Short Stories 1927-1956 Read Free Page A

come in, an invitation innocent of warmth, but more pressing than the mere words implied. To a mouse the wreathing odour of toasted cheese – before the actual trap comes into sight – must be similar in effect. There was a suppressed eagerness in the eyes behind those glasses. They had rolled a little in their sockets. And yet, even so, why should I havedistrusted him? It would be monstrous to take this world solely on its face value. I was on the point of blurting out a churlish refusal when he stepped back and pushed the door open. The glimpse within decided me.
    For the hall beyond that hospitable gape was peculiarly attractive. Not very lofty, but of admirable proportions, it was panelled in light wood, the carving on its cornice and pilasters tinged in here and there with gilt. From its roof hung three chandeliers of greenish-grey glass – entrancing things, resembling that mysterious exquisite ice that comes from Waterford. The evening light swam softly in through the uncurtained windows as if upon the stillness of a dream.
    Empty, it would have been a fascinating room; but just now it was grotesquely packed with old furniture – beautiful, costly things in themselves , but, in this hugger-mugger, robbed of all elegance and grace. Only the narrowest alley-way had been left unoccupied – an alley-way hardly wide enough to enable a human being to come and go without positively mounting up off the floor, as in the Land-and-Water game beloved of children . It might have been some antique furniture dealer’s interior, prepared for ‘a moonlight flit’. Mr Bloom smiled at the air of surprise which must have been evident in my face. ‘Here today,’ he murmured, as if he were there and then preparing to be off – ‘and gone tomorrow.’
    But having thus enticed me in under his roof, he rapidly motioned me on, not even turning his head to see if I were following him. For so cumbersome a man he was agile, and at the dusky twist of the corridor I found him already awaiting me, his hand on an inner door. ‘This is the library,’ he informed me, with a suavity that suggested that I was some wealthy visitor to whom he wished to dispose of the property. ‘One moment,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I think I neglected to shut the outer door.’
    A library is often in effect little better than a mausoleum. But on a sunny morning this room must have looked as jocund as some ‘beauty’s’ boudoir. It was evening now. Dimmed old Persian rugs lay on the floor; there was a large writing-table. The immense armchairs were covered with vermilion morocco leather, and the walls, apart from a few engravings and mezzotints , were lined with exquisitely bound books, and jade and geranium and primrose-yellow were apparently Mr Bloom’s favourite colours. On one side many of the books had been removed and lay stacked up in portable bundles beneath the shelves on which they had stood. Opposite these was a lofty chimneypiece surmounted by mouldings in plaster – some pagan scene. And once again the self-sacrificing pelican showed in the midmost panel – still engaged in feeding her young.
    I was looking out of the long windows when Mr Bloom reappeared. He still seemed to be smiling in his non-committal fashion and treated me to yet another slow scrutiny; the most conspicuous feature of his person, apartfrom his spectacles, being at such moments the spade-guinea that dangled from his watch-chain. Brown trousers, my friend, I was thinking to myself, why brown? And why not wear clothes that fit?
    ‘You are a lover of books?’ he was murmuring, in that flat, muffled voice of his; and we were soon conversing amiably enough on the diversions of literature. He led me steadily from shelf to shelf; but for the time being he was only making conversation. He was definitely detaining me, and staved off every opportunity I attempted to seize of extricating myself from his company. At last I bluntly held out my hand, and in spite of his