THESISTERS
Therewasnohopeforhimthistime:
itwasthethirdstroke.
NightafternightIhadpassedthehouse(itwasvacationtime)andstudiedthelightedsquareofwindow:
andnightafternightIhadfounditlightedinthesameway,faintlyand
uniformément
evenly.Ifhewasdead,Ithought,Iwouldseethe
reflet
reflectionofcandlesonthedarkenedblindforIknewthattwocandlesmustbesetattheheadofacadavre
corpse.Hehadoftensaidtome:
“Iamnotlongforthisworld,”andIhadthoughthiswordsidle.
NowIknewtheyweretrue.
EverynightasI
regardant
gazedupatthewindowIsaidsoftlytomyselfthewordparalysie
paralysis.Ithadalwayssoundedstrangelyinmyears,likethewordgnomonintheEuclidandthewordsimonyintheCatechism.
Butnowitsoundedtomelikethenameofsomemaleficentandsinfulbeing.
Itfilledmewithfear,andyetIlongedtobenearertoitandtolookuponits
mortelle
deadlywork.OldCotterwassittingatthefire,smoking,whenIcamedownstairsto
dîner
supper.Whilemyauntwasladlingoutmystirabouthesaid,asifreturningtosomeformer
remarque
remarkofhis:.“No,Iwouldn’tsayhewasexactly...
buttherewassomethingqueer...
therewassomethinguncannyabouthim.
I’lltellyoumyopinion....”
Hebegantopuffathispipe,nodoubtarranginghisopinioninhismind.
Tiresomeoldfool!
Whenweknewhimfirstheusedtoberatherinteresting,talkingoffaintsandworms;
butIsoongrewtiredofhimandhisendlessstoriesaboutthedistillery.
“Ihavemyowntheoryaboutit,”hesaid.
“Ithinkitwasoneofthose...
peculiarcases....
Butit’shardtosay....”
Hebegantopuffagainathispipewithoutgivingushistheory.
Myunclesawme
regarder
staringandsaidtome:.“Well,soyouroldfriendisgone,you’llbesorrytohear.”
“Who?”
saidI.
“FatherFlynn.”
“Ishedead?”
“MrCotterherehasjusttoldus.
Hewaspassingbythehouse.”
IknewthatIwasunder
observation
observationsoIcontinuedeatingasifthenewshadnotinterestedme.MyuncleexplainedtooldCotter.
“The
jeune
youngsterandheweregreatfriends.Theoldchaptaughthimagreatdeal,mindyou;
andtheysayhehadagreatwishforhim.”
“Godhavemercyonhissoul,”saidmyauntpiously.
OldCotterlookedatmeforawhile.
IfeltthathislittlebeadyblackeyeswereexaminingmebutIwouldnot
satisfaisais
satisfyhimbylookingupfrommyplate.Hereturnedtohispipeandfinallyspatrudelyintothegrate.
“Iwouldn’tlikechildrenofmine,”hesaid,“tohavetoomuchtosaytoamanlikethat.”
“Howdoyoumean,MrCotter?”
askedmyaunt.
“WhatImeanis,”saidoldCotter,“it’sbadforchildren.
Myideais:
letayoung
garçon
ladrunaboutandplaywithyoungladsofhisownageandnotbe....AmIright,Jack?”
“That’smy
principe
principle,too,”saidmyuncle.“Lethimlearntoboxhiscorner.
That’swhatI’malwayssayingtothatRosicrucianthere:
takeexercise.
Why,whenIwasanippereverymorningofmylifeIhadacoldbath,winterandsummer.
Andthat’swhatstandstomenow.
Educationisallveryfineandlarge....
MrCottermighttakeapickofthatlegmutton,”headdedtomyaunt.
“No,no,notforme,”saidoldCotter.
Myauntbroughtthedishfromthesafeandputitonthetable.
“Butwhydoyouthinkit’snotgoodforchildren,MrCotter?”
sheasked.
“It’sbadforchildren,”saidoldCotter,“becausetheirmindsaresoimpressionable.
Whenchildrenseethingslikethat,youknow,ithasaneffect....”
IcrammedmymouthwithstiraboutforfearImightgiveutterancetomyanger.
Tiresomeoldred-nosedimbecile!
ItwaslatewhenIfellasleep.
ThoughIwasangrywitholdCotterforalludingtomeasachild,Ipuzzledmyheadtoextractmeaningfromhisunfinishedsentences.
InthedarkofmyroomIimaginedthatIsawagaintheheavy
gris
greyfaceoftheparalytic.IdrewtheblanketsovermyheadandtriedtothinkofChristmas.
Butthe
gris
greyfacestillfollowedme.Itmurmured;
andIunderstoodthatitdesiredto
avouer
confesssomething.Ifeltmysoulrecedingintosome
agréable
pleasantandviciousregion;andthereagainIfounditwaitingforme.
Itbeganto
confesser
confesstomeinamurmuringvoiceandIwonderedwhyitsmiledcontinuellement
continuallyandwhythelipsweresomoistwithspittle.ButthenIrememberedthatithaddiedof
paralysie
paralysisandIfeltthatItoowassmilingfeeblyasiftoabsolvethesimoniacofhissin.ThenextmorningafterbreakfastIwentdowntolookatthelittlehouseinGreatBritainStreet.
Itwasanunassumingshop,
enregistré
registeredunderthevaguenameofDrapery.Thedraperyconsisted
principalement
mainlyofchildren’sbooteesandumbrellas;andonordinarydaysanoticeusedtohanginthewindow,saying:
UmbrellasRe-covered.
Nonoticewas
visible
visiblenowfortheshutterswereup.Acrape
bouquet
bouquetwastiedtothedoor-knockerwithruban
ribbon.Twopoorwomenandatelegramboywerereadingthecardpinnedonthecrape.
Ialsoapproachedandread:.
Juillet
July1st,1895TheRev.JamesFlynn(formerlyofS.Catherine’sChurch,MeathStreet),âgé
agedsixty-fiveyears.R.I.P.Thereadingofthecard
convaincu
persuadedmethathewasdeadandIwasdérangé
disturbedtofindmyselfatcheck.HadhenotbeendeadIwouldhavegoneintothelittledarkroombehindtheshoptofindhimsittinginhisarm-chairbythefire,nearlysmotheredinhisgreat-coat.
Perhapsmyauntwouldhavegivenmea
paquet
packetofHighToastforhimandthispresentwouldhaverousedhimfromhisstupefieddoze.ItwasalwaysIwhoemptiedthe
paquet
packetintohisblacksnuff-boxforhishandstremblait
trembledtoomuchtoallowhimtodothiswithoutrenverser
spillinghalfthesnuffaboutthefloor.Evenasheraisedhislargetremblinghandtohisnoselittlecloudsofsmokedribbledthroughhisfingersoverthefrontofhiscoat.
Itmayhavebeentheseconstantshowersof
tabac
snuffwhichgavehisancientpriestlygarmentstheirgreenfadedlookfortheredmouchoir
handkerchief,blackened,asitalwayswas,withthesnuff-stainsofaweek,withwhichhetriedtobrushawaythefallengrains,wasquiteinefficacious.IwishedtogoinandlookathimbutIhadnotthecouragetoknock.
Iwalkedawayslowlyalongthe
ensoleillé
sunnysideofthestreet,readingallthetheatricaladvertisementsintheshop-windowsasIwent.IfounditstrangethatneitherInorthedayseemedinamourningmoodandIfeltevenannoyedat
découvrir
discoveringinmyselfasensationoffreedomasifIhadbeenfreedfromsomethingbyhisdeath.Iwonderedatthisfor,asmyunclehadsaidthenightbefore,hehadtaughtmeagreatdeal.
HehadstudiedintheIrishcollegeinRomeandhehadtaughtmeto
prononcer
pronounceLatinproperly.HehadtoldmestoriesaboutthecatacombsandaboutNapoleonBonaparte,andhehadexplainedtomethemeaningofthedifferentceremoniesoftheMassandofthedifferentvestmentswornbythepriest.
Sometimeshehadamusedhimselfbyputtingdifficultquestionstome,askingmewhatoneshoulddoincertaincircumstancesorwhethersuchandsuchsinswere
mortel
mortalorvenialoronlyimperfections.HisquestionsshowedmehowcomplexandmysteriouswerecertaininstitutionsoftheChurchwhichIhadalwaysregardedasthesimplestacts.
ThedutiesofthepriesttowardstheEucharistandtowardsthe
secret
secrecyoftheconfessionalseemedsogravetomethatIwonderedhowanybodyhadeverfoundinhimselfthecouragetoentreprendre
undertakethem;andIwasnotsurprisedwhenhetoldmethatthefathersoftheChurchhadwrittenbooksasthickasthePostOfficeDirectoryandas
étroitement
closelyprintedasthelawnoticesinthenewspaper,elucidatingalltheseintricatequestions.OftenwhenIthoughtofthisIcouldmakenoansweroronlyavery
stupide
foolishandhaltingoneuponwhichheusedtosmileandhocher
nodhisheadtwiceorthrice.SometimesheusedtoputmethroughtheresponsesoftheMasswhichhehadmademelearnbyheart;
and,asIpattered,heusedtosmilepensivelyand
hocher
nodhishead,nowandthenpushinghugepinchesoftabac
snuffupeachnostrilalternately.Whenhesmiledheusedto
découvrir
uncoverhisbigdiscolouredteethandlethistonguelieuponhislowerlip—ahabitwhichhadmademefeeluneasyinthebeginningofouracquaintancebeforeIknewhimwell.AsIwalkedalonginthesunIrememberedoldCotter’swordsandtriedtorememberwhathadhappenedafterwardsinthedream.
IrememberedthatIhadnoticedlong
velours
velvetcurtainsandaswinginglampe
lampofantiquefashion.IfeltthatIhadbeenveryfaraway,insomelandwherethecustomswerestrange—inPersia,Ithought....
ButIcouldnotremembertheendofthedream.
Intheeveningmyaunttookmewithhertovisitthehouseofmourning.
Itwasafter
coucher du soleil
sunset;butthewindow-panesofthehousesthatlookedtothewest
reflétaient
reflectedthetawnygoldofagreatbankofclouds.Nanniereceivedusinthehall;
and,asitwouldhavebeenunseemlytohaveshoutedather,myauntshookhandswithherforall.
Theoldwomanpointedupwardsinterrogativelyand,onmyaunt’snodding,
procédé
proceededtotoilupthenarrowstaircasebeforeus,herbowedheadbeingà peine
scarcelyabovethelevelofthebanister-rail.Atthefirstlandingshestoppedandbeckonedusforwardencouraginglytowardstheopendoorofthedead-room.
Myauntwentinandtheoldwoman,seeingthatIhesitatedtoenter,begantobeckontomeagain
à plusieurs reprises
repeatedlywithherhand.Iwentinontiptoe.
Theroomthroughthe
dentelle
laceendoftheblindwassuffusedwithduskygoldenlightamidwhichthecandleslookedlikepalethinflammes
flames.Hehadbeencoffined.
Nanniegavetheleadandwethree
agenouillés
kneltdownatthefootofthebed.IpretendedtopraybutIcouldnotgathermythoughtsbecausetheoldwoman’smutterings
distraient
distractedme.Inoticedhowclumsilyher
jupe
skirtwashookedatthebackandhowtheheelsofhertissu
clothbootsweretroddendownalltooneside.Thefancycametomethattheoldpriestwassmilingashelaythereinhis
cercueil
coffin.Butno.WhenweroseandwentuptotheheadofthebedIsawthathewasnotsmiling.
Therehelay,
solennel
solemnandcopious,vestedasforthealtar,hislargehandslooselyretainingachalice.Hisfacewasverytruculent,
gris
greyandmassive,withblackcavernousnostrilsandcircledbyascantywhitefourrure
fur.Therewasaheavyodourintheroom—theflowers.
Weblessedourselvesandcameaway.
InthelittleroomdownstairswefoundElizaseatedinhisarm-chairinstate.
IgropedmywaytowardsmyusualchairinthecornerwhileNanniewenttothesideboardandbroughtoutadecanterofsherryandsomewine-glasses.
Shesettheseonthetableandinvitedustotakealittleglassofwine.
Then,athersister’sbidding,shefilledoutthesherryintotheglassesandpassedthemtous.
ShepressedmetotakesomecreamcrackersalsobutIdeclinedbecauseIthoughtIwouldmaketoomuchnoiseeatingthem.
Sheseemedtobesomewhatdisappointedatmy
refus
refusalandwentoverquietlytothecanapé
sofawhereshesatdownbehindhersister.Noonespoke:
weall
regardé
gazedattheemptyfireplace.MyauntwaiteduntilEliza
soupire
sighedandthensaid:.“Ah,well,he’sgonetoabetterworld.”
Eliza
soupira
sighedagainandbowedherheadinassent.Myauntfingeredthe
tige
stemofherwine-glassbeforesiroter
sippingalittle.“Didhe...
peacefully?”
sheasked.
“Oh,quite
paisiblement
peacefully,ma’am,”saidEliza.“Youcouldn’ttellwhenthebreathwentoutofhim.
Hehadabeautifuldeath,Godbepraised.”
“Andeverything...?”
“FatherO’RourkewasinwithhimaTuesdayandanointedhimandpreparedhimandall.”
“Heknewthen?”
“Hewasquiteresigned.”
“Helooksquiteresigned,”saidmyaunt.
“That’swhatthewomanwehadintowashhimsaid.
Shesaidhejustlookedasifhewasasleep,helookedthat
paisible
peacefulandresigned.Noonewouldthinkhe’dmakesuchabeautifulcorpse.”
“Yes,indeed,”saidmyaunt.
She
siroté
sippedalittlemorefromherglassandsaid:.“Well,MissFlynn,atanyrateitmustbeagreat
réconfort
comfortforyoutoknowthatyoudidallyoucouldforhim.Youwerebothverykindtohim,Imustsay.”
Eliza
lissé
smoothedherdressoverherknees.“Ah,poorJames!”
shesaid.
“Godknowswedoneallwecould,aspoorasweare—wewouldn’tseehimwantanythingwhilehewasinit.”
Nanniehadleanedherheadagainstthesofa-pillowandseemedabouttofallasleep.
“There’spoorNannie,”saidEliza,lookingather,“she’sworeout.
Alltheworkwehad,sheandme,gettinginthewomantowashhimandthenlayinghimoutandthenthe
cercueil
coffinandthenarrangingabouttheMassinthechapelle
chapel.OnlyforFatherO’RourkeIdon’tknowwhatwe’dhavedoneatall.
Itwashimbroughtusallthemflowersandthemtwocandlesticksoutofthe
chapelle
chapelandwroteoutthenoticefortheFreeman’sGeneralandtookchargeofallthepapersforthecimetière
cemeteryandpoorJames’sinsurance.”“Wasn’tthatgoodofhim?”
saidmyaunt.
Elizaclosedhereyesandshookherheadslowly.
“Ah,there’snofriendsliketheoldfriends,”shesaid,“whenallissaidanddone,nofriendsthatabodycantrust.”
“Indeed,that’strue,”saidmyaunt.
“AndI’msurenowthathe’sgonetohiseternalrewardhewon’tforgetyouandallyour
bonté
kindnesstohim.”“Ah,poorJames!”
saidEliza.
“Hewasnogreattroubletous.
Youwouldn’thearhiminthehouseanymorethannow.
Still,Iknowhe’sgoneandalltothat....”
“It’swhenit’salloverthatyou’llmisshim,”saidmyaunt.
“Iknowthat,”saidEliza.
“Iwon’tbebringinghiminhiscupofbeef-teaanymore,noryou,ma’am,sendinghimhis
tabac
snuff.Ah,poorJames!”
Shestopped,asifshewerecommuningwiththepastandthensaidshrewdly:.
“Mindyou,Inoticedtherewassomethingqueercomingoverhimlatterly.
WheneverI’dbringinhissouptohimthereI’dfindhimwithhisbreviaryfallentothefloor,lyingbackinthechairandhismouthopen.”
Shelaidafingeragainsthernoseandfrowned:
thenshecontinued:.
“Butstillandallhekeptonsayingthatbeforethesummerwasoverhe’dgooutforadriveonefinedayjusttoseetheoldhouseagainwherewewereallborndowninIrishtownandtakemeandNanniewithhim.
Ifwecouldonlygetoneofthemnew-fangledcarriagesthatmakesnonoisethatFatherO’Rourketoldhimabout,themwiththerheumaticwheels,forthedaycheap—hesaid,atJohnnyRush’soverthewaythereanddriveoutthethreeofustogetherofaSundayevening.
Hehadhismindsetonthat....
PoorJames!”
“TheLordhavemercyonhissoul!”
saidmyaunt.
Elizatookouther
mouchoir
handkerchiefandwipedhereyeswithit.Thensheputitbackagaininherpocketand
regardé
gazedintotheemptygrateforsometimewithoutspeaking.