Grace Page #5

"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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not without culture.

Mr Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint of special whisky. He
inquired politely for Mr Kernan, placed his gift on the table and sat
down with the company on equal terms. Mr Kernan appreciated the gift
all the more since he was aware that there was a small account for
groceries unsettled between him and Mr Fogarty. He said:

“I wouldn’t doubt you, old man. Open that, Jack, will you?”

Mr Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed and five small measures
of whisky were poured out. This new influence enlivened the
conversation. Mr Fogarty, sitting on a small area of the chair, was
specially interested.

“Pope Leo XIII.,” said Mr Cunningham, “was one of the lights of the
age. His great idea, you know, was the union of the Latin and Greek
Churches. That was the aim of his life.”

“I often heard he was one of the most intellectual men in Europe,” said
Mr Power. “I mean, apart from his being Pope.”

“So he was,” said Mr Cunningham, “if not the most so. His motto, you
know, as Pope, was Lux upon Lux—Light upon Light.”

“No, no,” said Mr Fogarty eagerly. “I think you’re wrong there. It was
Lux in Tenebris, I think—Light in Darkness.”

“O yes,” said Mr M’Coy, “Tenebrae.”

“Allow me,” said Mr Cunningham positively, “it was Lux upon Lux. And
Pius IX. his predecessor’s motto was Crux upon Crux—that is, Cross
upon Cross—to show the difference between their two pontificates.”

The inference was allowed. Mr Cunningham continued.

“Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet.”

“He had a strong face,” said Mr Kernan.

“Yes,” said Mr Cunningham. “He wrote Latin poetry.”

“Is that so?” said Mr Fogarty.

Mr M’Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook his head with a double
intention, saying:

“That’s no joke, I can tell you.”

“We didn’t learn that, Tom,” said Mr Power, following Mr M’Coy’s
example, “when we went to the penny-a-week school.”

“There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week school with a sod
of turf under his oxter,” said Mr Kernan sententiously. “The old system
was the best: plain honest education. None of your modern trumpery....”

“Quite right,” said Mr Power.

“No superfluities,” said Mr Fogarty.

He enunciated the word and then drank gravely.

“I remember reading,” said Mr Cunningham, “that one of Pope Leo’s poems
was on the invention of the photograph—in Latin, of course.”

“On the photograph!” exclaimed Mr Kernan.

“Yes,” said Mr Cunningham.

He also drank from his glass.

“Well, you know,” said Mr M’Coy, “isn’t the photograph wonderful when
you come to think of it?”

“O, of course,” said Mr Power, “great minds can see things.”

“As the poet says: Great minds are very near to madness,” said Mr
Fogarty.

Mr Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He made an effort to recall
the Protestant theology on some thorny points and in the end addressed
Mr Cunningham.

“Tell me, Martin,” he said. “Weren’t some of the popes—of course, not
our present man, or his predecessor, but some of the old popes—not
exactly ... you know ... up to the knocker?”

There was a silence. Mr Cunningham said:

“O, of course, there were some bad lots.... But the astonishing thing
is this. Not one of them, not the biggest drunkard, not the most ...
out-and-out ruffian, not one of them ever preached ex cathedra a word
of false doctrine. Now isn’t that an astonishing thing?”

“That is,” said Mr Kernan.

“Yes, because when the Pope speaks ex cathedra,” Mr Fogarty
explained, “he is infallible.”

“Yes,” said Mr Cunningham.

“O, I know about the infallibility of the Pope. I remember I was
younger then.... Or was it that——?”

Mr Fogarty interrupted. He took up the bottle and helped the others to
a little more. Mr M’Coy, seeing that there was not enough to go round,
pleaded that he had not finished his first measure. The others accepted
under protest. The light music of whisky falling into glasses made an
agreeable interlude.

“What’s that you were saying, Tom?” asked Mr M’Coy.

“Papal infallibility,” said Mr Cunningham, “that was the greatest scene
in the whole history of the Church.”

“How was that, Martin?” asked Mr Power.

Mr Cunningham held up two thick fingers.

“In the sacred college, you know, of cardinals and archbishops and
bishops there were two men who held out against it while the others
were all for it. The whole conclave except these two was unanimous. No!
They wouldn’t have it!”

“Ha!” said Mr M’Coy.

“And they were a German cardinal by the name of Dolling ... or Dowling
... or——”

“Dowling was no German, and that’s a sure five,” said Mr Power,
laughing.

“Well, this great German cardinal, whatever his name was, was one; and
the other was John MacHale.”

“What?” cried Mr Kernan. “Is it John of Tuam?”

“Are you sure of that now?” asked Mr Fogarty dubiously. “I thought it
was some Italian or American.”

“John of Tuam,” repeated Mr Cunningham, “was the man.”

He drank and the other gentlemen followed his lead. Then he resumed:

“There they were at it, all the cardinals and bishops and archbishops
from all the ends of the earth and these two fighting dog and devil
until at last the Pope himself stood up and declared infallibility a
dogma of the Church ex cathedra. On the very moment John MacHale, who
had been arguing and arguing against it, stood up and shouted out with
the voice of a lion: ‘Credo!’”

“I believe!” said Mr Fogarty.

“Credo!” said Mr Cunningham. “That showed the faith he had. He
submitted the moment the Pope spoke.”

“And what about Dowling?” asked Mr M’Coy.

“The German cardinal wouldn’t submit. He left the church.”

Mr Cunningham’s words had built up the vast image of the church in the
minds of his hearers. His deep raucous voice had thrilled them as it
uttered the word of belief and submission. When Mrs Kernan came into
the room drying her hands she came into a solemn company. She did not
disturb the silence, but leaned over the rail at the foot of the bed.

“I once saw John MacHale,” said Mr Kernan, “and I’ll never forget it as
long as I live.”

He turned towards his wife to be confirmed.

“I often told you that?”

Mrs Kernan nodded.

“It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray’s statue. Edmund Dwyer Gray
was speaking, blathering away, and here was this old fellow,
crabbed-looking old chap, looking at him from under his bushy
eyebrows.”

Mr Kernan knitted his brows and, lowering his head like an angry bull,
glared at his wife.

“God!” he exclaimed, resuming his natural face, “I never saw such an
eye in a man’s head. It was as much as to say: I have you properly
taped, my lad. He had an eye like a hawk.”

“None of the Grays was any good,” said Mr Power.

There was a pause again. Mr Power turned to Mrs Kernan and said with
abrupt joviality:

“Well, Mrs Kernan, we’re going to make your man here a good holy pious
and God-fearing Roman Catholic.”

He swept his arm round the company inclusively.

“We’re all going to make a retreat together and confess our sins—and
God knows we want it badly.”

“I don’t mind,” said Mr Kernan, smiling a little nervously.
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