Counterparts Page #3

"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

								

Farrington’s face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, “And here was
my nabs, as cool as you please,” while Farrington looked at the
company out of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth
stray drops of liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip.

When that round was over there was a pause. O’Halloran had money but
neither of the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party left
the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins and
Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned back
towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when
they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House.
The bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses.
The three men pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door and
formed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to
exchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named
Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knockabout
artiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would
take a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite
notions of what was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris
too; but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became
theatrical. O’Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another
round, Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He
promised to get them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some
nice girls. O’Halloran said that he and Leonard would go, but that
Farrington wouldn’t go because he was a married man; and Farrington’s
heavy dirty eyes leered at the company in token that he understood he
was being chaffed. Weathers made them all have just one little tincture
at his expense and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan’s in
Poolbeg Street.

When the Scotch House closed they went round to Mulligan’s. They went
into the parlour at the back and O’Halloran ordered small hot specials
all round. They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington was just
standing another round when Weathers came back. Much to Farrington’s
relief he drank a glass of bitter this time. Funds were getting low but
they had enough to keep them going. Presently two young women with big
hats and a young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table close
by. Weathers saluted them and told the company that they were out of
the Tivoli. Farrington’s eyes wandered at every moment in the direction
of one of the young women. There was something striking in her
appearance. An immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was wound round her
hat and knotted in a great bow under her chin; and she wore bright
yellow gloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly at
the plump arm which she moved very often and with much grace; and when,
after a little time, she answered his gaze he admired still more her
large dark brown eyes. The oblique staring expression in them
fascinated him. She glanced at him once or twice and, when the party
was leaving the room, she brushed against his chair and said “O,
pardon!” in a London accent. He watched her leave the room in the hope
that she would look back at him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his
want of money and cursed all the rounds he had stood, particularly all
the whiskies and Apollinaris which he had stood to Weathers. If there
was one thing that he hated it was a sponge. He was so angry that he
lost count of the conversation of his friends.

When Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking about
feats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the
company and boasting so much that the other two had called on
Farrington to uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his
sleeve accordingly and showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two
arms were examined and compared and finally it was agreed to have a
trial of strength. The table was cleared and the two men rested their
elbows on it, clasping hands. When Paddy Leonard said “Go!” each was
to try to bring down the other’s hand on to the table. Farrington
looked very serious and determined.

The trial began. After about thirty seconds Weathers brought his
opponent’s hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington’s dark
wine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation at
having been defeated by such a stripling.

“You’re not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair,” he
said.

“Who’s not playing fair?” said the other.

“Come on again. The two best out of three.”

The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington’s forehead,
and the pallor of Weathers’ complexion changed to peony. Their hands
and arms trembled under the stress. After a long struggle Weathers
again brought his opponent’s hand slowly on to the table. There was a
murmur of applause from the spectators. The curate, who was standing
beside the table, nodded his red head towards the victor and said with
stupid familiarity:

“Ah! that’s the knack!”

“What the hell do you know about it?” said Farrington fiercely, turning
on the man. “What do you put in your gab for?”

“Sh, sh!” said O’Halloran, observing the violent expression of
Farrington’s face. “Pony up, boys. We’ll have just one little smahan
more and then we’ll be off.”

A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of O’Connell Bridge waiting
for the little Sandymount tram to take him home. He was full of
smouldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated and
discontented; he did not even feel drunk; and he had only twopence in
his pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for himself in the
office, pawned his watch, spent all his money; and he had not even got
drunk. He began to feel thirsty again and he longed to be back again in
the hot reeking public-house. He had lost his reputation as a strong
man, having been defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart swelled with
fury and, when he thought of the woman in the big hat who had brushed
against him and said Pardon! his fury nearly choked him.

His tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and he steered his great body
along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed returning
to his home. When he went in by the side-door he found the kitchen
empty and the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled upstairs:

“Ada! Ada!”

His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when he
was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. They had five
children. A little boy came running down the stairs.

“Who is that?” said the man, peering through the darkness.

“Me, pa.”

“Who are you? Charlie?”

“No, pa. Tom.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She’s out at the chapel.”

“That’s right.... Did she think of leaving any dinner for me?”

“Yes, pa. I——”

“Light the lamp. What do you mean by having the place in darkness? Are
the other children in bed?”

The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs while the little boy lit
the lamp. He began to mimic his son’s flat accent, saying half to
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