Counterparts

"Counterparts" is a short story from James Joyce's collection "Dubliners", rather than a standalone book. It vividly explores the life of Farrington, a legal clerk in Dublin, who struggles with alcohol addiction, job dissatisfaction, and volatile relationships at home. Despair and frustration lead him from pub to pub, spiraling deeper into self-destruction. This poignant narrative offers an insight into early 20th-century Irish society, exploring themes of routine, desperation, and violence.

• Children

								
The bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a
furious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent:

“Send Farrington here!”

Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing at
a desk:

“Mr Alleyne wants you upstairs.”

The man muttered “Blast him!” under his breath and pushed back his
chair to stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He
had a hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair eyebrows and
moustache: his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites of them were
dirty. He lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went out
of the office with a heavy step.

He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, where a
door bore a brass plate with the inscription Mr Alleyne. Here he
halted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill voice
cried:

“Come in!”

The man entered Mr Alleyne’s room. Simultaneously Mr Alleyne, a little
man wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a clean-shaven face, shot his head
up over a pile of documents. The head itself was so pink and hairless
it seemed like a large egg reposing on the papers. Mr Alleyne did not
lose a moment:

“Farrington? What is the meaning of this? Why have I always to complain
of you? May I ask you why you haven’t made a copy of that contract
between Bodley and Kirwan? I told you it must be ready by four
o’clock.”

“But Mr Shelley said, sir——”

“Mr Shelley said, sir.... Kindly attend to what I say and not to what
Mr Shelley says, sir. You have always some excuse or another for
shirking work. Let me tell you that if the contract is not copied
before this evening I’ll lay the matter before Mr Crosbie.... Do you
hear me now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you hear me now?... Ay and another little matter! I might as well
be talking to the wall as talking to you. Understand once for all that
you get a half an hour for your lunch and not an hour and a half. How
many courses do you want, I’d like to know.... Do you mind me, now?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man stared
fixedly at the polished skull which directed the affairs of Crosbie &
Alleyne, gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped his throat for
a few moments and then passed, leaving after it a sharp sensation of
thirst. The man recognised the sensation and felt that he must have a
good night’s drinking. The middle of the month was passed and, if he
could get the copy done in time, Mr Alleyne might give him an order on
the cashier. He stood still, gazing fixedly at the head upon the pile
of papers. Suddenly Mr Alleyne began to upset all the papers, searching
for something. Then, as if he had been unaware of the man’s presence
till that moment, he shot up his head again, saying:

“Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington,
you take things easy!”

“I was waiting to see....”

“Very good, you needn’t wait to see. Go downstairs and do your work.”

The man walked heavily towards the door and, as he went out of the
room, he heard Mr Alleyne cry after him that if the contract was not
copied by evening Mr Crosbie would hear of the matter.

He returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets
which remained to be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in the
ink but he continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had
written: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be.... The evening
was falling and in a few minutes they would be lighting the gas: then
he could write. He felt that he must slake the thirst in his throat. He
stood up from his desk and, lifting the counter as before, passed out
of the office. As he was passing out the chief clerk looked at him
inquiringly.

“It’s all right, Mr Shelley,” said the man, pointing with his finger to
indicate the objective of his journey.

The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack but, seeing the row complete,
offered no remark. As soon as he was on the landing the man pulled a
shepherd’s plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and ran
quickly down the rickety stairs. From the street door he walked on
furtively on the inner side of the path towards the corner and all at
once dived into a doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of
O’Neill’s shop, and filling up the little window that looked into the
bar with his inflamed face, the colour of dark wine or dark meat, he
called out:

“Here, Pat, give us a g.p., like a good fellow.”

The curate brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at a
gulp and asked for a caraway seed. He put his penny on the counter and,
leaving the curate to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out of the
snug as furtively as he had entered it.

Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk of
February and the lamps in Eustace Street had been lit. The man went up
by the houses until he reached the door of the office, wondering
whether he could finish his copy in time. On the stairs a moist pungent
odour of perfumes saluted his nose: evidently Miss Delacour had come
while he was out in O’Neill’s. He crammed his cap back again into his
pocket and re-entered the office, assuming an air of absent-mindedness.

“Mr Alleyne has been calling for you,” said the chief clerk severely.
“Where were you?”

The man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the counter as
if to intimate that their presence prevented him from answering. As the
clients were both male the chief clerk allowed himself a laugh.

“I know that game,” he said. “Five times in one day is a little bit....
Well, you better look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence in the
Delacour case for Mr Alleyne.”

This address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs and the
porter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he sat
down at his desk to get what was required, he realised how hopeless was
the task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five.
The dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars,
drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of
glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of the
office. He hoped Mr Alleyne would not discover that the last two
letters were missing.

The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr Alleyne’s room. Miss
Delacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr Alleyne was
said to be sweet on her or on her money. She came to the office often
and stayed a long time when she came. She was sitting beside his desk
now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and
nodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr Alleyne had swivelled
his chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon his
left knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowed
respectfully but neither Mr Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any notice
of his bow. Mr Alleyne tapped a finger on the correspondence and then
flicked it towards him as if to say: “That’s all right: you can go.”

The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. He

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