The Books: “Dubliners” – ‘Grace’ (James Joyce)

Daily Book Excerpt: Adult fiction:

Dubliners – by James Joyce – excerpt from the second to last story in the collection: “Grace”.

“Grace” ends with the words: “I will set right my accounts”. And that launches us into the majestic last story of the collection – a true setting-right of accounts – “The Dead”. “Grace” is (except for “The Dead”) the longest story in Dubliners – and it feels like the most complex (but again, we haven’t gotten to “The Dead” yet.) Once you realize what Joyce is doing in “Grace”, the title of the story becomes of highest importance. Grace? You have got to be kidding me. With these idiots? They mean well, but they’re ignorant. Joyce’s anger at the Catholic Church is behind all of this – but, like the master he already is (at 23 years of age) – he doesn’t ever state his anger outright. It’s implied. In some sense, you would need to know Catholic dogma to get some of the points made in this story – it certainly would help. Again, there are online glossaries that could help anyone make his way through the story. Misinformation passed on, things misquoted, totally untrue stories passed on as true … The thing with Joyce is, and this is key: take NOTHING at face value. You’ll miss the whole point. Not only will you miss the whole point, but you might even be lulled into making the mistake of thinking: “There’s nothing going on in this story at all.” I had a Shakespeare teacher say to the class once, “If you think a line isn’t bawdy, it’s because you haven’t worked it out yet.” Same with Joyce.

In “Grace” – a drunk man falls down the stairs outside a pub. He cuts his mouth open, and a big brou-haha ensues. A constable is called. Who is this man? Who is he with? Eventually, a gentleman appears who knows the man – and he escorts the man home. The man is Mr. Kernan – he’s a salesman who truly believes in the dignity of his profession. (The fact that he is such a true believer in business – and not in the Catholic creed – says it all). He has a wife and kids. He was a Protestant but he converted to Catholicism at his marriage. His wife is long-suffering. He is a drinker. He spends no time at home. He wastes all their money. And at this point, he’s been drinking non-stop for 3 or 4 days.

A group of Mr. Kernan’s colleagues – who want to help him out – come up with a little plan … and they spring it on him one day, when they all visit his sick-room, where he is recovering from his fall down the stairs. There’s going to be a Catholic retreat for businessmen – how to live in the world, but not be worldly … and they’re all going to go … Mr. Kernan should come too! They know his skepticism and his anger towards the church (totally justified, in Joyce’s mind) – but they think it would be good for him. Mrs. Kernan is in on this little intervention. She’s not hugely religious – but she certainly believes. The main part of “Grace” takes place around Mr. Kernan’s sick-bed. The men sit, and drink whiskey, and chat … the talk turns to religion. They try to convince Mr. Kernan that he should come to the retreat – they’re all going – he should come too! But they all tread carefully – not wanting to scare him away or make it seem like an intervention. Mr. Kernan is scornful.

But eventually he agrees to come to the retreat. He likes the priest – a big red-faced man who is “worldly”. He relates. The story ends with all of the men in the church, Mr. Kernan included, listening to Father Purdon give a sermon on how Jesus must have felt about businessmen, and how to live your life out in the corrupt world – and what Jesus would have wanted.

You don’t have to be a Catholic to see what a bastardization of Scriptures this is – and that Father Purdon is “worldly” indeed. The flock sits there, passive and submissive, listening to the dreck from the pulpit –

Joyce is doing mutiple things at once here. It’s a complicated story – and I was quite edified by the end-notes I have in my copy, and also reading some online analyses of the story. According to Joyce, the Catholic Church in Ireland is the root of all the problems that country has (well, that and the British – and the little problem of the Irish language). The Catholic Church places submission at a premium (the men sitting Mr. Kernan’s room discuss the tale of the two bishops who went against “papal infallibility” – one of them was an Irishman – who refused to believe in the infallibility of the pope – and then, at the last minute, stood up and shouted “Credo!“) Okay. So. The men in the story relate this as a GOOD story, a story of how wonderful the Irish bishop was – to submit so readily and so suddenly – it was a mark of his great faith. And the greatness of the Irish priesthood in general. Joyce does not slide any snark into this – you don’t feel his editorial hand at all, you just need to get the symbolism behind all of this, and know that Joyce thinks all of this is BOLLOCKS. The Irish priest who resisted papal infallibility was RIGHT – and everything that is wrong in Ireland can be traced back to an entire populace forced to say “Credo!” over and over. That’s how bitter Joyce is. Joyce had great respect for the Jesuits (as becomes apparent even more in Portrait) – and knew the creed inside and out. It was what it did to people he did not like. The hypocrisy. The priests talking-down to the populace – the priests “dumbing down” Jesus in order to make him seem relevant to a bunch of worldly businessmen … Joyce has nothing but contempt for all of that.

And his contempt is in the story – it’s just hidden so well. His contempt is in the title. Grace. To be found at such a cynical retreat as that one? Not likely.

There’s more going on here than I am even discussing – and probably a ton that I can’t even see, because I don’t have the right context. But “Grace” is a mini-novel. It does not have just one thruline – we get multiple perspectives – it’s intellectual, emotional, spiritual – and it poses questions – like all great books do. Joyce has his opinions on the answers … but he just poses the question. If you are seeking “grace”, the last place you will find it is in the Catholic Church. Ireland hated him for this. He was not forgiven.

It is time to “set right” his accounts. This is the deep breath before we go into “The Dead”

EXCERPT FROM Dubliners– by James Joyce – “Grace”.

The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on the table and paused. Then Mr Cunningham turned towards Mr Power and said casually:

— On Thursday night, you said, Jack?

— Thursday, yes, said Mr Power.

— Righto! said Mr Cunningham promptly.

— We can meet in M’Auley’s, said Mr M’Coy. That’ll be the most convenient place.

— But we mustn’t be late, said Mr Power earnestly, because it is sure to be crammed to the doors.

— We can meet at half-seven, said Mr M’Coy.

— Righto! said Mr Cunningham.

— Half-seven at M’Auley’s be it!

There was a short silence. Mr Kernan waited to see whether he would be taken into his friends’ confidence. Then he asked:

— What’s in the wind?

— O, it’s nothing, said Mr Cunningham. It’s only a little matter that we’re arranging about for Thursday.

— The opera, is it? said Mr Kernan.

— No, no, said Mr Cunningham in an evasive tone, it’s just a little … spiritual matter.

— O, said Mr Kernan.

There was silence again. Then Mr Power said, pointblank:

— To tell you the truth, Tom, we’re going to make a retreat.

— Yes, that’s it, said Mr Cunningham. Jack and I and M’Coy here – we’re all going to wash the pot.

He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely energy and, encouraged by his own voice, proceeded:

— You see, we may as well all admit we’re a nice collection of scoundrels, one and all. I say, one and all, he added with gruff charity and turning to Mr Power, Own up now!

— I own up, said Mr Power.

— And I own up, said Mr M’Coy.

— So we’re going to wash the pot together, said Mr Cunningham.

A thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to the invalid and said:

— Do you know what, Tom, has just occurred to me? You might join in and we’d have a four-handed reel.

— Good idea, said Mr Power. The four of us together.

Mr Kernan was silent. The proposal conveyed very little meaning in his mind but, understanding that some spiritual agencies were about to concern themselves on his behalf, he thought he owed it to his dignity to show a stiff neck. He took no part in the conversation for a long while but listened, with an air of calm enmity, while his friends discussed the Jesuits.

— I haven’t such a bad opinion of the Jesuits, he said, intervening at length. They’re an educated order. I believe they mean well too.

— They’re the grandest order in the Church, Tom, said Mr Cunningham, with enthusiasm. The General of the Jesuits stands next to the Pope.

— There’s no mistake about it, said Mr M’Coy, if you want a thing well done and no flies about it you go to a Jesuit. They’re the boyos have influence. I’ll tell you a case in point …

— The Jesuits are a fine body of men, said Mr Power.

— It’s a curious thing, said Mr Cunningham, about the Jesuit Order. Every other order of the Church had to be reformed at some time or other but the Jesuit Order was never once reformed. It never fell away.

— Is that so? asked Mr M’Coy.

— That’s a fact, said Mr Cunningham. That’s history.

— Look at their church, too, said Mr Power. Look at the congregation they have.

— The Jesuits cater for the upper classes, said Mr M’Coy.

— Of course, said Mr Power.

— Yes, said Mr Kernan. That’s why I have a feeling for them. It’s some of those secular priests, ignorant, bumptious –

— They’re all good men, said Mr Cunningham, each in his own way. The Irish priesthood is honoured all the world over.

— O yes, said Mr Power.

— Not like some of the other priesthoods on the continent, said Mr M’Coy, unworthy of the name.

— Perhaps you’re right, said Mr Kernan, relenting.

— Of course I’m right, said Mr Cunningham. I haven’t been in the world all this time and seen most sides of it without being a judge of character.

The gentlemen drank again, one following another’s example. Mr Kernan seemed to be weighing something in his mind. He was impressed. He had a high opinion of Mr Cunningham as a judge of character and as a reader of faces. He asked for particulars.

— O, it’s just a retreat, you know, said Mr Cunningham. Father Purdon is giving it. It’s for business men, you know.

— He won’t be too hard on us, Tom, said Mr Power persuasively.

— Father Purdon? Father Purdon? said the invalid.

— O, you must know him, Tom, said Mr Cunningham, stoutly. Fine jolly fellow! He’s a man of the world like ourselves.

— Ah … yes. I think I know him. Rather red face; tall.

— That’s the man.

— And tell me, Martin … is he a good preacher?

— Mmmno … It’s not exactly a sermon, you know. It’s just a kind of a friendly talk, you know, in a common-sense way.

Mr Kernan deliberated. Mr M’Coy said:

— Father Tom Burke, that was the boy!

— O, Father Tom Burke, said Mr Cunningham, that was a born orator. Did you ever hear him, Tom?

— Did I ever hear him! said the invalid, nettled. Rather! I heard him ….

— And yet they say he wasn’t much of a theologian, said Mr Cunningham.

— Is that so? said Mr M’Coy.

— O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only sometimes, they say, he didn’t preach what was quite orthodox.

— Ah! … he was a splendid man, said Mr M’Coy.

— I heard him once, Mr Kernan continued. I forget the subject of his discourse now. Crofton and I were in the back of the … pit, you know … the –

— The body, said Mr Cunningham.

— Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now what … O yes, it was on the Pope, the late Pope. I remember it well. Upon my word it was magnificent, the style of the oratory. And his voice! God! hadn’t he a voice! The Prisoner of the Vatican, he called him. I remember Crofton saying to me when we came out –

— But he’s an Orangeman, Crofton, isn’t he? said Mr Power.

— ‘Course he is, said Mr Kernan, and a damned decent Orangeman too. We went into Butler’s in Moore Street – faith, I was genuinely moved, tell you the God’s truth – and I remember well his very words. Kernan, he said, we worship at different altars, he said, but our belief is the same. Struck me as very well put.

— There’s a good deal in that, said Mr Power. There used always be crowds of Protestants in the chapel when Father Tom was preaching.

— There’s not much difference between us, said Mr M’Coy. We both believe in –

He hesitated for a moment.

— … in the Redeemer. Only they don’t believe in the Pope and in the mother of God.

— But, of course, said Mr Cunningham quietly and effectively, our religion is the religion, the old, original faith.

— Not a doubt of it, said Mr Kernan warmly.