A Painful Case

								
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 mediæval 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 bank 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

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