THE SISTERS

There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Nightrnafter night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studiedrnthe lighted square of window: and night after night I had found itrnlighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought,rnI would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knewrnthat two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often saidrnto me: “I am not long for this world,” and I had thought his wordsrnidle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at thernwindow I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had alwaysrnsounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid andrnthe word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like thernname of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, andrnyet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.rnrnOld Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs tornsupper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as ifrnreturning to some former remark of his:rnrn“No, I wouldn’t say he was exactly ... but there was something queerrn... there was something uncanny about him. I’ll tell you myrnopinion....”rnrnHe began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in hisrnmind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be ratherrninteresting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of himrnand his endless stories about the distillery.rnrn“I have my own theory about it,” he said. “I think it was one of thosern... peculiar cases.... But it’s hard to say....”rnrnHe began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. Myrnuncle saw me staring and said to me:rnrn“Well, so your old friend is gone, you’ll be sorry to hear.”rnrn“Who?” said I.rnrn“Father Flynn.”rnrn“Is he dead?”rnrn“Mr Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house.”rnrnI knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if thernnews had not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter.rnrn“The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him arngreat deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him.”rnrn“God have mercy on his soul,” said my aunt piously.rnrnOld Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady blackrneyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him by looking up fromrnmy plate. He returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely into therngrate.rnrn“I wouldn’t like children of mine,” he said, “to have too much to sayrnto a man like that.”rnrn“How do you mean, Mr Cotter?” asked my aunt.rnrn“What I mean is,” said old Cotter, “it’s bad for children. My idea is:rnlet a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age andrnnot be.... Am I right, Jack?”rnrn“That’s my principle, too,” said my uncle. “Let him learn to box hisrncorner. That’s what I’m always saying to that Rosicrucian there: takernexercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had arncold bath, winter and summer. And that’s what stands to me now.rnEducation is all very fine and large.... Mr Cotter might take a pick ofrnthat leg mutton,” he added to my aunt.rnrn“No, no, not for me,” said old Cotter.rnrnMy aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table.rnrn“But why do you think it’s not good for children, Mr Cotter?” shernasked.rnrn“It’s bad for children,” said old Cotter, “because their minds are sornimpressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it has anrneffect....”rnrnI crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to myrnanger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!rnrnIt was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotter forrnalluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaning fromrnhis unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imagined that I sawrnagain the heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over myrnhead and tried to think of Christmas. But the grey face still followedrnme. It murmured; and I understood that it desired to confess something.rnI felt my soul receding into some pleasant and vicious region; andrnthere again I found it waiting for me. It began to confess to me in arnmurmuring voice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why thernlips were so moist with spittle. But then I remembered that it had diedrnof paralysis and I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolvernthe simoniac of his sin.rnrnThe next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the littlernhouse in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop, registeredrnunder the vague name of _Drapery_. The drapery consisted mainly ofrnchildren’s bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used tornhang in the window, saying: _Umbrellas Re-covered_. No notice wasrnvisible now for the shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to therndoor-knocker with ribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy werernreading the card pinned on the crape. I also approached and read:rnrn July 1st, 1895rn The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine’srn Church, Meath Street), aged sixty-five years. _R. I. P._rnrnThe reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I wasrndisturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I would haverngone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him sitting inrnhis arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his great-coat. Perhapsrnmy aunt would have given me a packet of High Toast for him and thisrnpresent would have roused him from his stupefied doze. It was always Irnwho emptied the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembledrntoo much to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuff aboutrnthe floor. Even as he raised his large trembling hand to his nosernlittle clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers over the front ofrnhis coat. It may have been these constant showers of snuff which gavernhis ancient priestly garments their green faded look for the redrnhandkerchief, blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of arnweek, with which he tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quiterninefficacious.rnrnI wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage to knock. Irnwalked away slowly along the sunny side of the street, reading all therntheatrical advertisements in the shop-windows as I went. I found itrnstrange that neither I nor the day seemed in a mourning mood and I feltrneven annoyed at discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if Irnhad been freed from something by his death. I wondered at this for, asrnmy uncle had said the night before, he had taught me a great deal. Hernhad studied in the Irish college in Rome and he had taught me tornpronounce Latin properly. He had told me stories about the catacombsrnand about Napoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning ofrnthe different ceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestmentsrnworn by the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself by puttingrndifficult questions to me, asking me what one should do in certainrncircumstances or whether such and such sins were mortal or venial orrnonly imperfections. His questions showed me how complex and mysteriousrnwere certain institutions of the Church which I had always regarded asrnthe simplest acts. The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist andrntowards the secrecy of the confessional seemed so grave to me that Irnwondered how anybody had ever found in himself the courage to undertakernthem; and I was not surprised when he told me that the fathers of thernChurch had written books as thick as the _Post Office Directory_ and asrnclosely printed as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating allrnthese intricate questions. Often when I thought of this I could make nornanswer or only a very foolish and halting one upon which he used tornsmile and nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to put mernthrough the responses of the Mass which he had made me learn by heart;rnand, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively and nod his head, nowrnand then pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alternately.rnWhen he smiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let hisrntongue lie upon his lower lip—a habit which had made me feel uneasy inrnthe beginning of our acquaintance before I knew him well.rnrnAs I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter’s words and triedrnto remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. I rememberedrnthat I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinging lamp of antiquernfashion. I felt that I had been very far away, in some land where therncustoms were strange—in Persia, I thought.... But I could not rememberrnthe end of the dream.rnrnIn the evening my aunt took me with her to visit the house of mourning.rnIt was after sunset; but the window-panes of the houses that looked tornthe west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of clouds. Nanniernreceived us in the hall; and, as it would have been unseemly to havernshouted at her, my aunt shook hands with her for all. The old womanrnpointed upwards interrogatively and, on my aunt’s nodding, proceeded torntoil up the narrow staircase before us, her bowed head being scarcelyrnabove the level of the banister-rail. At the first landing she stoppedrnand beckoned us forward encouragingly towards the open door of therndead-room. My aunt went in and the old woman, seeing that I hesitatedrnto enter, began to beckon to me again repeatedly with her hand.rnrnI went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace end of the blind wasrnsuffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles looked likernpale thin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead and wernthree knelt down at the foot of the bed. I pretended to pray but Irncould not gather my thoughts because the old woman’s mutteringsrndistracted me. I noticed how clumsily her skirt was hooked at the backrnand how the heels of her cloth boots were trodden down all to one side.rnThe fancy came to me that the old priest was smiling as he lay there inrnhis coffin.rnrnBut no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I saw that hernwas not smiling. There he lay, solemn and copious, vested as for thernaltar, his large hands loosely retaining a chalice. His face was veryrntruculent, grey and massive, with black cavernous nostrils and circledrnby a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odour in the room—the flowers.rnrnWe blessed ourselves and came away. In the little room downstairs wernfound Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state. I groped my way towardsrnmy usual chair in the corner while Nannie went to the sideboard andrnbrought out a decanter of sherry and some wine-glasses. She set thesernon the table and invited us to take a little glass of wine. Then, atrnher sister’s bidding, she filled out the sherry into the glasses andrnpassed them to us. She pressed me to take some cream crackers also butrnI declined because I thought I would make too much noise eating them.rnShe seemed to be somewhat disappointed at my refusal and went overrnquietly to the sofa where she sat down behind her sister. No one spoke:rnwe all gazed at the empty fireplace.rnrnMy aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said:rnrn“Ah, well, he’s gone to a better world.”rnrnEliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt fingered thernstem of her wine-glass before sipping a little.rnrn“Did he ... peacefully?” she asked.rnrn“Oh, quite peacefully, ma’am,” said Eliza. “You couldn’t tell when thernbreath went out of him. He had a beautiful death, God be praised.”rnrn“And everything...?”rnrn“Father O’Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him andrnprepared him and all.”rnrn“He knew then?”rnrn“He was quite resigned.”rnrn“He looks quite resigned,” said my aunt.rnrn“That’s what the woman we had in to wash him said. She said he justrnlooked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful and resigned. Nornone would think he’d make such a beautiful corpse.”rnrn“Yes, indeed,” said my aunt.rnrnShe sipped a little more from her glass and said:rnrn“Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you tornknow that you did all you could for him. You were both very kind tornhim, I must say.”rnrnEliza smoothed her dress over her knees.rnrn“Ah, poor James!” she said. “God knows we done all we could, as poor asrnwe are—we wouldn’t see him want anything while he was in it.”rnrnNannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed about tornfall asleep.rnrn“There’s poor Nannie,” said Eliza, looking at her, “she’s wore out. Allrnthe work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to wash him and thenrnlaying him out and then the coffin and then arranging about the Mass inrnthe chapel. Only for Father O’Rourke I don’t know what we’d have donernat all. It was him brought us all them flowers and them tworncandlesticks out of the chapel and wrote out the notice for thern_Freeman’s General_ and took charge of all the papers for the cemeteryrnand poor James’s insurance.”rnrn“Wasn’t that good of him?” said my aunt.rnrnEliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.rnrn“Ah, there’s no friends like the old friends,” she said, “when all isrnsaid and done, no friends that a body can trust.”rnrn“Indeed, that’s true,” said my aunt. “And I’m sure now that he’s gonernto his eternal reward he won’t forget you and all your kindness tornhim.”rnrn“Ah, poor James!” said Eliza. “He was no great trouble to us. Yournwouldn’t hear him in the house any more than now. Still, I know he’srngone and all to that....”rnrn“It’s when it’s all over that you’ll miss him,” said my aunt.rnrn“I know that,” said Eliza. “I won’t be bringing him in his cup ofrnbeef-tea any more, nor you, ma’am, sending him his snuff. Ah, poorrnJames!”rnrnShe stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then saidrnshrewdly:rnrn“Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over himrnlatterly. Whenever I’d bring in his soup to him there I’d find him withrnhis breviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his mouthrnopen.”rnrnShe laid a finger against her nose and frowned: then she continued:rnrn“But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer was overrnhe’d go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old house againrnwhere we were all born down in Irishtown and take me and Nannie withrnhim. If we could only get one of them new-fangled carriages that makesrnno noise that Father O’Rourke told him about, them with the rheumaticrnwheels, for the day cheap—he said, at Johnny Rush’s over the way therernand drive out the three of us together of a Sunday evening. He had hisrnmind set on that.... Poor James!”rnrn“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” said my aunt.rnrnEliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Then shernput it back again in her pocket and gazed into the empty grate for somerntime without speaking.rnrn“He was too scrupulous always,” she said. “The duties of the priesthoodrnwas too much for him. And then his life was, you might say, crossed.”rnrn“Yes,” said my aunt. “He was a disappointed man. You could see that.”rnrnA silence took possession of the little room and, under cover of it, Irnapproached the table and tasted my sherry and then returned quietly tornmy chair in the corner. Eliza seemed to have fallen into a deep revery.rnWe waited respectfully for her to break the silence: and after a longrnpause she said slowly:rnrn“It was that chalice he broke.... That was the beginning of it. Ofrncourse, they say it was all right, that it contained nothing, I mean.rnBut still.... They say it was the boy’s fault. But poor James was sornnervous, God be merciful to him!”rnrn“And was that it?” said my aunt. “I heard something....”rnrnEliza nodded.rnrn“That affected his mind,” she said. “After that he began to mope byrnhimself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So one nightrnhe was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn’t find him anywhere.rnThey looked high up and low down; and still they couldn’t see a sightrnof him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested to try the chapel. So thenrnthey got the keys and opened the chapel and the clerk and FatherrnO’Rourke and another priest that was there brought in a light for tornlook for him.... And what do you think but there he was, sitting up byrnhimself in the dark in his confession-box, wide-awake and laughing-likernsoftly to himself?”rnrnShe stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was nornsound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still inrnhis coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an idlernchalice on his breast.rnrnEliza resumed:rnrn“Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself.... So then, of course, whenrnthey saw that, that made them think that there was something gone wrongrnwith him....”