Grace Page #6

"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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Mrs Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal her satisfaction. So
she said:

“I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your tale.”

Mr Kernan’s expression changed.

“If he doesn’t like it,” he said bluntly, “he can ... do the other
thing. I’ll just tell him my little tale of woe. I’m not such a bad
fellow——”

Mr Cunningham intervened promptly.

“We’ll all renounce the devil,” he said, “together, not forgetting his
works and pomps.”

“Get behind me, Satan!” said Mr Fogarty, laughing and looking at the
others.

Mr Power said nothing. He felt completely out-generalled. But a pleased
expression flickered across his face.

“All we have to do,” said Mr Cunningham, “is to stand up with lighted
candles in our hands and renew our baptismal vows.”

“O, don’t forget the candle, Tom,” said Mr M’Coy, “whatever you do.”

“What?” said Mr Kernan. “Must I have a candle?”

“O yes,” said Mr Cunningham.

“No, damn it all,” said Mr Kernan sensibly, “I draw the line there.
I’ll do the job right enough. I’ll do the retreat business and
confession, and ... all that business. But ... no candles! No, damn it
all, I bar the candles!”

He shook his head with farcical gravity.

“Listen to that!” said his wife.

“I bar the candles,” said Mr Kernan, conscious of having created an
effect on his audience and continuing to shake his head to and fro. “I
bar the magic-lantern business.”

Everyone laughed heartily.

“There’s a nice Catholic for you!” said his wife.

“No candles!” repeated Mr Kernan obdurately. “That’s off!”

The transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardiner Street was almost full;
and still at every moment gentlemen entered from the side door and,
directed by the lay-brother, walked on tiptoe along the aisles until
they found seating accommodation. The gentlemen were all well dressed
and orderly. The light of the lamps of the church fell upon an assembly
of black clothes and white collars, relieved here and there by tweeds,
on dark mottled pillars of green marble and on lugubrious canvases. The
gentlemen sat in the benches, having hitched their trousers slightly
above their knees and laid their hats in security. They sat well back
and gazed formally at the distant speck of red light which was
suspended before the high altar.

In one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr Cunningham and Mr Kernan.
In the bench behind sat Mr M’Coy alone: and in the bench behind him sat
Mr Power and Mr Fogarty. Mr M’Coy had tried unsuccessfully to find a
place in the bench with the others and, when the party had settled down
in the form of a quincunx, he had tried unsuccessfully to make comic
remarks. As these had not been well received he had desisted. Even he
was sensible of the decorous atmosphere and even he began to respond to
the religious stimulus. In a whisper Mr Cunningham drew Mr Kernan’s
attention to Mr Harford, the moneylender, who sat some distance off,
and to Mr Fanning, the registration agent and mayor maker of the city,
who was sitting immediately under the pulpit beside one of the newly
elected councillors of the ward. To the right sat old Michael Grimes,
the owner of three pawnbroker’s shops, and Dan Hogan’s nephew, who was
up for the job in the Town Clerk’s office. Farther in front sat Mr
Hendrick, the chief reporter of The Freeman’s Journal, and poor
O’Carroll, an old friend of Mr Kernan’s, who had been at one time a
considerable commercial figure. Gradually, as he recognised familiar
faces, Mr Kernan began to feel more at home. His hat, which had been
rehabilitated by his wife, rested upon his knees. Once or twice he
pulled down his cuffs with one hand while he held the brim of his hat
lightly, but firmly, with the other hand.

A powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was draped with a
white surplice, was observed to be struggling up into the pulpit.
Simultaneously the congregation unsettled, produced handkerchiefs and
knelt upon them with care. Mr Kernan followed the general example. The
priest’s figure now stood upright in the pulpit, two-thirds of its
bulk, crowned by a massive red face, appearing above the balustrade.

Father Purdon knelt down, turned towards the red speck of light and,
covering his face with his hands, prayed. After an interval, he
uncovered his face and rose. The congregation rose also and settled
again on its benches. Mr Kernan restored his hat to its original
position on his knee and presented an attentive face to the preacher.
The preacher turned back each wide sleeve of his surplice with an
elaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed the array of faces. Then he
said:

“For the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the
children of light. Wherefore make unto yourselves friends out of the
mammon of iniquity so that when you die they may receive you into
everlasting dwellings.”

Father Purdon developed the text with resonant assurance. It was one of
the most difficult texts in all the Scriptures, he said, to interpret
properly. It was a text which might seem to the casual observer at
variance with the lofty morality elsewhere preached by Jesus Christ.
But, he told his hearers, the text had seemed to him specially adapted
for the guidance of those whose lot it was to lead the life of the
world and who yet wished to lead that life not in the manner of
worldlings. It was a text for business men and professional men. Jesus
Christ, with His divine understanding of every cranny of our human
nature, understood that all men were not called to the religious life,
that by far the vast majority were forced to live in the world and, to
a certain extent, for the world: and in this sentence He designed to
give them a word of counsel, setting before them as exemplars in the
religious life those very worshippers of Mammon who were of all men the
least solicitous in matters religious.

He told his hearers that he was there that evening for no terrifying,
no extravagant purpose; but as a man of the world speaking to his
fellow-men. He came to speak to business men and he would speak to them
in a businesslike way. If he might use the metaphor, he said, he was
their spiritual accountant; and he wished each and every one of his
hearers to open his books, the books of his spiritual life, and see if
they tallied accurately with conscience.

Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He understood our little
failings, understood the weakness of our poor fallen nature, understood
the temptations of this life. We might have had, we all had from time
to time, our temptations: we might have, we all had, our failings. But
one thing only, he said, he would ask of his hearers. And that was: to
be straight and manly with God. If their accounts tallied in every
point to say:

“Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all well.”

But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admit the
truth, to be frank and say like a man:

“Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find this wrong and this
wrong. But, with God’s grace, I will rectify this and this. I will set
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