The Books: “Dubliners” – ‘Ivy Day In the Committee Room’ (James Joyce)

Daily Book Excerpt: Adult fiction:

Dubliners – by James Joyce – excerpt from the twelfth story in the collection: “Ivy Day In the Committee Room”.

A story made up almost entirely of dialogue, this one is a toughie. Just go with it. Assume that you don’t need to know everything … you’ll get enough of it to understand it. It’s about local Irish politics – and because we are dependent on the characters for explication, much of it is in shorthand – and you can easily get lost. A glossary does help – and you can find such things online on insane Joyce sites.

A couple things are clear: a group of men gather in “The Committee Room” on a rainy day. Municipal elections are coming up. A couple of them are canvassing for votes for Richard Tierney (an odd coincidence: he is referred to as “Tricky Dick” throughout). You don’t get the sense that the canvassers are totally in love with what they are doing – they are not true believers for Tierney. A couple guys show up who are not enamored at all with Tierney – and it is suspected that they might be spies for the other side – a guy named Crogan. The conversation comes fast and furious – lots of Irish slang. People are called “shoneens”, “Mushas”, “Wishas” – you get the idea of such terms, but it does help to know what they are. Again, if you google “Ivy Day in the Committee Room” you will find more information than you probably ever wanted. Discussions occur. Arguments. Should they be gratified or not that Edward (“the German monarch” of England) plans on coming to Ireland? When Queen Victoria never set foot on the place? Or should they take an attitude like, “Feck HIM.”? What does Tierney say about it? Doesn’t he run on a nationalist campaign? One of the things about Joyce that I love is that here we are – with, at times, a 6-way conversation – many of times you don’t get the information of who said what … but if you pay attention, you know who is speaking. They all have different voices. You also can get the speaker due to their political views – their impatience with certain ideals, etc. But make no mistake: this is a rigorous read. It demands a lot. Probably not from Irish people, since all of this is an intimate part of their own history – but for Americans certainly. It’s a local political skirmish. With no narrative, no narrator. We are eavesdropping. These guys are gossips. You get the sense of the small-mindedness and almost boredom in the room … even though politics are important and who is in charge is important. The second someone leaves the room, everybody starts to talk about him – and it’s never flattering. Father Keon shows up – a kind of sad sack of a guy, whose priestly collar is hidden under the collar of his coat … he’s gossiped about – is he a real priest? Nobody thinks so. They think he just walks around wearing the outfit.

To add to all of this – it is Ivy Day. Which, again, might not mean anything to us. It probably doesn’t. But all of the men, regardless of political affiliation or attitude, is wearing a little ivy-leaf pin on their lapel. It’s mentioned again and again. “Ivy Day” is the day commemorating Charles Stewart Parnell’s death. People apparently flocked to Parnell’s funeral, wearing sprigs of ivy on their lapels. Parnell: the great martyred hero to the Irish (or, one of the many great martyred heroes). A very important man to Joyce – you will see this come up in Portrait of the Artist very clearly. Parnell was the head of the Irish Nationalists, and became, himself, a symbol of the need and desire for Irish independence. He fought for Home Rule. He lost power, though, because of a sex scandal – he was having an affair with a married woman. And so Parnell – the great white hope of Irish independence – was driven out of office on a rail, basically. Joyce never forgave his countrymen for that. And with Parnell’s absence, Irish independence was pushed back decades. At least that’s how many people saw it. Parnell is still a compelling and contradictory character to the Irish – he haunts the imagination still. He is a symbol of all of the “what ifs” in the Irish national conversation. He is idealized, for sure – but that’s part of the point of “Ivy Day in the Committee Room”. Here are all of these guys, gossiping and bitching about the upcoming election – with two uninspiring characters running for office … and they’re all wearing ivy-pins on their lapels … a memory of days gone by when leaders were exciting, inspiring, important. (Again: NONE of this is said in the narrative – it’s all implied.) The canvassers hide out from the rain in the Committee Room, and basically bitch about when they are going to get paid for their work for the election. Would they have worked for Parnell for free? You get the sense that something died in Ireland when Parnell died. (That’s what comes up again in Portrait.) Parnell, and the loss of him, was a national tragedy. And now all they had were mediocrities running for office – guys who are excited to GREET the stupid English king when he comes … kow-towing to the British … would Parnell have done such a thing? These are unanswerable questions, and you can see folks still arguing about it in the excerpt below – Parnell was not, in any way shape or form , universally loved. But he dominated the landscape. He was a true “leader” in that respect. You had to set yourself up either in opposition or align yourself with him … because he controlled the conversation. In “Ivy Day” you can see how the nationalists and conservatives are far more willing to compromise their beliefs – because they would rather win than not win. The definition of mediocrity. I suppose the point is we just don’t know what Parnell “would have done” had he lived on. But the spectre of him looms over any Irish political conversation. He haunts this story.

The real fight here seems to be between the nationalists (those interested in Irish independence) and the conservatives (those in favor of maintaining connections with the British) … but none of the men seem to have energy for it. They talk about the working man, and fenians – arguing over this and that, the Irish talking-points … showing apathy more than anything else … but the gleaming ivy-leaf pins they all wear tells a different story.

To understand Joyce, you must understand Parnell. The story ends with one of the men reciting a poem he had written for Parnell. He recites it in honor of Ivy Day. The irony is probably not lost on any of the men present: the leaders of days gone by had a greatness that Tricky Dick can’t even aspire to. It was a question of character, of hope, of moral fiber. Where has all that gone in Ireland? The men sit and listen to the poem – and many of them are much moved.

A story written in the true vernacular of Dublin, Joyce catapults us into the middle of the action. He keeps it local, provincial. But it makes me think of Thomas Hardy’s wonderful comment (and he, too, often had critics who said he was “provincial” or too local): “A certain provincialism is invaluable. It is the essence of individuality, and is largely made up on that crude enthusiams without which no great thoughts are thought, no great deeds done.”

This was Joyce’s own favorite story in the collection (which is telling).

Here’s an excerpt.

EXCERPT FROM Dubliners – by James Joyce – “Ivy Day In the Committee Room”.

— Hello, Crofton! said Mr Henchy to the fat man. Talk of the devil …

— Where did the boose come from? asked the young man. Did the cows calve?

— O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing! said Mr O’Connor, laughing.

— Is that that way you chaps canvass, said Mr Lyons, and Crofton and I out in the cold and rain looking for votes?

— Why, blast your soul, said Mr Henchy, I’d get more votes in five minutes than you two’d get in a week.

— Open two bottles of stout, Jack, said Mr O’Connor.

— How can I? said the old man, when there’s no corkscrew?

— Wait now, wait now! said Mr Henchy, getting up quickly. Did you ever see this little trick?

He took two bottles from the table and, carrying them to the fire, put them on the hob. Then he sat down again by the fire and took another drink from his bottle. Mr Lyons sat on the edge of the table, pushed his hat towards the nape of his neck and began to swing his legs.

— Which is my bottle? he asked.

— This lad, said Mr Henchy.

Mr Crofton sat down on a box and looked fixedly at the other bottle on the hob. He was silent for two reasons. The first reason, sufficient in itself, was that he had nothing to say; the second reason was that he considered his companions beneath him. He had been a canvasser for Wilkins, the Conservative, but when the Conservatives had withdrawn their man and, choosing the lesser of two evils, given their support to the Nationalist candidate, he had been engaged to work for Mr Tierney.

In a few minutes an apologetic Pok! was heard as the cork flew out of Mr Lyons’ bottle. Mr Lyons jumped off the table, went to the fire, took his bottle and carried it back to the table.

— I was just telling them, Crofton, said Mr Henchy, that we got a good few votes to-day.

— Who did you get? asked Mr Lyons.

— Well, I got Parkes for one, and I got Atkinson for two, and I got Ward of Dawson Street. Fine old chap he is, too – regular old toff, old Conservative. But isn’t your candidate a Nationalist? said he. He’s a respectable man, said I. He’s in favour of whatever will benefit this country. He’s a big ratepayer, I said. He has extensive house property in the city and three places of business and isn’t it to his own advantage to keep down the rates? He’s a prominent and respected citizen, said I, and a Poor Law Guardian, and he doesn’t belong to any party, good, bad, or indifferent. That’s the way to talk to ’em.

— And what about the address to the King? said Mr Lyons, after drinking and smacking his lips.

— Listen to me, said Mr Henchy. What we want in this country, as I said to old Ward, is capital. The King’s coming here will mean an influx of money into this country. The citizens of Dublin will benefit by it. Look at all the factories down by the quays there, idle! Look at all the money there is in the country if we only worked the old industries, the mills, the shipbuilding yards and factories. It’s capital we want.

— But look here, John, said Mr O’Connor. Why should we welcome the King of England? Didn’t Parnell himself …

— Parnell, said Mr Henchy, is dead. Now, here’s the way I look at it. here’s this chap come to the throne after his old mother keeping him out of it till the man was grey. He’s a man of the world, and he means well by us. He’s a jolly fine decent fellow, if you ask me, and no damn nonsense about him. He just says to himself: The old one never went to see these wild Irish. By Christ, I’ll go myself and see what they’re like. And are we going to insult the man when he comes over here on a friendly visit? Eh? Isn’t that right, Crofton?

Mr Crofton nodded his head.

— But after all now, said Mr Lyons argumentatively, King Edward’s life, you know, is not the very …

— Let bygones be bygones, said Mr Henchy. I admire the man personally. He’s just an ordinary knockabout like you and me. He’s fond of his glass of grog and he’s a bit of a rake, perhaps, and he’s a good sportsman. Damn it, can’t we Irish play fair?

— That’s all very fine, said Mr Lyons. But look at the case of Parnell now.

— In the name of God, said Mr Henchy, where’s the analogy between the two cases?

— What I mean, said Mr Lyons, is we have our ideals. Why, now, would we welcome a man like that? Do you think now after what he did Parnell was a fit man to lead us? And why, then, would we do it for Edward the Seventh?

— This is Parnell’s anniversary, said Mr O’Connor, and don’t let us stir up any bad blood. We all respect him, now that he’s dead and gone – even the Conservatives, he added, turning to Mr Crofton.

Pok! The tardy cork flew out of Mr Crofton’s bottle. Mr Crofton got up from his box and went to the fire. As he returned with his capture he said in a deep voice:

— Our side of the house respects him because he was a gentleman.

— Right you are, Crofton! said Mr Henchy fiercely. He was the only man that could keep that bag of cats in order. Down, ye dogs! Lie down, ye curs! That’s the way he treated them. Come in, Joe! Come in! he called out, catching sight of Mr Hynes in the doorway.

Mr Hynes came in slowly.

— Open another bottle of stout, Jack, said Mr Henchy. O, I forgot, there’s no corkscrew! Here, show me one here and I’ll put it at the fire.

The old man handed him another bottle and he placed it on the hob.

— Sit down, Joe, said Mr O’Connor, we’re just talking about the Chief.

— Ay, ay! said Mr Henchy.

Mr Hynes sat on the side of the table near Mr Lyons but said nothing.

— There’s one of them, anyhow, said Mr Henchy, that didn’t renege him. By God, I’ll say for you, Joe! No, by God, you stuck to him like a man!

EXCERPTS FROM ‘DUBLINERS’
The Sisters
An Encounter
Araby
Eveline
After the Race
Two Gallants
The Boarding House
A Little Cloud
Counterparts
Clay
A Painful Case