pocket
,
read
the
paragraph
again
by
the
failing
light
of
the
window
.
He
read
it
not
aloud
,
but
moving
his
lips
as
a
priest
does
when
he
reads
the
prayers
Secreto
.
