A Painful Case Page #2

								

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
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