A Painful Case

by James Joyce

MR. JAMES DUFFY lived in Chapelizod because he wished tolive as far as possible from the city of which he was a citizen andbecause he found all the other suburbs of Dublin mean, modernand pretentious. He lived in an old sombre house and from hiswindows he could look into the disused distillery or upwards alongthe shallow river on which Dublin is built. The lofty walls of hisuncarpeted room were free from pictures. He had himself boughtevery article of furniture in the room: a black iron bedstead, aniron washstand, four cane chairs, a clothes- rack, a coal-scuttle, afender and irons and a square table on which lay a double desk. Abookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelves ofwhite wood. The bed was clothed with white bedclothes and ablack and scarlet rug covered the foot. A little hand-mirror hungabove the washstand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stoodas the sole ornament of the mantelpiece. The books on the whitewooden shelves were arranged from below upwards according tobulk. A complete Wordsworth stood at one end of the lowest shelfand a copy of the Maynooth Catechism, sewn into the cloth coverof a notebook, stood at one end of the top shelf. Writing materialswere always on the desk. In the desk lay a manuscript translationof Hauptmann's Michael Kramer, the stage directions of whichwere written in purple ink, and a little sheaf of papers heldtogether by a brass pin. In these sheets a sentence was inscribedfrom time to time and, in an ironical moment, the headline of anadvertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted on to the first sheet.On lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragrance escaped -- thefragrance of new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle of gum or of anoverripe apple which might have been left there and forgotten.Mr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mentaldisorder. A medival doctor would have called him saturnine. Hisface, which carried the entire tale of his years, was of the browntint of Dublin streets. On his long and rather large head grew dryblack hair and a tawny moustache did not quite cover anunamiable mouth. His cheekbones also gave his face a harshcharacter; but there was no harshness in the eyes which, looking atthe world from under their tawny eyebrows, gave the impression ofa man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct in others but oftendisappointed. He lived at a little distance from his body, regardinghis own acts with doubtful side-glasses. He had an oddautobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind fromtime to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject inthe third person and a predicate in the past tense. He never gavealms to beggars and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel.He had been for many years cashier of a private bank in BaggotStreet. Every morning he came in from Chapelizod by tram. Atmidday he went to Dan Burke's and took his lunch -- a bottle oflager beer and a small trayful of arrowroot biscuits. At four o'clockhe was set free. He dined in an eating-house in George's Streetwhere he felt himself safe from the society o Dublin's gilded youthand where there was a certain plain honesty in the bill of fare. Hisevenings were spent either before his landlady's piano or roamingabout the outskirts of the city. His liking for Mozart's musicbrought him sometimes to an opera or a concert: these were theonly dissipations of his life.He had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed. He livedhis spiritual life without any communion with others, visiting hisrelatives at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery whenthey died. He performed these two social duties for old dignity'ssake but conceded nothing further to the conventions whichregulate the civic life. He allowed himself to think that in certaincircumstances he would rob his hank but, as these circumstancesnever arose, his life rolled out evenly -- an adventureless tale.One evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in theRotunda. The house, thinly peopled and silent, gave distressingprophecy of failure. The lady who sat next him looked round at thedeserted house once or twice and then said:"What a pity there is such a poor house tonight! It's so hard onpeople to have to sing to empty benches."He took the remark as an invitation to talk. He was surprised thatshe seemed so little awkward. While they talked he tried to fix herpermanently in his memory. When he learned that the young girlbeside her was her daughter he judged her to be a year or soyounger than himself. Her face, which must have been handsome,had remained intelligent. It was an oval face with strongly markedfeatures. The eyes were very dark blue and steady. Their gazebegan with a defiant note but was confused by what seemed adeliberate swoon of the pupil into the iris, revealing for an instanta temperament of great sensibility. The pupil reasserted itselfquickly, this half- disclosed nature fell again under the reign ofprudence, and her astrakhan jacket, moulding a bosom of a certainfullness, struck the note of defiance more definitely.He met her again a few weeks afterwards at a concert in EarlsfortTerrace and seized the moments when her daughter's attention wasdiverted to become intimate. She alluded once or twice to herhusband but her tone was not such as to make the allusion awarning. Her name was Mrs. Sinico. Her husband'sgreat-great-grandfather had come from Leghorn. Her husband wascaptain of a mercantile boat plying between Dublin and Holland;and they had one child.Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make anappointment. She came. This was the first of many meetings; theymet always in the evening and chose the most quiet quarters fortheir walks together. Mr. Duffy, however, had a distaste forunderhand ways and, finding that they were compelled to meetstealthily, he forced her to ask him to her house. Captain Sinicoencouraged his visits, thinking that his daughter's hand was inquestion. He had dismissed his wife so sincerely from his galleryof pleasures that he did not suspect that anyone else would take aninterest in her. As the husband was often away and the daughterout giving music lessons Mr. Duffy had many opportunities ofenjoying the lady's society. Neither he nor she had had any suchadventure before and neither was conscious of any incongruity.Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent herbooks, provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life withher. She listened to all.Sometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of herown life. With almost maternal solicitude she urged him to let hisnature open to the full: she became his confessor. He told her thatfor some time he had assisted at the meetings of an Irish SocialistParty where he had felt himself a unique figure amidst a score ofsober workmen in a garret lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. When theparty had divided into three sections, each under its own leaderand in its own garret, he had discontinued his attendances. Theworkmen's discussions, he said, were too timorous; the interestthey took in the question of wages was inordinate. He felt that theywere hard-featured realists and that they resented an exactitudewhich was the produce of a leisure not within their reach. Nosocial revolution, he told her, would be likely to strike Dublin forsome centuries.She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, heasked her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers,incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submithimself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrustedits morality to policemen and its fine arts to impresarios?He went often to her little cottage outside Dublin; often they spenttheir evenings alone. Little by little, as their thoughts entangled,they spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship was like awarm soil about an exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to fallupon them, refraining from lighting the lamp. The dark discreetroom, their isolation, the music that still vibrated in their earsunited them. This union exalted him, wore away the rough edgesof his character, emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes hecaught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thoughtthat in her eyes he would ascend to an angelical stature; and, as heattached the fervent nature of his companion more and moreclosely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which herecognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable loneliness.We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. The end ofthese discourses was that one night during which she had shownevery sign of unusual excitement, Mrs. Sinico caught up his handpassionately and pressed it to her cheek.Mr. Duffy was very much surprised. Her interpretation of hiswords disillusioned him. He did not visit her for a week, then hewrote to her asking her to meet him. As he did not wish their lastinterview to be troubled by the influence of their ruinedconfessional they meet in a little cakeshop near the Parkgate. Itwas cold autumn weather but in spite of the cold they wandered upand down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreedto break off their intercourse: every bond, he said, is a bond tosorrow. When they came out of the Park they walked in silencetowards the tram; but here she began to tremble so violently that,fearing another collapse on her part, he bade her good-bye quicklyand left her. A few days later he received a parcel containing hisbooks and music.Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. Hisroom still bore witness of the orderliness of his mind. Some newpieces of music encumbered the music-stand in the lower roomand on his shelves stood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus SpakeZarathustra and The Gay Science. He wrote seldom in the sheaf ofpapers which lay in his desk. One of his sentences, written twomonths after his last interview with Mrs. Sinico, read: Lovebetween man and man is impossible because there must not besexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman isimpossible because there must be sexual intercourse. He kept awayfrom concerts lest he should meet her. His father died; the juniorpartner of the bank retired. And still every morning he went intothe city by tram and every evening walked home from the city afterhaving dined moderately in George's Street and read the eveningpaper for dessert.One evening as he was about to put a morsel of corned beef andcabbage into his mouth his hand stopped. His eyes fixedthemselves on a paragraph in the evening paper which he hadpropped against the water-carafe. He replaced the morsel of foodon his plate and read the paragraph attentively. Then he drank aglass of water, pushed his plate to one side, doubled the paperdown before him between his elbows and read the paragraph overand over again. The cabbage began to deposit a cold white greaseon his plate. The girl came over to him to ask was his dinner notproperly cooked. He said it was very good and ate a few mouthfulsof it with difficulty. Then he paid his bill and went out.He walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stouthazel stick striking the ground regularly, the fringe of the buff Mailpeeping out of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat. On thelonely road which leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod heslackened his pace. His stick struck the ground less emphaticallyand his breath, issuing irregularly, almost with a sighing sound,condensed in the wintry air. When he reached his house he wentup at once to his bedroom and, taking the paper from his pocket,read the paragraph again by the failing light of the window. Heread it not aloud, but moving his lips as a priest does when hereads the prayers Secreto. This was the paragraph:DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADEA PAINFUL CASEToday at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in theabsence of Mr. Leverett) held an inquest on the body of Mrs.Emily Sinico, aged forty-three years, who was killed at SydneyParade Station yesterday evening. The evidence showed that thedeceased lady, while attempting to cross the line, was knockeddown by the engine of the ten o'clock slow train from Kingstown,thereby sustaining injuries of the head and right side which led toher death.James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated that he had been in theemployment of the railway company for fifteen years. On hearingthe guard's whistle he set the train in motion and a second or twoafterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries. The trainwas going slowly.P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train was about to starthe observed a woman attempting to cross the lines. He ran towardsher and shouted, but, before he could reach her, she was caught bythe buffer of the engine and fell to the ground.A juror. "You saw the lady fall?"Witness. "Yes."Police Sergeant Croly deposed that when he arrived he found thedeceased lying on the platform apparently dead. He had the bodytaken to the waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance.Constable 57 corroborated.Dr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital,stated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and hadsustained severe contusions of the right shoulder. The right side ofthe head had been injured in the fall. The injuries were notsufficient to have caused death in a normal person. Death, in hisopinion, had been probably due to shock and sudden failure of theheart's action.Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway company,expressed his deep regret at the accident. The company had alwaystaken every precaution to prevent people crossing the lines exceptby the bridges, both by placing notices in every station and by theuse of patent spring gates at level crossings. The deceased hadbeen in the habit of crossing the lines late at night from platform toplatform and, in view of certain other circumstances of the case,he did not think the railway officials were to blame.Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of thedeceased, also gave evidence. He stated that the deceased was hiswife. He was not in Dublin at the time of the accident as he hadarrived only that morning from Rotterdam. They had been marriedfor twenty-two years and had lived happily until about two yearsago when his wife began to be rather intemperate in her habits.Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother had been in the habitof going out at night to buy spirits. She, witness, had often tried toreason with her mother and had induced her to join a League. Shewas not at home until an hour after the accident. The jury returneda verdict in accordance with the medical evidence and exoneratedLennon from all blame.The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful case, and expressedgreat sympathy with Captain Sinico and his daughter. He urged onthe railway company to take strong measures to prevent thepossibility of similar accidents in the future. No blame attached toanyone. Mr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of hiswindow on the cheerless evening landscape. The river lay quietbeside the empty distillery and from time to time a light appearedin some house on the Lucan road. What an end! The wholenarrative of her death revolted him and it revolted him to think thathe had ever spoken to her of what he held sacred. The threadbarephrases, the inane expressions of sympathy, the cautious words ofa reporter won over to conceal the details of a commonplacevulgar death attacked his stomach. Not merely had she degradedherself; she had degraded him. He saw the squalid tract of her vice,miserable and malodorous. His soul's companion! He thought ofthe hobbling wretches whom he had seen carrying cans and bottlesto be filled by the barman. Just God, what an end! Evidently shehad been unfit to live, without any strength of purpose, an easyprey to habits, one of the wrecks on which civilisation has beenreared. But that she could have sunk so low! Was it possible hehad deceived himself so utterly about her? He remembered heroutburst of that night and interpreted it in a harsher sense than hehad ever done. He had no difficulty now in approving of the coursehe had taken.As the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought herhand touched his. The shock which had first attacked his stomachwas now attacking his nerves. He put on his overcoat and hatquickly and went out. The cold air met him on the threshold; itcrept into the sleeves of his coat. When he came to thepublic-house at Chapelizod Bridge he went in and ordered a hotpunch.The proprietor served him obsequiously but did not venture to talk.There were five or six workingmen in the shop discussing thevalue of a gentleman's estate in County Kildare They drank atintervals from their huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting oftenon the floor and sometimes dragging the sawdust over their spitswith their heavy boots. Mr. Duffy sat on his stool and gazed atthem, without seeing or hearing them. After a while they went outand he called for another punch. He sat a long time over it. Theshop was very quiet. The proprietor sprawled on the counterreading the Herald and yawning. Now and again a tram was heardswishing along the lonely road outside.As he sat there, living over his life with her and evokingalternately the two images in which he now conceived her, herealised that she was dead, that she had ceased to exist, that shehad become a memory. He began to feel ill at ease. He askedhimself what else could he have done. He could not have carriedon a comedy of deception with her; he could not have lived withher openly. He had done what seemed to him best. How was he toblame? Now that she was gone he understood how lonely her lifemust have been, sitting night after night alone in that room. Hislife would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, becamea memory -- if anyone remembered him.It was after nine o'clock when he left the shop. The night was coldand gloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate and walked alongunder the gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys wherethey had walked four years before. She seemed to be near him inthe darkness. At moments he seemed to feel her voice touch hisear, her hand touch his. He stood still to listen. Why had hewithheld life from her? Why had he sentenced her to death? Hefelt his moral nature falling to pieces.When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted andlooked along the river towards Dublin, the lights of which burnedredly and hospitably in the cold night. He looked down the slopeand, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he sawsome human figures lying. Those venal and furtive loves filled himwith despair. He gnawed the rectitude of his life; he felt that hehad been outcast from life's feast. One human being had seemed tolove him and he had denied her life and happiness: he hadsentenced her to ignominy, a death of shame. He knew that theprostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him andwished him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from life'sfeast. He turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river, winding alongtowards Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a goods train winding outof Kingsbridge Station, like a worm with a fiery head windingthrough the darkness, obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowlyout of sight; but still he heard in his ears the laborious drone of theengine reiterating the syllables of her name.He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the enginepounding in his ears. He began to doubt the reality of whatmemory told him. He halted under a tree and allowed the rhythmto die away. He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hervoice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. Hecould hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listenedagain: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.

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