The Sisters

by James Joyce

THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke.Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) andstudied the lighted square of window: and night after night I hadfound it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he wasdead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on thedarkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the headof a corpse. He had often said to me: "I am not long for thisworld," and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they weretrue. Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly tomyself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in myears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony inthe Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of somemaleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longedto be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I camedownstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabouthe said, as if returning to some former remark of his:"No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was somethingqueer... there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you myopinion...."He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in hismind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to berather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grewtired of him and his endless stories about the distillery."I have my own theory about it," he said. "I think it was one ofthose ... peculiar cases .... But it's hard to say...."He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. Myuncle saw me staring and said to me:"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear.""Who?" said I."Father Flynn.""Is he dead?""Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house."I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if thenews had not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter."The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught hima great deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him.""God have mercy on his soul," said my aunt piously.Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beadyblack eyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him bylooking up from my plate. He returned to his pipe and finally spatrudely into the grate."I wouldn't like children of mine," he said, "to have too much tosay to a man like that.""How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?" asked my aunt."What I mean is," said old Cotter, "it's bad for children. My idea is:let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own ageand not be... Am I right, Jack?""That's my principle, too," said my uncle. "Let him learn to box hiscorner. That's what I'm always saying to that Rosicrucian there:take exercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my lifeI had a cold bath, winter and summer. And that's what stands to menow. Education is all very fine and large.... Mr. Cotter might take apick of that leg mutton," he added to my aunt."No, no, not for me," said old Cotter.My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table."But why do you think it's not good for children, Mr. Cotter?" sheasked."It's bad for children," said old Cotter, "because their mind are soimpressionable. When children see things like that, you know, ithas an effect...."I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utteranceto my anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotterfor alluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaningfrom his unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imaginedthat I saw again the heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew theblankets over my head and tried to think of Christmas. But the greyface still followed me. It murmured, and I understood that itdesired to confess something. I felt my soul receding into somepleasant and vicious region; and there again I found it waiting forme. It began to confess to me in a murmuring voice and Iwondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were somoist with spittle. But then I remembered that it had died ofparalysis and I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve thesimoniac of his sin.The next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the littlehouse in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop,registered under the vague name of Drapery . The draperyconsisted mainly of children's bootees and umbrellas; and onordinary days a notice used to hang in the window, saying:Umbrellas Re-covered . No notice was visible now for the shutterswere up. A crape bouquet was tied to the doorknocker with ribbon.Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinnedon the crape. I also approached and read:July 1st, 1895The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's Church,Meath Street), aged sixty-five years.R. I. P.The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I wasdisturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I wouldhave gone into the little dark room behind the shop to find himsitting in his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in hisgreat-coat. Perhaps my aunt would have given me a packet of HighToast for him and this present would have roused him from hisstupefied doze. It was always I who emptied the packet into hisblack snuff-box for his hands trembled too much to allow him todo this without spilling half the snuff about the floor. Even as heraised his large trembling hand to his nose little clouds of smokedribbled through his fingers over the front of his coat. It may havebeen these constant showers of snuff which gave his ancientpriestly garments their green faded look for the red handkerchief,blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, withwhich he tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quiteinefficacious.I wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage toknock. I walked away slowly along the sunny side of the street,reading all the theatrical advertisements in the shop-windows as Iwent. I found it strange that neither I nor the day seemed in amourning mood and I felt even annoyed at discovering in myself asensation of freedom as if I had been freed from something by hisdeath. I wondered at this for, as my uncle had said the nightbefore, he had taught me a great deal. He had studied in the Irishcollege in Rome and he had taught me to pronounce Latinproperly. He had told me stories about the catacombs and aboutNapoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning ofthe different ceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestmentsworn by the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself by puttingdifficult questions to me, asking me what one should do in certaincircumstances or whether such and such sins were mortal or venialor only imperfections. His questions showed me how complex andmysterious were certain institutions of the Church which I hadalways regarded as the simplest acts. The duties of the priesttowards the Eucharist and towards the secrecy of the confessionalseemed so grave to me that I wondered how anybody had everfound in himself the courage to undertake them; and I was notsurprised when he told me that the fathers of the Church hadwritten books as thick as the Post Office Directory and as closelyprinted as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating all theseintricate questions. Often when I thought of this I could make noanswer or only a very foolish and halting one upon which he usedto smile and nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used toput me through the responses of the Mass which he had made melearn by heart; and, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively andnod his head, now and then pushing huge pinches of snuff up eachnostril alternately. When he smiled he used to uncover his bigdiscoloured teeth and let his tongue lie upon his lower lip -- a habitwhich had made me feel uneasy in the beginning of ouracquaintance before I knew him well.As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter's words andtried to remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. Iremembered that I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinginglamp of antique fashion. I felt that I had been very far away, insome land where the customs were strange -- in Persia, I thought....But I could not remember the end of the dream.In the evening my aunt took me with her to visit the house ofmourning. It was after sunset; but the window-panes of the housesthat looked to the west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank ofclouds. Nannie received us in the hall; and, as it would have beenunseemly to have shouted at her, my aunt shook hands with her forall. The old woman pointed upwards interrogatively and, on myaunt's nodding, proceeded to toil up the narrow staircase before us,her bowed head being scarcely above the level of the banister-rail.At the first landing she stopped and beckoned us forwardencouragingly towards the open door of the dead-room. My auntwent in and the old woman, seeing that I hesitated to enter, beganto beckon to me again repeatedly with her hand.I went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace end of the blind wassuffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles lookedlike pale thin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the leadand we three knelt down at the foot of the bed. I pretended to praybut I could not gather my thoughts because the old woman'smutterings distracted me. I noticed how clumsily her skirt washooked at the back and how the heels of her cloth boots weretrodden down all to one side. The fancy came to me that the oldpriest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin.But no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I sawthat he was not smiling. There he lay, solemn and copious, vestedas for the altar, his large hands loosely retaining a chalice. His facewas very truculent, grey and massive, with black cavernousnostrils and circled by a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odourin the room -- the flowers.We crossed ourselves and came away. In the little room downstairswe found Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state. I groped my waytowards my usual chair in the corner while Nannie went to thesideboard and brought out a decanter of sherry and somewine-glasses. She set these on the table and invited us to take alittle glass of wine. Then, at her sister's bidding, she filled out thesherry into the glasses and passed them to us. She pressed me totake some cream crackers also but I declined because I thought Iwould make too much noise eating them. She seemed to besomewhat disappointed at my refusal and went over quietly to thesofa where she sat down behind her sister. No one spoke: we allgazed at the empty fireplace.My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said:"Ah, well, he's gone to a better world."Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt fingeredthe stem of her wine-glass before sipping a little."Did he... peacefully?" she asked."Oh, quite peacefully, ma'am," said Eliza. "You couldn't tell whenthe breath went out of him. He had a beautiful death, God bepraised.""And everything...?""Father O'Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him andprepared him and all.""He knew then?""He was quite resigned.""He looks quite resigned," said my aunt."That's what the woman we had in to wash him said. She said hejust looked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful andresigned. No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.""Yes, indeed," said my aunt.She sipped a little more from her glass and said:"Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you toknow that you did all you could for him. You were both very kindto him, I must say."Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees."Ah, poor James!" she said. "God knows we done all we could, aspoor as we are -- we wouldn't see him want anything while he wasin it."Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemedabout to fall asleep."There's poor Nannie," said Eliza, looking at her, "she's wore out.All the work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to washhim and then laying him out and then the coffin and then arrangingabout the Mass in the chapel. Only for Father O'Rourke I don'tknow what we'd done at all. It was him brought us all them flowersand them two candlesticks out of the chapel and wrote out thenotice for the Freeman's General and took charge of all the papersfor the cemetery and poor James's insurance.""Wasn't that good of him?" said my auntEliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly."Ah, there's no friends like the old friends," she said, "when all issaid and done, no friends that a body can trust.""Indeed, that's true," said my aunt. "And I'm sure now that he'sgone to his eternal reward he won't forget you and all yourkindness to him.""Ah, poor James!" said Eliza. "He was no great trouble to us. Youwouldn't hear him in the house any more than now. Still, I knowhe's gone and all to that....""It's when it's all over that you'll miss him," said my aunt."I know that," said Eliza. "I won't be bringing him in his cup ofbeef-tea any me, nor you, ma'am, sending him his snuff. Ah, poorJames!"She stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then saidshrewdly:"Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over himlatterly. Whenever I'd bring in his soup to him there I'd find himwith his breviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and hismouth open."She laid a finger against her nose and frowned: then she continued:"But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer wasover he'd go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old houseagain where we were all born down in Irishtown and take me andNannie with him. If we could only get one of them new-fangledcarriages that makes no noise that Father O'Rourke told him about,them with the rheumatic wheels, for the day cheap -- he said, atJohnny Rush's over the way there and drive out the three of ustogether of a Sunday evening. He had his mind set on that.... PoorJames!""The Lord have mercy on his soul!" said my aunt.Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Thenshe put it back again in her pocket and gazed into the empty gratefor some time without speaking."He was too scrupulous always," she said. "The duties of thepriesthood was too much for him. And then his life was, you nightsay, crossed.""Yes," said my aunt. "He was a disappointed man. You could seethat."A silence took possession of the little room and, under cover of it,I approached the table and tasted my sherry and then returnedquietly to my chair in the comer. Eliza seemed to have fallen into adeep revery. We waited respectfully for her to break the silence:and after a long pause she said slowly:"It was that chalice he broke.... That was the beginning of it. Ofcourse, they say it was all right, that it contained nothing, I mean.But still.... They say it was the boy's fault. But poor James was sonervous, God be merciful to him!""And was that it?" said my aunt. "I heard something...."Eliza nodded."That affected his mind," she said. "After that he began to mope byhimself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So onenight he was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn't find himanywhere. They looked high up and low down; and still theycouldn't see a sight of him anywhere. So then the clerk suggestedto try the chapel. So then they got the keys and opened the chapeland the clerk and Father O'Rourke and another priest that wasthere brought in a light for to look for him.... And what do youthink but there he was, sitting up by himself in the dark in hisconfession-box, wide- awake and laughing-like softly to himself?"She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there wasno sound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying stillin his coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, anidle chalice on his breast.Eliza resumed:"Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself.... So then, of course,when they saw that, that made them think that there was somethinggone wrong with him...."

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