Two Gallants by James Joyce
THE grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild
warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets. The streets,
shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed with a gaily coloured crowd.
Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tall poles
upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hue unceasingly,
sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging unceasing murmur.
Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. One of them was just
bringing a long monologue to a close. The other, who walked on the verge
of the path and was at times obliged to step on to the road, owing to his
companion's rudeness, wore an amused listening face. He was squat and
ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from his forehead and the
narrative to which he listened made constant waves of expression break
forth over his face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth.
Little jets of wheezing laughter followed one another out of his convulsed
body. His eyes, twinkling with cunning enjoyment, glanced at every moment
towards his companion's face. Once or twice he rearranged the light
waterproof which he had slung over one shoulder in toreador fashion. His
breeches, his white rubber shoes and his jauntily slung waterproof
expressed youth. But his figure fell into rotundity at the waist, his hair
was scant and grey and his face, when the waves of expression had passed
over it, had a ravaged look.
When he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he laughed noiselessly
for fully half a minute. Then he said:
"Well!... That takes the biscuit!"
His voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to enforce his words he added
"That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may so call it, recherche
He became serious and silent when he had said this. His tongue was tired
for he had been talking all the afternoon in a public-house in Dorset
Street. Most people considered Lenehan a leech but, in spite of this
reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his friends
from forming any general policy against him. He had a brave manner of
coming up to a party of them in a bar and of holding himself nimbly at the
borders of the company until he was included in a round. He was a sporting
vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks and riddles. He was
insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy. No one knew how he achieved the
stern task of living, but his name was vaguely associated with racing
"And where did you pick her up, Corley?" he asked.
Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip.
"One night, man," he said, "I was going along Dame Street and I spotted a
fine tart under Waterhouse's clock and said good-night, you know. So we
went for a walk round by the canal and she told me she was a slavey in a
house in Baggot Street. I put my arm round her and squeezed her a bit that
night. Then next Sunday, man, I met her by appointment. We went out to
Donnybrook and I brought her into a field there. She told me she used to
go with a dairyman.... It was fine, man. Cigarettes every night she'd
bring me and paying the tram out and back. And one night she brought me
two bloody fine cigars—O, the real cheese, you know, that the old
fellow used to smoke.... I was afraid, man, she'd get in the family way.
But she's up to the dodge."
"Maybe she thinks you'll marry her," said Lenehan.
"I told her I was out of a job," said Corley. "I told her I was in Pim's.
She doesn't know my name. I was too hairy to tell her that. But she thinks
I'm a bit of class, you know."
Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly.
"Of all the good ones ever I heard," he said, "that emphatically takes the
Corley's stride acknowledged the compliment. The swing of his burly body
made his friend execute a few light skips from the path to the roadway and
back again. Corley was the son of an inspector of police and he had
inherited his father's frame and gait. He walked with his hands by his
sides, holding himself erect and swaying his head from side to side. His
head was large, globular and oily; it sweated in all weathers; and his
large round hat, set upon it sideways, looked like a bulb which had grown
out of another. He always stared straight before him as if he were on
parade and, when he wished to gaze after someone in the street, it was
necessary for him to move his body from the hips. At present he was about
town. Whenever any job was vacant a friend was always ready to give him
the hard word. He was often to be seen walking with policemen in plain
clothes, talking earnestly. He knew the inner side of all affairs and was
fond of delivering final judgments. He spoke without listening to the
speech of his companions. His conversation was mainly about himself: what
he had said to such a person and what such a person had said to him and
what he had said to settle the matter. When he reported these dialogues he
aspirated the first letter of his name after the manner of Florentines.
Lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. As the two young men walked on
through the crowd Corley occasionally turned to smile at some of the
passing girls but Lenehan's gaze was fixed on the large faint moon circled
with a double halo. He watched earnestly the passing of the grey web of
twilight across its face. At length he said:
"Well... tell me, Corley, I suppose you'll be able to pull it off all
Corley closed one eye expressively as an answer.
"Is she game for that?" asked Lenehan dubiously. "You can never know
"She's all right," said Corley. "I know the way to get around her, man.
She's a bit gone on me."
"You're what I call a gay Lothario," said Lenehan. "And the proper kind of
a Lothario, too!"
A shade of mockery relieved the servility of his manner. To save himself
he had the habit of leaving his flattery open to the interpretation of
raillery. But Corley had not a subtle mind.
"There's nothing to touch a good slavey," he affirmed. "Take my tip for
"By one who has tried them all," said Lenehan.
"First I used to go with girls, you know," said Corley, unbosoming; "girls
off the South Circular. I used to take them out, man, on the tram
somewhere and pay the tram or take them to a band or a play at the theatre
or buy them chocolate and sweets or something that way. I used to spend
money on them right enough," he added, in a convincing tone, as if he was
conscious of being disbelieved.
But Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded gravely.
"I know that game," he said, "and it's a mug's game."
"And damn the thing I ever got out of it," said Corley.
"Ditto here," said Lenehan.
"Only off of one of them," said Corley.
He moistened his upper lip by running his tongue along it. The
recollection brightened his eyes. He too gazed at the pale disc of the
moon, now nearly veiled, and seemed to meditate.
"She was... a bit of all right," he said regretfully.
He was silent again. Then he added:
"She's on the turf now. I saw her driving down Earl Street one night with
two fellows with her on a car."
"I suppose that's your doing," said Lenehan.
"There was others at her before me," said Corley philosophically.
This time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve. He shook his head to and fro
"You know you can't kid me, Corley," he said.
"Honest to God!" said Corley. "Didn't she tell me herself?"
Lenehan made a tragic gesture.
"Base betrayer!" he said.
As they passed along the railings of Trinity College, Lenehan skipped out
into the road and peered up at the clock.
"Twenty after," he said.
"Time enough," said Corley. "She'll be there all right. I always let her
wait a bit."
Lenehan laughed quietly.
"Ecod! Corley, you know how to take them," he said.
"I'm up to all their little tricks," Corley confessed.
"But tell me," said Lenehan again, "are you sure you can bring it off all
right? You know it's a ticklish job. They're damn close on that point.
His bright, small eyes searched his companion's face for reassurance.
Corley swung his head to and fro as if to toss aside an insistent insect,
and his brows gathered.
"I'll pull it off," he said. "Leave it to me, can't you?"
Lenehan said no more. He did not wish to ruffle his friend's temper, to be
sent to the devil and told that his advice was not wanted. A little tact
was necessary. But Corley's brow was soon smooth again. His thoughts were
running another way.
"She's a fine decent tart," he said, with appreciation; "that's what she
They walked along Nassau Street and then turned into Kildare Street. Not
far from the porch of the club a harpist stood in the roadway, playing to
a little ring of listeners. He plucked at the wires heedlessly, glancing
quickly from time to time at the face of each new-comer and from time to
time, wearily also, at the sky. His harp, too, heedless that her coverings
had fallen about her knees, seemed weary alike of the eyes of strangers
and of her master's hands. One hand played in the bass the melody of
Silent, O Moyle, while the other hand careered in the treble after each
group of notes. The notes of the air sounded deep and full.
The two young men walked up the street without speaking, the mournful
music following them. When they reached Stephen's Green they crossed the
road. Here the noise of trams, the lights and the crowd released them from
"There she is!" said Corley.
At the corner of Hume Street a young woman was standing. She wore a blue
dress and a white sailor hat. She stood on the curbstone, swinging a
sunshade in one hand. Lenehan grew lively.
"Let's have a look at her, Corley," he said.
Corley glanced sideways at his friend and an unpleasant grin appeared on
"Are you trying to get inside me?" he asked.
"Damn it!" said Lenehan boldly, "I don't want an introduction. All I want
is to have a look at her. I'm not going to eat her."
"O... A look at her?" said Corley, more amiably. "Well... I'll tell you
what. I'll go over and talk to her and you can pass by."
"Right!" said Lenehan.
Corley had already thrown one leg over the chains when Lenehan called out:
"And after? Where will we meet?"
"Half ten," answered Corley, bringing over his other leg.
"Corner of Merrion Street. We'll be coming back."
"Work it all right now," said Lenehan in farewell.
Corley did not answer. He sauntered across the road swaying his head from
side to side. His bulk, his easy pace, and the solid sound of his boots
had something of the conqueror in them. He approached the young woman and,
without saluting, began at once to converse with her. She swung her
umbrella more quickly and executed half turns on her heels. Once or twice
when he spoke to her at close quarters she laughed and bent her head.
Lenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then he walked rapidly along
beside the chains at some distance and crossed the road obliquely. As he
approached Hume Street corner he found the air heavily scented and his
eyes made a swift anxious scrutiny of the young woman's appearance. She
had her Sunday finery on. Her blue serge skirt was held at the waist by a
belt of black leather. The great silver buckle of her belt seemed to
depress the centre of her body, catching the light stuff of her white
blouse like a clip. She wore a short black jacket with mother-of-pearl
buttons and a ragged black boa. The ends of her tulle collarette had been
carefully disordered and a big bunch of red flowers was pinned in her
bosom, stems upwards. Lenehan's eyes noted approvingly her stout short
muscular body. Frank rude health glowed in her face, on her fat red cheeks
and in her unabashed blue eyes. Her features were blunt. She had broad
nostrils, a straggling mouth which lay open in a contented leer, and two
projecting front teeth. As he passed Lenehan took off his cap and, after
about ten seconds, Corley returned a salute to the air. This he did by
raising his hand vaguely and pensively changing the angle of position of
Lenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel where he halted and waited.
After waiting for a little time he saw them coming towards him and, when
they turned to the right, he followed them, stepping lightly in his white
shoes, down one side of Merrion Square. As he walked on slowly, timing his
pace to theirs, he watched Corley's head which turned at every moment
towards the young woman's face like a big ball revolving on a pivot. He
kept the pair in view until he had seen them climbing the stairs of the
Donnybrook tram; then he turned about and went back the way he had come.
Now that he was alone his face looked older. His gaiety seemed to forsake
him and, as he came by the railings of the Duke's Lawn, he allowed his
hand to run along them. The air which the harpist had played began to
control his movements. His softly padded feet played the melody while his
fingers swept a scale of variations idly along the railings after each
group of notes.
He walked listlessly round Stephen's Green and then down Grafton Street.
Though his eyes took note of many elements of the crowd through which he
passed they did so morosely. He found trivial all that was meant to charm
him and did not answer the glances which invited him to be bold. He knew
that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent and to amuse, and his
brain and throat were too dry for such a task. The problem of how he could
pass the hours till he met Corley again troubled him a little. He could
think of no way of passing them but to keep on walking. He turned to the
left when he came to the corner of Rutland Square and felt more at ease in
the dark quiet street, the sombre look of which suited his mood. He paused
at last before the window of a poor-looking shop over which the words
Refreshment Bar were printed in white letters. On the glass of the window
were two flying inscriptions: Ginger Beer and Ginger Ale. A cut ham was
exposed on a great blue dish while near it on a plate lay a segment of
very light plum-pudding. He eyed this food earnestly for some time and
then, after glancing warily up and down the street, went into the shop
He was hungry for, except some biscuits which he had asked two grudging
curates to bring him, he had eaten nothing since breakfast-time. He sat
down at an uncovered wooden table opposite two work-girls and a mechanic.
A slatternly girl waited on him.
"How much is a plate of peas?" he asked.
"Three halfpence, sir," said the girl.
"Bring me a plate of peas," he said, "and a bottle of ginger beer."
He spoke roughly in order to belie his air of gentility for his entry had
been followed by a pause of talk. His face was heated. To appear natural
he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his elbows on the table.
The mechanic and the two work-girls examined him point by point before
resuming their conversation in a subdued voice. The girl brought him a
plate of grocer's hot peas, seasoned with pepper and vinegar, a fork and
his ginger beer. He ate his food greedily and found it so good that he
made a note of the shop mentally. When he had eaten all the peas he sipped
his ginger beer and sat for some time thinking of Corley's adventure. In
his imagination he beheld the pair of lovers walking along some dark road;
he heard Corley's voice in deep energetic gallantries and saw again the
leer of the young woman's mouth. This vision made him feel keenly his own
poverty of purse and spirit. He was tired of knocking about, of pulling
the devil by the tail, of shifts and intrigues. He would be thirty-one in
November. Would he never get a good job? Would he never have a home of his
own? He thought how pleasant it would be to have a warm fire to sit by and
a good dinner to sit down to. He had walked the streets long enough with
friends and with girls. He knew what those friends were worth: he knew the
girls too. Experience had embittered his heart against the world. But all
hope had not left him. He felt better after having eaten than he had felt
before, less weary of his life, less vanquished in spirit. He might yet be
able to settle down in some snug corner and live happily if he could only
come across some good simple-minded girl with a little of the ready.
He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl and went out of the shop
to begin his wandering again. He went into Capel Street and walked along
towards the City Hall. Then he turned into Dame Street. At the corner of
George's Street he met two friends of his and stopped to converse with
them. He was glad that he could rest from all his walking. His friends
asked him had he seen Corley and what was the latest. He replied that he
had spent the day with Corley. His friends talked very little. They looked
vacantly after some figures in the crowd and sometimes made a critical
remark. One said that he had seen Mac an hour before in Westmoreland
Street. At this Lenehan said that he had been with Mac the night before in
Egan's. The young man who had seen Mac in Westmoreland Street asked was it
true that Mac had won a bit over a billiard match. Lenehan did not know:
he said that Holohan had stood them drinks in Egan's.
He left his friends at a quarter to ten and went up George's Street. He
turned to the left at the City Markets and walked on into Grafton Street.
The crowd of girls and young men had thinned and on his way up the street
he heard many groups and couples bidding one another good-night. He went
as far as the clock of the College of Surgeons: it was on the stroke of
ten. He set off briskly along the northern side of the Green hurrying for
fear Corley should return too soon. When he reached the corner of Merrion
Street he took his stand in the shadow of a lamp and brought out one of
the cigarettes which he had reserved and lit it. He leaned against the
lamp-post and kept his gaze fixed on the part from which he expected to
see Corley and the young woman return.
His mind became active again. He wondered had Corley managed it
successfully. He wondered if he had asked her yet or if he would leave it
to the last. He suffered all the pangs and thrills of his friend's
situation as well as those of his own. But the memory of Corley's slowly
revolving head calmed him somewhat: he was sure Corley would pull it off
all right. All at once the idea struck him that perhaps Corley had seen
her home by another way and given him the slip. His eyes searched the
street: there was no sign of them. Yet it was surely half-an-hour since he
had seen the clock of the College of Surgeons. Would Corley do a thing
like that? He lit his last cigarette and began to smoke it nervously. He
strained his eyes as each tram stopped at the far corner of the square.
They must have gone home by another way. The paper of his cigarette broke
and he flung it into the road with a curse.
Suddenly he saw them coming towards him. He started with delight and,
keeping close to his lamp-post, tried to read the result in their walk.
They were walking quickly, the young woman taking quick short steps, while
Corley kept beside her with his long stride. They did not seem to be
speaking. An intimation of the result pricked him like the point of a
sharp instrument. He knew Corley would fail; he knew it was no go.
They turned down Baggot Street and he followed them at once, taking the
other footpath. When they stopped he stopped too. They talked for a few
moments and then the young woman went down the steps into the area of a
house. Corley remained standing at the edge of the path, a little distance
from the front steps. Some minutes passed. Then the hall-door was opened
slowly and cautiously. A woman came running down the front steps and
coughed. Corley turned and went towards her. His broad figure hid hers
from view for a few seconds and then she reappeared running up the steps.
The door closed on her and Corley began to walk swiftly towards Stephen's
Lenehan hurried on in the same direction. Some drops of light rain fell.
He took them as a warning and, glancing back towards the house which the
young woman had entered to see that he was not observed, he ran eagerly
across the road. Anxiety and his swift run made him pant. He called out:
Corley turned his head to see who had called him, and then continued
walking as before. Lenehan ran after him, settling the waterproof on his
shoulders with one hand.
"Hallo, Corley!" he cried again.
He came level with his friend and looked keenly in his face. He could see
"Well?" he said. "Did it come off?"
They had reached the corner of Ely Place. Still without answering, Corley
swerved to the left and went up the side street. His features were
composed in stern calm. Lenehan kept up with his friend, breathing
uneasily. He was baffled and a note of menace pierced through his voice.
"Can't you tell us?" he said. "Did you try her?"
Corley halted at the first lamp and stared grimly before him. Then with a
grave gesture he extended a hand towards the light and, smiling, opened it
slowly to the gaze of his disciple. A small gold coin shone in the palm.