Grace

"Grace" is a short story featured in James Joyce's famous collection, Dubliners. The book is set in Dublin and provides a stark examination of Irish middle class society at the turn of the century. Despite its religious connotations, "Grace" is not about spirituality but rather offers commentary on relationships, social pretension, and the human condition. The plot involves a man named Mr. Kernan, who, after a drunken accident, is persuaded by his friends to attend a Catholic retreat. Its narrative explores themes of identity, redemption, and the influence of church in Irish society.

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Two gentlemen who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him
up: but he was quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the
stairs down which he had fallen. They succeeded in turning him over.
His hat had rolled a few yards away and his clothes were smeared with
the filth and ooze of the floor on which he had lain, face downwards.
His eyes were closed and he breathed with a grunting noise. A thin
stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

These two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up the stairs
and laid him down again on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he was
surrounded by a ring of men. The manager of the bar asked everyone who
he was and who was with him. No one knew who he was but one of the
curates said he had served the gentleman with a small rum.

“Was he by himself?” asked the manager.

“No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him.”

“And where are they?”

No one knew; a voice said:

“Give him air. He’s fainted.”

The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically. A dark
medal of blood had formed itself near the man’s head on the tessellated
floor. The manager, alarmed by the grey pallor of the man’s face, sent
for a policeman.

His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened his eyes
for an instant, sighed and closed them again. One of gentlemen who had
carried him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his hand. The manager
asked repeatedly did no one know who the injured man was or where had
his friends gone. The door of the bar opened and an immense constable
entered. A crowd which had followed him down the laneway collected
outside the door, struggling to look in through the glass panels.

The manager at once began to narrate what he knew. The constable, a
young man with thick immobile features, listened. He moved his head
slowly to right and left and from the manager to the person on the
floor, as if he feared to be the victim of some delusion. Then he drew
off his glove, produced a small book from his waist, licked the lead of
his pencil and made ready to indite. He asked in a suspicious
provincial accent:

“Who is the man? What’s his name and address?”

A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way through the ring of
bystanders. He knelt down promptly beside the injured man and called
for water. The constable knelt down also to help. The young man washed
the blood from the injured man’s mouth and then called for some brandy.
The constable repeated the order in an authoritative voice until a
curate came running with the glass. The brandy was forced down the
man’s throat. In a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked about him.
He looked at the circle of faces and then, understanding, strove to
rise to his feet.

“You’re all right now?” asked the young man in the cycling-suit.

“Sha, ’s nothing,” said the injured man, trying to stand up.

He was helped to his feet. The manager said something about a hospital
and some of the bystanders gave advice. The battered silk hat was
placed on the man’s head. The constable asked:

“Where do you live?”

The man, without answering, began to twirl the ends of his moustache.
He made light of his accident. It was nothing, he said: only a little
accident. He spoke very thickly.

“Where do you live?” repeated the constable.

The man said they were to get a cab for him. While the point was being
debated a tall agile gentleman of fair complexion, wearing a long
yellow ulster, came from the far end of the bar. Seeing the spectacle,
he called out:

“Hallo, Tom, old man! What’s the trouble?”

“Sha, ’s nothing,” said the man.

The new-comer surveyed the deplorable figure before him and then turned
to the constable, saying:

“It’s all right, constable. I’ll see him home.”

The constable touched his helmet and answered:

“All right, Mr Power!”

“Come now, Tom,” said Mr Power, taking his friend by the arm. “No bones
broken. What? Can you walk?”

The young man in the cycling-suit took the man by the other arm and the
crowd divided.

“How did you get yourself into this mess?” asked Mr Power.

“The gentleman fell down the stairs,” said the young man.

“I’ ’ery ’uch o’liged to you, sir,” said the injured man.

“Not at all.”

“’ant we have a little...?”

“Not now. Not now.”

The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors into
the laneway. The manager brought the constable to the stairs to inspect
the scene of the accident. They agreed that the gentleman must have
missed his footing. The customers returned to the counter and a curate
set about removing the traces of blood from the floor.

When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr Power whistled for an
outsider. The injured man said again as well as he could:

“I’ ’ery ’uch o’liged to you, sir. I hope we’ll ’eet again. ’y na’e is
Kernan.”

The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him.

“Don’t mention it,” said the young man.

They shook hands. Mr Kernan was hoisted on to the car and, while Mr
Power was giving directions to the carman, he expressed his gratitude
to the young man and regretted that they could not have a little drink
together.

“Another time,” said the young man.

The car drove off towards Westmoreland Street. As it passed Ballast
Office the clock showed half-past nine. A keen east wind hit them,
blowing from the mouth of the river. Mr Kernan was huddled together
with cold. His friend asked him to tell how the accident had happened.

“I ’an’t, ’an,” he answered, “’y ’ongue is hurt.”

“Show.”

The other leaned over the well of the car and peered into Mr Kernan’s
mouth but he could not see. He struck a match and, sheltering it in the
shell of his hands, peered again into the mouth which Mr Kernan opened
obediently. The swaying movement of the car brought the match to and
from the opened mouth. The lower teeth and gums were covered with
clotted blood and a minute piece of the tongue seemed to have been
bitten off. The match was blown out.

“That’s ugly,” said Mr Power.

“Sha, ’s nothing,” said Mr Kernan, closing his mouth and pulling the
collar of his filthy coat across his neck.

Mr Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old school which believed
in the dignity of its calling. He had never been seen in the city
without a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters. By grace of
these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always pass
muster. He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the great
Blackwhite, whose memory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry.
Modern business methods had spared him only so far as to allow him a
little office in Crowe Street on the window blind of which was written
the name of his firm with the address—London, E.C. On the mantelpiece
of this little office a little leaden battalion of canisters was drawn
up and on the table before the window stood four or five china bowls
which were usually half full of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr
Kernan tasted tea. He took a mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate
with it and then spat it forth into the grate. Then he paused to judge.

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