The Sisters

Three nights in succession I had found myself in Great Britain Street at that hour, as if by providence. Three nights I had raised my eyes to that lighted square of window and speculated. I seemed to understand that it would occur at night. But in spite of the providence that had led my feet and in spite of the reverent curiosity of my eyes I had discovered nothing. Each night the square was lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. It was not the light of candles so far as I could see. Therefore it had not occurred yet.

On the fourth night at that hour I was in another part of the city. It may have been the same providence that led me there-- a whimsical kind of providence-- to take me at a disadvantage. As I went home I wondered was that square of window lighted as before or did it reveal the ceremonious candles in whose light the Christian must take his last sleep. I was not surprised, then, when at supper I found myself a prophet. Old Cotter and my uncle were talking at the fire, smoking. Old Cotter was a retired distiller who owned a batch of prize setters. He used to be very interesting when I knew him first, talking about faints and worms, but afterwards he became tedious.

While I was eating my stirabout I heard him say to my uncle:

-- Without a doubt. The upper storey (he tapped an unnecessary hand at his forehead) was gone--

-- So they said. I never could see much of it. I thought he was sane enough--

-- So he was, at times, said old Cotter--

I sniffed the was apprehensively and gulped down some stirabout.

-- Is he any better, Uncle Jack?--

-- He's dead--

-- O.....--

-- Died a few hours ago--

-- Who told you?--

-- Mr Cotter here brought us the news. He was passing ....--

-- Yes, I just happened to be passing and I noticed the windows.... You know. So I just knocked softly--

-- Do you think they will bring him to the chapel? asked my aunt--

-- Oh, no, ma'am. I wouldn't say so--

-- Very unlikely, my uncle agreed--

So old Cotter had got the better of me for all my vigilance of three nights. It is often annoying the way people will blunder on what you have elaborately planned for. I was sure he would die at night.

The following morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little house in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop registered under the vague name of Drapery. The drapery consisted chiefly of children's boots and umbrellas and on ordinary days there used to be notice hanging in the window which said Umbrellas Recovered. There was no notice visible now for the shop-blinds were drawn down and a crape bouquet was tied to the knocker of the door with white ribbons. Three women of the people and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned on the crape. I also went over and read:

July 2nd, 1890
The Rev. James Flynn
(formerly of S. Catherine's
Church, Meath Street) aged
Sixty-five Years.
R.I.P.

Only sixty-five! He looked much older than that. I often saw him sitting at the fire in the close dark room behind the shop, nearly smothered in his great coat. He seemed to have almost stupefied himself with heat and the gesture of his large trembling hand to his nostrils had grown automatic. My aunt, who is what they call good-hearted, never went into the shop without bringing him some High Toast; and he used to take the packet of snuff from her hands, gravely inclining his head for sign of thanks. He used to sit in that stuffy room for the greater part of the day from early morning while Nannie (who is almost stone deaf) read out the newspaper to him. His other sister, Eliza, used to mind the shop. These two old women used to look after him, feed him and clothe him. The task of clothing him was not difficult for his ancient priestly clothes were quite green with age and his dogskin slippers were everlasting. When he was tired of hearing the news he used to rattle his snuff-box on the arm of his chair to avoid shouting at her and then he used to make believe to read his prayerbook. Make believe because when Eliza brought him a cup of soup from the kitchen she had always to waken him.

As I stood looking up at the crape and the card which bore his name I could not convince myself that he was dead. He seemed like one who could have gone on living for ever if only he had wanted to; his life was so methodical and uneventful. I think he said more to me than to anyone else. He had an egoistic contempt for all women-folk and suffered all their services to him in polite silence. Of course neither of his sisters was very intelligent. Nannie, for instance, had been reading out the newspaper to him every day for years and could read tolerably well and yet she always spoke of it as the Freeman's General. Perhaps he found me more intelligent and honoured me with words for that reason. Nothing, practically nothing, ever happened to remind him of his former life (I mean friends or visitors) but still he could remember every detail of it in his own fashion. He had studied at the college in Rome and he taught me to pronounce Latin in the Italian way. He often put me through the responses of the Mass, smiling often and pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alternately. When he smiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let his tongue lie on his lower lip. At first this habit of his used to make me feel uneasy. Then I grew used to it.

That evening my aunt visited the house of mourning and took me with her. It was an oppressive summer evening of faded gold. Nannie received us in the hall and, as it was no use saying anything to her, my aunt shook hands with her for all. We followed the old woman upstairs and into the dead-room. The room through the lace end of the blind was suffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles seemed like pale thin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead and we three knelt down at the foot of the bed. There was no sound in the room for some minutes except the sound of Nannie's mutterings, for she prayed noisily. The fancy came to me that the old priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin.

But no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I saw that he was not smiling. There he lay solemn and copious, vested for the altar, his large hands loosely retaining a cross. His face was very grey and massive with distended nostrils and circled with a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odour in the room, the flowers.

We sat downstairs in the little room behind the shop, my aunt and I and the two sisters. We, as visitors, were given a glass of sherry each. Nannie sat in a corner and said nothing but her lips moved from speaker to speaker with a painfully intelligent movement. I said nothing either, being too young, but my aunt said a great deal for she was a gossip, a harmless one.

-- Ah, well, he's gone!--

-- To enjoy his eternal reward, Miss Flynn, I'm sure. He was a good and holy man--

-- He was a good man but..... you see.... he was a disappointed man. You see.... his life was, you might say, crossed--

-- Ah, yes. I know what you mean--

-- Not that he was anyway mad, as you know yourself: but he was always a little queer. Even when we were all growing up together he was queer. One time he didn't speak hardly for a month. You know, he was that kind always--

-- Perhaps he read too much, Miss Flynn--

-- O, he read a good deal but not latterly. It was his scrupulousness, you see, that affected his mind. The duties of the priesthood were too much for him--

-- Did he....... peacefully?--

-- O, quite peacefully, ma'am. You couldn't tell when the breath went out of him. He had a beautiful death, God be praised--

-- And everything......?--

-- Father O'Rourke was in with him yesterday and gave him the Last Sacrament--

-- He knew then?--

-- Yes. He was quite resigned--

Nannie gave a sleepy nod and looked ashamed.

-- Poor Nannie, said her sister, she's worn out. All the work we had, getting in a woman and laying him out! And then the coffin and arranging about the mass in the chapel. God knows we did all we could, as poor as we are. We wouldn't see him want anything at the last--

-- Indeed you were both very kind to him while he lived--

-- Ah, poor James! He was no great trouble to us. You wouldn't hear him in the house any more than now. Still I know he's gone and all that........ I won't be bringing him in his soup any more nor Nannie reading him out the paper nor you, ma'am, bringing him his snuff. Poor James!--

-- O, yes, you'll miss him in a day or two more than you do now--

Silence invaded the room until memory reawakened it, Eliza speaking slowly:

-- It was that chalice he broke. Of course, it was all right. I mean it contained nothing. But still..... They say it was the boy's fault. But poor James was so nervous. God be merciful to him!--

-- Yes, Miss Flynn, I heard that about the chalice. He.... his mind was a bit affected by that--

-- He began to mope by himself, talking to no-one and wandering about. Often he couldn't be found. One night he was wanted and they looked high up and low down and couldn't find him. Then the clerk suggested the chapel. So they opened the chapel (it was late at night) and brought in a light to look for him..... And there, sure enough, he was sitting in his confession-box in the dark, wide awake, and laughing like-- softly to himself. Then they knew something was wrong--

-- God rest his soul!--