A Little Cloud Page #2

								

sure what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic
moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He
stepped onward bravely.

Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober
inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind.
He was not so old—thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just
at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and
impressions that he wished to express 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 dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it
was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and
simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems
perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He
could not sway the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of
kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one
of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems;
besides that, he would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences
and phrases from the notice which his book would get. “Mr Chandler has
the gift of easy and graceful verse.” ... “A wistful sadness pervades
these poems.” ... “The Celtic note.” It was a pity his name was not
more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother’s
name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T.
Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it.

He pursued his revery 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 doorways 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,
garçon, 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 aging 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
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