MR. JAMES DUFFY lived
in
Chapelizod
because
he
wished
to
live
as
far
as
possible
from
the
city
of
which
he
was
a
citizen
and
because
he
found all the
other
suburbs
of
Dublin mean,
modern
and
pretentious.
He
lived
in
an
old
sombre
house
and
from
his
windows
he
could
look
into
the disused distillery
or
upwards
along
the
shallow
river
on
which
Dublin
is
built. The lofty walls
of
his
uncarpeted
room
were
free
from
pictures.
He
had
himself
bought
every
article
of
furniture
in
the room:
a
black
iron bedstead, an iron washstand, four
cane
chairs,
a
clothes-rack,
a
coal-scuttle,
a
fender
and
irons
and
a
square
table
on
which
lay
a
double
desk.
A
bookcase
had been
made
in
an
alcove
by
means
of
shelves
of
white
wood. The
bed
was
clothed
with
white
bedclothes
and
a
black
and
scarlet
rug
covered the foot.
A
little
hand-mirror
hung
above
the washstand
and
during
the
day
a
white-shaded
lamp
stood
as
the
sole
ornament
of
the mantelpiece. The books
on
the
white
wooden
shelves
were
arranged
from
below
upwards according
to
bulk.
A
complete Wordsworth stood
at
one
end
of
the lowest
shelf
and
a
copy
of
the Maynooth Catechism, sewn
into
the
cloth
cover
of
a
notebook, stood
at
one
end
of
the
top
shelf.
Writing
materials
were
always
on
the desk.
In
the
desk
lay
a
manuscript
translation
of
Hauptmann's Michael Kramer, the
stage
directions
of
which
were
written
in
purple ink,
and
a
little
sheaf
of
papers held
together
by
a
brass
pin.
In
these
sheets
a
sentence
was
inscribed
from
time
to
time
and,
in
an ironical moment, the headline
of
an
advertisement
for
Bile
Beans had been pasted
on
to
the first sheet.
On
lifting the
lid
of
the
desk
a
faint
fragrance
escaped—the
fragrance
of
new
cedarwood pencils
or
of
a
bottle
of
gum
or
of
an overripe
apple
which
might
have
been
left
there
and
forgotten. Mr. Duffy abhorred
anything
which
betokened physical
or
mental
disorder.
A
mediaeval doctor would
have
called
him
saturnine.
His
face,
which
carried the
entire
tale
of
his
years,
was
of
the brown tint
of
Dublin streets.
On
his
long
and
rather
large
head
grew
dry
black
hair
and
a
tawny
moustache
did
not
quite
cover an unamiable mouth.
His
cheekbones
also
gave
his
face
a
harsh
character; but there
was
no harshness
in
the eyes which, looking
at
the
world
from
under
their
tawny
eyebrows, gave the
impression
of
a
man
ever
alert
to
greet
a
redeeming
instinct
in
others but
often
disappointed.
He
lived
at
a
little
distance
from
his
body, regarding
his
own
acts
with
doubtful side-glances.
He
had an
odd
autobiographical
habit
which
led
him
to
compose
in
his
mind
from
time
to
time
a
short
sentence
about
himself
containing
a
subject
in
the
third
person
and
a
predicate
in
the past tense.
He
never
gave
alms
to
beggars
and
walked firmly, carrying
a
stout hazel.
He
had been
for
many
years
cashier
of
a
private
bank
in
Baggot Street.
Every
morning
he
came
in
from
Chapelizod
by
tram.
At
midday
he
went
to
Dan Burke's
and
took
his
lunch—a bottle
of
lager
beer
and
a
small trayful
of
arrowroot biscuits.
At
four
o'clock
he
was
set
free.
He
dined
in
an eating-house
in
George's
Street
where
he
felt
himself
safe
from
the
society
of
Dublin's
gilded
youth
and
where
there
was
a
certain
plain
honesty
in
the
bill
of
fare.
His
evenings
were
spent either before
his
landlady's
piano
or
roaming
about
the outskirts
of
the city.
His
liking
for
Mozart's
music
brought
him
sometimes
to
an
opera
or
a
concert:
these
were
the
only
dissipations
of
his
life.
He
had
neither
companions
nor
friends, church
nor
creed.
He
lived
his
spiritual
life
without
any
communion
with
others, visiting
his
relatives
at
Christmas
and
escorting
them
to
the
cemetery
when
they
died.
He
performed
these
two
social
duties
for
old
dignity's sake but conceded
nothing
further
to
the conventions
which
regulate
the
civic
life.
He
allowed
himself
to
think
that
in
certain
circumstances
he
would
rob
his
hank
but,
as
these
circumstances
never
arose,
his
life
rolled
out
evenly—an adventureless tale.
One
evening
he
found
himself
sitting
beside
two
ladies
in
the Rotunda. The house, thinly peopled
and
silent, gave distressing
prophecy
of
failure. The
lady
who
sat
next
him
looked round
at
the deserted
house
once
or
twice
and
then
said: "What
a
pity
there
is
such
a
poor
house
tonight! It's
so
hard
on
people
to
have
to
sing
to
empty benches."
He
took the remark
as
an
invitation
to
talk.
He
was
surprised
that
she
seemed
so
little
awkward.
While
they
talked
he
tried
to
fix
her permanently
in
his
memory.
When
he
learned
that
the
young
girl
beside
her
was
her
daughter
he
judged her
to
be
a
year
or
so
younger
than
himself. Her face,
which
must
have
been handsome, had remained intelligent.
It
was
an
oval
face
with
strongly
marked
features. The eyes
were
very
dark blue
and
steady.
Their
gaze began
with
a
defiant
note
but
was
confused
by
what
seemed
a
deliberate
swoon
of
the
pupil
into
the iris, revealing
for
an
instant
a
temperament
of
great
sensibility. The
pupil
reasserted
itself
quickly,
this
half-disclosed
nature
fell
again
under the
reign
of
prudence,
and
her astrakhan jacket, moulding
a
bosom
of
a
certain
fullness, struck the
note
of
defiance
more
definitely.
He
met her
again
a
few
weeks afterwards
at
a
concert
in
Earlsfort
Terrace
and
seized the moments
when
her daughter's
attention
was
diverted
to
become
intimate.
She
alluded
once
or
twice
to
her husband but her tone
was
not
such
as
to
make
the
allusion
a
warning. Her
name
was
Mrs. Sinico. Her husband's great-great-grandfather had
come
from
Leghorn. Her husband
was
captain
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
an appointment.
She
came.
This
was
the first
of
many
meetings;
they
met
always
in
the
evening
and
chose the
most
quiet
quarters
for
their
walks together. Mr. Duffy, however, had
a
distaste
for
underhand
ways and,
finding
that
they
were
compelled
to
meet stealthily,
he
forced her
to
ask
him
to
her house. Captain Sinico encouraged
his
visits, thinking
that
his
daughter's
hand
was
in
question.
He
had dismissed
his
wife
so
sincerely
from
his
gallery
of
pleasures
that
he
did
not suspect
that
anyone
else
would
take
an
interest
in
her.
As
the husband
was
often
away
and
the
daughter
out
giving
music
lessons Mr. Duffy had
many
opportunities
of
enjoying the lady's society.
Neither
he
nor
she
had had
any
such
adventure before
and
neither
was
conscious
of
any
incongruity.
Little
by
little
he
entangled
his
thoughts
with
hers.
He
lent her books, provided her
with
ideas, shared
his
intellectual
life
with
her.
She
listened
to
all. Sometimes
in
return
for
his
theories
she
gave
out
some
fact
of
her
own
life.
With
almost
maternal
solicitude
she
urged
him
to
let
his
nature
open
to
the full:
she
became
his
confessor.
He
told her
that
for
some
time
he
had assisted
at
the meetings
of
an Irish
Socialist
Party
where
he
had felt
himself
a
unique
figure
amidst
a
score
of
sober workmen
in
a
garret
lit
by
an inefficient oil-lamp.
When
the
party
had divided
into
three
sections,
each
under its
own
leader
and
in
its
own
garret,
he
had discontinued
his
attendances. The workmen's discussions,
he
said,
were
too
timorous; the
interest
they
took
in
the
question
of
wages
was
inordinate.
He
felt
that
they
were
hard-featured realists
and
that
they
resented an
exactitude
which
was
the produce
of
a
leisure
not within
their
reach. No
social
revolution,
he
told her, would
be
likely
to
strike Dublin
for
some
centuries.
She
asked
him
why
did
he
not
write
out
his
thoughts.
For
what,
he
asked her,
with
careful
scorn.
To
compete
with
phrasemongers,
incapable
of
thinking consecutively
for
sixty seconds?
To
submit
himself
to
the criticisms
of
an
obtuse
middle
class
which
entrusted its
morality
to
policemen
and
its
fine
arts
to
impresarios?
He
went
often
to
her
little
cottage
outside Dublin;
often
they
spent
their
evenings alone.
Little
by
little,
as
their
thoughts entangled,
they
spoke
of
subjects less remote. Her companionship
was
like
a
warm
soil
about
an exotic.
Many
times
she
allowed the dark
to
fall
upon
them, refraining
from
lighting
the lamp. The dark
discreet
room,
their
isolation, the
music
that
still
vibrated
in
their
ears united them.
This
union exalted him, wore
away
the rough edges
of
his
character, emotionalised
his
mental
life. Sometimes
he
caught
himself
listening
to
the
sound
of
his
own
voice.
He
thought
that
in
her eyes
he
would
ascend
to
an angelical stature; and,
as
he
attached the
fervent
nature
of
his
companion
more
and
more
closely
to
him,
he
heard the
strange
impersonal
voice
which
he
recognised
as
his
own, insisting
on
the soul's
incurable
loneliness.
We
cannot
give
ourselves,
it
said:
we
are
our
own. The
end
of
these
discourses
was
that
one
night
during
which
she
had shown
every
sign
of
unusual excitement, Mrs. Sinico caught
up
his
hand
passionately
and
pressed
it
to
her cheek. Mr. Duffy
was
very
much
surprised. Her
interpretation
of
his
words disillusioned him.
He
did
not
visit
her
for
a
week,
then
he
wrote
to
her asking her
to
meet him.
As
he
did
not
wish
their
last
interview
to
be
troubled
by
the
influence
of
their
ruined
confessional
they
met
in
a
little
cakeshop
near
the Parkgate.
It
was
cold
autumn
weather
but
in
spite
of
the cold
they
wandered
up
and
down
the roads
of
the Park
for
nearly
three
hours.
They
agreed
to
break
off
their
intercourse:
every
bond,
he
said,
is
a
bond
to
sorrow.
When
they
came
out
of
the Park
they
walked
in
silence
towards
the tram; but here
she
began
to
tremble
so
violently that, fearing
another
collapse
on
her part,
he
bade her good-bye
quickly
and
left
her.
A
few
days later
he
received
a
parcel
containing
his
books
and
music. Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned
to
his
even
way
of
life.
His
room
still
bore witness
of
the orderliness
of
his
mind.
Some
new
pieces
of
music
encumbered the music-stand
in
the
lower
room
and
on
his
shelves stood
two
volumes
by
Nietzsche:
Thus
Spake Zarathustra
and
The
Gay
Science.
He
wrote
seldom
in
the
sheaf
of
papers
which
lay
in
his
desk.
One
of
his
sentences, written
two
months
after
his
last
interview
with
Mrs. Sinico, read:
Love
between
man
and
man
is
impossible
because
there
must
not
be
sexual
intercourse
and
friendship
between
man
and
woman
is
impossible
because
there
must
be
sexual
intercourse.
He
kept
away
from
concerts
lest
he
should meet her.
His
father died; the
junior
partner
of
the
bank
retired.
And
still
every
morning
he
went
into
the
city
by
tram
and
every
evening
walked
home
from
the
city
after
having dined moderately
in
George's
Street
and
read the
evening
paper
for
dessert.
One
evening
as
he
was
about
to
put
a
morsel
of
corned
beef
and
cabbage
into
his
mouth
his
hand
stopped.
His
eyes fixed
themselves
on
a
paragraph
in
the
evening
paper
which
he
had propped against the water-carafe.
He
replaced the
morsel
of
food
on
his
plate
and
read the
paragraph
attentively.
Then
he
drank
a
glass
of
water, pushed
his
plate
to
one
side, doubled the paper
down
before
him
between
his
elbows
and
read the
paragraph
over
and
over
again. The
cabbage
began
to
deposit
a
cold
white
grease
on
his
plate. The
girl
came
over
to
him
to
ask
was
his
dinner
not properly cooked.
He
said
it
was
very
good
and
ate
a
few
mouthfuls
of
it
with
difficulty.
Then
he
paid
his
bill
and
went out.
He
walked
along
quickly
through the November twilight,
his
stout
hazel
stick
striking the ground regularly, the
fringe
of
the buff
Mail
peeping
out
of
a
side-pocket
of
his
tight
reefer
overcoat.
On
the lonely
road
which
leads
from
the Parkgate
to
Chapelizod
he
slackened
his
pace.
His
stick
struck the ground less emphatically
and
his
breath, issuing irregularly,
almost
with
a
sighing sound, condensed
in
the
wintry
air.
When
he
reached
his
house
he
went
up
at
once
to
his
bedroom and, taking the paper
from
his
pocket, read the
paragraph
again
by
the failing
light
of
the window.
He
read
it
not aloud, but moving
his
lips
as
a
priest
does
when
he
reads the prayers Secreto.
This
was
the paragraph:
Today
at
the
City
of
Dublin
Hospital
the
Deputy
Coroner
(in the
absence
of
Mr. Leverett) held an
inquest
on
the
body
of
Mrs. Emily Sinico, aged forty-three years,
who
was
killed
at
Sydney
Parade
Station
yesterday evening. The evidence showed
that
the deceased lady,
while
attempting
to
cross
the line,
was
knocked
down
by
the
engine
of
the ten
o'clock
slow
train
from
Kingstown,
thereby
sustaining injuries
of
the
head
and
right
side
which
led
to
her death. James Lennon, driver
of
the engine, stated
that
he
had been
in
the
employment
of
the railway
company
for
fifteen
years.
On
hearing the guard's
whistle
he
set
the
train
in
motion
and
a
second
or
two
afterwards brought
it
to
rest
in
response
to
loud
cries. The
train
was
going slowly. P. Dunne, railway porter, stated
that
as
the
train
was
about
to
start
he
observed
a
woman
attempting
to
cross
the lines.
He
ran
towards
her
and
shouted, but, before
he
could
reach her,
she
was
caught
by
the 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 the deceased lying
on
the
platform
apparently dead.
He
had the
body
taken
to
the waiting-room
pending
the
arrival
of
the ambulance.
Constable
57E corroborated. Dr. Halpin,
assistant
house
surgeon
of
the
City
of
Dublin Hospital, stated
that
the deceased had
two
lower
ribs fractured
and
had sustained
severe
contusions
of
the
right
shoulder. The
right
side
of
the
head
had been injured
in
the fall. The injuries
were
not
sufficient
to
have
caused
death
in
a
normal
person. Death,
in
his
opinion, had been probably
due
to
shock
and
sudden
failure
of
the heart's action. Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay,
on
behalf
of
the railway company, expressed
his
deep
regret
at
the accident. The
company
had
always
taken
every
precaution
to
prevent
people
crossing the lines
except
by
the bridges, both
by
placing notices
in
every
station
and
by
the
use
of
patent
spring
gates
at
level
crossings. The deceased had been
in
the
habit
of
crossing the lines
late
at
night
from
platform
to
platform
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
the deceased,
also
gave evidence.
He
stated
that
the deceased
was
his
wife.
He
was
not
in
Dublin
at
the
time
of
the
accident
as
he
had arrived
only
that
morning
from
Rotterdam.
They
had been married
for
twenty-two years
and
had lived happily
until
about
two
years
ago
when
his
wife
began
to
be
rather
intemperate
in
her habits.
Miss
Mary Sinico said
that
of
late
her mother had been
in
the
habit
of
going
out
at
night
to
buy
spirits. She, witness, had
often
tried
to
reason
with
her mother
and
had induced her
to
join
a
league.
She
was
not
at
home
until
an
hour
after
the accident. The
jury
returned
a
verdict
in
accordance
with
the medical evidence
and
exonerated Lennon
from
all blame. The
Deputy
Coroner
said
it
was
a
most
painful case,
and
expressed
great
sympathy
with
Captain Sinico
and
his
daughter.
He
urged
on
the railway
company
to
take
strong
measures
to
prevent
the
possibility
of
similar
accidents
in
the future. No
blame
attached
to
anyone. Mr. Duffy raised
his
eyes
from
the paper
and
gazed
out
of
his
window
on
the cheerless
evening
landscape. The
river
lay
quiet
beside
the empty distillery
and
from
time
to
time
a
light
appeared
in
some
house
on
the Lucan road.
What
an end! The
whole
narrative
of
her
death
revolted
him
and
it
revolted
him
to
think
that
he
had
ever
spoken
to
her
of
what
he
held sacred. The threadbare phrases, the inane expressions
of
sympathy, the
cautious
words
of
a
reporter
won
over
to
conceal
the details
of
a
commonplace
vulgar
death
attacked
his
stomach. Not merely had
she
degraded herself;
she
had degraded him.
He
saw
the
squalid
tract
of
her vice,
miserable
and
malodorous.
His
soul's companion!
He
thought
of
the hobbling wretches
whom
he
had seen carrying cans
and
bottles
to
be
filled
by
the barman.
Just
God,
what
an end! Evidently
she
had been unfit
to
live, without
any
strength
of
purpose, an
easy
prey
to
habits,
one
of
the wrecks
on
which
civilisation
has been reared. But
that
she
could
have
sunk
so
low!
Was
it
possible
he
had deceived
himself
so
utterly
about
her?
He
remembered her
outburst
of
that
night
and
interpreted
it
in
a
harsher sense
than
he
had
ever
done.
He
had no
difficulty
now
in
approving
of
the
course
he
had taken.
As
the
light
failed
and
his
memory
began
to
wander
he
thought
her
hand
touched his. The shock
which
had first attacked
his
stomach
was
now
attacking
his
nerves.
He
put
on
his
overcoat
and
hat
quickly
and
went out. The cold air met
him
on
the threshold;
it
crept
into
the sleeves
of
his
coat.
When
he
came
to
the public-house
at
Chapelizod
Bridge
he
went
in
and
ordered
a
hot
punch. The proprietor served
him
obsequiously but
did
not
venture
to
talk. There
were
five
or
six
workingmen
in
the shop discussing the
value
of
a
gentleman's
estate
in
County
Kildare
They
drank
at
intervals
from
their
huge
pint
tumblers
and
smoked, spitting
often
on
the
floor
and
sometimes dragging the sawdust
over
their
spits
with
their
heavy boots. Mr. Duffy sat
on
his
stool
and
gazed
at
them, without
seeing
or
hearing them.
After
a
while
they
went
out
and
he
called
for
another
punch.
He
sat
a
long
time
over
it. The shop
was
very
quiet. The proprietor sprawled
on
the
counter
reading
the Herald
and
yawning.
Now
and
again
a
tram
was
heard swishing
along
the lonely
road
outside.
As
he
sat there,
living
over
his
life
with
her
and
evoking alternately the
two
images
in
which
he
now
conceived her,
he
realised
that
she
was
dead,
that
she
had ceased
to
exist,
that
she
had
become
a
memory.
He
began
to
feel
ill
at
ease.
He
asked
himself
what
else
could
he
have
done.
He
could
not
have
carried
on
a
comedy
of
deception
with
her;
he
could
not
have
lived
with
her openly.
He
had done
what
seemed
to
him
best.
How
was
he
to
blame?
Now
that
she
was
gone
he
understood
how
lonely her
life
must
have
been, sitting
night
after
night
alone
in
that
room.
His
life
would
be
lonely
too
until
he, too, died, ceased
to
exist, became
a
memory—if
anyone
remembered him.
It
was
after
nine
o'clock
when
he
left
the shop. The
night
was
cold
and
gloomy.
He
entered the Park
by
the first gate
and
walked
along
under the
gaunt
trees.
He
walked through the
bleak
alleys
where
they
had walked four years before.
She
seemed
to
be
near
him
in
the darkness.
At
moments
he
seemed
to
feel her voice
touch
his
ear, her
hand
touch
his.
He
stood
still
to
listen.
Why
had
he
withheld
life
from
her?
Why
had
he
sentenced her
to
death?
He
felt
his
moral
nature
falling
to
pieces.
When
he
gained the
crest
of
the
Magazine
Hill
he
halted
and
looked
along
the
river
towards
Dublin, the lights
of
which
burned redly
and
hospitably
in
the cold night.
He
looked
down
the slope and,
at
the base,
in
the
shadow
of
the
wall
of
the Park,
he
saw
some
human
figures lying.
Those
venal
and
furtive
loves filled
him
with
despair.
He
gnawed the
rectitude
of
his
life;
he
felt
that
he
had been
outcast
from
life's feast.
One
human
being had seemed
to
love
him
and
he
had denied her
life
and
happiness:
he
had sentenced her
to
ignominy,
a
death
of
shame.
He
knew
that
the prostrate creatures
down
by
the
wall
were
watching
him
and
wished
him
gone. No
one
wanted him;
he
was
outcast
from
life's feast.
He
turned
his
eyes
to
the grey gleaming river, winding
along
towards
Dublin.
Beyond
the
river
he
saw
a
goods
train
winding
out
of
Kingsbridge Station,
like
a
worm
with
a
fiery
head
winding through the darkness, obstinately
and
laboriously.
It
passed
slowly
out
of
sight; but
still
he
heard
in
his
ears the
laborious
drone
of
the
engine
reiterating the syllables
of
her name.
He
turned
back
the
way
he
had come, the
rhythm
of
the
engine
pounding
in
his
ears.
He
began
to
doubt
the
reality
of
what
memory
told him.
He
halted under
a
tree
and
allowed the
rhythm
to
die
away.
He
could
not feel her
near
him
in
the
darkness
nor
her voice
touch
his
ear.
He
waited
for
some
minutes
listening.
He
could
hear
nothing: the
night
was
perfectly silent.
He
listened again: perfectly silent.
He
felt
that
he
was
alone.