The dark discreet room, their isolation, the music that still vibrated in their ears united them. He knew that the prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and wished him gone. She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. He allowed himself to think that in certain circumstances he would rob his hank but, as these circumstances never arose, his life rolled out evenly -- an adventureless tale. time. The books on the white wooden shelves were arranged from below upwards according to bulk. His face, which carried the entire tale of his years, was of the brown tint of Dublin streets. Writing materials were always on the desk. He had done what seemed to him best. 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. Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. He waited for some minutes listening. The bed was clothed with white bedclothes and a black and scarlet rug covered the foot. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. His eyes fixed themselves on a paragraph in the evening paper which he had propped against the water-carafe. It's so hard on people to have to sing to empty benches.". 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. A little hand-mirror hung above the washstand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stood as the sole ornament of the mantelpiece. Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make an appointment. He rides there in the morning, goes to lunch at the same place every day and then, before heading home alone, he eats dinner and reads … Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a James Joyce 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 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. There were five or six workingmen in the shop discussing the value of a gentleman's estate in County Kildare They drank at intervals from their huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often on the floor and sometimes dragging the sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots. The night was cold and gloomy. With almost maternal solicitude she urged him to let his nature open to the full: she became his confessor. Captain Sinico encouraged his visits, thinking that his daughter's hand was in question. The books on the white wooden shelves were arranged from below upwards according to bulk. When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted and looked along the river towards Dublin, the lights of which burned redly and hospitably in the cold night. When they came out of the Park they walked in silence towards the tram; but here she began to tremble so violently that, fearing another collapse on her part, he bade her good-bye quickly and left her. Why had he withheld life from 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. 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 looked down the slope and, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying. & additional features for teachers. But that she could have sunk so low! No blame attached to anyone. The night was cold and gloomy. He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. Today at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in the absence of Mr. Leverett) held an inquest on the body of Mrs. Emily Sinico, aged forty-three years, who was killed at Sydney Parade Station yesterday evening. “A Painful Case” by James Joyce tells the story of Mr James Duffy, a middle-aged man who lives on the outskirts of Dublin, in an area called Chapelizod. As he did not wish their last interview to be troubled by the influence of their ruined confessional they meet in a little cakeshop near the Parkgate. In Ireland in the late 19th and early 20th century, “a painful case” was a euphemistic term often used to indicate a suicide without doing so outright. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. The right side of the head had been injured in the fall. Then he drank a glass of water, pushed his plate to one side, doubled the paper down before him between his elbows and read the paragraph over and over again. Every morning he came in from Chapelizod by tram. His stick struck the ground less emphatically and his breath, issuing irregularly, almost with a sighing sound, condensed in the wintry air. They had been married for twenty-two years and had lived happily until about two years ago when his wife began to be rather intemperate in her habits. lives alone in Chapelizod bc he wants to 'live as far away as possible from the city of which he was a citizen because he found all the other suburbs of Dublin modern, mean and pretentious' like how he dislocates from his body and sometimes his voice - 'he lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances' They agreed to break off their intercourse: every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. Just God, what an end! 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. Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. The river lay quiet beside the empty distillery and from time to time a light appeared in some house on the Lucan road. After a while they went out and he called for another punch. Then he paid his bill and went out.He walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stout hazel stick striking the ground regularly, the fringe of the buff Mail peeping out of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat. Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. From the room of his house, he could see the whole city-Dublin. Not merely had she degraded herself; she had degraded him. The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room were free from pictures. The cold air met him on the threshold; it crept into the sleeves of his coat. The threadbare phrases, the inane expressions of sympathy, the cautious words of a reporter won over to conceal the details of a commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach. He ran towards her and shouted, but, before he could reach her, she was caught by the buffer of the engine and fell to the ground. Nevertheless, possible answers are deducible from the available evidence, and several unexpected conceivable directions can be found. The eyes were very dark blue and steady. Why had he sentenced her to death? On his long and rather large head grew dry black hair and a tawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiable mouth. Then he paid his bill and went out. He read it not aloud, but moving his lips as a priest does when he reads the prayers Secreto. The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett, Uncle Tom's Cabin - Harriet Beecher Stowe. 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. Death, in his opinion, had been probably due to shock and sudden failure of the heart's action. The proprietor sprawled on the counter reading the Herald and yawning. He lent her books, provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with her. The whole narrative of her death revolted him and it revolted him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what he held sacred. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of He had the body taken to the waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance.Constable 57 corroborated.Dr. Now that she was gone he understood how lonely her life must have been, sitting night after night alone in that room. He gnawed the rectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life's feast. Sometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of her own life. He put on his overcoat and hat quickly and went out. When he came to the public-house at Chapelizod Bridge he went in and ordered a hot punch. He halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away. 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. For what, he asked her, with careful scorn. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. He felt that he was alone. He stated that the deceased was his wife. 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. Mr. Duffy was very much surprised. He never gave alms to beggars and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel. After a while they went out and he called for another punch. He gnawed the rectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life's feast. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital, stated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and had sustained severe contusions of the right shoulder. . He kept away from concerts lest he should meet her. 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. Many times she allowed the dark to fall upon them, refraining from lighting the lamp. Why had he withheld life from her? The opening of the story announces this setting in tones much like those of the central character Duffy himself: Mr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of his window on the cheerless evening landscape. His evenings were spent either before his landlady's piano or roaming about the outskirts of the city. 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. They agreed to break off their intercourse: every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. Mr. Duffy sat on his stool and gazed at them, without seeing or hearing them. He looked down the slope and, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying. A Painful Case . Chapelizod is an old city. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in his desk. He walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stout hazel stick striking the ground regularly, the fringe of the buff Mail peeping out of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat. He had taken room in old dark house. 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. It was an oval face with strongly marked features. 1. "Yes. 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 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. He was surprised that she seemed so little awkward. In summary, ‘A Painful Case’ introduces us to James Duffy, a man who lives on the outskirts of Dublin, in the village of Chapelizod. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? He turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river, winding along towards Dublin. His room still bore witness of the orderliness of his mind. At one of the concerts he attends at Rotunda, he meets a woman his age, Mrs Sinico. A bookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelves of white wood. 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