By James Joyce
THERE was no hope for him this time： it was the thirdstroke. Night after night I had passed the house （it wasvacation time） and studied the lighted square of window： andnight after night I had found it lighted in the same way， faintlyand evenly. If he was dead， I thought， I would see the reflectionof candles on the darkened blind for I knew that two candlesmust be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said to me：
“I am not long for this world，” and I had thought his wordsidle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up atthe window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It hadalways sounded strangely in my ears， like the word gnomonin the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But nowit sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinfulbeing. It filled me with fear， and yet I longed to be nearer to itand to look upon its deadly work.
Old Cotter was sitting at the fire， smoking， when I camedownstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out mystirabout he said， as if returning to some former remark of his：
“No， I wouldn’t say he was exactly... but there wassomething queer... there was something uncanny about him. I’lltell you my opinion....”
He began to puff at his pipe， no doubt arranging his opinionin his mind. Tiresome old fool！ When we knew him first heused to be rather interesting， talking of faints and worms；but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about thedistillery.
“I have my own theory about it，” he said. “I think it was oneof those... peculiar cases.... But it’s hard to say....”
He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us histheory. My uncle saw me staring and said to me：
“Well， so your old friend is gone， You’ll be sorry to hear.”
“Who？” said I.
“Father Flynn.”
“Is he dead？”
“Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by thehouse.”
I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating asif the news had not interested me. My uncle explained to oldCotter.
“The youngster and he were great friends. The old chaptaught him a great deal， mind you； and they say he had a greatwish for him.”
“God have mercy on his soul，” said my aunt piously.
Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his littlebeady black eyes were examining me but I would not satisfyhim by looking up from my plate. He returned to his pipe andfinally spat rudely into the grate.
“I wouldn’t like children of mine，” he said， “to have toomuch to say to a man like that.”
“How do you mean， Mr. Cotter？” asked my aunt.
“What I mean is，” said old Cotter， “it’s bad for children. Myidea is： let a young lad run about and play with young lads ofhis own age and not be... Am I right， Jack？”
“That’s my principle， too，” said my uncle. “Let him learnto box his corner. That’s what I’m always saying to thatRosicrucian there： take exercise. Why， when I was a nipperevery morning of my life I had a cold bath， winter and summer.
And that’s what stands to me now. Education is all very fineand large.... Mr. Cotter might take a pick of that leg mutton，”
he added to my aunt.
“No， no， not for me，” said old Cotter.
My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on thetable.
“But why do you think it’s not good for children， Mr. Cotter？”
she asked.
“It’s bad for children，” said old Cotter， “because their mindsare so impressionable. When children see things like that， youknow， it has an effect....”
I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might giveutterance to my anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile！
It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry withold Cotter for alluding to me as a child， I puzzled my headto extract meaning from his unfinished sentences. In thedark of my room I imagined that I saw again the heavy greyface of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over my head andtried to think of Christmas. But the grey face still followedme. It murmured； and I understood that it desired to confesssomething. I felt my soul receding into some pleasant andvicious region； and there again I found it waiting for me. Itbegan to confess to me in a murmuring voice and I wonderedwhy it smiled continually and why the lips were so moist withspittle. But then I remembered that it had died of paralysis andI felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve the simoniacof his sin.
The next morning after breakfast I went down to look atthe little house in Great Britain Street. It was an unassumingshop， registered under the vague name of Drapery. The draperyconsisted mainly of children’s bootees and umbrellas； and onordinary days a notice used to hang in the window， saying：
Umbrellas Recovered. No notice was visible now for theshutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the door-knockerwith ribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy werereading the card pinned on the crape. I also approached andread：
July 1st， 1895
The Rev. James Flynn （formerly of
S. Catherine’s Church， Meath Street），
aged sixty-five years.
R. I. P.
The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead andI was disturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been deadI would have gone into the little dark room behind the shop tofind him sitting in his arm-chair by the fire， nearly smothered inhis great-coat. Perhaps my aunt would have given me a packetof High Toast for him and this present would have rousedhim from his stupefied doze. It was always I who emptiedthe packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembled toomuch to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuffabout the floor. Even as he raised his large trembling hand tohis nose little clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingersover the front of his coat. It may have been these constantshowers of snuff which gave his ancient priestly garmentstheir green faded look for the red handkerchief， blackened， asit always was， with the snuff-stains of a week， with which hetried to brush away the fallen grains， was quite inefficacious.