February 25, 2012 § 1 Comment
Finished: Dubliners, by James Joyce.
And so I have read “The Dead” again.
“The Dead” is the best thing to read if you find yourself questioning the whole literary enterprise. It is full of small miracles of language, character, and structure, and its smallness expands into a sense of the cosmic in the most astounding ways. Its odd length — a very long story, or a short novella, or another thing altogether — is somehow perfect. (In this and in “Grace,” the also-long preceding story, it really does seem that Joyce found his rhythm, and that this rhythm was decidedly mismatched to that of the commercial press of the time.) An incredible amount of literary energy has been spent trying to catch up with Joyce’s exploration here of the gaps between even the closest human minds, and the community of even the most deliberately estranged, and the ambiguity inherent in all joy and sorrow.
Both times that I’ve read this story, the following passage has been the first to stop me in my tracks:
Gabriel’s warm trembling fingers tapped the cool pane of the window. How cool it must be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk out alone, first along by the river and then through the park! The snow would be lying on the branches of the trees and forming a cap on the top of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant it would be there than at the supper-table!
This is simultaneously ironic and deeply familiar, this feeling. It is Christmas, with family; you are intended to feel cozy and happy and glad to be by the hearth. And you do, in a way. But the room is close and quite warm; the desire to be alone, by yourself, can be overwhelming, especially if you have a melancholic disposition.
Throughout the story, I kept thinking, in passages like these, of J. M. Whistler’s Nocturne paintings, those gorgeous, proto-Modern impressions of tint and shadow, form and motion.
Whistler makes an interesting complement to Joyce. Both were controversial expatriates, and both were quite self-consciously artists, interested foremost in the form and beauty of their works. Joyce was, certainly, more political and social in his art, less of an aesthete and decadent. And yet there is an emphasis on form and aesthetic in “The Dead,” as certainly as there is in Whistler’s most famous painting, Arrangement in Gray and Black:
Use this painting to illustrate the famous passage near the end of “The Dead,” a passage that serves not only as a premonition and insight into Gabriel’s state of mind, but also to give a formal bookend to Dubliners, which began with a wake:
Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.
Obviously, Whistler was most interested in the composition and artistry, not the content, of his famous painting. And yet, one would willfully and needlessly reduce the significance and impact of the painting by ignoring the fact that it portrays his mother; form and content are joined here in a beautiful whole, as in “The Dead.” Beyond its place in the whole of Dubliners, the story itself hinges on a type of artistic expression: Gabriel’s speech honoring the three Misses Morkan. The two paragraphs before Gabriel begins are, I think, among the most beautiful I know. I’ll quote the second here, which is another beautiful, sensuous imagination of snowy night:
Gabriel leaned his ten trembling fingers on the tablecloth and smiled nervously at the company. Meeting a row of upturned faces he raised his eyes to the chandelier. The piano was playing a waltz tune and he could hear the skirts sweeping against the drawing-room door. People, perhaps, were standing in the snow on the quay outside, gazing up at the lighted windows and listening to the waltz music. The air was pure there. In the distance lay the park where the trees were weighted with snow. The Wellington Monument wore a gleaming cap of snow that flashed westward over the white field of Fifteen Acres.
The oration is a self-conscious piece of rhetoric, and its delivery preoccupies Gabriel throughout the first half of the story. We see him planning out how he will use the occasion to score points off of a foe, Miss Ivors, and we even get this: “What did he care that his aunts were only two ignorant old women?”
And yet the speech works. It is a moving tribute to the hostesses, to the dead, and to Ireland, both to its fictional listeners and its real readers. As the work of Gabriel, a writer and lover of literature, married to a woman from Galway, it is possible to read this as a microcosm of Joyce’s own ambiguous and constantly shifting emotions toward his homeland. If Gabriel had planned to score rhetorical points despite his own reservations about the ignorance or vulgarity of his own people, he ends up meaning it anyway, in spite of himself.
Both the speech itself (and its status as the self-evident focus of the story) and the turn of Gabriel’s thoughts thereafter to memories of he and his wife, young and in love, point to “The Dead” as a work of art about art’s creation, and its power. The story moves toward its astounding conclusion beginning with this paragraph:
He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air that the voice was singing and gazing up at his wife. There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter.
As it happens, “distant music” is also what I hear when I look at Whistler’s paintings: they evoke soft music, sounds of night. And distant music is precisely what Gretta’s thoughts end up being, to Gabriel: the music of memory, a memory he knew nothing of, and that had nothing to do with him. As devastating as this is to Gabriel, there remains the power of the “sudden tide of joy” he feels when she sees him; the “proud, joyful, tender, valorous” thoughts she evokes in him; the sweetness and fondness of his memories of moments of their life together. The ambiguity of being human with another, in the end. The mingled emotion of a rocket falling back to earth.