Tuesday, September 30, 2014

The Sisters

etexts: [html] [1914] [1904] [1905]

notes: [gifford] [andover] [genius]

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James Joyce's The Sisters - 52 Films in 52 Weeks from Running Wild Films on Vimeo.






Monday, September 29, 2014

The Sisters (1904 version)


T H E    S I S T E R S .


     Three nights in succession I had found myself in Great Britain-street at that hour, as if by Providence. Three nights also 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 yet occurred.

    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 is the old distiller who owns the batch of prize setters. He used to be very interesting when I knew him first, talking about "faints" and "worms." Now I find him tedious.

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

    "Without a doubt. Upper storey-- (he tapped an unnecessary hand at his forehead)-- 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 better, Uncle John?"

    "He's dead."

    "O... he's dead?"

    "Died a few hours ago."

    "Who told you?"

    "Mr. Cotter here brought us the news. He was passing there."

    "Yes, I just happened to be passing, and I noticed the window... you know."

    "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 was principally 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 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, 189- The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of St. Ita's Church), aged 65 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 clothing 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 Prayer Book. 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 that bore his name I could not realise that he was dead. He seemed like one who could go on living for ever if he only 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 were 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 occurred to remind him of his former life (I mean friends or visitors), and 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 speak Latin in the Italian way. He often put me through the responses of the Mass, he 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 looked 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 prays 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 in his brown habit, his large hands loosely retaining his rosary. His face was very grey and massive, with distended nostrils and circled with 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. Nannie sat in a corner and said nothing, but her lips moved from speaker to speaker with a painfully intelligent motion. I said nothing either, being too young, but my aunt spoke a good deal, for she is a bit of a gossip-- harmless.

    "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. But it was his scrupulousness, I think, 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 funeral. 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 no 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 the paper, nor you, ma'am, bringing him his snuff. How he liked that 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!"



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Wires-- "Dairy Supply," Cork; "Separator," Belfast.  

Sunday, September 28, 2014

The Sisters, p9

etexts: [html] [1914] [1904] [1905]

notes: [gifford] [andover] [rap]


the date is eventually revealed as 1 July 1895

There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind, for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse.

1904 opening: "Three nights in succession I had found myself in Great Britain-street at that hour, as if by Providence."

(anyone got a more plausible image?)
on the 1909 map the name 'Great Britain Street' is obscured by tramtracks

He had often said to me: I am not long for this world and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.

"not long for this world" goes back to c1750

"paralysis" hints at syphilis

"In Dubliners I wrote in the first story that the word ‘paralysis’ filled me with horror and fear, as if it were the name of something evil and sinful. I loved this word and whispered it to myself at night at an open window" [cite] looking up at window from outside, vs down from inside?

"gnomon" (FW283: "he always caught dull marks in his nucleud and allgobrew")

Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to some former remark of his:

an illiterate 62yo general laborer named William Cotter was boarding in Gt Britain street in 1901, coincidentally

"my aunt" not autobiographical

stew, or porridge?

— No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was something queer... there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion...




[LV 00:25-01:42]

Friday, September 26, 2014

The Sisters, p10

etexts: [html] [1914] [1904] [1905]

notes: [gifford] [andover] [rap]


He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms, but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery.

-- I have my own theory about it, he said. I think it was one of those... peculiar cases... But it's hard to say...

He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. 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 the house.

I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if the news had not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter:

-- The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him a great deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him.

-- God have mercy on his soul, said my aunt piously.

Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady black eyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him by




[LV 01:42-02:54]

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

The Sisters, p11

etexts: [html] [1914] [1904] [1905]

notes: [gifford] [andover] [rap]


— I wouldn't like children of mine, he said, to have too much 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. My idea is: let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age and not be... Am I right, Jack?

— That's my principle too, said my uncle. Let him learn to box his corner. That's what I'm always saying to that Rosicrucian there: take exercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had a cold bath, winter and summer. And that's what stands to me now. Education is all very fine and large... Mr Cotter might take a pick of that leg of mutton, he added to my aunt.

"box his corner" 1929 = defend his territory like a boxer

"Rosicrucian" = unworldly philosopher?

"mutton" (Cotter gets stirabout too, but the boy isn't offered any mutton-- maybe the stirabout has mutton in it?)

— No, no, not for me, said old Cotter.

My aunt brought the dish from the safe and laid it on the table.

she guesses he's just being polite

"safe" = a ventilated chest or closet for securing provisions from insects

— 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 minds are so impressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it has an effect...

I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to my anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!

It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotter for alluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaning from his unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imagined that I saw again the heavy grey face

"for alluding to me as a child" (JAJ was 13yo in July 1895, approximately the same age as the boys in Ulysses' episode 2)




[LV 02:54-04:23]

Saturday, September 20, 2014

The Sisters, p12

etexts: [html] [1914] [1904] [1905]

notes: [gifford] [andover] [rap]


of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over my head and tried to think of Christmas. But the grey face still followed me. It murmured, and I understood that it desired to confess something. I felt my soul receding into some pleasant and vicious region, and there again I found it waiting for me. It began to confess to me in a murmuring voice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were so moist with spittle. But then I remembered that it had died of paralysis and I felt that I too was smiling feebly, as if to absolve the simoniac of his sin.

The next 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 mainly of children's bootees and umbrellas, and on ordinary days a notice used to hang in the window saying: Umbrellas Recovered. No notice was visible now for the shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the door-knocker with ribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned on the crape. I also approached and read:

July 1st, 1895
The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's Church,
Meath Street), aged sixty-five years.

The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I was disturbed to find myself at




[LV 04:23-05:54]