Grace Page #4

"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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“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, point blank:

“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:

“D’ye 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 to 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?”

“Munno.... It’s not exactly a sermon, you know. It’s just 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 to be
crowds of Protestants in the chapel where 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.

Mrs Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced:

“Here’s a visitor for you!”

“Who is it?”

“Mr Fogarty.”

“O, come in! come in!”

A pale oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fair
trailing moustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows looped above
pleasantly astonished eyes. Mr Fogarty was a modest grocer. He had
failed in business in a licensed house in the city because his
financial condition had constrained him to tie himself to second-class
distillers and brewers. He had opened a small shop on Glasnevin Road
where, he flattered himself, his manners would ingratiate him with the
housewives of the district. He bore himself with a certain grace,
complimented little children and spoke with a neat enunciation. He was
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