I. J - Iaawiki

TU Dortmund, Fakultät Kulturwissenschaften, Institut für Anglistik
und Amerikanistik
Winter Term 2009/2010
Lecturer: Peter Osterried
Fr 14:00 (s.t.) - 15:30 R.3208 (to start in the second week on
Friday, 23 October2009)
Joyce's Dubliners (Proseminar British Cultural Studiesl
British Literary Studies)
Source: http://fineartam erica.com/images-med ium/james-joyce-kevin-mckrell.jpg (30 September 2009)
Joyce is a poet and also an elephantine pedant. (George Orwell)
The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or
beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence,
indifferent, paring his fingernails. (James Joyce, A Portrait of the
Artist as a Young Man)
Table of contents
Course description
Five Stories
p.
p. ~
Z
,/
Background on James Joyce and his work
p.
.2,
",.-
The history of Ireland
p.
'10
"....... The genre ofthe short story p.
Lt j>
,,-­
Modem Writing:
a.) Virginia Woolf, Is life like this? Must novels be like this?
b.) Postmodern Writing
--
p. ~Z
Critical approaches in literary criticism
p.
6~
.."...-
Exemplary Analyses of Short Stories
p.
How to approach literature creatively at school
?-)
r-'
p.
K3
/
p.
--
&0
Virginia Woolf was among the first critics to claim that James Joyce's pro se was the epitome
of modern writing because of his stream-of-consciousness technique and his focus on the
human psyche. Doubtless. the best examplc is his outstanding Ulysses (1922). However, it is
not only in this novel that the Irish wTiter succeedcd in immortalising the life of Dublin. In his
much acclaimed collection of short stories, Dubliners (1914), Joyce did not only introduce his
critical view of early-20th -century Irish culturc, but also anticipated the subtle narrative
tcchniqucs ofhis tatcr novcls. Morcovcr, Ruth J. Kilchenmann (1967) credits hirn with having
introduced "the first real short stories [evcr written on the Isles] whose influence on
modernity [remains unparalleled]" [my translation: OP].
In the seminar we will read and interpret exemplary short stories with a special focus on
gencric conventions, the stream-of-consciousness technique, and the representation of Irish
life and culture.
~ l.
ARABY
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NORTH RICHMOND STREET, being blind, was a quiet
street except at the hour when thc Christian Brothers' School
set thc boys free. An uninhabitcd house of two storcys stood
at the blind end, detached fi'om its neighbours in a square
ground. The other houses of thc strcet, conscious of dt:cent
lives within them, gazed at one anothcr with brown imper­
turbable Ülces.
The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the
back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long
enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind
the kitchen was litte red with old useless papers. Among
these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages ofwhich
were curled and damp: The Abbat, by Waltel' Scott, The
Devaut Communicant, and The lvfemoirs oj Vidocq. I liked the
last best becausc its leaves were yellow. The wild
behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few
straggling bushes, under ODe of which I found the late
tenant's rusty bicyclc-puwp. He had been a very
priest; in his will he had ldt all his money to insti tutians and
the furniture of his house to his sister.
When the short days of winter came, dusk fell bcfore wc
had weil eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the
houses had grown 50mbre. The space of sky above us was
the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it thc
of the street lifted theil' feeble lanterns. The cold air stung
us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed
in the silent street. Thc career of our play brought us
the dark muddy lanes behind the houses, where we ran the
27
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ARABY
DUBLINERS
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>gauntlet üf the rüugh tribes früm the cüttages, tü the back
düürs üf the dark dripping gardens where üdüurs arüse früm
the ashpits, tü the dark üdürüus stables where a cüachman
smüüthed and combed the hürse ür shüük music früm the
buckled harness. Wben we returned tü the street, light früm
the kitchen windüws had filled the areas. If my unde was
seen turning the cürner, we hid in the shadüw until we had
seen hirn safely hüused. Or if Mangan's sister came üut ün
the düürstep tü call her brüther in tü his tea, we watched
her früm üur shadüw peer up and düwn the street. We
waited tü see whether she wüuld remain ür gü in and, ifshe
remained, we left· üur shadüw and walked up tü Mangan's
steps resignedly. She was waiting für us, her figure defined
by the light früm the half-üpened düor. Her hrüther always
teased her befüre he übeyed, and 1 stüüd by the railings
lüüking at her. Her dress swung as she müved her büdy, and
the süft rüpe üf her hair tüssed früm side tü side.
Every mürning I lay ün the flüor in the frünt parlüur
watching her düür. The blind was pulled düwn tü within an
inch üf the sash sd that I cüuld nüt be seen. When she came
üut ün the düorstep my heart leaped. Iran tü the hall, seized
my büüks and füllüwed her. I kept her br()wn figure always
in my eye and, when we came near the point at wbich üur
'ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This
happened mürning after mürning. I had n~verspüken tü her,
except für a fewcasual würds, andyet hel" name was like a
summüns tü allmy~,f()üIish blüüd.
Her image accompanied me even in places the müst
hüstile tü rümance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt
went marlceting. I had tü gü tü carry süme üf the par<~els.
We walked throu.gh the flaring streets, jüstled by drunken
men and bargaining wümen, amid the curses üf labüurers,
the shrill litanies üf shop-büys 'Vhü stüüd: ün guard by the
barrels üf pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting üf street-singers,
whü sang a come-all-you abüut O'Dünüvan Rüssa, ür a ballad
abüut the trüubles in üur native land. These nüises
_0
cünverged in a single sensatiün üflife für me: I imagined that
Ibüre my chalicesafely thrüugh a thrüng üf foes. Her name
sprang tü my lips at müments in strange prayers and praises
which I myself did nüt understand. My eyes were üften full
üftears (1 cüuld nüt tell why) and at times a flüüd früm my
heart seemed tü pour itself üut intü my büsüm. I thüught
little üf the future. I did nüt knüw whether I wüuld ever
speak tü her ür nüt ür, if I spüke tü her, hüw I cüuld tell her
üfmy ~onfuset~tadoTa.tiQn. But my büdy was like a harp and
her würds and gestu.res were like fingers running upün the
WIres.
One evening I went intü the back drawing-rüüm in whicb
the priest had died. I t was a dark rainy evening and there
was nü süund in the hüuse. Thrüugh üne üf the brüken
panes I heard the rain impinge upün the earth, the fine in­
cessant needles üf water playing in the soddep. beds. Süme
distant lamp ür lighted windüw gleamed belüw me. I was
thankful that 1 cüuld see So' little. All my senses seemed
tü desire tü veil themSelves and, feeling that I was abüut tü
slip [rüm them, I pressed the palms üf my hands tügether
until they trembled, murmuring: '0 love! 0 love!' many
tiIJles.
At l~st she spoke tü me. When she addressed the first
words tü me I was So' cünfused that I did nüt knüw what tü answer. She asked me was 1 güing tü Ar.~~l.I brgot whether I answered,yes ür nü. I t wüuld be splendid bazaar; sbe saidllhe wüuld love tü gü. 'And why can't yüu ?' I asked. While she spüke she turned a silver braceletround and round her wrist. She cüuld nüt gü, she said, because there
wüuld be a retreatthat week in her cünvent. Her brüther
and twü üther büys Wel"e fighting f~r theircaps, and I was
alone at the railings.. She held üne üf the spikes, büwing
her heäd tüwards me. The light früm the lamp oppüsite üur
düür caughtthe white curve üfher neck, lit up h~r hair that
rested there and, falling, lit up the band upon the railing.
'a:
29
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:"'2.­
DUBLINERS
gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the. back
doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from
the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman
smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the
buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from
the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my unde was
seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we had
seen hirn safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on
the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea, we watched
her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We
waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, ifshe
remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan's
steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined
by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always
teased her before he obeyed, and I stood by the railings
looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body, and
the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.
Every morning I lay on the Hoor in the front padour
watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an
inch ofthe sash sei that I could not be seen. When she came
out on the doorstep my heart leaped. Iran to the hall, seized
my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always
in myeye and, when we came near the point at which our
'\vays diverged, 1 quickened my pace and passed her. This
happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her,
except fora tew casual words, and yet her name was like a
sum:i.nons to all my föoIlsh blood.
Her image accompänied me even inplaces the most
hostile to röman-ce. On'Satutday evenings when my aunt
went Il!arketing J had to go to carry some of the parcels.
We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken
men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers,
the shrill litanies of shep-boys who stood on guard by the
barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street!"singers,
who sang" a come-all-pou about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad
ARABY
converged in a single sensation oflife for me: I nnagined that
I bore my chalice safely through a throng offoes. Her name
sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises
which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full
of tears (1 could not tell why) and at tirnes a Hood from my
heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought
little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever
speak to herornot or, ifl spoke to her, how 1 could tell her
of my ~CIOf\lsl~'litadon.ticm. But my body was like a harp and
her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the
wires.
One evening 1 went into the back drawing-room in wh ich
the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there
was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken
panes I heardthe rain impinge upon the earth, the fine in­
cessant needles of water playing in the soddep beds. Some
distant lamp gr lighted window gleamed below me. I was
thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed
to desireto v~.il themselves and, feeling that 1 was about to
slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together
until they trembled, murmuring: '0 love! 0 love!' many
times.
At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the OOt
words to meI was so confused th(l.t I did not know wha:t to
answer. She asked me was I going toAra;,_ I f~rgot whether
I answered yes or no. I t would be 'a, splendid bazaar;she
said she would love to go.
'And why can't you?' 1 asked.
While shesp.oke she turned a silver bracelet round and
round her wrist. She could not go, she said, becausethere
would bea retreatthat week in her convent. Her brother
and two other boys were fighting for their caps) and 1 was
akme at the tailings. She held on~ of the spikes, bowing
her head toward~ me. The light from the .Iamp opposi1;e Ol,lr
door caught the willte curve ofher neck, lit up her hair that
rested thereand, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing.
i
DUBLINERS
ItfeU over one side ofher dress and caught the white border
$'.f a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.
'lt's well for you,' she said.
'If I go,' I said, 'I will bring you something!
What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleep­
ing thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the
tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work ofschool.
At night in my bedroom and by day in the dassroom her
image came between me and the page I strove ,to read. The
syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the
silen ce in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern
enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar
on Sqturday night. My aunt was surprised, and hoped it
was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions
in dass. I watched my master's face pass from amiability
to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could
not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any
patience with the serious work of life which, now that .it
stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's
play, ugly monotonous child's play.
On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished
to go to the bazaar in the evening.He was fussing at the hall­
stand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:
'Yes, boy, I know.'
.
As he'was in thehall I could not go into the front parloUE
and He at the window. I feIt the {lOUSe in bad hurnour and walked slowly towards the scho~l. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me. When I came home to dinner n;J.y uncle had not yet been
home. Still it was early; I sat starl.ng at the dock fot some
fime and, when its ticking begati to irritate me, I lett the
röom. I mounted the staircase anctgained the upper pattof
the house. The high, cold, ernpty~ gloomy rooms Jiberated
me andlwent from roomto rooD1 singing. From the front
window I sa:w my companions plaifing below in the street.
Their cries reached me weakened ~d indistinct and,leaning
3°
ARABY
my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the
dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an
hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my
imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the
curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border
below the dress.
When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sit,.
ting at the fire. She was an old, garrulous woman, a pawn­
broker's widow, who collected used stamps for some pious
purpose. I had to end ure the gossip of the tea-table. The
meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did
not come.' Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she wassorry she
couldn't wait any longer, but it.was after eight o'dock and
she did not like to be out late, as the night air was bad for
her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the
room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:
'I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of
Our Lord.'
At nine o'c1ock 1 heard my uncle's latchkey in the hall
door. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hall­
stand rocking when it had received the weight of his over­
coat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway
through his dinner I asked hirn to give me the money to go
to the bazaar. He had forgotten.
'The people. are in bed and after their first sleep now,'.he
said.
I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:
'Can't you give hirn the money and let him go? You've
kepthim la te enough as it is.'
My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He
~aid he belieyed in the old sayingt: 'All work ,and ,no play
makes Jacka dull boy.' He asked me where 1 was going
and, when I told him a second time, he asked me did I
know The Afab'sFareweli to his Steed. When lIeft the ki~chen
he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to II;ly
aunt.
31
i.
DUBLINERS
I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buck­
ingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets
thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the
purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class car­
riage of adeserted train. Mter an intolerable delay the train.
moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among
ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland
Row Station a crowd ofpeople pressed to the carriage.doors;
but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special
train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage.
In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised
wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the
lighted dial of a dock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front
of me was a large building which displayed the magical
name.
I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that
the bazaar would be dosed, I passed in quickly through a
turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-Iooking man. I fOlmd
myself in a big hall girded at half its height by a.gallery.
Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the
hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which
pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre
ofthe bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the
stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the
,words GaJl. Ghantant were writteri in coloured .lamps, two
men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall
. of the coins.
Rememberingwith'difficultywhy I had come, I went over
to one of the stalls and exahüned porcelain vases and
flowered tea-sets. At the door 6f the stall a young lady was
talking and laughing with !:Wo young gentlemen. I re­
tnarked. their English accents and listened vaguely to their
conversa tion.
'0, I never said such a thing!'
'0, but you did!'
•0, but 1 didn't!'
ARABY
'Didn't she say that?'
'Yes. I heard her'
'0, there's a ... fib!'
Observing me, the young lady came over and asked me
did I wish to buy anything. The tone ofher voice was not en­
couraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense
of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like
eastern guards at either side ofthe dark entrance to the stall
and murmured:
'No, thank you.'
The young lady changed the position of one ofthe vases
and went back to the two young men. They began to talk
of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced
af me over her shoulder.
I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was
useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real.
Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of
the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the six­
pence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the
gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall
was now completely dark.
Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature
driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes bumed with
anguish and anger.
EVELINE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EVELINE ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~N~~~~~~~~~
SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the
avenue. Her head was leaned against the window curtains,
and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was
tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed
on his way horne; she heatd his foo18teps c1acking along the
concrete pavement and aftcrwards crunching on the cinder
path before the new red houses/]Jne time there used to be a
field there in which they used to play every evening with
other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought the
field and built houses in it ~ not like their little brown houses,
but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of
the avenue used to play toge'ther in that field - the Devines,
the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple) she and her
brothers and.sistei's. Ernest, however, never played: he was
tpo grown up: lIe,r fathef:used :often to hlmt them in out of
the -field ""ith his blackthbrn stick; but usually little Keogh
used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming.
Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her
father was not so bad dien; and besides; her mother was
tilive. That was a: lang tiIine ago; she and her brothers and
sisters were all grown up; her mother was dead. Tiizie Dunn
wasdead, too,and the. vyaters had gone back to ,England.
Everything changes. N01she was going to go away like the
others, to lea'\.e her hom~.
Horne! She looked r<fmd the room, reviewing all i18
'f~iliar objects. whi~h sl1e had dusted once a week for so
many years, wondermg fvhere on earthall the dust came
I
34
from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar
objects from which she had never dreamed ofbeing divided.
And yet during all those years she had never found out the
name ofthe priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the
wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured print
of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque.
He had been a school friend of her father. Whep.ever he
showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it
with a casual word:
'He is in Melbourne now!
She had consented to go away, to leave her horne. Was
that wise? She tried to weigh each side of the question. In,
her horne anyway she had shelter and.food; she had those
whorn she had known all her life about her. Of course sh~
had to work hard, both in the house and at business. Wh<;!..!,
would they say ofher in the Stores when they found out thai
she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps;
and her place would be filled up by advertisement. Miss
Gavan would be glad. She had always had an eage on her,
especially whenever there were people listening.
'Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies. are wäiting?'
'Look lively, Miss Hill, please.'
She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.
But in her new horne, in a distant unknown country, it
wouldnot be like that. Then she would be married - ;he~ ,
Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would
not be treated as her mother had been. Even now, thoughf
she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger
ofher father's violence. She knew it was that that had given
her the palpitations. When they were growing up he' had,
neve'r gone for her, like he used to go for Harry and Ernest,
becallse she was a girl; but latterly he had begun to threaten
her and say what he would do to her only for her dead
mother's sake. And now she had nobody to protect her,
Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decor~t­
ing business, was nearly always down somewQere in
the
35
l
DUBLINERS
EVELINE
country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on
Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She '
always gave her entire wages seven shillings - and Harry
always sent up what he could, but the trouble was to get any
money from her father. He said she used to squander the
money, that she had no head, that he wasn't goingto
her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and
much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night.
In the end he would give her the money and ask her had she
any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to
rush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, hold­
ing her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed
her waythrough the crowds and returning home late under
her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house
together and to see that the two young children who had
been left to her charge went to school regularly and got their
meals regularly. 1t was hard work - a hard life - but now
that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly
undesirable life.
She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She ~as to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres, where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembere~ the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in ~ ho~on the main road where she used , tb visit. It seemeda few vteeks ago. He was standing at the g~te, his peaked cap pus~ed back on his head ahd his hair tumbled forward over a f<te of bronze. Then they had come , tok,now ea~h othe,r. H,eU',"<ed to meet her outside the Stores . ·eyery evemng all(~ see.h, home. He took her to see The ..Bohemian Girland ,she fel, elated as she sat in an unaccus· .' tom~d part ofthe ~eatre~th'him. He wasawfullyfond of
muslc and sang a little. P!,:ople knew that they were .court­
,:mg, and, wheri he;'Sang'a!'ut.-the.lass that loves a sailor, she
~',:~'Ways feltpleas~tly'con,' sed. He usedto call her Poppens
First of. all i1: I ,d been an excitement for her to
.:&ot. offun.
'
have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had
tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a
pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to
Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on
and the names of the different services. He had sailed
through the Straits of MageBan and he told her stories of
the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on bis feet in
Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country
just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the
affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say to him.
'I know these sailor chaps,' he said.
One dayhe had quarrelled with Frank, and after that
she had to meet ber lover secretly.
The evening deepened in- the avenue. The white of two
letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was' 10 Harry; the
other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite, but
she liked Harry too. Her father was beooming old lately, she
noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very
nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day,
he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at
the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they
had aB gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remem­
bered her father putting on her mother's bonnet to make the
children laugh.
Her time was running out, but she continued to sit by the
window, leaning her head against the window curtain, in­
haling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue
she. could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air.
Strange that it should come that very night to remind her, of
the promise to her mather, her promise to keep the home
together as long as she could. She remembered the last night
ofher mother's illness; she was again in the elose, dark room
at the other side of the halland outside she heard a melan­
choly air of ltaly. The organ-player had been ordered to go
away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strut­
ting back into the sick-room saying:
86
37
"
DUBLINERS
'Damned Italians! coming over here!'
As she mused the pitiful vision ofher mother's life laid its
speIl on the very quick of her being that life of common~
J'l:ace sacrifices cIosing in final craziness. She trembled as she
. heard again her mother's voice saying constantly with foolish
insistence:
'Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!'
She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She
must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life,
perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she
be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. ~rank would
take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save
her.
*
She stood among the" swaying crowd in the station at the
North Wall. He held her hand and she knew that he was
speaking to her, saying something about the passage over
and over again. The station was full of soldiers with broWD
baggages; Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a
glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the
quay wall, with illumined porthöles. She answered nothing.
She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of dis­
tress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was
her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the
mist. If she went, tomorrow sh{l would be on the sea with
Frank, steaming towards Bueno~ Ayres. Their passage had
been booked. C0uld she still dra'" back after all he had done
. for her ?Her distress awpke a Ii~usea in her body and she
kept moving her lips in silent fehrentprayer.
.A bell clanged upon her he<irt. She feIt hirn seize her
,<hand:
'Corner
All the set,Ul ofthe world tumb~abou her heart. He was
,·draw~gher into thern: he
'drOWD .her. She gripped
with both hands at theiron
'Come! '
38
EVELINE
No! No! No! I t was impossible. Her hands clutched the
iran in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.
'Eveline! Evvy!'
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow •
He was shouted at to go on, but he still called to her. She
set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless anima,!. Her
eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.
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before he had seen 00 friend off at the North wall
and wished him God-speed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell
that at once by 00 travelled air, 00 well-cut tweed suit, and fearless
accent. Few fellows had talents like 00, and fewer still could remain 6
unspoiled by such success. Gallaher' 5 heart was in the right place
and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like
that.
Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of 00
meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation, and of the great city 10
London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because,
though he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one
the idea of being a little man. His hands were white and small, 00
frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and 00 manners were rebned.
He took the greatest care of 00 fair silken hair and moustache, and 16
used perfume discreetly on 00 handkerchief. The half-moons oE 00
nails were perfect, and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a
row of childish white teeth. .
fu he sat at 00 desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes
those eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known 20
under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure
on the London Press. He turned often from 00 tiresome writing to
gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset
covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden
dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on 26
the benches; it flickered upon all the moving figures-on the children
who ran screarning along the gravel paths and oneveryone who
passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and thought of
life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became
16
C ' . 't' erAt.
~
EIGHT YEARS
i.
1 Me
~
/'
sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him. He remembered the books of poetry upon 00 shelves at home.
s He had bought them in 00 bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and tOO con­
10 soled him. When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of 00 desk and of 00 fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and 16 the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or ran in the roadway, or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors, or squatted.like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought. He picked 00 way deftly through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of 20 the gaunt spectral mansions in which th~ old nobility of Dublin had
roistered. No memory of the past touched him, for 00 mind was
full of a present joy.
He had never been in Corless's, but he knew the value of the name.
He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and
26·drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French
and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn
up before the door and richly-dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers,
alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps.
Their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when
30 they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed
without turning 00 head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in
the street even by day, and whenever he foUhd himself in the city
late at night he hurried on 00 way apprehensively and excitedly.
Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of 00 fear. He chose
86 the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward,
17
.. /
A IJTrLB ctOUD
JAMES JOYCB
the silence that was spread about bis footsteps troubled him; the
wandering. silent figures troubled him; and at times a sound oE Iow
fugitive latighter made him tremble like a leaf.
He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher. on
the London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years 5
belore t Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could
remember many signs of future greatness in bis mend. People used
to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with
a rakish set of fellows at that time; drank freely and borrowed
money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady 10
affair, some money transact:ion: at least, that was one version oE bis
fiight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a certain ...
something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite oE
yourself. Even when he was out at elbows and at bis wits' end
for money he kept up a bold face. Little Chandler remembered 15
(and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to bis
cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight
corner:
'Half-time now, boys: he used to say light-heartedly. 'Where's my considering cap!'
20 That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, darnn it, you couldn't but admire him for it.
Little Chandler quickened bis pace. For the fiest time in bis life
he felt himsdf superior to the people he passed. For the first time
bis soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There 26
was no doubt about it: jf you wanted to succeed you had to go
away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan
Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and
pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of
tramps, huddled together along the river-banks, their old coats so
covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama oE sunset
and waiting for the fiest chill of night to bid them arise, shake them­
selves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to
express bis idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some
London paper for him. Could he write something original! He was 86
18
~ .
not sure what idea he Wished to express, but the thought that a poeric
moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope.
He stepped onward bravely.
Every step brought him nearer to London, farther ttom bis own
6 sober inartistic life. A lightbegan to tremble on the horizon oE bis
mind. He was not so old-thirty-two. His temperament might be
said to be just at the point oE maturity. There were so many different
moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt
them within him. He tried to weigh bis soul to see jf it was a poet's
10 soul. Melancholy was the dominant note oE bis temperament, he
thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of (aith
and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in
a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be
popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd.; but he might
u appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps,
would recognize him as one of the Celtic school by reason o( the
melancholy tone of bis poems; besides that, he would put in allu­
sions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from the norice
which bis book would get. 'Mr Clumdler has the gift of easy anJ graceJul
20 verse' ... 'A wisifUl sadness pervades these poems' ... 'The Celtic note'.
It was a pity bis name was not more Irish-Iooking. Perhaps it would
be better to insert bis mother's name belore the surname: Thomas
Malone Chandler; or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would
speak to Gallaher about it.
26
He pursued bis reverie so ardendy that he passed bis street and
had to turn back. As he came near Corless's bis former agitation
began to overmaster him and he halted belore the door in indecision.
Finally he opened the door and entered.
The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorway for a Eew
80 moments. He Iooked about him. but bis sight was confused by the
shining of many red and green wine-glasses. The bar seemed to
him to be full of people and he feIt that the people were observmg
him curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning
slighdy to make bis errand appear senous), but when bis sight cleared
S5 a little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there,
19
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sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher Ieaning with his hack against the
counter and his feet planted far apart.
,'Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to beI What
will you haver I'm taking whisky: hettet stuff than we get across
the water. Soda I Lithia, No mineral! I'm the same. Spoils the 6
flavour . .. Here, garfon, hring us two halves of malt whisky, like a
good fellow. . . Weil, and how have you heen pulling along since
1 saw you lastl Dear God, how old we're getting! Do you see any
signs of age.ing in me-eh, what' A little grey and thin on the topwhau'
10
Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closdycropped head. His face was heavy, pale, and clean-shaven. His eyes,
which were of hluish slate-i:olour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and
shone out plainly ahove the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these
riyal features the lips appeared very long and shapdess and colour- 16
less. He hent his head and fdt with two sympathetic fingers the thin
hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a denial.
Ignatius Gallaher put on his hat again.
'It pulls you down,' he said, 'Press life. Always hurry and scurry,
Iooking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to 20
have something new in your stuff. Damn ptoofs and printers, 1 say,
for a few days. I'm deuced gIad, 1 can teil you, to get back to the
old country. Does a fellow good, a hit of a holiday. 1 feel a ton
hetter since I Ianded again indear, dirty Duhlin ... Here you are,
25
Tomm:y. Watet I Say when.'
Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.
'You don't know what's good fot you, my hoy,' said Ignatius
Gallaher. 'I drink mine neat.'
'I drink very little as a rule,' said Little Chandler modesdy. 'An
odd haIf-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all.' 30
'Ah, weil,' said Ignatius Gallaher cheerfully, 'hete's to us and to
old times and old acquaintance.'
They clinked glasses and drank the toast.
'I met some of the old gang today,' said Ignatius Gallahet.
'O'Hara seems to be in a bad way. What's he doingl'
S~
A UI'II.I! CLOun
'Nothing: said Little Chandler. 'He's gone to the dogs.' 'But Hogan has a good sit. hasn't hel' 'Yes; he's in the Land Commission.' 'I met him one night in London and he seemed to he very flush .•. 6 Poot O'Haral Boole, 1 SUpposel' 'Other things. too,' said Little Chandler shortly. Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
'Tommy,' he said, 'I see you haven't ch.anged an atom. You're
the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday
10 momings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You' d
want to knock about a hit in the world. Have you never heen any­
where even for a trip"
'I've heen to the !sIe of Man,' said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
16
'The Isle of Man!' he said. 'Go to London or Paris: Paris, for
choice. That' d do you good.'
'Have you seen Paris I'
'I should think 1 have! I've knocked ahout there a little.'
'And is it really so heautiful as they say" asked Little Chandler.
20
He sipped a little of his drink whiIe Ignatius Gallahet finished his
holdly.
'Beautiful,' said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the wotd and on
the flavour of his drink. 'It's not so beautiful. you know. Of course,
it is beautifuI ... But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's
26 no city like Paris fot gaiety, movement, excitement ... '
Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouhle, suc­
ceeded in catching the barman's eye. He otdered the same again.
'I've heen to the Moulin Rouge,' Ignatius Gallaher continued
when the barman had removed their gIasses, 'and I've been to all the
so Bohemian cafes. Hot stuffl Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.'
Little Chandler said nothing until the harman tetumed with two
glasses: then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciptocated
the fotmer toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned.
Gallaher's accent and way of expressing himself did not please bim.
36 There was something vulgar in his friend which he bad not ohserved
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A lIITLB CLOUD
before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London :unid
the' bustle -and competition of the Press. The oId personal charm
was still there under this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher
had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his
friend enviously.
6
'Everything in Paris is gay: said Ignatius Gallaher. 'They believe
in enjoying lift:-and don't you think they're rightl If you want to
enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you,
they've a great feeling for the lrish there. When they heard I was
from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man.'
10
Little Chandler took four or nve sips !rom his glass.
'Tell me: he said, 'is it ttue that Paris is so ... immoral as they
Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture witll his right arm.
'Every place is immoral,' he said. 'of course you do find spicy 16
bits in Paris. Go to one of the students' balls, for instance. That's
livdy, if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose.
You know wbat they are, I suppose I'
'I've heard of them: said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his head.
20
'Ah,' he said, 'you may say what you like. There's no woman
like the Parisienne-for style, for go.'
'Then it is an immoral city;' said Little Chandler, with timid in­
sistenCe_,I mean, compared with London or Dublin /'
'London!' said Ignatius Gallaher. 'It's six of one and half a dozen 26
of the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about
London when he was over there. He'dopen your eye... I say,
Tommy, don't make punch of that whisky: liquor up.'
'No, really ... '
'0. come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it/ 30
The same again, I suppose,'
'Well ... all right:
'Pranfois. the same again ... Will you smoke, Tommy!'
Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their
cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served. 36
tG
.
1
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'I'll tell you my opinion,' said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after
some time [rom the elouds of smoke in which he had taken rduge,
'it's a rum world. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases--what
am 1 saying 1-1've known them: cases of ... immorality ... '
6
Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a
calm historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some
pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summa.rized
the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm
to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch [or (bis friends bad told
10 him), but of others he had bad personal experience. He spared neither
rank nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of religious houses
on the Conclnent and described some of the practices which were
fashionable in high society, and ended by telling, with details, a
story about an English duchess-a story which he knew to be ttue.
16 Little Chandler was astonished.
'Ah, well,' said Ignatius Gallaher, 'here we are in old jog-along
Dublin where nothing is known of such things.'
'How dull you must find it,' said Little Chandler, 'after all the
other places you've seen!' 20
'Well: said Ignatius Gallaher, 'it's a relaxation to come over here, you know. And, after all, it's the old countty, as they say, isn't itl You can't help baving a certain feeling for it. Tbat's human
nature. But tell me something about yourseH. Hogan toId me
you had... tasted the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago,
26 wasn't it f'
LittIe Chandler bIushed and smiled.
'Yes,' he said. 'I was married last May twelve months.'
'I hope it's not too Iate in the day to oHer my best wishes,' said
Ignatius Gallaher. 'I didn't know your address or I'd have done so
30 at the time.'
He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.
'Well, Tommy: he said, 'I wish you and yours every joy in life,
oId chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot
you. And that' s the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You
35 know thaU'
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JAMES JOYCB
'I know that,' said Little Chandler.
. 'Any youngsters /' said Ignatius Gallaher.
Little Chandler blushed again.
'We have one child,' he said.
'Son or daughten'
6
'A little boy.'
Ignatius Gallaher slapped bis friend sonorously on the back.
'Bravo,' he said. 'I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy.'
Little Chandler smiled. looked confusedly at bis glass and bit bis
10
lower lip with three childishly white front teeth.
'I hope you'lI spend an evening with us,' he said, 'before you go
back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little
music and-'
'Thanks awfully, old chap,' said Ignatius Gallaher, 'I'm sorry we
1/j
didn't meet earlier. But 1 must leave tomorrow night.'
'Tonight. perhaps ... "
'I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over here with another
fellow, clever young chap he is to~, and we arranged to go to a
little card-party. Only for that ... '
'0, in that case ... '
20
'But who knows" said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. 'Next
year 1 may take a little skip over here now that I've broken the ke.
It's only a pleasure deferred.'
'Very well: said Little Chandler, 'the next time you come we
25
must have an evening together. That's agreed now, isn't it/'
'Yes, that's agreed,' said Ignatius Gallaher. 'Next year if 1 come,
parole d'honneur.'
'And to clinch the bargain,' said Little Chandler, 'we'll just have
,
one more now.
so
Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked at it.
'15 it to be the last!' he said. 'Because, you know, I have an a.p.'
'0, yes t positively,' said Litde Chandler.
'Very well, then,' said Ignatius Gallaher, 'let us have another one
as a deoc an domis-that's good vemacular for a small whisky, I
SIi
believe.'
24
~
~
'I
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- - - - -
...
Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to
his face a few moments before was establishing itself. A triHe made
him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three
small whiskies had gone to bis head and Gallaher's strong cigar bad
/j confused bis mind. for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The
adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself
with Gallaher in Corless's surrounded by lights and noise, of listening
to Gallaher's stories and of sharing for abrief space Gallaher's vagrant
and triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He
10 feIt acutely the contrast between bis own life and bis friend's, and it
seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was bis inferior in birth and educa­
non. He was sure that he could do something better than his frlend
had ever done, or could ever do, something higher than mere tawdry
journalism if he only got the chance. What was it that !tood in bis
16 way p His unfortunate rimidity I He wished to vindicate hlmself in
some way. to assert bis manhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal
of bis invitation. Gallaher was only pattonizing him by bis friend­
liness just as he was pattonizing Ireland by bis visit.
The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one
20 glass towards bis friend and took up the other boldly.
'Who knows p' he ~aid, as they lifted their glasses. 'When you
come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and
happiness to Mr and Mrs Ignatius Gallaher.'
Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively
26 over the rim of bis glass. When he had drunk he smaeked bis lips
decisively, set down his glass and said:
'No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling
fiest and see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the
sack-if lever do.'
so 'Some day you will,' said Little Chandler calmly.
Ignatius Gallaher tumed bis orange tie and slate-blue eyes full
upon his frlend.
'You think so l~ he said.
'You'lI put your head in the saek,' repeated Little Chandler
85 stoutly, 'like every one else if you can find the girl.'
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He bad slightly emphasized bis tone, and he was aware that he
had betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in bis
cheek, he did not flinch from bis friend' s gaze. Ignarius Gallaher
watched rum for a few moments and then said:
'If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no 5
mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'U
have a good fat account at the bank or she won't do for me.'
Little Chandler shook bis head.
'Why, man alive,' said Ignarius Gallaher, vehemently, 'do you
know what it is 1 I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can 10
have the woman and the cash. You don't believe itl Well, I know
it. There are hundreds-what am I saying l-thousands of rich
Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that' d only be too gIad. . .
You wait a while, my boy. See if I don't play my cards properly.
When I go about a thing f mean business, I tell you. You just wait.' 15
He tossed bis glass to bis mouth, 6nished bis drink and laughed
loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before rum and said in a calmer
tone:
'Hut I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself
up to one woman, you know.'
20
He imitated with bis mouth the act of tasting and made a wry
face.
'Must get a bit stale, I should
he said.
think:
I,
Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in bis
arms. To save money they kept no servant, but Annie's young sister 25
Monica came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so
in the evening to he!p. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was
a quarter to nine. Little Chandler had come home late for tea and,
moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie horne the parce! of
coffee from Bewley's. Of course she was in a bad humour and gave 80
him short answers. she said she would do without any tea, but when
it came near the time at which the shop at the corner closed she
decided to go out herself for a quarter of apound of tea and two
pounds of sugar. She put the sIeeping child deftly in bis arms and said:
26
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'Here. Don't waken him.'
A little lampwith a wrute china shade stood upon the table and
its light fell over a photograph wruch was enclosed in a frame of
crumpled horn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked
5 at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer
blouse which he bad brought her home as a present one Saturday.
It had cost rum ten and e!evenpence; but wbat an agony of nervous­
ness it had cost rum! How he had suffered that day, waiting at the
shop door until the shop was empty, standing at the counter and
10 trying to appear at bis ease while the girl piled ladies' blouses before
him, paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd penny of
bis change, being called back by the cashier, and 6nally, striving to
hide bis blushes as he Ieft the shop examining the parce! to see if it
was secure!y ried. When he brought the blouse home Annie lcissed
15 rum and said it was very pretty and stylish; but when she heard
the price she threw theblouse on the table and said it was a regular
swindle to charge ten and e!evenpence for it. At first she wanted
to take it back, but when she tried it on she was delighted with it,
and said he
especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed
20 was very good to think of her.
Hml ...
He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they an­
swered coldly. Certain1y they were pretty and the face itself was
pretty. Hut he found something mean in it. Why was it so uncon­
25 scious and ladylike 1 The composure of the eyes irritated rum. They
repelled rum and defied rum: there was no passion in thern, no
rapture. He thought of wbat Gallaher bad said about rich Jewesses.
Those dark Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion,
of voluptuous longing! ... Why bad he marrled the eyes in the
30 photograph I
He caught himself up at the quesrion and glanced nervously
round the room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture
which he badbought for bis house on the hire system. Annie had
of her. It too was prim and
chosen it hene!f and it reminded
86 pretty. A dull resenttnent against bis life awoke within rum. Could
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Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb
And scatter fiowers on the dust I love.
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he not esca.pe from bis little house l Was it too late tor
to try
to live bravdy like Gallaher l Could he go to London I There was
ehe furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a book and
get it published, that might open the way for
A volume of Byron's poems lay before
on the table. He
opened it cautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the
child and began to read the first poem in the book:
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losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out
anew. Tbe thin walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to
soothe it, but it sobbed more convulsively. He looked at the con­
tracted and quivering fare Ot the child and began co be alarmed.
5 He counted seven sobs without a break between thern and caught the child to his breast in frlght. If it died! ... Tbe door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting.
'What is iu What is it/' she cried.
Tbe chile!. hearing its mother' s voice, broke out into a paroxysm
10 ot sobbing.
'It's nothing, Annie ... it's nothing ... He began co cry ... '
She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child trom
rum.
rum
He paused. He fdt the rhythm of the verse about
in the
room. How mdancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that,
express the mdancholy of his soul in verse l There were so many
things he wanted to descrihe: his sensation oE a few hours Wore 15
on Grattan Bridge, for example. If he could get back again into that
mood ...
The child awoke and began to cry. He turned trom the page
and tried to hush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock
it to and fro in his arms, but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked 20
it taster while bis eyes began to read the second stanza:
16
20
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, ThaI clay where once •.. It was usdess. He couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The
wailing of the child pierced the drum oE his ear. It was usdess, use- 26
less! He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled wich anger and
suddenIy bending CO the child's face he sho.uted:
'Stopl'
The child stopped for an instant, had aspasm of fright and began
to scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and so
down the room with the child in Ws arms. It began to sob piteously,
26
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'What have you done to
she cried. glaring into his face.
Little Chandler sustained ror one moment the gaze of her eyes and Ws heart elosed together as he met the hatred in thern.. He began to stammer: 'It's nothing ... He ... he .•. began co cry ... I couldn't .•• I didn't do anything ... Whau' Giving no heed to
she began to walk up and down the room, elasPing the child tighdy in her arms and murmuring: 'My little manl My little manniel Was 'ou frightened. lover •.. There now, love! Tbere nowl ... Lambabaunl Mamma', little lamb of the worldl ... Tbere nowl' Little Chandler fdt his checks suflused. wich shame and he stood
back out of the lamplight. He listened while ehe paroxysm of the
child's sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to
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He was about twenty-six years ef age, with a soft. light-brewn meustache and rather innocent-Ieoking grey eyes. His father, whe
had begun life as an advanced Natienalist. had modified bis views
early. He had made bis meney as a butcher in Kingstewn and by
I; epening sheps in Dublin and in the suburbs he had made bis meney many times ever. He had also. been fertunate eneugh te seeure seme ef the pelice centracts and in the end he had beceme rich eneugh te be alluded te in the Dublin newspapers as a merchant prince. He had sent bis son to England te be educated in a big Cath­
10 ellc college and had afterwards sent him to Dublin University te
study law. Jimmy did net study very earnestly and took te bad
ceurses fer a while. He had meney and he was pepular; and he
divided bis time curieusly between musical and metering cirdes.
Then he had been sent fer a term te Cambridge te see a little life.
10 His father, remenstrative, but cevertly preud ef the excess, had
paid bis bills and breught him heme. It was at Cambridge that he
had Met Segeuin. They were net much mere than acquaintances
as yet, but Jimmy feund great pleasure in the seciety ef ene whe
had seen se much ef the werld and was reputed to ewn seme ef
20 the biggest hetels in France. Such apersen (as bis father agreed)
was well worth knewing, even if he had net been the charming
cempanien he was. Villena was entertaining also-a brilliant pianist
-but, unfertunatdy, very peer.
The car ran en merrily with its cargo of hilarieus youth. The
20 twe cousins sat on the frent seat; Jimmy and bis Hungarian friend
sat behind. Decidedly Villena was in exceUent spirits; he kept up
a deep bass hurn of mdedy fer miles ef the road. The Frenchmen
ßung their laughter and light werds ever their sheulders, and ohen
Jimmy had te strain forward te catch the quick phrase. This was
so not altegether pleasant fer him., as he had nearly always te make
a deft guess at the meaning and sheut back a suiuble answer in the
face ef a high wind. Besides, Villena's humming weuld cenfuse
anybedy; the noise ef the car, too.
Rapid metion threugh space elates ene; so dees neteriety; se
So dees the pessessien ef meney. These were three good reasons for
31
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AFTER THE RACE
TIm c~s came scudding in tewards Dublin, running evenly like
pellets in the groove of the Naas Read. At the crest ef the hill at
Inchicore sightseers had gathered in clumps te watch the CarS career­
ing hemeward, and threugh this channd of peverty and inaction the 5
Centinent sped its wealth and industry. Now and again the elurnps
of people raised ehe cheer of the gratefullyeppressed. Theirsympathy,
however, was fer the blue cars-the cars of their friends, the French.
The French, mereever, were virrua1 vieters. Their team had
finished selidly; they had been placed second and third and the 10
driver ef ehe winning German car was reperted a Bdgian. Bach
blue car, therefore, received a double measure ef welcome as it
topped the crest ef the hill, and each cheer ef welceme was ac­
knewledged with smiles and nods by these in the car. In one of
these trimly bullt cars was a party ef feur yeung men whese spirits 15
seemed te be at present well abeve the levd ef successful Gallicism:
in fact, these feur young men were almest hilarieus. They were
Charies Segeuin, the ewner of the car; Andre Riviere, a young
electrician ef Canaruan birth; a huge Hungarian named Villena
and a neatly groomed yeung man named Deyle. Segouin was in 20
geed hurneur because he had unexpectedly reccived seme erders
in advance (he was about to start a motor establishment in Paris)
and Riviere was in goed hurneur because he was te be appointed
manager of the establishment; these twe yeung men (whe were
ceusins) were alse in goed hurneur because ef the success ef ehe 25
French cars. Villena was in good hurneur because he bad had a
very satisfactery luncheon ; and, besides, he was an optimist by
nature. The feureh member of the party, however, was tee excited
to be genuinely happy.
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"i' Jimmy's excitement. He had been seen by many of his Eriends that day in the company of these Continentals. At the control Segouin
had presented him to one of the French competitors and, in answer
to bisconfused murmur of compliment, the swarthy face oE the driver had dldosed a line oE shining white teeth. It was pleasant 5
after that honour to returo to the profane world of spectators amid
nudges and significant looks. Then as to money-he really had a
great sum under his control. Segouin, perhaps, would not think
it a great sum, but Jimmy who, in spite of temporary errors, was
at heart the inheritor of solid instincts, knew well with what diEfi- 10
culty it had been got together. This knowledge had previously
kept his bills within the limits of reasonable recklessness, and if he
had been so conscious of the labour latent in money when there
had been question merely of some freak of the higher intelligence,
how much more so now when he was about to stake the greater 16
part of his substance! It was a serious thing for hirn.
Of course, the investment was a good one, and Segouin had
managed to give the impression that it was by a favour of friend­
ship the mite of Irish money was to be included in the capital oE
the concern. Jimmy had a respect for his father' s shrewdness in busi- 20
ness matters, and in this Case it had been his father who had first
suggested the investment; money to be made in the motor business,
pots of money. Moreover, Segouin had the unmistakable air of
wealth. Jimmy set out to translate into days' work that lordly car
in which he sat. How smoothly itran! In what style they had come 26
careering along the country roads! The joumey laid a magical finger
on the genuine pulse of Iife and gallantly the machinery of human
nerves strove to answer the bounding courses of the swift blue animal.
They drove down Dame Street. The street was busy with un­
usual traffic, loud with the horns of motorists and the gongs of so
impatient tram-drlvers. Near the Bank Segouin drew up and Jimmy and his friend alighted. A little mot of people collected on the footpath to pay homage to the snorting motor. The party was to dine together that evening in Segouin's hotel and, meanwhile,
Jimmy and bis friend, who was staying with him, were to go home S5
v
to dress. The car steered out slowIy for Grafton Street while the
twO young men pushed their way through the mot of gazers. They
walked northward with a curious feeling of disappointment in the
exercise, while the city hung its pale globes of light above them in
6 a haze of summer evening. In Jimmy's house this dinner had been pronounced an occasion. A certain pride mingled with bis parents' trepidation, a certain eagemess, also, to play fast and loose, for the names of great foreign eities have at least this virtue. Jimmy, to~, looked very well when
10 he was dressed, and as he stood in the hall, giving a last equation
to ilie bows of his dress tie, bis failier may have feIt even commer­
ciaIIy satisfied at having secured for his son qualities ohen unpur­
chasable. His father, therefore, was unusually friendly with Villona,
and bis manner expressed areal respect for foreign accomplish­
15 ments; but this subtlety of his host was probably lost upon ilie
Hungarian, who was beginning to have a sharp desire for his dinner.
The dinner was excellent, exquisite. Segouin, Jimmy decided,
had a very refined taste. The party was increased by a young English­
man named Routh whom Jimmy had seen wiili Segouin at Cam­
20 bridge. The young men supped in a snug room lit by electric candIe
lamps. They talked volubly and wiili little reserve. Jimmy, whose
imagination was kindling, conceived the lively youth of the French­
men twined eIegantly upon ilie firm framework of the English­
man's manner. A graceful image of bis, he thought, and a just one.
25 He admired the dexterity wiili which their host directed the con­
versation. The five young men had vanous tastes and their tongues
had been loosened. Villona, with immense respect, began to discover
to ilie mildly surprised Englishman the beauties of the English
madrigal, deploring the 105s of old instruments. Riviere, not wholly
so ingenuously, undertook to explain to Jimmy the triumph oE the
French mechanicians. The resonant voice of the Hungarian was
about to prevail in ridicule oE the spurious lutes of the romantic
painters when Segouin shepherded bis party into politics. Here was
congenial ground for aII. Jimmy, under generous inGuences, fdt S6 the buried zeal of his father wake to Iife within him: he aroused lc_........_ 1
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the torpid Routh at last. The room grew doubly hot and Segouin's
task grew harder each moment: there was even danger of personal
spite. The alert host at an opportunity lifted bis glass to Humanity, and
when the toast bad been drunk he threw open a window significantly.
That night the city wore the mask of a capital. The five young 5
men strolled along Stephen's Green in a faint doud of aromatic
smoke. They talked loudly and gaily and their doaks dangled !rom
their shoulders. The people made way for them. At the corner of
Grafton Street a short fat man was putting two handsome ladies
on a car in charge of another fat man. The car drove off and the 10
short fat man caught sight of the party.
'Andre.' 'lt'sFarley" A torrent of talk followed. Farley was an American. No one knew very weIl wbat the talk was about~ Villona and Riviere were 15
the noisiest, but all the men were excited. They got up on a car,
squeezing themselves together amid much laughter. They drove
by the crowd, blended now into soft colours, to a music of merry
bel1s. They took the train at Westland Row and in a few seconds,
as it seemed to Jimmy, they were walking out of Kingstown Station. 20
The ticket-collector saluted Jimmy; he was an old man:
'Fine night, sir!'
It was a serene summer night; the harbour lay like a darkened
mirror at their feet. They proceeded towards it with linked arms,
singing Cadet Roussel in chorus, stamping their feet at every:
26
'Ho! Ho! Hohe, vraiment!'
They got into a rowboat at the slip and made out for the Ameri­
can's yacht. There was to be supper, music, cards. Villona said with
conviction: 'It is delightful!'
There was a yacht piano in the cabin. Villona played a waltz for 30
Farley and Riviere, Farley acting as cavalier and Riviere as lady.
Then an impromptu square dance, the men devising original figures.
What merriment! Jimmy took bis part with a will; this was seeing
life, at least. Then Farley got out of breath and cried 'Stopf' A man
34
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brought in a light supper, and the young men sat down to it for
form's sake. They drank, however: it was Bohemian. They drank
Ireland, England, France, Hungary, the United States of Amenca.
Jimmy made a speech, a long speech, Villona saying 'Hear! hearl'
6 whenever there was a pause. There was a great dapping oE bands
when he sat down. It must have been a good speech. Farley clapped
him on the back and laughed loudly. What jovial fellows! What
good company they were!
Cards I cards! The table was cleared. Villona remmed quietly
10 to bis piano and played voluntaries forthem. The other men played
game after game, fiinging themselves boldly into the adventure.
They drank the health of the Queen of Hearts and of the Queen
of Diamonds. Jimmy felt obscurely the lack of an audience: the
wit was flashing. Play ran very high and paper began to pass. Jimmy
16 did not know exactly who was winning, but he knew that he was
losing. But it was bis own fault, for he frequently mistook bis cards
and the other men had to calculate bis IOUs for him. They were
devils of fellows, but he wished they would stop: it was getting
late. Someone gave the toast of the yacht The Belle 01 Newport, and
20 then someone proposed one great game for a finish.
The piano had stopped; Villona must have gone up on deck.
lt was a terrible game. They stopped just belore the end of it to
drink for luck. Jimmy understood that the game lay between Routh
and Segouin. What excitementl Jimmy was excited too; he would
26 lose, of course. How much had he writren away I The men rose
to their feet to play the last tricks, talking and gesticulating. Routh
won. The cabin shook with the young men's cheering and the
cards were bundled together. They began then to gather in what
they bad won. Farley and Jimmy were the heaviest losers.
so He knew that he would regret in the moming, but at present
he was glad of the rest, glad oE the dark stupor that would cover
up bis folly. He leaned bis elbows on the table and rested bis head
betWeen bis bands, counting the beats of bis temples. The cahin door
opened and he saw the Hungarian standing in a shaft of grey light:
86
'Daybreak, gentlemenI'
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would have, all the ehildren singing! Only she hoped that Joe
wouldn't eome in drunk. He was so different when he took any
drink.
Often he had wanted her to go and live with them; but she would
feit herself in the way (though Joe's wife was ever so niee
with her) and she had beeome accustomed to the life of the laundry.
Joe was a good fellow. She had nursed him and Alphy too; and Joe
used often to say:
'Mamma is marnrna. but Maria is my proper mother.'
10
After the break-up at home the boys bad got her that position
in the 'Dublin by Lamplight' laundry, andshe liked it. she used
to have such a bad opinion of Protestants, but now she thought
they were very nice people, a little quiet and serious, but still very
nice people to live with. Then she bad her plants in the conservatory
15 and she liked looking after them. She had lovely feros and wax­
plants and, whenever anyone eame to visit her, she always gave
the visitor one or two slips from her conservatory. There was one
thing she didn't like and that was the tracts on the walls; but the
matron was such a nice person to deal with, so genteeI.
20
When the cook toM her everything was ready she went into the
women's room and began to pull the big bell. In a few minutes
the women began to come in by twos and threes, wiping their
steaming bands in their petticoats and pulling down the sleeves of
their blouses over their red steaming arrns. They settled down
21> before their huge mugs which the cook and the dummy filled up
with hot tea, already rnixed with milk and sugar in huge ritt cans.
Maria superintended the distribution of the barmbrack and saw
that every woman got her four slices. Th'ere was a great deal of
laughing and joking during the mea,l. Lizzie Fleming said Maria was
30 sure to get the ring and, though Fleming bad said that for so many
Hallow Eves, Maria bad to laugh and say she didn't want any ring
or man either; and when she laughed her grey-green eyes sparkled
with disappointed shyness and the tip of her nose nearly met the
tip of her chin. Then Ginger Mooney lifted up her mug of tea and
35 proposed Maria's health, while all the other women dattered with
5 have
CLAY
THE MATRON bad given her leave to go out as soon as the women's
tea was over, and Mafia looked forward to her evening OUt. The
kitchen was spick and span: the cook said you could see yourself
in the big copper boilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one 5
of the side-tables were four very big barmbracks. These barmbracks
seemed uncut; but if you went doser you would see that they had
beencut into long thick even slices and were ready to be banded
round at tea. Maria had cut them herself.
Maria was a very, very small person indeed, but she had a very 10
long nose and a very long chin. She talked a little through her nose,
always soothingly: 'Yes, mr dear,' and 'No, mr dear.' She was always
sent for when the women quarrelled over their tubs and always
succeeded in making peace. One day the matron bad said to her:
'Maria, you are a veritable peace-makerl'
15
And the sub-matron and twO of the Board ladies bad heard the
compliment. And Ginger Mooney was always saying wbat she
wouldn't do to the dummy who had charge of the irons if it wasn't
for Maria. Every one was so fond of Mafia.
The women would have their tea at six o·dock and she would 20
be able to get away before seven. From Ballsbridge to the PilIar,
twenty minutes; from the PilIar to Drurncondra, twenty minutes;
and twenty minutes to buy the things. She would be there before
eight. She took out her purse with the silver dasps and read again
the words A Present ftom Belfast. She was very fond of that purse 25
because Joe bad brought it to her five years before when he and
Alphy had gone to Belfast on a Whit-Mondaytrip. In the purse
were two half-crowns and some coppers. She would have five
shillings dear after paying tram fare. What a nice evening .they
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their mugs on the table, and said she was SCltIijr,mc:-hadn't a sup of
porter to drink it in. And Maria laughed 'agM tillthe tip of her
nose nearly met the tip of her chin and ti1l hCl! minute body nearly
shook itseH asunder, because she knew that'Mooney meant well,
6
though oE course she had the notions oE a common woman.
But wasn't Mafia glad when the womenhiid finished their tea
and the cook and the dummy bad begun toclear away the tea­
things! She went into her little bedroom-.iind, remembering that
the next moming was a mass morning, changed the hand of the
alarm {rom seven to six. Then she took oll. working smt and 10
her house-boots and laid her best skirt out Oll·the bed and her tiny
dress-boots beside the foot of the bed. she ~ged her bIouse too
and, as she stood before the mirror, she t:bQught oE how she used
to dress for mass on Sunday morning when the was a young girl;
and she looked with quaint affectiott at the diminutive body which 15
she had so often adomed. In spite oE itsy~she Eound it a nice
tidy little body. .
When she got outside the streets were s~g with. rain and she
was glad oE her old brown waterproof. Th~ jram was full and she
had to sit on the little stool at the end oE. the car, facing all the 20
people, with her toes barely touching the. floor. She arranged in
her mind all she was going to do, andthollght how mQch better
it was- to be independent and to have. YQ~i9wn money in your
pocket. She hoped they would have anice,~ening. She was sure
they would, but she co,~H not help thinlQng what a pity it was 25
. Alphy and Joe were not speiling. They;Wem always falling out
now, but when they were boys together they usedto be the best
. of friends; but such was life.
Shegot out oE her. tram at the Pill.ar ~d ferreted her way:
quickly among the crowds. She wentint<)iPownes's cakeshop but 30
the shop was so full oE people that it 'ytas:,a Iong time befor~ she
could get herseH attended to. Sb(: boughc;jt;d,pW:t oE mixed· penny
!=ak:es, and at last came out of the sh0lt lad.m :with a big Ing. Then
-she thought what eise would she OOy: she wanted to'buy something
really nice. They would be sure to have plenty oE apples and nuts. 36
It was hard to know what to buy and all she could think of was cake.
She decided to buy some plumcake, but Downes's plumcake had
not enough almond king on top of it, so she went over to a shop
in Henry Street. Here she was a long time in suiting herseH, and the
5 stylish young lady behind the counter, who was. evidently a little
annoyed by her, asked her was it wedding-cake she wanted to buy.
That made Mafia blush and smile at the young lady; but the young
lady took it all very seriously and finally cut a truck slice of plum..
cake, parceUed it up and said:
10
'Two-and-four, please.'
She thought she would have to stand in the Drumcondra tram
because none of the young men seemed to notice her, but an dderly
gentleman made room for her. He was a stout gentleman and he
wore a brown hard hat; he h.ad a square red face and a greyish
1:; moustache. Maria thought he was 01 colonel-Iooking gentleman
and she reflected how much more polite he was than the young
men who simply stared straight belore them. The gentleman began
to chat with her about Hallow Eve and the rainy weather. He sup­
posed the bag was full of good things for the little ones and said
20 it was only fight that the youngsters should enjoy themsdves while
they were young. Mafia agreed with him and Eavoured him with
demure nods and heros. He was very nice with her, and when she
was getting out at the Canal Bridge she thanked him and bowed,
and he bowed to her and raised bis hat and smiled agreeably; and
26 while she was going up along the terrace, bending her tiny head
under the ~ain, she thought how easy it was to know a gentleman
even when he has a drop taken.
Everybody said: '0, herb Mafia!' when she came to Joe' s house.
Joe was there, having come ~ome from business, and ;ill. the children
30 had their Sunday dresses on.)here were two big girls in horn next
door and games weregi5mg on.. Mafia gave !J.le bag oE cakes to the
ddest boy, Alphy, to diVide, and Mrs Donnelly said ·it· was too
good oE her tobring such a bigbag'oEcakes, andmade all the
children say:
39
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'Thanks, Maria.'
But Maria said she had brought something special for papa and
mamma, something they would be sure to like. and she began to
look for her plumcake. She tried in Downes's bag and then in the
.pockets..of her waterproof and then on the hallstand, but nowhere 5
could she find it. Then she asked all the children had any of them
eaten it-by mistake, of course-but the children all said no and
looked as if they did not like to eat cakes if they were to be accused
of stealing. Everybody had a solution for the mystery and Mrs
Donnelly said it was plain that Maria had left it behind her in the 10
tram. Maria, remembering how confused the gentleman with the
greyish moustache had made her, coloured with shame and vexation
and disappointment. At the thought of the faUure of her little sur­
prise and of the two and fourpence she had thrown away for nothing
she nearly cried outright.
15
But Joe said it didn't matter and made her sit down by the fire.
He was very niee with her. He told her all that went on in his
office. repeating for her a Smart answer which he had made to the
manager. Maria did not understand why Joe laughed 50 much over
the answer he had made, but she said that the manager must have 20
been a very overbearmg person to deal with. Joe said he wasn't
so bad when you knew how to take him, that he was adecent sort
so long as you didn't rub him the wrong way. Mrs Donnelly played
the piano for the chi1dren and they danced and sang. Then the two
next-door girls handed round the nuts. Nobody could find the nut- 25
crackers. and Joe was nearly getting cross over it and asked how
did they expect Maria to crack nuts without a nutcracker. But
Maria said she didn't like nucs and that they weren't to bother
about her. Then Joe asked would she take a bottle of stout, and
Mrs Donnelly said there was port wine too in the house if she would 30
prefer that. Maria said she would rather they didn't ask her to take
anything: but Joe insisted.
So Maria let him have his way and they satby the fire talking
over old times and Maria thought she would put in a good word
for Alphy. But Joe cried that God might strlke him stone dead if 30
40
~ L,
ever he spoke a word to his brother again and Maria said she was
sorry she had mentioned the matter_ Mrs Donnelly told her hus­
band it was a great shame for him to speak that way of his own
flesh and blood. but Joe said that Alphy was no brother of bis and
11 there was nearly being a row. on the head of it. But Joe said he
would not lose bis temper on account of the night it was, and asked
his wife to open some more stout. The two next-door gids had
artanged some Hallow Eve games and soon everything was merry
again. Maria was delighted to see the chi1dren so merry and Joe
10 and his wife in such good spirits. The next-door girls put some
saucers on the table and then led the chi1dren up to the table, blind­
fold. One got the prayer-book and the other three got the water;
and when one of the next-door girls got the ring Mrs Donnelly
shook her finger at the blushing girl as much as to say: 0, I know
15 all about it! They insisted then on blindfolding Maria and leading
her up to the table to see what she would get; and. while they were
putting on the bandage, Maria laughed and laughed again til1 the
tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin.
They led her up to the table arnid laughing and joking, and she
20 put her hand out in the ah- as she was told to do. She moved her
hand about here and there in the air and descended on one of the
saucers. She felt a soft wet 5ubstance with her fingers and was sur­
prised that nobody spoke or took off her bandage. There was a
pause for a few seconds; and then a great deal of scufliing and whis­
211 pering. Somebody said something about the garden, and at
last Mrs Donnelly said something very cross to one of the
nen-door girls and told her to throw it out at once: that was
no play. Maria understood that it was wrong that time and
so she had to do it over again: and this time she got the prayer­
so book.
After that Mrs Donnelly played Miss McCloud's Reel for the
children. and Joe made Maria take a glass of wine. Soon they were
all quite merry again, and Mrs Donnelly said Maria would enter a
convent before the year was out because she had got the prayerSII book. Maria had never seen Joe so nice to her as he was that night.
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so Eull 01 pleasant talk and reminiscences. She said they were aIl
very good to her.
At last the children grew tired and sleepy and Joe asked Maria
would she not sing some little song before she went, Qne of the
old songs. Mn Donnelly said 'Do please, Marial' and so Maria had ~
to get up and stand beside the piano. Mrs Donnelly bade the chil­
dren be quiet and listen to Maria's song. Then she played the prelude
and said 'Now, MariaI' and Maria, blushing very much, began to
sing in a OOy quavering voice. She sang I Dreamt that I Dwelt, and
10
when she came to the second verse she sang again:
I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls
With vassals and serJs at my side,
And of all who assembled within those walls
That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches too great to count, could boast
11'>
Of a high ancestral name,
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
That you loved me still the same.
But no one tried to show her her mistake; and when she had
ended her song Joe was very much moved. He said that there was
no time like the long ago and no music ror him like poor old Bille,
whatever other people mightsay; and his eyes 6lled up so much
with tears that he could not find what he was looking for and in
the end he had to ask his wiIe to tell him where the corkscrew was.
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~: light opera by BaHe (see A 42, 21), first produced in London in r843.
- 22) eldted [eil happy, proud, in high spirits. - 24) 10 court to try to
win the favour or love of s.o. - 25) lass [lres] (north. and poet.) girl.
Th'e ,..., that loves a saUor subtitle of H.M.S. Pintifore, wellknown comic
opera by Gilbert and Sullivan. - 26) Poppens: pet-name, probably
derived from puppet. - 28) deck boy young sailor who works on deck.
- 29) Allan Line: British steamship eompany which was founded
in 185 2 by Sir Hugh Alian and amalgamated with the Canadian Padjic Steamship Company in 1916. - 31) Straits of Mage!lan [mG'geIGn]: a narrow waterway between the South American mainland and Tierra del Fuego (Feuerland), called after its discoverer, the Portuguese navi­
gator Ferdinand Magellan (r480-152I). - 32) Patagon/ans [pretG­
'gounja02] tribe of very tall South American Indians that live in Pata­
gonia, a region in the southem part of South Ameriea. piece of land. - 25) decrepit [di'krepitJ wom out, weak from old age
or illness. - to drowse [drauz] to be haH asleep, to doze. - 27) gravel
['grrevGI] small stones and sand.
17. 3) to bequeath [bi'kwi:O] to hand down to people who eome
after. - s) bachelor ['bretIGIG] unmarried man. - 6) 10 tempt to rouse
desire in. - 9f) to eons61e [ou] to give comfort. - 12) pune/maus [i] care­
ful in performing dunes or in the observance of the nice points of
behaviour alld eeremony. - to emerge [i'mG:d:;] to come out, to come
into view. - 13) feudal [fju:dl]. - 14) Henrietta Street: see map 7.
- to wane to become weaker or less bright. - 15) grlmy [ai] very dirty.
- 17) gaping wide open. - to squat [0] to sit (on one's heels). - 18)
;f
deft quick, skillul, clever. - 19) minute [mai'qju:t] very small. - ver­
min ['VG:min] rats and mice, parasitic insects, ete. - 20) gaunt [0;] grim.
desolate. - spectrallike a spectre, ghostly. - 21) to roister to be merry
and noisy. - 25) liqueur [li'kjuG] sweetened and flavoured aleoholic
drink. - 26) eab horse-carriage or motor-car for public hire. - 27)
to esc6rt to accompany to proteetor show honour to s.o. - 28) 10 aligltt
to get down (from a ear, train, ete.). - noisy here: showy, glaring. ­
wrap [rrep] outer eovering or garment, e.g. shawl, scarf, rur. - 30)
Atalanta [reta'l.aentG]: in Greek legend, a beautiful, swift-footed
maiden who offered to marry the man able to defeat her in arace. ­
33) apprehensive [repri'hensiv] uneasy, anxious, worried. - 34) 10 court
here: to seek; to take action that may lead to (danger, disaster).
!
14. I) chap (coll.) fellow. - 9) laid up (coI!.) so ill as to be obliged
to stay in bed. - II) Hill of Howth [houe]: sec map 4. Howth
was the site of many ancient and medieval battles. From its hili-top
23) 10 strut to
there is a lovely view. - 15) 10 inhdle to breathe in.
walk in a pompous, self-satisfied way. - 26) to mI/se [mju:z] to be
lost in thought. - speil magical, irresistible influence, fascination. _
27) quick eentre of the feelings. - 30) Deravaun Seraun ['deravo:n
la'ro:n] probably a distorted phrase.
I
15. 1) to sway to move to and fro. - Ii) North Wall: see map 5.
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- 5) shed building used for storing things. - to catch a glimpse of to
18. 3)fugitive ['fju:dsitiv] passing quieklyaway, shott. - 4) Cape!
see quickly or faintly. - 6) quay [10:] artificiallanding-place for loading
Street: see map 8. - Ignatius [ig'neinGs]: a frequent name in Ire­
and unloading ships. - p6rthole window or opening in a ship's side.
land. The Irish are mostly Roman Carbolics. Ignatius ofLoyola founded
- 7) maze [meiz] labyrirlth, state of confusion. - 7f) distress suffering,
the Jesuit order. - 9) rakjsh [ei] of bad charaeter, immoral. - 10) shady
great pain or sorrow. - 13) nausea ['no:sjG] feeling of sickness. - fer­
(colI.) dishonest, of questionable charaeter. - 14) out at elbows looking
vent [a:] intensely earnest, ardent, strongly and warmly felt.- 15) to
I
poor and badly dressed. - at one's wits' end at a loss, not knowing
dang to make a loud metallic sound. - 21) to dutch to grasp tightly.
what to do. - 15) 10 keep up a boldface to continue to show courage.
- 22)frenzy wild or violent excitement.
- 17f) tight corner (colI.) difficu1t situation. - 19f) JiVhere's my consider­
ing cap? = JiVhere's my thinking cap? I must think about it. In former
times the judge used. to put on bis eap after hearing the evidenee and
A LITTLE CLOUD
before giving rus judgement. - zr) all out (colI.) eompletely, very
charaeteristically. - z7f) Grattan [grretn] Bridge: see map 9. Henry
18. 2) North Wall: see map 5. - 3) GM-speed (contraetion of
Grattan (1746-1820): .Irish Statesman and orator. - Z9) stunted
God speed you) suceess, good fortune. - Gallaher ['grelaha]: a typical
dwarfed, checked in growth. - 30) to huddle to draw or press dose
lrish name. - 12) average [,revGrid3] of the usual standard, ordinary.
together. - river-banks banks of the River Liffey ['00]: see map 10.
14) frame body, build. -fragile ['frred3ail] delieate, frail. - 19) The
- 31) soot [u] blaek. powdery substance, formed when coal, wood, oil,
King's Inns: see map 6. - 21) necessitous [ni'sesitGs] poor, needy. _
ete. burn. - to stupefy ['stju:pifai] to make dull, to amaze. - 33) begone
guise [gm] manner of dress, outward appearanee. - 24) plot small
to be gone.
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19. 5) sober [ou) not drunk:; temperate; serious, quiet. - 7) maturity
[me'tjueriti) ripeness, state of being fully grown and developed. _
9) to weigh see A IZ, 8. - II) recurrence [ri'urans] reappearance. _
14) 111. swar to intluence. - 15) kIndred [i] related; __ minds persons
with si.milar tastes. - 16) Celti, ['keltik] The lrish, Welsh, Highland
Scots and Bretons are Celts; -- sCMol poets of the Celtic Revival or
Celtic Renaissance which began in the late 1800'S and revived the in­
terest in Celtic languages, literatures and history . It was esp. strong in
Ireland and helped the lrish struggle for independence. - 25) reverie
['rev9riJ dIeamy pleasant thoughts. - 34) errand ['erand] a short trip
to do s.th. for s.o. eise, purpose of such a trip.
20. 5) lithia ['li8ia] = -- water mineral water containing lithium
salts (lithium the lightest known metaI). - 6) jlavour [ci] the character­
istic quality of taste and smell. - garfon (Fr.) waiter. - malt [0] grain,
usu. barley, prepared for making certain alcoholic dIinks, such as
liquor or beer. - 7) to pull along (coll.) to get along, to manage, e.g.
to make a living. - n) to displar to show. - 13) slate stone that splits
easily into thin, Bat layers used for roofs or for writing on with chalk
(Schiefer). - to relfeve Li:] to ease, to lessen, to make les! monotonous
or unpleasant. - pallor ['p:e!a] paleness. - 17) denial [di'nilil] saying
'no'. - 19) srnrry [A) haste. - 2.0) cOPi' here: material tö write about.
21) proof trial copy of a manuscript (Korrekturabzug, Fahne).
- 22) deuced [dju:st] (coll.) extremely, very. - 23) a ton [A] (coll.)
very much. - 26) to dilute [dai'lju:t) to thin or weaken by adding
water or another liquid. - 28) neat here: without water. - 31) Here's
to = Here's a toast to '" - 35) O'Hara: 0', .. is a frequent prefix
in Irish surnames, meaning descendant of.
the other very little difference between one and the other. - 28) to
liquor ('lika] up (sI.) to drink: alcoholic liquors, esp. in large quantities.
28. 3) rum (coll.) queer, odd, strange. - 7) rifo (used predicatively
only) widespread, common. - 8) to award [a'wo:d1 to give, to grant.
- palm [pa:m] used here as a symbol of victory or superiority. - 9)
to vouch [vautIlfor to guarantee (to be true). - n) caste [ka:st] exelusive
sodal class. - 16) to jog along to make slow. uneventful progress. ­
20) relaxation recreation, rest from work. - 24) connubial [ka'qju:bj911
of marriage. - bliss perfect happiness. greatjoy.
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24. 7) sonoraus [sa'no:res] producing a full. deep sound. - 21) con­
siderate [ken'sidarit] thoughtful. - :2.2) skip jump. - 23) ta tiefer [di'fe:]
to put off to a later time, to delay. - 27) parole d'honneur (Fr.) word
of honour, - 28) to clinch a bargain to settle it finally. - 3 I) a.p. (51.)
= appointment arrangement to meet s.o. - 32) positive [a) defmite,
sure. - 34) deoc an doruis [djok on 'doriIl (Irish) drink of the door or
for the road. - vernacular [va'nz19ula] language or dialect of a country
!
or district.
25. 2) trifte Lai] small amount (here: of whisky). - 8) vagrant
['veigrant] wandering from place to place. vagabond. - 9) to upset
to disturb. - equipoise ['ekwipoiz] state of balance, equilibrium. ­
10) acute [e'kju:t] sharp. 13) tawdry [0:] showy but in bad taste,
worthless. - 15) to vindicate Ci] to justify, to defend - 16) to assert to
defend, to maintain. - 17) to patronize [re] to treat in a condescending
way. - 27) blooming (si.) euphemistically for bloodi' (vulg.), emphasizing
anger or the like or aImost meaningless. - to have one's jllng to have
a period of lll11'estrained pleasure, doing exactly as one likes.
21. 2) sit (si., short for situation) position, job. - 4) flush well
supplied, esp. with money. - 5) booze [bu:z] (coll.) alcohol. - 10)
sore [so:) hurting, - fur [fe:] here: furlike coating (on the tongue) in
illness or after dIinking too much. - II) to knock about to travel here
and there. - 13) Isle of Man: One of the British Isles, between
Northem Ireland and England. - 28) Moulin Rouge: world-famous
place for musical shows. - 30) Bohemian here: unconventional, pre-­
tending to be artistic. - 32) to reciprocate [ri'siprakcit] to return, to give
in return.
26. 2) to betrar to show or reveaI unknowingly. - 3) to jlinch to
dIaw or move away. - 5) i'0u mai' bet rour bottom dollar (si.) you may
bet your last dollar, you may be quite sure. - 6) to moon to spend (time)
idly. - to spoon (coll.) to make love, esp. inan openly sentimental
manner. - 9) vehement ['vi:iment] violent, passionate. - 2.1) wry [rai]
pulled to one side, twisted (showing disgust). - 23) state not fresh,
tasteless, uninteresting. - 34) deft see A 17, 18.
22. 2) bustle [bASi] busy and noisy haste and hurry. - 3) gaudi' [0:]
too bright and showy. - 14) catholic here: broad-minded. - 15)
spicy [ai) piquant, somewhat indecent. - 22) go (colI.) energy, vivacity.
- 23f) inslstence frrmness, emphasis. - 25) six of one and half a dozen of
27. 4) crumpled full of folds and wrinkles. - 7) agoni' ['regani]
great suffering. - IO) at one's ease comfortable, relaxed, not arurious.
- to pile to heap up. - I5) stylish [ai] fashionable, smart. - 24) mean
Ci:] common, small-minded. - 25) composure [kam'pou3e] ca1mness,
absence of strong feeling. - 26) to repel [ri'pel] to drive back:, to cause
so
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29. 4) to qulver [I] to tremble. - 7) to pant [::e] to breathe quickly
and heavily; to gasp for breath, as from running fast. - 9) paroxysm
['p::eraksiZ3m] sudden attack or outburst. - I4) to glare to look angrily
and fiercely: - 20) heed attention. - 21) to clasp [0:] to hold closely.
- 22) was 'ou = were you (Annie speaks as a child would). - 7.3)
Lambabaun a made-up word. Lambkin (= little 14mb) is often used as
a term of affection. - 25) to suffuse [sa'fju:z] to cover, to spread slowly
over the surface of. - 27) remorse [0:] deep regret for wrongdoing,
sense of guilt.
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33. 1) Grafton Street: see map 17. The Duke of Grafton
2) gazer person who gazes,
i.e. looks flxedly and steadily. - 5) haze thin mist that makes objects
indistinct. - 6) occasion here: special event. -7) trepldation exdtement,
agitation. - 8) to play fast and loose [lu:s] to be unreliabIe, to change
one's way of behaving too often. - 10) equation [i'kweiI.1n] correction.
- uf) unpurchasable [.m'pa:tJasabl] not to be obtained for money. ­
14f) accomplishments [0] education. cleverness or ability, esp. fot soda!
life. - 15) subtlely ['$Atlti] cleverness at making delicate differences. ­
20) mug comfortable. warm, weIl arranged. -7.1) voluble ['voljubl] fluent,
talking quickly and easily. - 22) to kindie [i] to catch fire, to be roused.
- to conceive [kan'si:vJ to think of, to imagine. - 2.3) to twine [ai} to
wind, to rwist. - framework basic strucrure, frame. - 25) dexterity [e]
skill. cleverness. - 29) madrigal ['m.rdrig.11] short poem, wu. ab out
love; here: such a poem, set to music. - 30) ingenuous [in'd3enjuas]
frank, simple, naive, natural. - 32) to prevail to gain the victory, to urge
successfully; to - in rldieule to mock at. - spurious ['spjuarias} not
genuine, false. - lute [lju:tJ oId stringed musical instrument related to
(17JS-18n) was a famow politician. -
30. 2) to scud to move or run swiftly or easily. - 3) pellet [e] little
ball, bullet. - groove [u:] channel, long hollow cut. - Naas [neis]
Road: see map II. Naas (= meeting-place) town, ancient capital of
the kings of Leinster. - crest top. - 4) Inchicore: see map I7.. _
4f) to career to rush wildly. - 9) virtual ['va:gual] real. - I7) hilarious
[hi'lsa'rias] noisily merry. - 20) groomed tu:] well dressed. - 29)
genuine [' d3enjuin1true, real.
31. 7.) t110ustache [mas'ta:IJ hair growing on a man's upper lip. _
4) Kingstown: see map 13. KingStown Is the port of entry for niost
visiton to Ireland. The name, given in honour of the embarkation of
52
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32. 3) competitor {kam'petita] one who takes part in arace, an
examination, etc. - 4) swarthy ['swo:l!i] dark. - 7) nudge [llL\d3]
slight push with the elbow (to attract attention). - 12.) recklessness
carelessness, thoughdessness. - 13) latent ['leitmt] hidden, concealed.
- 14) freak [i:J sudden and absurd idea or act, whim. - 15) to stake
to risk. - 19) mite coin of a very small value, very smaIl contribution.
- 20) shr/wdne!s [u:] cleverness, sound judgement. - 23) pots of (si.)
very much. - 29) Dame Street: see map 15. - 31) Bank of Ire­
land: see map 16; the old Parliament House. - 32.) to allght see A 17,
2.8. - knot [not] here: group. - 33) homage ['homid3} expression of
respect or reverence.:- to mort to force air out through the nose with
a loud noise, to make a noise like this.
AFTER THE RACE
~. 0
George IV in 1821, was changed back into the old Irish name of Dun
Laoghaire [dAn 'Isara] in 1921. - 6) to secure to obtain. - 8) to
allude [a'lu:d] to to refer to, to write of indirectly. - 10) Dublin
University: see map 14. - II) to take to to fall into the habit oft ­
12) course behaviour. conduct. - 15) remonstratlve protesting. - covert
['luvat] hidden, secret. - 24) etirgo load (usu. of goods carried bya
ship or aircraft). - 2.7) bass [beisl very low in tone. - hum singing
with closed lips (thus making a low, continuous sound like that made
by a bee). - 7.9) to strain forward to lean forward in a violent effort.
- 31) deft see A 17, 18. - 34) to d4le see A 13, 22. - notor{ety state
of being weIl known and talked about, celebrity.
28. 5) George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-I824): English
romantic poet. - 6) cautious ['b:jas] careful to avoid danger. _ 8)
Rushed are tlze winds .•. Fint stanza of Byron's poem On the Death of
a Young LAdy, composed at the age of fourteen. - to hush co make
quiet, to calm, to soothe. - 9) Zephyr ['zefa] (from Greek) the west
wind; (poet.) soft, gentle breeze. - grove foul small wood, group of
trees. - 10) Margaret: cousin to Byron. - 20) to wail to cry in a
loud, usu. high voice. - 22) to rec/{ne [ai] to rest. - day earth as the
material from which the human body was originaIly formed; the
human body. - 29) spasm ['sp::eZ3m] sudden shock. - 30) to scream [i:]
to cry in a shrill,loud voice. - 31) piteous ['pitias] arousing pity:
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dislike in. - to liefy [di'fai] to resist or oppose boldly and openly. _
7.7) rapture ['r::eptJa] expression of great joy, ecstasy. - 29) voluptuous
[va'lAptjuas] sensuaI. - 33) hire ['haia] system system by which 5.th.
hired becomes the property of the hirer after an agreed number of
payments has been made. - 34) prim neat, stiffly formal. - 35) resmt­
ment [-~-] feeling of displeasure and indignation.
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the guitar. - 33) 10 shepherd ['Ieped] to guide s.o. as one would guide
sheep. - 34) eongenial [ken'd:;i:njel] suited to one's tastes and interests;
agreeable. - generous ['d:;emres] invigorating in its nature, as wine.­
35) zeal [zi:lJ enthusiasm, eagerness.
(sI.) a stupid person. - iron ['aionJ tool for smoothing clothes or linen.
- 21) Ballsbridge: see map 19. At Ballsbridge tbe famous Dublin
Horse Show is held every year. - (Nelson's) Pillar: see map 20.
- 22) Drumcondra: see map 21. - 27) Alphy: short for Alphonso,
brother to Joe. - 29) c1ear exactly.
84. I) torpid dull and slow, inactive. - 3) spile ill-will, evil feeling
toward·another. - alert [e'le:tJ watchful, wide-awake. - 6) Stephen's
Green: see map 18. - faint weak, indistinct. - 7) to dangle to hang
or swing loosely. - 14) torrent [oJ violent or rapid flow (of water,
words, etc.). - 17) to squeeze to press hard and closely. - 18) to blend
to become mixed. to pass gradually into one another. - 19) West­
land Row: see map 3. - 20) Kingstown Station: see map 13. _
23) serene [si'ri:n] peaceful, dear and calm. - 25) Cadet Roussel or
Roussel/e French folk-song. - 26) vraiment (Fr.) indeed. - 27) slip here:
pier or platform doping into the water to serve as a landing place. _
32 ) impromptu [im'promptju:J without preparation. - square danee a
dance, as a quadrille, in whlch the couples are grouped in a square or
some otber set form. - 33) with a will with energy and enthusiasm.
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39. 3) almond ['a:mend} nut or seed of a tree allied to the peach
(Mandel). - (eing [ai] mixture of sugar. water or otber liquid, whlte
of egg, etc. for covering a cake. - 4) Henry Street: see map 22. ­
to suit 0 •.1'. to act according to one's wishes, to fmd what is suitable or
satisfactory. - 5) slylish see A 27, 15. - 13) stout [au] here: ratber fat.
corpulent. - 22) demure [di'mjuGJ quiet and serious, modest. - hem
the sound one makes when agreeing without speaking. - 23) Canal
[ke'na:l} Bridge: see map 23. - 25) terrace ['terosJ row of houses esp.
along the top or side of a slope, street in front of such houses.
40. 9) solution [se'lu:I:mJ answer to a problem, explanation. - 12)
vexation annoyance, distress. - 21) overbearing (eoJ arrogant, foreing
others to do one's will. - 23) to rub s.o. the wrang way (coll.) to hurt
s.o.'s feelings, to make s.o. angry. - 26) cross angry, badtempered.
- 28) to bOther [oJ to take trouble, to worry. - 29) stout (au] here:
kind of strong, dark beer; see A 39, 13.
54
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search out, to run quickly like a ferret (Frettchen).
36. I) day see A 28, 22. - 2) matron ['meitren] married woman
or widow; woman controlling the staff or managing household affairs
in a hospital, school, or other institution. .,- leave permission (to be
absent from duty). - 4) spick and span neat and clean, tidy. - 6) harm­
braek currant-bun, dark spiced cake full oE currants. - 12) to soothe
[su:öJ to calm, to quiet. - 13) tub large, open container, usu. round
and wooden. - 16) board group of persons controlling a business,
council. - 17) Ginger ['d3ind:;e]: a feminine name or a nicknamefor a
person with sandy or reddish hair. - 18) dummy a person unable to talk;
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88. 1) sup small mouthful of liquid, sip. - 2) porter short for ,••.ls
ale a dark-brown beer. - 3) minute see A 17, 19. - 4) asdnder into
pieces. - 5) notion idea, opinion. - 15) quaint unusual, curious, strange.
- diminutive [di'minjutivJ very small. - 16) to adam to ornament, to
make beautiful. - 26) 10 fall out to quarrel. - 29) to ferret ['ferit] to
CLAY
55
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31. 5) ever so (coll.) very, extremely. - 6) lJundry [o:J place where
washing and ironing is done. - 14) eonservatory glass building or room
for growing and showing plants. greenhouse. - 15) fern [9:] shrubby,
non-flowering plant (Farn). - 17) slip twig, root, etc. broken or cut
from a plant in order to grow a new plant. - 18) tract verse from the
Holy Scripture, often from the P5alms. - 19) genteel (usu. ironical)
well-bred, polite, refined. - 25) mug drinking-cup, usu. cylindrical
and with a handle. - 29) Lizzi ['lizi]: short for Elizabeth. - 30) to
get the ring In agame common at parties the one who gets the ring is
supposed to marry 500n. - 31) Hallow ['ha:lou] Eve = Holy Eve(ning)
the evening before All Saints Day (November ISt), wbich is celebrated
with fun-making games. - 35) to propose [ou] s.o.'s health to suggest
that the company should drink bis hcalth.
81). 2) Bohemian see A 21, 30. - 4) Hear! hear! cry expressing
agreement. - 10) voluntary ['volenl:JriJ piece of music, olten. an im­
provisation. - uf) Queen of Diamonds playing-card with the mark of
diamonds (Karo-Dame). - 14) to flash to become brilliant or sparkling.
- paper here: paper money. - 17) IOU ['ai ou Ju:J
I owe you)
signed paper with these letters acknowledging that one owes the sum
of money stated. - 19) belle very attractive woman or girl; from Fr.
beau, belle beautiful. - 25) to write away to acknowledge as a debt by
filling in an IOU. - 26) trick the cards played in one round. - 31)
stupor ['stju:pe] mental or moral dullness, apathy. - 33) temple flat
part of the head between forehead and ear. - 34) shaft [n:J ray, beam.
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with the eyes covered with a cloth so that one cannot see. - 24) to
scujfle [A] to shuffle, to drag the feet on the ground. - 31) Miss
McCloud or McLeod: feminine pseudonym for William Sharp
(1855-19°5), poet of the Celtic Revival; see A 19. 16. - reellively
lrish or Scottish dance.
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42. 1) renllnlscence [rerm'rums] recollection, account (written or
spoken) of what s.o. remembers. - 9) to quaver [ei] to tremble. I Dreamt that I Dwelt a song from The Bohemian Girl (see A x3. 2X)
that was sung in Victorian drawing-rooms. When Joyce wrote
Dubliners it was already old-fashioned. - X2) vassal ['vaeSdI] person who held land under the feudal system. servant.
serj [9:] slave. person who was not allowed to leave bis master's land. - r6) ancestral [aen'sestrJI] inherited from forefathers. - 21) Michael William Balfe [baeU] (x 808-70) : lrish composer and singer. conductor of the Italian opera at Her Majesty's Theatre, London. Some of bis operas are still popular in England; see also A X3. 21. - 24) corkscrew ('ko:k­
skru:] tool for pulling corks out of botdes. 0<..)
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41. 5) row [au] noisy quarrel or argument. -
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JAMES JOYCE
James Augustine Aloysius Joyce, the eldest of fifteen children born to pious
Mary Jane Murray and the hot-tempered, jovial, improvident John Stanislaus
Joyce, was born in Dublin on February 2, 1882. He was educated entirely in
Jesuit schools-first as a boarding student at the fashionable Clongowes Wood
College and then, when the family fortunes declined, as a day student at
"
191
Belvedere College. In 1.902 he received his B. A. degree from University
College, Dublin, where he had been an intellectually eccentrie student, pur­
suing his own interests and committed to his own values. For example, he was
so attracted to the unconventional and international mind of Henrik Ibsen
that he learned Norwegian in order to read When We Dead Awaken in the
original and at the'age of 1.8 published an essay, "Ibsen's New Drama", in the
Review. Shortly after graduating from college, Joyce left Dublin
medicine and write in Paris-stopping en route in a futile attempt to
help of Yeats in London-, and was never to live there permanently
again. Summoned horne to his mother's deathbed in 1.903, he remained for
almost a year, teaching school, living with Oliver St. John Gogarty and other
wild bloods in the Martello Tower (the horne of Stephen Daedalus in Ulysses
and now the site of the Joyce Museum), and simultaneously working on
Dubliners, Stephen Hero (which he later tried to destroy and reworked into
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man), and his first volume of poems,
Chamber Music (which like his early prose seems to be conventional and well­
made, but which several crities have interpreted as "chamber pot music"). That
year was among the most significant of Joyce's life-and in the life of Dublin,
for Joyce has immortalized it in Ulysses, the greatest work of fiction in all
modem litC'rature. Multi-Ievelled, multi-imaged, multi-referenced, and multi­
structured, it is the ultimate in the stream-of-consciousness technique. It -in­
corporates the entire history of the English language and literature in its
variety of styles and genres, and paralleis the events of Homer's Odyssey in
dealing with one day in the lives of three Dubliners-the autobiographical
Stephen Daedalus, and J.eopold and Molly Bloom.
Finding Ireland a hopeless base for an independent literary life, he exiled
hirnself in the fall of 1.904, running off with Nora Barnacle, an earthy girl
from Galway. The rest of his life was marked by devotion to shaping a unique
literary style; cosmopolitan nomadism in moving from Paris to Trieste to
Zurich, dodging wars and creditors; polyglottism and privation while eking
out a living as a Berlitz language teacher; battles with publishers, censors, and
customs offidals who stupidly condemned his books as obscene; ten serious
operations on his eyes; and relationships with the leading writers of his day.
His last and most radical work is Finnegans Wake, written in a language that
Joyce invented by overlaying elements of a dozen languages onto English in
order to compress the maximum possible denotation and connotation into
every word. As Ulysses is based on Homer, this work is based on Vico, whose
cyclical view of the cosmos is expressed in many ways, most obviously in the
fact that the last sentence of the book is the beginning of the first sentence.
And as Ulysses was a "day" book, this is a "night" book compressing the
entire history of the human race into the dream of Humphrey Chimpden
Earwicker, his wife Anna Livia Plurabelle, their two sons Shem and Shaun,
and a daughter Issy. It is probable that no one will ever be able to fully
comprehend the entirety of Finnegans Wake, or to match Hs literary technique.
Joyce himself might have surpassed it, for he was contemplating a sequel,
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The Reawakening, but he died on January 1.3, 1941., in Zurich, where he had
escaped from World War II with his wife and three chi/dren.
As there is a vast international army of students, crities, and scholars
constantly at work on Joyce, it would be impertinent to present confidently
any capsule version of that great genius's literary creed, espedally since it
underwent significant changes during his lifetime. For Dubliners and other
early works, some clues as to Joyce's methods and goals may be derived from
his essay on Ibsen and from the discussions of aesthetics in A Portrait of the
Artist as Cl Young Man. "The subjects of Ibsen's play", Joyce wrote, "is, in one
way, so confined, and, in another way, so vast ... Ibsen presents his men and
women passing through different soul-crises. His analytic method is thus made
use of to t~e fullest extent, and into the comparatively short space of two
days the lHe of all his characters is compressed ... [he handles his subject]
with large insight, artistic restraint, and sympathy. He sees it steadily and
sees it whole, as from a great height, with perfect vision and an angelic
dispassionateness."
Probably the finest summary of Joyce' s early aestheties is that of Magalaner
and Kain:
(In Stephen Hero) Stephen Daedalus chances to hear matches of a trivial flirtatious
cQnversation on a Dublin street. Inexplicably, it makes a deep impression on hirn,
and he thinks of "collecting many such moments together in a book of epipha­
nies. By an epiphany he meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the
vulgarity of speech or of gesture or in a memorable phase of the mind itself."
To explain still further, Joyce must give Stephen's well-known analysis of the
qualities of beauty: first, to be beautiful a thing must have wholeness, that is,
it must be seen as separate from all other things. Second, it must have harmony,
or symmetrical balance of part with part within the Eramework of the thing.
Finally, and most important, it must have what he calls radiance. This radiance
or whatness or quidditas is apparent in a work oE art " when the relation of the
parts is exquisite, when the parts are adjusted to the special point [so that] we
recognize that it is that thing which it iso Its soul, Hs whatness, leaps to us Erom
the vestment of Hs appearance. The soul of the commonest objeet, the structure
of whidl is so adjusted,seems to us radiant.
achieves Hs epiphany." This
is a rather eomplicated way for Joyce to say that he would present beauty in sym­
bolie form. In essence, it may be put thus: radiance equals epiphany equals
He sees epiphany as a device of expression that, perfeet in Hs whole­
ness and harmony, will show forth in an instant of illumination a meaning and
greater than words in another eombination would carry.
The Man, the Work, the Reputation, London 1957, p. 70; paperback
edition pp. 81/82.)
Eveline
Eveline Hill, a ::J.9-year-old sales-girl in a Dublin department stores, is about to
dope with her lover Frank and leave her widowed father and the two young chil­
dren who have been left 10 her charge. The last evening before her seeret departure
to 8uenos Aires she reviews her Iife and weighs the pros and cons of her decisiol1.
193
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THE AUTHOR AND HIS WORK
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IN 1882 JAMES JOYCE WAS BORN in a suburb of Dublin. He was educated
at IrishJesuit colleges. then attended University College, Dublin. Shortly
after the turn of the century he left Ireland for France. In Paris he studied
medicine and thought of becoming a professional singer. Mter a year
he returned to Ireland where he married in 1904. He soon left his native
country again and settled in Trieste where he taught English at the
Berlitz Schoo!. When World War I broke out he moved to Zurich,
and in 1920 he settled in Paris. There most of his prose works were
written. In his middle and later years Joyce was partly supported by
gifts from generous admirers. His eyesight failed and for much of the
seventeen years he spent on his last novel, Finnegan's Wake (published
1939). he was almost blind. During World War II he Bed with his
family to Vichy, and, after the invasion of France, to Zurich, where he
died in 1941.
Joyce's ftrst book was a collection of lyric verse, Chamber Music (1907).
The futeen short stories of Dubliners (1914) were the ftrst indication
of his genius. The stories are made up of apparently insigniftcant episodes
that suggest spiritual or moral values. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young
Man (1916), written for the most part at Trieste, is a largely autobio­
graphical confession which took Joyce ten years to complete. By its
form this short novel heralded the revolutionary innovations for which
Joyce is famous.
His masterpiece, Ulysses, was published in Paris in 1922. The novel
describes a sin3le day in the lives of certain Dublin citizens. It makes
use of the narrative method that has since become known as the stream
of consciousness or interior monologue. Joyce framed the book on an
adaptation of Homer's Odyssey and put in it all his wide scholarship.
Ulysses is full of allusions, metaphors, puns, newly coined words, and
sentences that break all grammatical ruIes, so that it makes extremely
difftcult reading. Finnegan's Wake is even more difftcult to decipher. It
records the experiences 'lived' by a man during a night's sleep. Edmund
Wilson, a well-known American writer and critic, calls Joyce's last
novel a very great poem, one of the top works of literature of our time and a
more extraordinary production titan Ulysses. T. S. Eliot calls Joyce the
greatest master of the English language since Milton. There is no doubt
that James Joyce opened up artistic paths which have been followed by
rnany modem writers.
31
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Nora Barnacle und James Joyce
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»Ich habe in ihr das Geheimnis und die Schönheit
des I.ebens geliebt «
l\:OR,\ B,\R\i;\CLE l'ND J;\:\1ES .lOH
ZUllI
<1111
(;lück heißl sie \iura. die junge Frau auf der Nassau Stre<:! in Dublin, die
lO. Juni lQ04
dClll
DichtcrJamesJovce
l)t'gq~net.
Nora -
(LIS
ist ein Name.
(\el
ihn an ein Sllkk seines Idols Henrik Ibsen erinnert, den nordischen Dramatiker.
üher dessen ArbeitJoyce mit 18Jahren in einf'r angesehenen Londoner Zeitung
einf'n Artikel veröffentlicht har. In Irland kommt der Name nicht hüutig vor,
UJll
so mehr entzückt es den Dichter, daß jene Frau ihn trägt, die der Zufall ihm
schickt lind deren rotbraunes Haar im Sonnenlicht glänzt wie eine polierte Ka­
stanie.
Sie sieht einen überaus schlanken jungen Mann, kaum größer als sie selbst,
mit blauen, unsteten Augen. Er habe einen weißen Sombrero getragen und
einen langen Umhang, erzählt Nora ihrer Schwester. Seltsam streng sei er gewe­
sen. »Das Glück«, sagt Joyce, »verschafft mir, was ich brauche. Ich bin ein
Mensch, der vor sich hin stolpert; mein Fuß stößt gegen irgend etwas, ich bücke
mich, und es ist genau das, was ich wilL«
Daß es Nora Barnacle ist, die er will, weiß er schon bei der ersten Begegnung,
und sie will ihn auch. Dabei kann man nicht einmal sagen, daß es sich von seiner
23
JJ ~~----.-.-.~-.-.- ___ ::.... ~-~,:"c~,.,'~,..~ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Seite aus um Liebe auf den ersten Blick handelt, denn James Joyce ist stark kurz­
sichtig, und an diesem Tag ausgerechnet hat er seine Brille vergessen. Von Nora
sieht er nicht viel mehr als ihre Figur in groben Umrissen und ihre schwingen­
den Arme - »schlendernd« ist eines seiner Lieblingswörter, wenn er sie be­
schreibt. Er bemerkt ihren stolzen Gang, daß sie groß ist und man ihre Hüft­
bewegungen unter dem Rock erkennen kann.
Er spricht sie an. Sie antwortet ihm schnippisch - was ihm gefällt - und bleibt
stehen, so daß ein Gespräch möglich wird. Man verabredet sich, aber Nora
kommt nicht. Wahrscheinlich hat ihr das Hotel, in dem sie arbeitet, nicht frei ge­
geben.
Ich bin vielleicht blind, ich betrachtete lange Zeit einen KoPf mit rötlich-braunem
Haar und stellte dann fest, daß es der Ihre nicht war. Ich ging recht niedergeschla­
gen nach Hause. Ich würde gern ein neues Treffen vorschlagen, aber vielleicht paßt
es Ihnen nicht. Ich hoffe, Sie sind sofreundlich mir eines vorzuschlagen - falls Sie
mich nicht vergessen haben!
Der Tag ihres ersten Rendezvous ist vermutlich der 16. Juni. Joyce-Fans wissen
Bescheid: Bloomsday, der Tag, an dem Joyce ein paarJahre später seinen Helden
Leopold Bloom auf die Reise schickt: durch Dublin, durch Zeiten und Welten.
»Ulysses«, sein berühmtestes Buch, handelt davon.
Der erste Spaziergang des frischverliebten Paares - er ist 22, sie 20 Jahre alt­
führt an den Docks vorbei in den Hafen, in den Teil der Stadt, der abends men­
schenleer ist. Die Anziehung zwischen Nora undJim, wie sie ihn später nennt, ist
sofort sehr stark, und aus der Verlegenheit, wie in die Tat umzusetzen sei, wo­
nach es ihn drängt, hilft sie ihm souverän hinweg.
Zwar ist sie katholisch erzogen, doch Nora hat sich für alles, was ins erotische
Magnetfeld geh(}rt, eine Unbefangenheit und Offenheit bewahrt, die den Dich­
24
J]
.... Nora Barnacle und James Joyce
ter fasziniert und die er bei einer Frau, die keine Prostituierte ist, nimmermehr
erwartet hätte.
An diesem Abend muß sie um halb elf Uhr wieder im Hotel sein, die Zeit ist knapp. Also tut sie, was zu tun ihr richtig erscheint: Sie knöpft ihm die Hose auf, sie beweist ihm, wie zärt­
lich lind geschickt sie ist. Es sei Nora
gewesen, berichtet der solcherma­
ßen Beglückte, die ihn "zum Mann
gemacht« habe. Erst Jahre später
kommt ihm der furchtbare Verdacht,
daß sie ihre Geschicklichkeit irgend­
wann vorher schon an einem ande­
ren Objekt erprobt haben muß.
Im Sommer 1904 jedoch freut sich
Joyce der Gegebenheiten, wie sie
sind. Nur ihr festgeschnürtes Mieder
mag er nicht:
Bitte, laß den Brustpanzer zu H au­
se, ich umarme nicht gerne einen Brief
kasten . ..
Oder eine Woche später - sie se­
hen sich fast täglich und schreiben
sich ebenso oft:
... Vermöge der apostolischen Kräfte,
mir von Seiner Heiligkeit Papst Pius
25
dem Zehnten verliehen, gebe ich hiermit die Erlaubnis, ohne Untenöcke zu kommen,
,,"'"
um den Päpstlichen Segen zu empfangen, den ich Dir mit Freude erteilen werde ...
Wenn sie schreibt, dann meist in großer Eile wenige Zeilen ohne alle Satzzei­
chen. Immer ist es spät in der Nacht, ehe sie zum Schreiben kommt, immer ist
sie zum Umfallen müde, und die Buchstaben tanzen ihr vor den Augen. Um so
mehr irritiert den Empfänger eines Tages ihre Weitschweifigkeit:
"Mein Liebster, die Einsamkeit, die ich so tief empfand, seit wir uns gestern
abend trennten, schien sich wie durch einen Zauber zu verflüchtigen, aber,
ach, nur für kurze Zeit, und dann wurde sie schlimmer denn je ... Mir ist, als
sei ich immer und unter allen nur möglichen Umständen in Deiner Gesell­
schaft, spräche mit Dir, ginge mit Dir, träfe Dich plötzlich an verschiedenen
Orten, bis ich mich zu fragen beginne, ob mein Geist meinen Körper im Schlaf
verläßt, um Dich zu suchen, und was mehr ist, Dich zu finden, oder vielleicht
ist dies alles nur Phantasie. Gelegentlich versinke ich in Melancholie, die den
Tag über anhält und die zu vertreiben mir fast unmöglich ist. Es ist jetzt an der
Zeit, glaube ich, diesen Briefzu beenden ... ich schließe also in Liebe und mit
den besten Wünschen, glaube mir, ich bin immer die Deine, Deine Nora
Barnacle.«
Jim sagt es Nora auf den Kopf zu, daß sie diesen Brief auf geblümtem Papier
nicht allein formuliert, sondern einen sogenannten Briefsteller zur Hilfe ge­
nommen hat. Sie erklärt sich bereit, künftig wieder so zu schreiben, wie es ihr
entspricht:
Lieberfim, fch erhielt Deinen Brief den ich erwider-e vielen Dank ich Iwjje Du bist
nicht naß geworden falls du heute in der Stadt warst wir treffen uns also morgen
abend 8.15 hoffentlich ist es dann schön ich fühle mich seit gestern abend viel bes­
ser aberfühle mich heute ein bißehen einsam weil es 50 naß ist ich habe den ganzen
26
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Nora Barnacle und James Joyce
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Tag DE:inE:rJ Brirfgelesen da ich nichts andpres zu tun hatte ich las diE:sen lanwm
BriefwinlE:r und wieder..
vielleicht kannst Du mir helfen ihn zu vrrstrhen nicht
mehr im Augenblick von Drinrm Dich [ip,benden Mädchm NORA.
Am 8. Oktober desselben Jahres schließlich, man kennt sich gerade vier Mo­
nate, besteigt Nora Barnack mitJamesJoyce ein Passagierschiff, das die beiden
nach London bringt, zur ersten Station einer abenteuerlichen Odyssee. Sie hat
sich von niemandem verabschiedet, weder ihrer Familie noch ihrem Chef im
FI(Hel Bescheid gesagt. Sie brennt mit dem Dichter durch. Joyce hatte ihr kurz
vor der gemeinsamen Flucht noch einmal genau auseinandergesetzt, was von
ihm zu halten ist:
Mein Denken lehnt die sozialE: Ordnung und das Christentum ab - das Eltern­
haus, die anerkannten Tugenden, Klassenunterschiede und religiöse Doktrinen ...
Ich kann mich der Gesellschaft nicht zuordnm - außer als Vagabund. Ich führe
einen offenen Krieg durch alles, was ich schreibe, und sage und tue. Die gegenwär­
tigen Schwierigkeiten meines Lebens sind unglaublich, aber ich verachte sie ...
Natürlich hat sie sich so etwas wie eine Liebeserklärung erhofft. Einen Hauch
von dem wenigstens, was sie sich früher in der Schule zusammen mit ihren
Freundinnen ausgedacht hat. Unbedingt gehörten die Wörter »Liebe<, und
»Treue« in das Bekenntnis hinein, das die Mädchen von einem Mann, der es
ernst meint, erwarteten. Darin waren sich alle einig. Auch Formulierungen wie
» .•.
für immer bei dir bleiben ... " oder doch wenigstens» ... deine lieben Hände
für alle Zeit in meine nehmen ... " hatten sie sich mit 14 erträumt.
Nora trägt die Briefe, die Jim ihr kurz vor dem gemeinsamen Abschied von zu
Hause geschrieben hat, in ihrer Handtasche mit sich, und stellenweise weiß sie
sie auswendig. Von Liebe und Treue steht da nicht viel,jedenfalls nicht in dieser
Deutlichkeit. Dafür kommen die Wörter "Freude« und "Stolz« darin vor, und
27
J0 das, findet !'\ora, hat auch Gewicht. Bist du sicher, daß du dir keine falschen Vor­
stellungen von mir machst? Denke daran, daß ich dir aufjede Frage, die du mir
~~
stellst, offen und ehrlich antworten werde. Auch wenn du nichts zu fragen hast,
werde ich dich verstehen. Daß du dich dazu entscheiden kannst, in dieser Weise in
meinem Leben, das vom Hazard bestimmt ist, neben mir zu stehen, erfüllt mich
wirklich mit Stolz und Freude.
Selbstverständlich lehnt der junge Mann mit den abgewetzten Tennisschu­
hen, der sich als einziger um diese Zeit bereits für ein Genie hält, auch die Ehe
rundheraus ab. Finanzielle Sicherheiten bietet er ihr nicht, dafür entwickelt er
mit den Jahren eine innige Liebe zum Alkohol. Dennoch folgt ihm Nora stets
erhobenen Hauptes und selbstbewußt. Keineswegs macht ihre Liebe sie zur
Märtyrerin. Sie hat einen spöttischen Blick und eine scharfe Zunge, und wenn
sie ihm auch keine intellektuelle Gefährtin im akademischen Sinne ist, so hat sie
doch Witz und Verstand, und sie sagt ihm, wenn nötig, die Meinung und weiß
ihn mit ironischen Bemerkungen zu amüsieren. "Sie sagt einem die schlimmsten
Wahrheiten«, berichtet der irische Dichter Samuel Beckett über sie, »und man
kann darüber lachen.«
Was umgekehrt !'\ora an Jim so aufregend findet, ist schwerer zu ermitteln: Oie
Tatsache, daß er Schriftsteller ist, imponiert ihrjedenfalls nicht. Dafür liebt sie sei­
ne herrliche Tenorstimme, die wasserblauen Augen, seine konzentrierte Kauzig­
keit, seinen sehr speziellen Charme, seine gewölbte Stirn und seine Hilflosigkeit.
Nach Triest, nach Zürich,. nach Rom und Paris führt die gemeinsame Le­
bensreise. Für beide nicht leicht, aber für Nora, die sich immer wieder in Län­
der verschlagen sieht, deren Sprache sie nicht spricht, eine zusätzliche Prüfung.
Zeitweise hat sie eine solche Abneigung gegen italienisches Essen, daß sie kaum
etwas davon bei sich behalten kann. Immer im August, wenn die Hitze von Tag
28
.
~
Nora Barnacle und James Joyce
~-----"t<i..
zu Tag größer wird, träumt sie von der typischen irischen Kühle nach einem
Regenschauer Ilnrl - für sie der Inhegriff von Heimat
von einem Kessel mit
heißem Wasser, der leise schwankend am Haken über dem Feuer hängt.
Joyce ist viel beschäftigt. Er arbeitet als Sprachlehrer,
einmal auch in einer Bank, und sozusagen nebenher ent­
steht sein schriftstellerisches Werk, auf dessen Erfolg er
lange warten muß. Außerdem hat er Probleme mit den Au­
gen und mit dem Magen, und wenn sie wieder einmal in
eine neue Stadt gezogen sind oder die Wohnung wechseln
müssen - was oft geschieht -, sieht sich Nora als erstes die
Kneipen in der Umgebung an, damit sie weiß, wo sie ihren
Jim zu suchen hat.
Zwei Kinder kommen zur Welt - Lucia und Georgio -,
ständig ist das Geld knapp, und immer lebt Familie Joyce
über die Verhältnisse. Sparen können sie beide nicht. Was
da ist, wird ausgegeben. Man kleidet sich kostbar, die be­
sten Hüte, Stoffe, Pelze und Spitzen müssen her, man
speist exquisit, auch dann, wenn man nicht weiß, woher
man die Miete für den nächsten Monat nehmen soll. "Man
sagt, sie hätten kein Geld«, schreibt Ernest Hemingway, der
amerikanische Kollege, neidvoll, nachdem er Jim und
Nora wiederholt in einem sehr guten Pariser Restaurant
gesehen hat, »dabei findet man die ganze keltische Crew
jeden Abend bei Michaud's, das wir uns nur einmal in der
Woche leisten können ... «
Nora hält ihrem Jim in besseren wie in schlechten Zei­
29
JR •
~
ten die Treue, sie stabilisiert und inspiriert das empfindliche Genie. Schon als
sie noch in Irland waren, hatte er ihr geschrieben:
j!
Wenn ich bei Dir bin, lege ich mein Mißtrauen und meine Verachtung ab.
Sie erzählt ihm ihre Träume und Kindheitserinnerungen und schüttet immer
~'
~\
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~!j.~
wieder ihre Gedankenflut über ihn aus. Er wird nicht müde, ihr zuzuhören:
Schreibend webt er ihre Geschichten in seine hinein.
Ich habe in ihr das Bild der Schönheit der Welt geliebt, das Geheimnis und die
Schönheit des Lebens selbst.
Als joyce im januar 1941 in Zürich stirbt, sieht Nora ihn im Sarg liegen und
empfindet noch immer, was sie seit 37 jahren fühlt: »Oh,jim«, flüstert sie, »wie
schön du bist!«
30
.1J
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INFO-BUA 1--1
-
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Ever since its traumatic birth in 1920
(Government of Ireland Act) Northern
Ireland has been dominated by hatred
between the two opposmg groups: the
Catholics and the Protestants The
minority Catholic group is associated
with the political aim of uniting the six
counties of Northern Ireland with the
Republic of Ireland (Eire) The majority
Protestant group is in favour of Northern
Ireland remaining in the United King~
dom. The roots for this conflict must be
seen in the history, religion and econom~
jc and sodal development of Ireland.
1603­
1625
"The plantation of Ulster"'Af­
ter the defeat of the Irish
chieftains, England's King
James I gives land in the North
of Ireland to Scottish and
Engljsh Protestant settlers
1690
1801
1912
-
Battle of the Boyne: James,
formerly King James " and a
Catholic convert, attempts to
regain the English throne He
leads Irish soldjers against
King William of Orange, a
Protestant, but is defeated by
the English, The battle be­
comes the symbol of Prot­
estant supremacy in the
North of Ireland In the follow­
ing years laws are passed that
keep Catholics from public
office and deny them the right
to buy or inherit land,
Act of Union: Ireland becomes
part of the UK; Irish MPs sit
in the House of Commons in
London, Attempts to estab­
lish Ilmited self-government
(home rule) fall.
Ulster Volunteers: Northern
Protestants form the group to
Cf0 f>
/i.\1
1916
1921
1968
1969
011.\ .
107
Cil\
resist any plans to give Ireland
home rule.
Easter Rising in Dublin: Led by
Irish Republieans and erushed
British
it eauses
a strong sense of nationality
and strengthens the Irish
Republican movement
Partition of Ire/and. IRA (Irish
Republiean
fighting leads London to
agree to an Irish Free State in
the South. Northern Ireland is
given its own Parliament, in
whieh a Protestant govern­
ment is formed and Catholics
are exeluded from publie
office.
Civil Rigills lVlovement: Ulster
Catholies demand an end to
diserimination. Demands are
met with open resistance
from Protestants, whieh leads
to rioting and violent confllct
Stationing
of British
troops.
Both sides welcome troops at
first; later Catholics see them
as an additional threa!. The
RA starts a campalgn of
terror.
1971
1972
1974
1982
1985
Tougher laws. Preventive de­
tention and internment of
suspected I RA members.
Direct Rute: After 13 Catholics
are killed by British troops
during
a protest
march
("Bloody Sunday"), the British
government takes away the
Northern
Ireland
govern­
menfs power and rules over
the six counties from London.
Sunningda/e Agreement: Pro­
posal to let the Catholics take
part in politieal life is
down after a Protestant gen­
eral strike.
Northern /re/and Assembly: 78­
seat parliament with eonsul­
tative powers; it is boycotted
by the Catholics.
Ang/o-/rish Accord: Dublin
given a formal consultative
role as far as the interests of
the Catholies in Northern Ire­
land are eoneerned; In ex­
change Dublm aceepts that
Ireland's unity ean only be
achieved if the majority of Ul­
ster is in favour. Violent pro­
tests from the Protestants.
I
"800 years of Anglo-Irish history" - chronology
•
initiative
::!taries of
failed in
held re­
the talks
the talks
ate.
Itholiken
Vertreter
~en wer­
; die ka­
olitische
<anische
da sie
Gewalt­
~epublik
chst die
3igenem
litischen
!Iigiösen
)ie IRA
raus für
s an die
mtische
benfalls
für den
itannien
'4 dazu,
ontrolle
311t wur­
öst. Die
Is 3000
i{
1171
16th -17th
century
1649
I'
The British Side
The Irish Side Henrv 11, Anglo-Norman kmg
troops to Ire land. Becomes
lord of Ireland.
Many Irish noblemen (Gaelic chiefs and landlords) lose their land. Anglo-Norman earldoms and bar­ onages are set up. Tudor and Stuart kings and queens
of England conquer parts of Ire­
land and have them colonized by
settiers.
Irish noblemen and landlords are
supported oy foreign enemies of
England: esp. the Spanish fleet.
Many of them have to leave the country
Cromwell's "anti Catholic cru­
sades". Conquers the whole of Ire­
land and confiscates land for his
supporters and veterans.
Catholic Irish aristocracy supports
Charles 11 (Iater king of England),
Cromwell removes most of them.
I William of Orange defeats Catholic
1690
James 11 (Battle of the Boyne).
Confirms Protestant supremacy in
Ireland.
Native Catholics (Irish and English)
support James 11.
End of 17th
century
Most of the land of Ireland is
owned by Protestants of English
and Scottish origin.
18th century
(2nd half)
"Penal Code" discriminates against
Catholic (Irish) landlords and citizens.
1798
United Irishmen (coalition of Irish
nationalists, Catholic and Protes­
tant middle class Republicans
stage rebellion against England.
They are supported by French re­
volutionary forces.
1800
British Government under Conser­
vative Prime Minister Pitt ties Ire­
land firmly to the United Kingdom
of England, Scotland, Wales and­
now -Ireland ("Act of Union").
Protestant Irish "Orange Order" is
founded in support of the political
union with Great Britain.
1829
Westminster repeals Test Act:
Catholic Emancipation.
Irish Catholics demand Repeal of
the Act of Union
1886/92
British Prime Minister W. E.
Gladstone intro duces Home Rule
bills (autonomy) for Ireland
30, 1991
,
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1916
~L.
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The British Side
The Irish Side
British Government (Prime Minis­
ter Asquith) in trouble' World War
I, foreign enemies (Germany) help
Irish Nationalist movement.
Dublin 1916: Easter Rising. Organ­
ized by the Irish Republican Bro­
therhood (a militant group of the
Nationalist movement). The Rising
was immediately crushed by British
troops.
J
Overall majority of Nationalist
forces (Sinn Fein and Nationalist
Party) in general elections - ex­
cept for the province of Ulster.
1918
1919 21
British Government has to fight
militant Irish Nationalist and Re­
publican forces ("War of Independ­
ence" against British rule).
1920
Partition of Northern Ireland
(Ulster) and Southern Ireland
(Eire) by British Government
(Lloyd Georae).
Continued confrontat1on of Un­
ionist (Protestant) and Nationalist
(Catholic) groups in Northern Ire­
land.
~:.~~'
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POBLACHT
i
THE PROVISI
IRISH ".
The Easter Rising (1916)
TU THt PEOP
We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland, and to the
unfettered control of Irlsh destlnles, to be sovereign and indefeasible. The long
usurpation of that right by a foreign people and government has not extinguished the
right, nor can it ever be extinguished except by the destruction of the Irish people.
(The Easter ProcJamation, 1916)
The Rising was crushed after a week of fierce fighting and the leaders shot; but it
changed the mood of the nationalist population. They would no longer be satisfied
with limited Home Rule within the British Empire. They wanted an independent
Republic, they had no more falth in British parliaments and they were prepared to
support the use of force to get what they wanted. The stage was set forconfrontation.
(Farrell, p. 20)
lhe Plough and the Stars, the flag of the
lrish Citizen Army. Jim Larkin. the Labour
leader, wanted a special flag for the Ci­
tizen Army that wouJ d symbol ize the hard
facts of working Jite (the pJough) and so­
cialist hopes for the future (the stars).
lhe flag was first carried in a demonstra­
tion inApril1914.
.....
The Rising
On Easter Monday, April 24th, 1916, the
fierce nationalism of the lrish patriots
erupted in an armed uprising, known ever
since as the "Easter Rising".
The Rising was the work of a small
body of men, organized and led by a tiny
group. The forces at their command were
unbelievably small: the lrish CitizenArmy,
only a few hundred men, aB in Dublin;
"and the lrish Vol un teers. I n 191 6 the
Volunteersnumbered about 16,000 men,
the majority in the provinces. Only one
in five h'Jd a service rifle. Those in country
districts" had shotguns, but many had no
'5 weapons
at all. They had no machine­
guns and no artillery.
The Volunteers were not only a sm all
force but a divided one as weiL Their
Chief of Staff, Eoin MacNeill, opposed
wany anned insurrection. Unlike many Vol­
unteers, MacNeill was not a member of
the I.R.B., the body that really organized
the Rising. The plans were laid by the
Military Council of the I.R.B., the seven
men who signed the Proclama bon of
lndependence. They kept their plans from
MacNeill and, if he disapproved, they
were determined to "go it alone".
It is hard now to tell what their plans
10 were; all seven leaders were executed and
took their secrets with them to the grave.
Only three copies of the plan were made
and no original is known to exist. All we
can say is that the re bels planned to
>,seize a number of strong-points in Dublin,
around the city's centre and within the
ring of British garrisons. Outside Dublin
the task of the Volun teers was to cu t
communications, prevent British rein­
,e forcements, from moving into the capital
and keep a !ine of retreat open to the
West of Ireland.lt was a strictly defensive
plan. Possibly the leaders hoped that if
they could hold Dublin long enough, all
; Ireland would rise to their aid. lt is more
likely that they knew they would fail,
but believed that their courage, their
54
blood sacrifice, would be an exampie
that would one day set all Ireland ablaze.
Plans were made to enlist German aid,
but they a11 went wrong. Sir Roger Case­
ment went to recruit an hish Brigade
from prisoners 01' war in Germany, but
failed. Disappointed and disillusioned,
almost ready to caB off the Rising, Case­
ment retumed to Ireland by submarine.
On Good Friday he stepped ashore and
was arrested almost immediately. In
America, the I.R. B. arranged for a German
ooship, the A ud, to land 20,000 rifles and
ammunition in support of the Rising.
Owing to a muddle over dates, the Aud
found no one waiting to meet her. Dis­
covered by a British ship, the German
"captain was forced to scuttle his craft.
Worse was to follow. The plans for the
Rising could not be revealed to MacNeill;
he had to be tricked. A routine mobiliza­
tion was announced for Easter Sunday.
"ln reality this was the signal for the
Rising. MacNeill found out and was
furiolls, he countermanded the order at
once. When he heard of the Aud plan he
changed his mind; when it failed he chang­
ed his mind again. His final order, cancel­
ling mobitiza tion, was published in the
Dublin papers on Easter Sunday morning.
Pearse, the military leader of the Rising,
pretended to agree, but secretly told his
men that the Rising would start a day
late. on Easter Monday. So over the week­
end Volunteer leaders received aseries of
conflicting orders. Not all the orders
reached everybody an<! not al1 of them
e,arrived in the order in which they were
issued.
The result was a total confusion that
doomed the Rising from the start. Many
rank-and-file Volunteers did not know
"whorn to believe or what to do; many
stayed at home. In the provinces, only
2.000 of the expected 10,000 men turned
out. In Dublin, 5,000 were expected, but
by the end of Easter week the rebels there
\{J
bU SlI{Jreme Council and Ihe Mililary Council 0/ Ihe
/.R.B., ['earse was a key man in Ihe Rising. As a
link belween Ihese two bodies, he was perhaps the
natural choice as mililary Commander-in-Chie[.
An inspired leacher and a fine poet, Pearse was
Ihe "soul"' of Ihe Rising. He was executed on
Mav3rd,19Ifi.
TO/11 Clarke, the veleran (rish Republican
BrolherllOud leader. was one of Ihe mosl revered
men in Ihe Irish freedom movemenl. Despile his
age - he was 58 - he foughl in Ihe G. I) O. and was
exeGlled on Mav 3 rd, 191 fi.
Padraig Pea;se, As Direcl(}/" 0/ ()rganizalion
of Ihe Irish Volunlel'rs and a 111 1'111 ha 0/ hOlh Ihe
numbered no more than 1,600. The rebels
·deercd a tram, but insisted on buying
had not enough men to seize the most
tickets, fifty-seven tuppennies' There was
important positions in Dublin, such as
no drunkenness or looting. Thcir good
Dublin Castle or the Shelbourne Hotel,
examrle was not followed by civilians:
and they made the big mistake of choosing
scores 01' drunken men and women from
'oothc G.P.O. as headquarters instead of the
thc slums broke into jewellery and drapers'
shops, decking themselves out in rings
Bank of Ireland or Trinity College. The
and fine clothes; children stormed the
G.P.O., hemmed in by other buildings,
toy- and sweet-shops. Neither the looters
had no real military value- it was merely
nor their more prosperous fellow citizens
a good place from which to fly the flag
",of the new Republic. Although Trinity '35cared anything for the rebels' cause. On
Bank Holiday Monday, Du bliners returned
College was held only by a few soldiers
from a fine day at the seaside or the Irish
on leave, with some undergraduates and
Grand National to find roads blocked
members of the 0.T.e., the rebels left it
and railway lines shut, to hear shooting
divlIe, dllJ British reinforcernents were
". able to use its commanding position to '" in the streets. Rumours flew - the Ger­
mans had landed, the British fleet had
fire on large areas of the city.
been dcstroyed, there were a hundred
These and other mistakes, such as the
German submarineslll St Stephen's Green
failure to seize the Telephone Exchange,
can probably be put down to inexpe­
pond! Dubliners were confused and angry,
",rience. The Volunteers were part-time ", some actively hostile, pouring abuse on
soldiers who had never been in action.
men fighting for their Jives. The rebels
They found that a civil war is hard to
had no chance. The British brought in
fight; you have to fight in your own home
reinforcements, threw cordons round the
town, in front of friends, wives, sweet­
main lrish positions and drew the net
,,,hearts. This needs courage of a peculiar ".tight. Only as the end came did'Dublin's
kind. Courage the Volunteers had; and
hostility begin to change to sympathy;
decency too. They were pa thetically
altrough they did not know it, the rebels
haci begun to win the fight for Irish free­
anxious to do the right thing - one
dom.
(From: Jackdaw No 61)
group hurrying to their posts comman­
'JU
ft,·· The rising itself lasted a week. for two-and-a-half years after [rish parliament in Dublin in
The whole tragic farce ... was," the war was over. By contrast, defiance of \Vestminster, and
nevertheless enough to re-em- the loyal Protestants in the the outbreak oE a War of Inde­
phasise luridly the dangers of a North looked even more pre­
pendenee against British rule in
disloyal Ireland. cious than before; and the Ireland (1919-1921).
The effeet was two-Cold. British Government grew pre-" In the North the violent con­
Cilught at a nervous stage of the "pared to see Ireland divided frontation between Unionist and
war against Germany, the rather thall lose them alto­
Nationalist which had been
Asquith Government feit oblig- gether.
looming for so long was finally
cd to have 15 of the Dublin in­
(1. Whale, loc. eil.) to erupt. The outcome would be
"partial independence for the
surgents shot. They were picked
out unsystematically over severThe years from 1918 to 1923 bulk of the country in the new
al days; and their martyrdom wer.: to be dramatie ones Irish Free State, and partition
turned the [RB into an army, a JII throughout Ireland. They were leaving the six north-eastern
"national movement capable of to sec the ousting of the old counties under British rule in
sustaining a fight against the Homc Rule Party (United Irish so the United Kingdol1] - but with
British forces of order (chiefly Lcaguc = UIL) by Sinn Fein, local sclf-government.
the irregular Black-and-Tans) the establishment of an illegal
(Farrell, p. 20-21)
j
ij
I
n
'i
Ir
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li
j;
t
I'
Notes on the text:
1
.:
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lY
I t<
I
GL
I
Ar i
I~1r
I
\j
I. R. B.: Irish Republican Brotherhood
a revolu·
tionary secret society dedicated to establishing
an Irish Republic by force. It was first known as
The Fenians and organised an unsuccessful ris­
ing in 1867 and a bombing campaign in England.
It was reorganised as the IRB in 1873 and even­
tually infiltrated the Sinn Fein party and the Irish
Volunteers. It was the IRB which planned the
1916 Rising and reorganlsed the Volunteers into
the IRA in 1918--19.
to set Ireland ablaze: to set on lire e.g. by bombs
to enlist German aid: to win German support
to scuttle his craft: to sink o.'s own ship
to doom The Rising trom the start: condemn to
failure
rank-and-tile Volunteers: ordinary soldiers
G. P. 0.: General Post Office (in Dublin)
O. T. C.: Officers' Training Corps
56
pathetically anxious: anxious in a way that excites
pity
looting: take away goods unlawfully
luridly: in a shocking way, violently
Black·and-Tans: Special forces recruited in Eng­
land on a semi·mercenary basis to reinforce the
Royal Insh Constabulary during the War of Inde­
pendence. The Black and Tans were recruited
largely from unemployed ex-service men and
wore khaki unlforms with black police caps and
belts-hence the name. They were brutal and un­
disciplined. They served in Ireland from 1920 to
1922 and at the peak period there were 7,000
Black and Tans in the country.
10 oust: to force sb. out. . and take over thair
position
10 100m: to appear in vague, threatening shape
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Zur Definition der Kurzgeschichte
i
I
'\
Die vorliegenden Forschungen sind ein Versuch, einen überblick
über die Entwicklung der Kurzgeschichte zu geben anhand von
Fragen der Form, Sprache und Struktur. Das Ziel der Arbeit ist es,
Analysen und Interpretationen vorzulegen, ohne jedoch Anspruch
auf Vollständigkeit zu machen oder es unternehmen zu wollen, eine
neue Theorie der Kurzgeschichte aufzustellen. Dazu möchten die
Untersuchungen im Rahmen einer beschränkten Auswahl von Bei­
spielen Möglichkeiten und Grenzen dieser umstrittenen Prosakurz­
form abstecken und Wege zu einem grundlegenden Forschungs­
bericht über den heute wohl unaufgeklärtesten »Typus« literarischen
Ausdrucks weisen. Die Ergebnisse können, da wenig grundlegende
Forschungen vorliegen, kaum mehr als Problematik und Ansatz­
punkte aufzeigen und versuchen, zu einer Klärung einiger Struktur­
prinzipien der kurzgeschichtlichen Form vorzustoßen.
Seit mehr als einem Jahrhundert bemühen sich Literaturgeschichte
und Dichtungswissenschaft um Standortbestimmung und Definition
der Novelle, einer literarischen Ausdrucksform, die viel älter ist als
die Kurzgeschichte, und bis zum heutigen Tag ist man sich lediglich
darin einig, daß es bis jetzt keine allgemeingültigen formästhetischen
Kriterien für die »Gattung« der Novelle gibt. Wie können wir dann
erwarten, daß es für die Kurzgeschichte, die viel neueren Datums ist,
eine klar umrissene Definition geben sollte? §..eit~~beg!gn lagen die
y ~rsuche zu einerF.or.IE.be~immuE~r Kurzgeschichte weit aus­
e~n.anderundÜb~~~!~l1_zJ=~r.:_ sich seit je ~~_~~!!jenigen der Novelle,
~er Erzä~llunJL?der der Anekdote.
Die Kurzgeschichte entzieht sich nicht nur jeder festen Definition,
sondern sogar den Grundbegriffen Emil Staigers, der mit »episch«,
»dramatisch«, »lyrisch«l zeitlose Stilqualitäten der einzelnen Werke
im Gegensatz zu den von Dichtungsgruppen bezeichnet. In schillern­
der Art weist die Kurzgeschichte oft zwei oder mehr Äußerungs­
9
,""
möglichkeiten zugleich auf, die sich aneinanderreihen,
durchdringen oder rhapsodisch auf- und abklingen. Auch der Begriff
des »Typus«, wie ihn Eberhard Lämmert' aufzeigt, oder die Ein­
teilung nach Geschehen, Raum und Figur, die Wolfgang Kaisers als
Strukturelemente aller Epik bezeichnet, können bei der Erfassung
der chamäleonartiien Form der Kurzgeschichte nur Hinweise geben,
da ;r~' sich weitgehend auf Roman und Novelle beziehen, die trotz
aller Verschiedenheit doch mit einheitliche ren Kriterien zu erfassen
sind.
Historisch gesehen ist die Kurzgeschichte eine internationale Form,
in der Einflüsse der westlichen und östlichen Kultursphäre wirksam
wurden und sich überschnitten. Wenn wir vom Altertum, dem
Mittelalter und der Zeit bis ins frühe 19. Jahrhundert absehen, wo
heute noch Strukturanalysen und formästhetische Arbeiten über die
Prosakurzform fehlen, werden wir finden, daß sich die Definitionen,
was unter einer Kurzgeschichte zu verstehen sei, wie wir später
sehen werden, meist auf äußere Merkmale beschränken. Allgemein
wird betont, d~~ die Kurzgeschichte amerikanischer HerkunftSei
man sowohl den übersetzten Namen (vom englischen »short
wie auch die Form von Amerika übernommen habe. Meist
wird dänn a1.lf- Poe-;;'erwiesen, auf Herningway, vielleicht auch auf
Faulkner, die als Vorlage für die europäischen Schriftsteller
haben sollen und deren Form als Muster zur Nachahmung in der
ganzen Welt hingestellt wird. Nicht nur Ursprung und Geschichte
werden damit summarisch und oberflächlich
ab­
getan, sondern zugleich Eigenheiten der kurzgeschichtlichen Form
und Struktur mißachtet.
In Amerika werden bis heute die verschiedenen Formen des
sehen Ausdrucks lediglich nach ihrer Länge eingeteilt: Als »short
story« gilt eine Prosadichtung von ungefähr 2000 bis 30000 Wörtern,
eine »short short story« hat weniger als 2000 und eine )movelette«
30000 bis 50000 Wörter. Wenn diese sich rein auf äußere Merkmale
stützende Kategorisierung das europäische Bild auch bis zu einem
gewissen Grad zu beeinflussen versucht, hat man sich doch hier
bemüht, dieses »Stiefkind der Literaturwissenschaft«,' wie Klaus
Doderer es nennt, näher zu beschreiben und zu bestimmen. Während
in der neuen Welt alles.L~~~~r vorgeschriebenen Länge entspricht,
~nter »shor~~!~« eingereiht wird, hat sich doch die Kurzgeschichte
10 DeutschlaI.1~ !lJs eine literarische Form mit spezifischen Eigenatten
~~ll:u~g(!l?!!get. Bibliothekskataloge in Amerika enthalten eine große
wollen, wie
Anzahl von Büchern, die dem eifrigen Leser
~
10
man Kurzgeschichten schreibt, und die meisten
versitäten haben L.ehr:giing~ ~:::=:::.:::::::.~.:~._:~~':-' .. :-~~~::"::':~~:!:..'...!~:'::='~'.~~~":'1
der beliebten Kurzform
unterrichtet werden.
'--"'-'­
jeder einigermaßen Begabte das
lernen kann, das Verfassen von »).[',.Ul:z~~eSC!lJ
bares Handwerk ist, gilt doch in
Roman und Novelle als Ausdruck schriftstellerischen oder künst­
daß die
._-~--_.
uns vers(:hledene
ung und Unterhaltung auftauchen U!1d eleich Einta2"sflie!len wieder
verschwinden.
Zur Anerkennung der
als eigenständiger Aus­
drucksform haben neben vielen kürzeren Arbeiten \.md Artikeln vor
allem die Dissertation von Hans A.
--~~-':~'-7~~--~--~--;'-~
Klaus Doderer über die ~:::'~~~~::.'..'-':~~.2::::~~~~~::!,':~~
aber heute
unterworfen ist wie
zum Beispiel der Roman, geht aus dem Vergleich einiger Punkte aus
den Arbeiten Doderers mit
aus den Artikeln von
Bender und Höllerer hervor.
dieser Gattung urtümlich kurz
zurechtgestli"tztZ<,önennt, ·_,.......-.---rr·_··;;·.,~--_·_··-;_·--;c;---;-.-;---"o,_·· &1:5 wichtigst~ Kennzeichen. Während Sender sich nicht um die
HöHerer fest: »Die Kurzgeschichte ist ein
die die traditionellen
Prosagattungen nur am Rande neu aufnehmen konnten. die sich
ihnen aber in der neuesten Zeit mehr und mehr
aus setzt er die
von diesem
auch er beachtet
gegen clie andern
Länge nicht.
Doderer schreibt weiter: »Meistens beginnt eine Kurzgeschichte
ogr:!.e Eil1l~!t~.«u An anderer
s'p~i~ht-~i;ber von dem Zi~lereignis, das bei der
feststehe auf der Naht zwischen
Einleitung und Schluß im
zu demjenigen der Novelle,
das variabel sei. Bender sagt dazu: »Nunmehr scheint es weder
Anfang noch
Ende zu geben«,l3 und obschon auch
Höllerer in Punkt sieben seiner Grundbedingungen für die Kurz­
11
.
geschichte von »Unabgeschlossenheit am Anfang« spricht, gibt er
doch als fünfte Grundbedingung an: »Die Handlung baut sich oft
auf einzelne, unverwechselbar festgehaltene, atmosphärisch genau
bezeichnete Abschnitte auf, auf Kabinen des Erzählens, die in sich
zusammenhalten, die sich gegenseitig stützen oder sich Widerpart
geb'en.«" Wir können daher füglich annehmen, daß eine der atmo­
sphärischen Kabinen funktions mäßig die Rolle einer Einleitung an­
nimmt und die andem vorbereitet, wie zum Beispiel in Gerd Gaisers
Mittagsgesicht,16 und daß es daher ~owohl Kurzgeschichten mit wie
?hne Einleituna gibt. Es läßt sich im übrigen fragen, ob dieses Kenn­
zeichen heute noch seine Gültigkeit hat und ob es überhaupt ein
eindeutig bestimmendes Kriterium für die Kurzgeschichte ist; denn
• Katz und Maus,'· von Grass selbst als Eine NoveLle bezeichnet, beginnt:
t
»... und einmal, als Mahlke schon schwimmen konnte«, und in
Uwe Johnsons MutmaßU,11gen über Jakob" heißt der erste Satz: »Aber
Jakob ist immer quer über die Geleise gegangen.« Diese Roman­
und Novellenanfänge sind ebenso offen wie diejenigen von Kurz­
geschichten.
Im weiteren nennen sowohl Doderer'8 wie Piontek 19 den Verlauf
der »Kurzgeschichte« linear; Höllerer~· nennt das Ereignis der
»Novelle« linear; Manfred Schunicht21 spricht in bezug auf die
Novelle von einer geradlinigen Verfolgung der Ereignisse bis zur
letzten Konsequenz, und Hans Bender sagt, sowohl Novelle wie
Kurzgeschichte könnten einen linearen Verlauf aufweisen." Auch
dieses Kennzeichen läßt sich daher wohl kaum als eigentlich kurz­
geschichtliches Kriterium verwenden.
.
.~~rneine Übereinstimmung herrscht darüber, daß die ~ur.~­
geschichte in der Regel einen offenen Schluß hat, wobei die Formu­
1!~~f1g·l!fefl<ier~~.om Fehlen eines »endgültigen Endes«·a wohl all~n
andern vorzuziehen ist. Die Feststellungen dagegen, daß es sich bei der
K;;:;:zgeschichte um den »g~nbruch eines schicksalhaften Ereignisses
iE. die Folgerichtig.~.~~t des Geschehens«, oder »daß bei der echten
Kurzgeschichte der ljöhepunkt, der Wendepunkt und der Schluß
,zusammenfallen«," lassen sich heute kaum mehr aufrechterhalten,
da sie auch auf ander'e-Form~;;-~~h7iftstellerischer Aussagen ange­
wendet werden können, und da es viele zeitgenössische echte Kurz­
geschichten gibt, auf die sich weder das eine noch das andere an­
wenden läßt, ja Piontek sagt geradezu, daß das Fehlen einer Pointe
und eines übergewichtigen Schlusses ein Erfordernis für die Kurz­
geschichte sei.'·
Definitionen in Handbüchern, Nachschl~gewerken und Lexika,
d
12
die sich oft widersprechen, tragen weiter zur Unklarheit und zur
Verwirrung des Begriffes Kurzgeschichte bei, da sie meist entweder
nicht eindeutig, weil viel zu breit und unbestimmt, oder viel zu eng
und doktrinär sind. Eine Distanzierung von diesen herkömmlichen,
bekannten Definitionen ist daher unumgänglich, weil sie weder das
eigentliche Wesen der modernen Kurzgeschichte bestimmen noch
ihm überhaupt nahekommen,
Was macht denn das Wesen der Kurzgeschichte aus? Die zwei
Artikel von Hans Bender und Walter Hö'llerer sind unser;;-&acl~~
~s. a!p~~te~C:E....~~~~t~~.9.jD,_d_er_.~·kh.!.~;g nicht ein~llun::fäs­
. ~enden Definition, die bei einer solch schillernden facettenartigen
Form literarischen Ausdrucks kaum möglich ist, sondern einer
gültigen Beschreibung und strukturellen Bestimmung; aber auch ihre
Untersuchungen genügen nicht völlig, nm den Standort der neuesten
Kurzformen auszumessen.
Verschiedentlich hat man versucht, das weite Gebiet der Kurz­
geschichte zu unterteilen, um so eher zu einer Erfassung der sich
uns immer wieder entziehenden Form zn
»Short story«
und »short short story« beziehen sich dabei auf die Länge der Ge­
schichte und Handlungs- und Haltungstyp (Doderer) auf das Ver­
hältnis des Menschen zum Ereignis, Beide können nicht voll befrie­
digen. fIöllerer unterscheidet drei fuen der Kurzgeschi~~~.!_~~e
~l:lgef.1?lic.~s~llr:z;gescll~c.~te:2.. ,~i~ . . ~l:,abeske!:~urzgeschichte un.<l,~d!.e
-qberdrehungs- und überblendungskurzge:.~E.hichte. Er ist sich be­
wußt, daß dies nur drei von vielen Möglichkeiten sind und daß jede
Einteilung oder Klassifizierung eine übersimplifizierung eines viel
komplexeren und komplizierteren Problems ist. Viele Kurzgeschich­
ten lassen sich aber in diese drei Kategorien einspannen, und sie
haben sich bei Analysen als wirksames H.ilfsmittel erwiesen, zusam­
men mit andern Versuchen, dem \'Vesen dieser Form beizukommen.
Adolfo J enni rückt in seinem Vorwort zu Cose di Questo M ondo' 6
und in dem Aufsatz Note mlLe Sitllazion; am Schluß des Buches dem
Problem so zu Leibe, daß er den »vicende« eine neue Art von Prosa­
kurzformen entgegenstellt, die er »situazioni« nennt: »Sarebbe tempo
di assumere piena coscienza delle situazioni come realta. cU vita e
come genere letterario,«27 (Es wäre nach gerade Zeit, daß man den
»Situationen« Anerkennung zollen sollte, nicht nur als literarische
Wirklichkeit, sondern als literarische Gattung.) Er versucht dann
die neue Form (oder »genere«, Gattung) gegenüber andern Formen
abzuheben, indem er sagt, daß eine »Situation« für ihn die Mitte
halte. zwischen einer Beschreibung oder Betrachtung und einer Er­
13
n.
~
,
zählung. Die »vicenda« unterscheidet sich von der »situazione« wie
ein sprudelnder Quellfluß von einem langsam fließenden, vielleicht
sogar majestätischen Strom. »Vicende« sind linear, »situazioni« flä­
chenhaft; in der »vicenda« herrscht die Zeit vor, in der »situazione«
der Raum; eine »situazione« gleicht einem Netz aus vielen eng ver­
, knoteten Fäden.
In Amerika umschließt der Begriff »short story« eine Vielzahl von
Formen. Rein strukturelle Kriterien können daher kaum angewendet
werden. Sowohl Kenneth Rexroth·· in seinem Artikel über Mark
Twain als auch Norman Podhoretz in der Essaysammlung Doings
and Undoings·· berühren Formfragen nur am Rande oder gar nicht,
und das Verhältnis zum Leser und zur Wirklichkeit oder die Zeich­
nung der Charaktere und der Weltanschauung spielen die Hauptrolle
in ihren theoretischen Auseinandersetzungen. So hebt zum Beispiel
Podhoretz hervor, daß Bernard Malamud in The Loan seine Charak­
tere in ihrem äußeren Wesen so herrlich zeichne, daß man nie be­
zweifeln könne, daß es sich um aus Ostpreußen immigrierte Juden
handle, und doch seien sie allein aus einer Idee im Geiste des Autors
entstanden und nicht der Natur nachgezeichnet. Er preist weiter
Malamuds einzigartige Fähigkeit zur einfachen Formulierung grund­
legender Erfahrungen und Gefühle, die er einer gewissen Blindheit
der Wirklichkeit gegenüber zuschreibt. Fragen des Baus und der
inneren Struktur scheinen ihn ebensowenig zu berühren wie zum
Beispiel andere Autoren, die sich in Einleitungen zu Anthologien
gewöhnlich auf Poe, Mark Twain, Hemingway oder Henry James
beziehen und sich vor allem auf des letzteren Ablehnung von Ab­
grenzungen und Klassifizierungen auf dem Gebiete des Romans
berufen. Viel eingehender behandeln Adrian H. J affe und Virgil Scott
die Theorie der Kurzgeschichte in der Sammlung Studies in the Short
St01)I,3. Das Buch ist als Einführung in die Interpretation der Prosa­
kurzform gedacht. Aber auch da fehlt eine Untersuchung über
Struktur- und Formfragen. Auf eine Standortbestimmung wird von
vornherein verzichtet. Probleme der Handlungsführung, Charakte­
risierung und gefühlsmäßiger Effekt werden eingehend behandelt.
In den zwischen den einzelnen Gruppen eingestreuten theoretischen
Aufsätzen von verschiedener Länge wird mehr und mehr auf das,
was die Verfasser »theme« nennen, Gewicht gelegt. Nach ihrer Defi­
nition setzt sich »the theme« aus den Charakteren, ihrem Handeln,
dem Ergebnis ihres Handelns und aus dem Anstoß dazu Zusammen.
Die Betonung, daß im Zentrum jeder »short story« ein »incident«
(Geschehnis) stehen müsse, kommt der Voraussetzung Goethes für
L­
~I
die Novelle, der »eine sich ereignete unerhörte Begebenheit«8l zu­
grundeliegen muß, sehr nahe. Auch die Forderung, daß die Charak­
tere klar und plastisch gezeichnet, die Handlungen durchgehend
und motiviert und die Zusammenhänge einleuchtend sein müssen,
trifft kaum auf das, was wir heute Kurzgeschichte nennen, zu. Wenn
Jaffe und Scott von der Kurzgeschichte schreiben: »The author
contrives lives, contrives situations, creates in fiction what did not
really happen but what could as weIl have happened«" (Der Schrift­
steller erfindet Leben, erfindet Situationen, schafft im Erzählten das,
was nicht wirklich geschah, was aber ebensogut hätte geschehen
können), so sagen sie damit, was Manfred Schunicht für die Novelle
so formuliert: »... daß in der Novelle keine Ereignisse eintreten, die
der Welterfahrung des Lesers als schlechthin unmöglich oder un­
glaubwürdig erscheinen.«"
Es ließen sich leicht weitere Beispiele der Übereinstimmung in den
zwei Essays aufzeiget;.. D~1E}!..~EweisE_s}~h, daß die »short story«, w!e
sie J affe und Scott verstehen, in vieler Beziehung der deutschen
r§_i~!l~j~t~~r1~ht:._~.i::.._i;Jg-F;~i~~-~ach Form, Stil und Strukt~~
~~ __e.i.~~_~g__.r<;~:~.&~~.<:9~?~~_n_~ __-t.':!_0_".el~~__ ,:'oneinander abz~e_r:.~e~
V~!rn.i2K~QI-.hi(;r_ii.b_e.~~~P!_~~.i:ic~~~cJ~!~.&!_:verden, zeigt abschlie~'!.~
ein Stück aus dem letzten
Abschnitt-..des
amerikanischen Aufsatzes:
- ...
,................- .".
""
"
"
.~. •.. no story has really been understood until it has been read as a charac­
ter study, as an emotional revelation, as a logically related series of incidents,
and as a worle of art which has somerhing to say about human life in
general." ( ... keine Geschichte wird wirklich verstanden, wenn sie nicht
als eine Charakterstudie, als eine gefühlsmäßige Offenbarung, als eine
logisch verbundene Kette von Ereignissen gelesen wird und als ein Kunst­
werk, das etwas auszusagen hat über das menschliche Leben im allge­
meinen.)
Wie weit Ortsbestimmungen von »short story« und »Kurz­
geschichte« voneinander abweichen, ersehen wir aus dem Vergleich
dieser Feststellung mit einem Abschnitt aus Walter Jens' Deutscber
Literatur der Gegemvart, der einer ähnlichen Sammlung deutscher
Kurzgeschichten beigegeben ist:
Nicht der Zyklus, sondern die Parabel, nicht die Ausführung, sondern der
Verweis, nicht der pedantisch-psychologisch, expressis verbis geschilderte
Vorgang, sondern Modell-Analyse und mathematische Zeichnung des
»Falls«, Exempel, lyrisch-didaktische Setzung markieren artistisch adäquat
unsere Situation."
Um angesichts all dieser ehrlichen, anregenden, aber sich zu oft
widersprechenden Versuche einer Bestimmung der Kurzgeschichte
zu einer wissenschaftlich annehmbaren Lösung zu kommen ist es
14
15
erforderlich, weiter zurückzugehen und sich mit der Frage des epi­
schen Erzählens auseinanderzusetzen, die uns klarere Aufschlüsse
Zum Verständnis der Kurzgeschichte als epischer Kurzform ver­
mitteln kann.
Wenn wir mit Walter Pabst 86 übereinstimmen, daß es keine Novelle,
son~ur Novellen gibt, müsseI?:~g.!1uch annehmen, daß es keII1~
Kurzgeschichte, sondern nur Kurzgeschichten B:ibS_~~ sich alle::­
di_Qg~U~~ch_~.~!.!~!.~.~!:"<:)~IE. und e!~~~_t~~.C9"e.r:__Struk~~~e­
s~im~__lassen, ohne aber 9E.<:!._.9attung zuzugehören oder si~h
u~_~~ Gattungsbegriff einreihen zu lassen. Schon B~nedet~
Croce sagt, daß jede Definition der Gattung ein grundsätzlicher Irr­
-;sei, weil jedes wahre Kunstwerk nicht nur eine festgelegte Gat­
tung verletze, sondern weil es neue Erweiterungen der Gattung
bedinge."' Die vollständige Ablehnung des Gattungsbegriffes, wie
wir ihn in Lämmerts Bau ormen des Er' ählens finden, aber auch die
V~r~einung seines Typusbegriffes soll als Grundlage einer dichtu~s­
wissenschaftlichen Beschreibung verschiedener Kurzgeschichten
näch einheitTIchen"--Gnmdsätzen dienen, die der schillernden For~
der KurzgescQchte~eItliesser--ent-sjJriclit als die starre Normisre~
rü.ng>.her~i~:-mä!1=]~~h ständig Zum Hilfsmittel der Mischr(JrJJ1e~
greif<;!1_..!!!~
Die in dem Aufsatz von Manfred Schunicht ausgearbeiteten Kri­
terien der Funktion des Erzählers, der Situation des Lesers und der
Struktur der novellistischen beziehungsweise kurzgeschichtlichen
Wirklichkeit scheinen eine fruchtbare Ausgangsposition vor allem
Zur Abgrenzung zwischen Novelle und Kurzgeschichte zu schaffen.
Eng verbunden mit Fragen nach der Funktion des Erzählers und der
Situation des Lesers sind daher Fragen nach der Erzählzeit und der
erzählten Zeit, nach Abgrenzung zwischen Objektivität und Subjek­
tivität und nach Art der direkten oder indirekten Darstellung des
Erlebnisgehaltes. Die eigene Struktur der poetischen, hier kurz­
geschichtlichen Wirklichkeit, wiedergegeben in der spezifischen
Eigenart kurzgeschichtlichen Erzählens, weist Beziehungen der Teile
untereinander und zum allgemeinen Weltbild auf und schlägt sich
nieder in den artistischen Ausformungen, in Wortwahl, Satzkonstruk­
tion, Stilisierung und zielbewußt gerichteter Gestaltung.
Abgrenzung gegenüber der Novelle und der Erzählung
Verschiedene Theoretiker leiten den Ursprung der Kurzgeschichte
aus der Anekdote ab, was sicher zum Teil seine Berechtigung hat.
Die Abg;e~-;ung gegenüber dieser Prosakurzform scheint heute
kaum mehr Schwierigkeiten zu bieten. ~i~ ~.t_l!~?~l!E9... ~~itli.<:0_e.
Bestimmtheit, die plastische Charakterisierung und der Schluß mit
eir;er Pointe-ader-einem WitzV70rt'ünterscheidet sie kl~~-vC;n' de;
&i.g:Eeschlchte."Sch-;;;ieiIger ist-da'gege~" die Abgrenzung geg~;Üb'~r
der N2velle und der Erzählung zu ermitteln, da bis heute die drei
Bezeichnungen nicht nur von der Literaturwissenschaft und Litera·
turkritik, sondern auch von den Verfassern selbst unklar, verschwom­
men, ja oft synonymiscp verwendet werden.
Während die Novelle eine lineare Handlung aufweist und auf
eine~HÖhep~;;'kt z~konst-;:-üiert Ts"t,' stelk di~ I{~~gesc?i~~jneist
ein Stück herausgerissenes Leben dar und teilt mit der ))situazione«
die flächige, statt in einer Richtung laufend~~.St~-u:k!.0~.·~ie·9~i~bifte
Verflechtung, statt der .a_ll.fst_eige_r:"~~~"~d scharf abfallenden K1J..D:-e
9~s Ge?<::l1ehens. Die Kurzgeschichte setzt sich oft über die logische
oder chronologische Verkettung und Verknüpfung der Geschehnisse
hinweg, die das Grundgefüge der Novelle ausmachen. Epischer
Tiefgang, Anfang und Ende, das heißt Einleitung und Lösung des
Knotens, falls es überhaupt einen solchen gibt, beschäftigen den
Kurzgeschichtenautor weniger als die menschlichen Verhältnisse,
das Ausmessen politischer oder soziologischer Zustände und die
Aussage seiner Gestalten. I?ie d~ch~~..'.~~us_a.l~n~~gisch aufg~ball~~_
Form der Novelle hebt sich ~~tltlich ab von AeE-'2fUEE!::p.ghafteI).,
oft arabeskenhaft erweiterten oder gerafften und aussparenq~n_Ge~
st~!!.17.~g ..9.~E ~~:~~eschichte. Su~:z:ess.ives, .l1ach_'<?Jlj ekti vi~~!_~~reben­
d~.s. Er~ähl~n in .der :tJ~v_elle _~:e.i~h.t Zustands_~ericht~I1L.~~..9_z.i~tivem
Darstellen und fragmenta~ischen, lose verbl1fidel1~l_~ __~~~~~}l'.h.~sen.
Erzähler und Erzähltes lassen sich nicht mehr so klar trennen wie
etwa in der Rahmenerzählung des 19. Jahrhunderts. Die Kurzge­
schichte ist Waffe in der Hand des Schriftstellers, der sein Anliegen
vertritt und sich für seine Gestalten, die im Gegensatz zur Novelle
kaum je der bürgerlichen Welt angehören, einsetzt. S.eine ..R~rtei­
nahme gehört Außenseitern und Existenzen, die am Rande der
menschllch~n G-eseilsc~~~T~~~~i~d~f~T~~1 ~~!I~-~~~!2, n t~~L~4~k~
tep ul1d _AE:~~?_!o.l3.~nen. Während das Verhältnis zwischen Erzähl­
zeit und erzählter Zeit in der Novelle - mit Ausnahme der einge­
schobenen Beschreibungen - oft innerhalb einer Divergenzkurve mit
1!
L
~
16
17
"
""
~
kleinen
verläuft, ist das Verhältnis in der Kurzgeschichte
und extrem subjektiv. Uhrzeit und Kalendereinteilung
gl~t es in der e~hten Kur~K:~~~e ebe;-;;;;~cig.~k~ 1\k;,ien
Roman, da
von
individuellen Zeit bestimmt
ter~' und PersÖ"Olichkeiten sind kaum objektiv zu erfassen oder klar
zu
und entziehen sich jeglicher genauen
Wie im modernen Roman werden alle Figuren durch die
der
Hauptperson gesehen, wobei aber oft die Stellungnahme des Autors
hintergründig mitschwingt und dadurch die dargestellte Sicht
zeitig wieder in Frage stellt. Gegenstände werden aus der von der
Novelle her bekannten Um- und Vorstellungswelt gelöst, brechen in
die menschliche Erfahrungswelt ein, indem sich Subjekt und Objekt
verschieben. Sie erscheinen übermächtig, spielen mit und verselb­
ständigen sich; ihre herkömmlichen Bezüge werden gebrochen und
in einem neuen Verhältnis, nun vom Menschen aus, gestaltet.
Q!e Qoetische, bildhafte und anschauliche Sprache der Blüte~.~t
der d~~,tschen Novelle wird einfach, wahrhaft, sachlich und gren.~t
oft .EIS Alltägliche, Gewöhnliche, ohne freilich je banal zu sei!!.
Methaphern und Vergleiche, äußere Beschreibungen und evokative
Bilder werden zu Darstellung durch Handlung, zu einem Dialog, der
untertreibt und oft bis Zur Grenze der Monotonie vorstößt, zu exakter
Schilderung - nicht Abbildung - alltäglicher Vorgänge und zu An­
lUl,l""~H. die Erklärungen ersetzen.
Ist es schon schwierig und kaum möglich, Novelle und Kurz­
geschichte voneinander klar abzugrenzen, dann ist es noch viel
schwerer, ~ine Trennung zwischen Kurzgeschichte und Erzähll!ng
vorzunehmen. Wie bei der Novelle werden wir
durch
Vergleich der wichtigsten formbestimmenden Elemente zu einer
Einschränkung und Begrenzung des vielgebrauchten und mißbrauch­
ten Ausdruckes »Erzählung« zu kommen. Dabei werden sich zum
Teil klare Trennungslinien, zum Teil aber auch Gebiete enger Bezüge
sowohl zur Novelle wie auch zur Kurzgeschichte ergeben.
Bei der Erzählung - noch deutlicher als bei der Novelle _ wird
e;i!l_.~!e!B~~..' eine Geschichte erzählt. I2..~s Verhältnis z~ische_e..-6-11!~r
1.@c:!.J~~eser,.!.stj.f.1til!.1.~:L~vertraulicher, !1s-l<:Lger 0J~elle, wo 9,~r
~rzähler oft nur als Mitte;~ ~ur Objektivierung, zum Beweis der Wahr:
haftigkeit des Gesc~<:l:.e;I:s__ dient, oder inniger als bei der Kurzge­
die keine Handlung im gewöhnlichen Sinn braucht. Wäh­
rend bei der Novelle und bei der Erzählung ein Ereignis, ein Ge­
schehnis aus der Vergangenheit, und der
zwischen
der Hauntners()n und dem Gegenspieler, der ein Mensch, ein Ding
H
~
18
oder ein Charakterzug der Hauptperson selbst sein
erzählt
wird, spielt die Kurzgeschichte oft in
und Vergangenheit
zugleich, zeigt eine.,g t;nÖK1.ic!!~.E.!Eb!.~rhö~Ht5:l1_!:.ebensa~,<:~!2.~~L~l1
dem das Ereignis als solches nicht im Mittelpunkt desInteresses
steht, sondern nur als J'vtittei
"u~ dur<:h,.c!ii_Bilt~~=cIe:~'M~n­
schen diejenige des 411tor,:; ':::':::=';:=7,--""
In der Novelle drängen alle
innerlich verbunden in der­
selben Richtung auf den
zu: der Konflikt löst
sich im Gegensatz zur
in einer Krisis. II!...der ~~ählu.Qg
werden breit angelegte
locker aneinander gereiht wie
G~eder einer losen Kette; in
erreic~t,~~~'_§'r~ähr!~~fnri~~
halb kurzer Zeit den
einer Daseinsentscheidung, die aber kaum je
erscheint. Die Fabel ist daher oft
zerfetzt oder zerrüttet,
mit Aussparungen durchsetzt und bis zum äußersten simplifiziert:
eine ~o.Et~•.~f.1_ Sz~en. In der E~~~hl.:lI1g ist9~~ }'empo kaum ie
g~grafft?,!!.9nsl.~g.Ekursiv, verweilend. Die Sprache ist weniger
dicht als bei der Novelle, die Spannungsbögen sind selten knapp
gezogen, aber in beiden Formen gleichförmig fortlaufend. In der
:r:s.l!rzgeschic~te dagegen entste0~, d~e Spal1l1ung__~~i,~c~~E~~~~Ü­
tälrlichen äußerli<:hen
der dahinterstehende~, ~igen_t~~~~r:~,~l1t~
scheidenden
nicht aus Ereigni~! Be,ge1J:"11~.~:...C?ger
Wenn NoveU~,~~tlich ~t:stgel~gt und
von Zeit und Raum her bestimmt sind, so werdc;:!l sie ,ig ger Ku~z­
geschichte transparent
g<:~::o.~ll.c:r:...o_der_~t':rtrüm­
mert. ~ährend Novelle und
die Gescheh,nisse mp.t!'yieren
und diese
oder kausal erklärbar sind. wird in oer
Ku'rzgeschichte die
_
"
. ___ .__ '
und Denkprozesse schieben sich über- uno ineinander. Die klar und
plastisch
-j\; O\~lle u-nd der
werden in der
zu grob umrissenen Gestalten, die
und vervollständigt werden müssen.
vermitteln dem Leser das beruhigende Ge­
fühl eines gelösten Knotens, der aufgehobenen Spannung, des
schlossenen Endes; die Kurzgeschichte aber hinterläßt mit ihrem
offenen Ende im Leser eine schwebende Frage, eine Dissonanz, das
Bewußtsein des Unzusammenhängenden, Fragmentarischen des
Daseins.
19
!
,,'" D~ e~_Yerwandtschaft
mancher Strukturelemente zeigt, daß
trotz~!L<;!.Jl.9.!~!~.0ied~. und Verschiedenheiten die Novelle der Er'::
@.ung näher steht als der Kurzgeschichte. So hat Thomas Mann
seine frühen Prosakurzformen anfangs als Novellen bezeichnet und
sie erst in späteren Ausgaben Erzählungen genannt. Auch zeitge­
nössische Schriftsteller unterscheiden meist nicht unter den drei
Kurzformen und bedienen sich trotz ihrer Essays und theoretischen
Aufsätze des Sammelbegriffes »Erzählung«.
Wenn wir im Vorgehenden gewisse Merkmale der drei literarischen
Formen herausgearbeitet haben, dann sind wir uns wohl bewußt, daß
wir sie in der Praxis kaum je alle »in Reinkultur« vereinigt finden und
daß es d.:Eer nie möglich sein wird, einen Prototyp der ~urzge­
schichte aufzustellen. Da wir aber schon am Anfang in Überein­
stimmung mit führenden Theoretikern für die Novelle ebenso wie
für die Kurzgeschichte einen Gattungsbegriff abgelehnt und uns
gegen doktrinäre, einengende Definitionen gewendet haben, ver­
zichten wir darauf, eine Liste von Charakteristiken oder Kriterien
für die moderne Kurzgeschichte aufzustellen. Wir werden daher im
Folgenden versuchen, einige typische Formen zu ermitteln und zu
kennzeichnen, ohne sie dadurch Formtraditionen oder Formgruppen
zuordnen zu wollen oder den Versuch zu unternehmen, auf empiri­
sche Weise eine neue Theorie der Kurzgeschichte zu schaffen.
20
s-y Männer; dann warf der Kral dem andern einen feindseligen auffordernden
Blick zu und ging voran. Der Prokopp verharrte noch. Tjana sah das
Abschiednehmen seiner traurigen Augen. Sie zitterte. Und dann wurde
die schlanke, gelenkige Gestalt immer schattenhafter, ungewisser und
verlor sich auf dem Wege, welchen Kral gegangen war...•
Gesehenen, das kreatürlich in die Natur eingebettet und urtümlich
mit ihr verwachsen ist. Die Geschichte endet einige Zeilen weiter mit
den Worten: »Blätterrauschen in greisen Linden, ein Bach irgendwo
und das schwere, reife Fallen eines Apfels ins hohe Herbstgras.« Ob
es zum Kampf zwischen den zweien kam, was weiter geschah, sagt
uns Rilke nicht. Die Nacht verschluckt alles weitere. Ohne Zweifel
hat Rilke hier nicht nur nach der Form, sondern nach dem ganzen
Gefüge moderne Kurzgeschichten geschaffen, während es bei Hesse
und Jünger bei der Erzählung bleibt.
Die Trostlosigkeit einer nur durch Farnilienbande und Konvention
zusammengehaltenen Gruppe von Menschen (Das Familienfest) wird
mit fast ans Sarkastische grenzender Ironie dargestellt, und das nicht
von Liebe oder Zuneigung getragene Zusammenleben von zwei
alten Frauen (Das Geheimnis) zeigt die Auswüchse im Handeln von
zwei vereinsamten Seelen in ähnlicher Weise wie später Stefan Andres
in Himmelsschuhe. Diese Erzählungen sind sich nicht nur inhaltlich,
sondern auch in der Anlage des Geschehens sehr ähnlich; erst am
Ende zeigt sich in einer unerwarteten Wendung, wie zwecklos das
Leben vergeudet wurde. Weitere Parallelen können nachgewiesen
werden, obschon sich bei der einen Geschichte der Erzähler ab und
zu einschaltet und die andere eine Ich-Erzählung ist.
Die frühe Kurzprosa Rilkes enthält viele noch nicht voll er­
schlossene Struktur- und Formprobleme, die oft neben den rein
sprachlichen und inhaltlichen Beurteilungen außer acht gelassen
wurden und denen in einer ausführlichen Arbeit von der Frühform
der Kurzgeschichte aus Beachtung geschenkt werden sollte.
.._ - - - Die Gestalt der neuen Prosakurzform als Versuch und Problem
,
sollte-yon zwei Autoren in eng~_c.~_eE S2:~~~e - aber weder Englän­
.y der noch Amerikaner - weiter ausgeformt und als Sprach- und Denk­
gcl:>HcI~ _ ill_richtup.RsVleI~~!lcl~ __BAllnel'l__~e1e!lkt~'Yeiaen~-;)Vön-ailw
modernen Autoren ist James Joyce der am meisten zitierte und am
wenigsten gelesene«,2H schreibt Günter Blöcker. Dem möchten wir
gleich beifügen: unter den Werken von Joyce leben seine Kurz­
geschichten nur im Schatten von U!ysses und Finnegans Wake. Auch
Günter Blöcker erwähnt sie nicht in seinem Essay. Da.}:)~~~d
loyce wohl_.die erstep.J!!fJiigen Ku~~g(;~chichten
und sein
f -----------
~,
110
- ----------------------.--.-----.--.-------­
Einfluß auf die moderne Prosakurzform ist bis heute noch kaum je
So werden un(rwurderi-ln~Öeutsch­
land Schriftsteller Immer WIeder über ihr Verhältnis zu Hemingway
oder vielleicht auch zu Faulkner
Daß es aber eine europäische
Tradition der Kurzform gibt, die von der deutschen Romantik, über
Gogol, Tschechow, Flaubert, Maupassant und Joyce bis in die Neu­
zeit reicht, wird meist übersehen.
Joyces zwöU DlIbiiners (deutsch Dublin) wurden 1905 in des Dich­
ters erstem Jahr in Triest nach Notizen spontan niedergeschrieben.
Nach vielen Schwierigkeiten erschienen sie, vermehrt durch drei
weitere
chichteil , 191,rlmDruck. Harry
sagt in
leitung zu de-~Geschlchte;;-~ -». .. and the episodes are_
careful progression from childhood to maturity.«'" ( ...
schichten sind sorgfältig in fortschreitender Reihenfolge von der
Kindheit bis ins Greisenalter angeordnet.) Dies trifft zu, wenn man
das Alter der Hauptnguren als ausschlaggebendes Moment bezeich­
net; wenn man sich aber der Theorie von Richard Levin und Charles
Shattuck anschließt, sieht man in den Dubliners eine Vorform von
U!ysses. m Rein vom Text aus scheint es uns zweifelhaft, ob man in
konsequenter Fortführung dieser letzteren Theorie von Clay (Leh!1l)
sagen darf, daß die Aufsehedn Circe entspreche, der
Odys­
seus' Tränen und das verlorene Plumcake Odysseus' Unterlassungs­
sünde, den König Elpenor zu beerdigen. Uns scheint, daß die Ge­
schichten aus sich selbst interpretiert werdensOllten-;-üIlne ciäln31e­
mente aus U!ysses hineingetragen werden, wodurch-m~r1ieldit zu
einer Symbolik gelangt, die s{~hl1urJu~chhalte;:;--läßt, wenn man
Beispiele willkürlich aus dem Text isoliert und herauslöst. So wird in
dem zitierten Buch viel Gewicht gelegt darauf, daß das Feuer in
Dt!Y in the Com!llittee Room (Efeutag im Komitee-Sitzun/!,szimmer) mit
der Hölle in Verbindung gebracht werden müsse, und mit einer rhe­
torischen Frage wird angedeutet, daß nichts ohne seine Mithilfe voll­
bracht werden kann: »Can it be significant too that the politicians are
not able to gain access to their drinks withotlt the aid of the fire ... ?«'"
(Ist es nicht vielsagend, daß die Politiker nicht zu ihrem Getränk
kommen, ohne die Mithilfe des Feuers ... ?) Dabei wird doch im
Text die Nacktheit des Wahllokals angezeigt, wo es keinen Korken­
zieher gibt, und beschrieben, wie die drei ersten sich einen ausleihen.
Das Herausfliegen des Zapfens aus den Flaschen der Nachzügler er­
achten sie als einen Witz;»)Wait now, wait now!{ said Mr.
getting up quickly. )Did you ever see this little trick?«(··· (»Wartet
wartet mall« sagte Henchy, der schnell aufstand. »Habt ihr das
.;~fu~S_e~dJarge~t:dft-
Ges
Levin
seiner EiI1­
111
,;
~
~
i
u
J
i
~
I
schon mal gesehen?«) Die Männer hänseln sich gegenseitig, und die
Korken aus den Flaschen auf dem Ofen knallen zu lassen, paßt ganz
zu dem Ton. Die Auslegung der zweifelhaften Persönlichkeit Marias
(Clqy) als Jungfrau Mafia und als Hexe zugleich scheint uns nicht
standzuhalten bei näherem Zusehen. Als die Angestellten in der
Wä~chere[von dem Ring sprechen, sagt sie schnell nein und kichert
dabei, wie es für ein altes Jüngferchen wahrscheinlich ist, das den
letzten. Rest von_ I:Ioffnungnoch~icht
begraben hat unter
seinen Enttäuschungen. Und als sie sich
ansieht, geschieht es
wieder mIi--Bez.igauf die fruheren Hochzeitshoffnungen und nicht
ohne einen kleinen Zug von Narzismus: Das Sich-Schmücken am
Sonntag und die Feststellung, daß ihr Körper noch nett aussehe.
Weitere Hinweise aus dem Text sind ihre Freude an der Galanterie
des alten Mannes in der Straßenbahn und das Auslassen der zwei
mittleren Strophen des Liedes, die vom ritterlichen Verehrer sagen,
der Liebe und Treue verspricht, und vom Edelmann, der dem Mäd­
chen die Hand anbietet. Dieser Schmerz ist zuviel für Maria, und so
singt sie nur die erste und die letzte Strophe. Es wird auch sofort
wie unangenehm es Frau Donnelly ist, daß die Kinder Maria einen
Streich spielen und ihr zum Scherz die feuchte Erde untergeschoben
haben, ohne sich der Folgen, daß dies den Tod bedeutet, bewußt zu
sein. In der Richtung geht auch Frau Donnellys Bemerkung, als
Maria darauf das Gebetbuch bekommt. Hier bleiben Magalaner und
Kain plötzlich beim wörtlichen Text. Ich glaube aber, daß das Gebet­
buch, das man gewöhnlich den Toten in die gefalteten Hände legt,
eine Verstärkung der Vorausdeutung ist: die nasse Erde war kein
Irrtum; d~m~c..hl.cksal kann keiner entgehen und _~!,Ge~e~buch ist
eineWied.~rholtln~ und Verstärl<~ der "yora~ss~_ge. Da hilft auch
die Beschönigung von Frau Donnelly nichts. Die etwas gezwungene
Heiterkeit, die darauf folgt, und die Aufforderung, daß Maria
solle, sind weitere Anzeichen, daß man den peinlichen Eindruck ver­
wischen und Maria ablenken will. Uns scheint, daß die Bezüge weni­
ger in der Bibel oder im Hexenglauben gesucht werden mussen als
bei Toller, Schlaf und Flaubert, und daß Mada zu Gestalten wie
Miele oder Felicite gehört, zu . den_ Ben~<:Qt<:~gteE2 U nter­
drückten des Lebens, die dienen, ohne·slch zu beschweren, und die
es in Irland ebenso
Frankreich üaerDeutschbindgibt.
Viel wichtiger als von der Chronologie scheinen uns die Geschich­
ten-von deI1verschledenen Aspekte-ö.-desDubliner Lebens aus eine
Einheit zu bilden. Und doch ist jede Erzählung (mit Ausnahme viel­
leicht der drei ersten) absolut autonom und kann für unsere Zwecke
112
~ als eigenständige Einheit betrachtet werden; denn sowohl vom Ge­
halt wie auch von der Struktur und Sprache aus sind JoycciKurz­
formen gelungen, die unserer Beschreibung der Kurzgeschichte zum
großen Teil entsprechen. Sie_~!.el1en durchw~~.~~_~!l_it_t~_aus dem
gewöhnlichen Leben dar: ein Junge begegnet dem Tod, als sein Be­
Mädchen schwankt
kannter, der Priester, gestorben ist; ein
ihrem eigenen
zwischen der Pflicht gegenüber ihrer Familie
.. einernMann~ der sie in die Freiheit führen will; ein Trinker
nimmt teil an einem Gottesdienst zur Bekehrung Abtrunniger; die
Fäden von Stadt- und Lokalpolitik werden gesponnen und ein Ball
endet in der Erkenntnis, daß das Ich nur ei nunwichtiges Stäubchen
im Geschehen des Universums ist. Nichts ereignet sich vieles ge­
.
schieht. Die Handlung an sich wird oft nur durch den·
Dial~g -";;iedergegeben und vorangetrieben, während sich das Ge­
schehen in Bericht und innerem Monolog darstellt
Dead, Coun­
Da.y in tbe Committee Room). m Es geh~_l1rn~<ls
zum Schicksal und zum menschlichen Geschehen: zum Tod, zu
einem verlotterten Leben, zu schlechter Gesellschaft, zur Erkenntnis
der vergeudeten Zeit, zu den
von zwei Kupplern. zu Beund poli tischen Machenschaften'..Kan..z~.§__ Jla_~orama
menschlicher Probleme der Lebensgestaltullg rollt vor uns ab an hand
von Beispielen aus Dublin. Weder kommen die Gestalten aus den
Slums oder Bordellen, wie bei den Naturalisten, noch erhalten wir ein
photographisches Bild des Dubliner l'vfittelstandes. Menschen sagen
aus über menschliches Denken, menschliches Verhalten,
Des­
illusionen und Dissonanzen in ihrem Dasein. Die sozialen und poliVerhältnisse - immer wieder gibt es Anspielungen auf den
irischen Nationalismus und das Verhältnis zu England werden in
einem
dargestellt, das sich um Objektivität und Distanz be­
müht. Dennoch setzt sich
. . seine
die
Gestalten der Erzählungen. Nie werden zum Beispiel die vielen vor­
kommenden Betrunkenen verurteilt: Tn Grace 247 (Gnade) versuchen
die Freunde, Kernan auf taktvolle \'\7eise zu
ein neu es Leben
zu beginnen; in Tbe Dead benimmt sich Freddy, der hoffnungslose
galant, höflich und rucksichtsvoll seiner Mutter gegenüber,
und es wird auch betont, daß er absolut ehrlich ist und seine Schulden
bezahlt. In The Boardi~g House (Die Fami/ienpension), After the Race
(Nacb dem Rennen) und Counterparts
die Sympathie des l)ich­
ters den Schwachen, die wider Willen in nicht wiederg~tzumachende
·Lebenssituationen gezwungen werden: zur Heirat, zum Alles-Ver­
spielen, zur Brutalität aus Verzweiflung.
113
Joyce bedient sich Zur Darstellung einer straffen, klaren Sprache,
einer aussparenden Gestaltung, dienur das Wesenhafte schildert, und
die durch Handlung darstellt, anstatt zu berichten. Die Zeit wird
schwerer Unglücksfall)
extrem subjektiv behandelt. A Painful Case
erzählt auf wenigen Seiten von mehr als vier Jahren, während die
D!l.rstcllung einer einzigen Ballnacht in der Länge fast einer Novelle
gleichkommt. Ort, ja sogar Personennamen werden genau bestimmt;
nach der Zeit fragt man aber nicht, da das sprunghafte Gefüge des
Geschehens und die transparente Wirklichkeit jegliche Zeit aufheben.
U?ie Unentschiedenheit des künstlerisch veranlagten Menschen in der
Tretmühle einer routinemäßigen Ehe in A Littlt CLoud (Eine kleine
Wolke) und seine Hilflosigkeit zeichnen sich deutlich ab zwischen
seinen Träumen von Ruhm, die ihm nun aber auch hohl erscheinen,
und seinem von ewiger Wiederholung bestimmten Leben. Das eine
zeigt sich wie eine durchscheinende Vision hinter dem andern, ohne
daß es je wirklich ausgesprochen wirdJ Enttäuschung über die Ein­
tönigkeit ihrer Ehe und ihr verpaßte-s Leben als Künstlerin liegen
auch den Handlungen von Frau Kearney zugrunde, die sich aber nur
aus ihrem Tun erahnen lassen. Und in Two Gallants (Zu/ei Galane)
müssen wir die andere Wirklichkeit assoziativ selbst erschließen:
»Can't you tell us?« he said. »Did you try her ?« Corley hai ted at the first
lamp and stared grimly beiore hirn. Then with a grave gesture he extcnded
a hand towards the light and, smiling, opened it slowly to the gaze of his
disciple. A small coin shone in the palm .... (»Willst du nicht raus damit?«
sagte er. »Hat's nicht gefleckt?« Corley machte bei der ersten Laterne halt
und sah grimmig vor sich nieder. Dann hob er mit ernster Geste eine
Hand gegen das Licht und öffnete sie lächelnd dem Blicke seines Jüngers.
Eine kleine Goldmünze glänzte in der flachen Hand.)
.j.:li
<C...-,
V
Kupplerlohn von dem Mädchen, damit sie nicht verkuppelt wird,
weil sie Codey liebt. Dieser Schluß wird aber dem Leser überlassen.
Nie heißt es, was die zwei Galane eigentlich mit dem Mädchen im
Sinn hatten, und die ganze menschliche Not, die jedes Opfer auf sich
nimmt, um den schäbigen Geliebten zu behalten, wird plötzlich
sichtbar unter der gemeinen Oberfläche der zwei kupplerischen
Freunde.
Einige Geschichten in Dubliners zeigen Erzählkabinen, andere da­
, gegen nur Erzählphasen, die sich kaum je zu Kabinen entwickeln. In
den einen gibt es zwei oder mehr Handlungsstränge, die nebenein­
ander oder durcheinander laufen ohne sich je zu verknoten - wir fin­
den keine Ereignisse in den Geschichten -, in andern läuft ein Hand­
; lungsstrang mit großen Unterbrechungen und arabeskenhaften Win­
dungen von einem offenen Anfang einem offenen Ende zu.
114
Viele Anklänge an zeitgenössische Kurzgeschichten drängen sich
auf. Es würde das Ausmaß dieser Arbeit überschreiten, wollten wir
alle Geschichten einer eingehenden Analyse unterziehen oder sie in
Verbindung bringen mit verwandten Erzählungen. Wir beschränken
uns daher auf den Vergleich der drei ersten Geschichten in den
Dubiiners mit Hans Benders Das wiegende l1atls. Die Thematik kreist
bei bei den Autoren um die Erfahrungen und die Probleme eines
Jungen, für den die Welt der Erwachsenen zugleich Schrecken und
Anziehung-bedeutet, um cE;'sE~leben von Tod, Liebe,-Si~;;lichkeit,
, »verbotenen« menschlichen Beziehungen, um Not~Ve';:zwelflung
Schuld. joyce und Bender stellen die Problemejnct~ F'OrmXQHJl.11to­
biographl~<;:h.<;nkHze_n Geschichten dar, die lose miteinander ver­
sind. Joyce erzählt in der Ich-Form, Bender nennt den Jungen
Hans und erzählt in der Er-Form. Beide bedjeru;g O~,",,~_"_~'~'-'U'-'''C'''-L
Nebenhandlungsstriinge, die sich aber ständig atlf den Haupthand­
lungsstrang zubewegen oder sich darum ranken. Die zwei Schwe­
stern (Tbc Sisters, Die SelJ/Nstern) bei Joyce werden von Magalaner
und Kain als Träger der Kirche gedeutet und die gefüllten Waffeln
und der Sherry als Symbole des Abendmahles. Uns scheint, daß der
Dichter hier eine gewöhnliche Sitte beschreibt; denn nach Beileids­
besuchen wird gewöhnlich eine kleine Erfrischung angeboten. Was
dagegen wichtig ist, ist die Zerstörung des Vaterbildes und der damit
verbundenen unbedingten Autorität der Kirche und ihrer Diener.
Joyce deutet das an, indem er sagt, daß der Becher, den der Pater ein­
als Zei­
mal zerbrochen hatte und den man ihm nun in die Hand
chen der Vergebung seiner Schuld, nur ganz lose in den Händen des
Toten lag, was die Relativität der Schuld andeutet. Dazu kommt, daß
der Junge nicht beten kann. Auch Hans (Die [VaL/fahrt) will nicht
beten. Sein Vaterbild wird nicht durch den Tod zerstört, sondern
durch seines Vaters Benehmen gegenüber dem Servierfräulein. Wie
hohl der religiöse Betrieb ist und wie weltlich geistliche Werte umge­
deutet werden, kommt ihm zum Bewußtsein, als er sieht, was seine
Mutter unter Gnade versteht: daß der Vater nicht launisch ist und
nicht schreit. Das Problem der Schuld und des Sich-Verschuldens
wird auch in Benders drei weiteren Geschichten Das Gasthaus, Das
NachbarhauJ, Die Klosterscht/le aufgenommen. Sinnlichkeit, berech­
nende »Liebe«, unehrliche, gerissene Geschäftstüchtigkeit, Eifersucht,
Neid, Heuchelei, Grausamkeit, Tod, ungewolltes Verschulden und
scheue, keimende Zuneigung werden anhand von kurzen alltäglichen
Geschehnissen aus dem Leben um ein ländliches Gasthaus darge­
stellt:
115
Am Tag der Abreise ging er auf den Hof des Nachbarhauses. Vor der
Staffel rief er »Therese I« wie er oft gerufen hatte. Sie kam oben aus der
Tür, hielt den linken Zopf in ihren Händen, als flechte sie ihn gerade zu
Ende. »Ich will dir Auf Wieder sehn sagen, nach dem Essen fahre ich fort.«
- »Aber du kommst doch bald wieder?« - »In den Ferien.« - »Und wann
hast du F~rien?«'"
Joyce sagt:
She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or
no ... The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve
of her neck, lit up her hair ... It fell over one side of her dress and caught
the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease. - »It's weil
for you«, she said. - »If I go«, I said, »1 will bring you something.«'10 (Sie
fragte mich, ob ich nach Arabien ginge. Ich weiß nicht mehr, ob ich ja
oder nein antwortete. Das Licht der Laterne gegenüber unserer Tür zeich­
nete die weiße Linie ihres Halses, beleuchtete ihr Haar ... Es fiel über die
eine Seite ihres Kleides und traf dann den weißen Saum ihres Unterrockes,
der eben sichtbar war, wie sie so bequem dastand. - »Das wäre gut für dich«,
sagte sie. »Wenn ich hingehe«, sagte ich, »bringe ich dir was mit.«)
I2ie~~TE~.~~~I~.~~!d bei beiden 2:~!stö~t: .~_eiJ.()yc:e._cl~E.<J!.d!(: flir­
tend.e:, vulgäre Y~rlc~uferin inA~l!1Ilazar, wo er zu spät ankommt, bei
Bender durch die enttäuschte, mannstolle J osefa, die ihm das tote
Kätzchen vor die Füße wirft, dessen Tod er ohne sein Wollen im
Haschen nach Therese verschuldet hat. !?~oyce: J-ie~.sJ2~_sillus.iQn
und Enttäusch.~; bei Bender die Verbindung von Liebe, Schuld,
Tod und Abschiedsleid. Bei .!J~ide.~ wird ~e Frag~ aufge~()E!e9: Was
ist Liebe? und der schwärmerische Traum der Wirklichkeit gegenü.bergestellt.
...
... -'.- .. '-'- ..... "-_...
Ara~y ist die dritte Geschichte bei Joyce. Die zweite, An Encotlnter,
zeigt die Revolte zweier Schüler gegen die Routine, die Wieder­
holung, die Monotonie und die Autorität. Freiheit heißt den Gefahren
des Lebens ausgesetzt sein, heißt Entscheidungen, heißt Widerstand
gegen Versuchungen. Die zwei Jungen, welche die Schule schwän­
zen, erleben das Bittere der falsch verstandenen Freiheit: sie sind
müde, durstig, haben ihr Ziel nicht erreicht und treffen zuletzt einen
anormalen Alten, der sich für die zwei Jungen »interessiert« und sie
mit seinen Reden erschreckt. Sie flüchten vor der Freiheit. Hans
kommt in Die Klosterschule auch mit gleichgeschlechtlicher Liebe in
Berührung und flüchtet sich davor instinktiv zu einem schlechten
Freund, der ihn verlockt, die Regeln der Schule zu übertreten. Die
Schuld läßt ihn in den Augen des Rektors unschuldig erscheinen, da
er nichts mit den Ausgewiesenen zu tun hatte: »unschuldig« durch
Schuld.
In der äußeren Handlung verschieden, in der Thematik ähnlich,
gleichen sich die Geschichten bis zu einem gewissen Grad auch in der
~ 116
Form: Anfang und Ende sind offen, kein außerordentliches Ereignis
bestimmt das Geschehen; die Zeit, soweit sie bestimmt ist, läuft
chronologisch ab, der Aufbau ist sprunghflft mit assoziativen Unter­
brechungen, die Sprache wesenhaft, verdinglicht. Objekt und Sub­
jekt werden zum Teil verschoben: der Becher, das Glas Sherry und
die Waffeln, die billigen Lesehefte, die drei Sixpencestücke, das Ge­
schenk und der billige Bazar bei J oyce; die Wundertüte, das Auto,
die Ohrringe, das Pferd, die hebräischen Zflhlen, die Buchstaben der
Schönschrift, der Apfel und die Zigaretten bei Bender.
J oyces Ich-Erzählungen sind in ihrer Haltung viel objektiver, viel
unbeteiligter als diejenigen von Bender. Der. Ire erzählt, indem er
darstellt. Nie fühlt man eine menschliche Grenzsituation hinter allem
Geschehen. Benders Gestaltung ist von Anfang bis Ende gerichtet.
Er stilisiert viel mehr. Seine Episoden sind kürzer, seine Problematik
hat vielseitigere Aspekte, seine oft parataktisch nebeneinander stehen­
den Abschnitte zeigen größere Sprünge und Brüche als diejenigen
von Joyce. Die zerrissene, unverständliche Welt, welcher der Junge
gegenübersteht, kommt dadurch noch krasser zum Ausdruck als in
den Dubliners.
Daß es von Joyce zu Bender ein weiter Weg ist, zeigen die letzten
Sätze der drei, beziehungsweise vier Kurzgeschichten: der Junge geht
heim, nach einem vergeblichen Versuch, ein Geschenk zu kaufen,
und nach seiner tiefen. E.I1t~:t!.~h1l.Qg: ))Gazing up into the darkness
I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes
burned with anguish and anger.«'·' (Während ich in die Dunkelheit
hinaufstarrte, kam ich mir vor wie ein Wesen, das die Eitelkeit trieb
und lächerlich machte; und meine Augen brannten vor Qual und
Wut.) Hans steht Schmiere für seinen »Freund«, der sich verbotener­
weise mit einem Mädchen trifft: ))Breitbeinig stellte sich Hflns vor das
Tor, steckte die Hände in die Taschen, hielt die Daumen in die Fäuste
gepreßt, und wünschte inständig, daß niemand käme, und er nicht
pfeifen müsse.«'"
Joyces Stück eines inneren Monologs hat mit seinem kühlen Ab­
wägen der Situation und seinen psychologischen Überlegungen wenig
gemein mit den Bewußtseinsströmen eines Jungen, der den ganzen
Abend ein Kartenhaus gebaut hat, das nun zusammenfällt. Es sind
des Dichters Gedanken und Worte, wie so oft in Joyces inneren
Monologen. Benders lakonische Feststellungen überlassen dem Leser
das Denken, und die Frage nach der inneren Erfahrungswelt bleibt
offen.
Bender zeigt uns durch Wortwahl und innere Formgebung seine
117
'­
Teilnahme an den Problemen des erwachenden menschlichen Schuld­
bewußtseins und gibt sein Urteil über die Welt der Erwachsenen
kund. Joyce bricht ab und zu seinen Vorsatz der größtmöglichen
Objektivität durch seine Ironie: »The sun went in behind so me
cLouds apd left us to our jaded thoughts and the crumbs of our pro­
visions.«263 (Die Sonne verbarg sich hinter
Wolken und über­
ließ uns unseren müden Gedanken und den Resten unserer Vorräte.)
Er nimmt die Probleme des Erwachsenwerdens nicht gar so ernst und
spottet ironisch über den Überschwang: »But my body was like a
harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the
wires.«2u (Aber mein Körper war wie eine Harfe, und ihre Worte und
Bewegungen waren wie Finger, die über die Saiten glitten.)
gibt es aber nicht nur zu Bender und zu Teilen aus Gaisers
Wirklichkeit,m wo die Analogien vom Inhalt aus am auffälligsten ins
Auge springen, sondern von der Sprache und vom Stil her, zum Bei­
spiel auch zu Uwe Johnsons Mutmaßungsstil, dessen Vorläufer in
einem Stück von A Painfut Case gefunden werden kann:
James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated ...
P. Dunne, railway porter, stated ... Ajuror. »You saw the lady fall?« Witness. »Yes.« Police Sergeant Cmly deposed ... Constable 57 corroborated. Dr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital stated ... Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway, expressed his deep regret ...
Captain Sinko, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of the deceased, also
gave evidence. He stated ...
Miss Mary Sinico said ... an
(James Lennon, der Lokomotivführer, sagt aus ... - Der Gepäckträger
P. Dunne sagte aus ... - Ein Geschworener »Sie sahen also, wie die Dame
fiel?« - Zeuge; »Ja.« - Der Polizeisergeant Croly sagte aus ... - Polizist 57
bestätigte das. - Dr. Halpin, Assistenzarzt am City of Dublin Hospital,
H. B. Patterson Finlay sprach im Namen der Eisenbahn­
sagte aus. . .
gesellschaft sein tiefes Bedauern über den Unfall aus ... - Kapitän Sinico,
aus Leoville, Sydney Parade, Ehemann der Verstorbenen sagte auch aus ...
- Fräulein Mary Sinko sagte ... )
Struktur, Form, Gehalt und sogar sprachliche Gestaltung entspre­
chenbeil~~~~~rn!~~ ~1!}{ilE.g~.~cliich~ie~annthabe~~ und daran
ändern auch die spärlichen, oft zeitgebundenen Metaphern nichts, so
wenn er zum Beispiel in konventioneller Art von »constant waves of
expression«U7 (dauernden Ausdruckswogen) spricht, die über das
Gesicht fluten, von der Stadt als »the mask of the capital«258
Maske der Hauptstadt), die sie trage, oder von einem weißen Gesicht,
b
118
das sich ihm »passive, like a helpless animal«259 (passiv wie ein hilf­
loses
zuwendet. Das sind überbleibsel aus der alten Zeit, die
aber neben brillanten Formulierungen wie: »His Une of life had not
been the shortest distance between two points and for short periods
he had been driven to live by his wit~«260 (Die Linie seines Lebens war
nicht die kürzeste Verbindung zwischen zwei Punkten gewesen, und
manchmal hatte er sich nur durch allerlei Behelfe über Wasser ge­
und neben einer sprühenden modernen Wortironie völlig ver­
schwindet: »But Kathleen
in her skirt and said: )Now, Mr.
to the first item, who was shaking like an
(Aber
Kathleen raffte das Kleid zusammen und sagte zu der ersten Nummer
[dtem« heißt eher »Stück«, »Artikel«],m die wie Espenlaub zitterte:
»Nun los, Herr Bell.«)
Qj'?I!.?!!~~ll!.,!,~ne Kurzg<:schichte kann, da es dafür keine starren·
nur selten
werden; Joyce hat ihr am
des Jahrhunderts mit
Geschichten aus Dubtiners die ihr
adäquate Form verliehen, welche mit dem, was wir zeitgenössische
~__
Kurzgeschichte nennen, zum
Teil übereinstimmt.
Sylvia Rerkmann sagte in ihrem Buch von Katherine Mansfields
Meinung über U(ysses: »Joyce, whom she read seriously also late in
1921, she found repellent,«'" (Sie fand
dessen Werke sie
1921 las, abstoßend.) Später aber stellt sie fest, daß es keine
für Außerungen über Dubtiners gebe, was bei der Schrift­
stellerin gewöhnlich auf eine neutrale Haltung hinweise. Ahnlich­
keiten zwischen Katherine
Joyce und Tschechow fallen
auf den ersten Blick ins Auge, besonders, wenn man sich an die
Technik des Erzählens hält. Sicher gibt es bei Katherine Mansfield
noch weitere »Einflüsse« und Vorlagen, die man zur Genüge nach­
zuweisen versuchte. Diese Probleme, die mit verschiedenen Aspekten
ins Biographische reichen, interessieren uns aber hier nicht, und wir
wollen wie immer versuchen,
vom Text aus
Struktur
und Form zu erschließen und den Geschichten dadurch nahe zu
kommen.
__
in Dubliner.r she is frequently concerned with death in life;
deaths :tre in
the issue of sodal forces, which one can
dispassionately, whereas she explores the region of her own
dwelling place, in which reasolliess fa te or intcracting human
needs inflict suffeting.'" (Wie
in den DllbIimrs geht es ihr oft um
den Tod im Leben; aber Joyces
ist gewöhnlich das Resultat von
sozialen Kräften, das man leidenschaftslos untersuchen kann; sie dagegen
durchforscht ihre eigene geistige Behausung, wo sinnloses Geschick oder
sich widersprechende menschliche Bedürfnisse Leiden verursachen,)
119
/\
I'
/
Is life like this? Must novels be like this? From: "Modern Fiction", in: Virginia Woolf, Collected Essays, Vol. 2. London, 1966,
pp. 105-107.
Admitting the vagueness whieh afflicts all eritieism of novels, let us hazard the
opinion that for us at this moment the form of fietion most in vogue more ohen
misses than seeures the thing we seek. Whether we eall it life or spirit, truth or reality,
this, theessential thing, has moved off, or on, and refuses to be contained <any Ion ger
5 in sueh iII-fitting vestments as we provide. Nevertheless. we go on perseveringly,
eonscientiously, eonstrueting our two and thirty ehapters after a design which more
and more ceases to resemble the vision in our minds. So mueh of the enormous labour
of proving the solidity, the likeness to life. of the story is not merely labour thrown
away but labour misplaced to the extent of obscuring and blotting out the light of the
10 conception. The writer seeJ!ls constrained, not by his own free wiU but by some
powerful and unscrupulous tyrant who has him in thraU, to provide a plot, to provide
comedy, tragedy, love interest, and an air of probability embalming the whole so
impeceable that if all his figures were to come to life they would find themselves
dressed down to the last button of their coats in the fashion of the hour. The tyrant is
I:; obeyed; the novel is done to a turn. But sometimes, more and more ohen as time goes
by, we suspect a momentary doubt, a spasm ofrebe1lion, as the pages fill themselves
in the eustomary way. 15 life like this? Must novels be like this?
Look within and life, it seems, is very far from being 'Iike this'. Examine for a
moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad
20 impressions - trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel.
From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; and as they fall,
as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent falls
differently from of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if
a writer were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he
2, must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and not upon convention, there
would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or eatastrophe in the
accepted style, and perhaps not a single buttonsewn on as the Bond Street tailors
would have it. Life is not aseries of gig-Iamps symmetrically arranged; life is a
luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of
30 consciousness to the end. 15 it not the task of the novelist to eonvey this varying, this
unknown and uncircumscribed spirit, whatever aberration or complexity it may
display, with as little mixture of the alien and external as possible? We are not
pleading merely for courage and sincerity; we are suggesting that the proper stuH of
fiction is a litde other than custom would have us believe it.
35 It is, at any rate, in some such fashion as this that we seek to deHne the quality which
1
60
;1
f . )J
~
/
~
I
J
distinguishes the work of several young writers, among whom Mr. James Joyce is the
most notable, from that of their predecessors. They arrempt to come eloser to life, and
to preserve more sincerely and exactly what interests and moves them, even if to do so
they must discarcl most of the conventions which are commonly observed by the
40 110velist. Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which ehey
fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance,
which eaeh sight or inciclent scores upon the conseiousness. Let us not take it for granted that life exists more fuHy in what is commonly thought big than in wbat is
e~IllI!lsmll !~9ugh tsmaij...
J
I
j,.
1
,[
1-­
\
Is life like this? Must novels be like this? I. Noles on the text
The text is an unabridged section horn an essay by Virginia WooU (1882-1941), with
the title "Modern Fiction ". It was published in one of her best-known collecrions of
essays, called Tbe Common Reader, in 1925.
Virginia WooH is known both as an author who influenced the form of the modern
novel and as a distinguishcd eritie. Her eriticismalso throws light on her own
development and her cndeavours as a novclist. She belonged to the so-called
"Bloomsbury group", a gathering of young artists, including James Joyce, who aimed
at a new form of writing.
.j
11. Words
I
afflictv.: trouble, damage - bazard [. hxz;lclJ v.: take a risk - in vogue [v::>ug] n.: in
fashion - vestment n.: garment, dothes - persevere [. p;}: si .vi::>] v. : keep on steadily (in
spite of difficulties) - conscientious [.k:>nSi·enS.,s) a.: with scrupulous exactness
(gewissenhaft) - obscure [;lb'skju::l ) v.: darken, hide from view- blot out v.: hide
from view, destroy - corzstrain v.: compel, force, restrict - in tbrall [8r::>I] : in slavery
or servitude - embalm [im 'ba:m] v.: preserve a dead body {rom decay by using spiees
or chemieals impeccable [im'pebbIJ a.: free from fault or blame - to a turn: to
perfeetion, just right - a myriad: a very great number - evarzescent [.i: v::l'nesmJ a.:
fleeting, impermanent, quickly fading - engrave v.: cut or carve on a hard surface,
impress deeply incessant a.: unending - Bond Strec:t: street in London, well-known
for its highly fashionable and expensive shops - gig-lamp n.: lamp of a gig (light two­
wheeled, horse-drawn carriage) - balo [. heil::>u] n.; eirele of light round sun or moon
or (in paimings) round the heads of Christ and saints circumscribe ['s::l:bmskraib]
v.: draw a line round, restrict aberration [.a:b::>·reiSn] n.: deviation from truth or
normality - James Joyce: (1882-1941) famous novelist whose novel Ulysses (written
1914-1921) had great influence on 20th-century fietion predecessor ['pri:dises::l Jn.:
former holder of office or position discard [_._] v.: put aside, get rid of as no longer
useful.
.~
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l.,...' ( ( ~
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~(2:- st-~
t.,...-?
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~.?-~6...r
b '-<-f 'e /".A..;f
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~ 1'2. ~ cL-\." c ek
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ifA.~;~
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if,.,.,.- ~
diese Weise beim zeitgenössischen irischen Leser, der die Stadt ge­
nau kennt, sehr konkrete Vorstellungen von dem Weg, den Maria zurücklegt. und von der städtischen Szenerie, in der sie sich be­
wegt. Ähnlich verhält es sich mit dem Brauchtum des Hallow Eve, auf das sich die Erzählung verschiedentlich bezieht. Jovces Evoka­ tionstechnik bleibt wirkungslos, wenn man den _ chen und kulturellen Kontext nicht
in dem die Erzählung steht. Daher ist es für unser Verständnis der Erzählung notwendig, zunächst diesen historischen - kulturellen und topographischen­ zu erarbeiten.
•
/
u
(p(004 ,
Was die Wäscherei in Ballsbridge betrifft, so ist der Leser jedoch
keineswegs allein auf sein Vorwissen angewiesen. Joyce beschreibt
vielmehr sehr genau die Atmosphäre und das soziale Milieu dieser
sozialen und karitativen Einrichtung .
•
':""'''''T~''-
• .,.::;..
~~"
_.*<1
aU1tk"C1L'YV YVd:.o:..
Dublin ist der Schauplatz des Geschehens auch dieser Erzählung: Maria arbeitet in der "Dublin by Lampgght laundry", einer Wäscherei, die tatsächlich in Ballsbridge, einem südöstlichen Vorort Dublins, von einer Gruppe von Protestantinnen als Heim für asoziale Frauen betrieben wurde. Sie fährt von dort aus mit der Straßenbahn zur Nelson-Säule, erledigt im Stadtzentrum einige Einkäufe und reist schließlich nach Drumcondra im Norden Dublins zu ihren Ver­
wandten weiter, um mit ihnen Halloween zu feiern.
•
AUFGABE
3. Informieren Sie sich über die Nelson-Säule in Dublin, z.B. in Rei­
chertlSenn, Materialien.
beschreibt Marias Weg nicht im einzelnen, sondern nennt
einige topographische Bezugspunkte. Er evoziert auf
84
AUFGABE
4. Informieren Sie sich über die Herkunft und das Brauchtum des
"Hallow Eve" ["Halloween"), insbesondere auch über die bei den
Wahrsagespiele,.auf die sich die Erzählung bezieht.
AUFGABEN
5. Charakterisieren Sie die Mentalität der Frauen, die in der Wäsche­
rei arbeiten. Nennen Sie deskriptive Elemen'te (gegimständliche De­
tails. Verhaltensformen, Redeweise), an denen sich diese Mentalität
zeigt.
6. Welche Rolle hat Maria im Kreis der Wäscherinnen?
7. Charakterisieren Sie das soziale Milieu von Joe und seiner Familie.
8. Untersuchen Sie, in welcher Weise das Thema 'Alkohol' in dieser
Erzählung anaeschnitten wird.
Geschehen umfaßt nur wenige Stunden, vom
bis in den Abend hinein; es ist bei aller schein­
baren Trivialität und Kürze - dennoch eine signifikante Zeit­
spanne, in der einige wesentliche Züge Marias und der irischen
Gesellschaft in Erscheinung treten. Die Erzählung bezieht sich je­
doch
bloß auf das Jetzt, sondern sieht den gegenwärti­
gen Augenblick auch in seinen Bezügen zur Vergangenheit. Das
Wahrsagespiel in der Wäscherei etwa nimmt einen Verlauf. wie er
sich regelmäßig jedes Jahr am Hallow Eve wiederholt:
85
.,
'~
t
Came fonh my hand to claim; Yet I also dreamt. which charmed me most, Thar you loved me still rhe same. Lizzie Fleming saidMaria was sure to get the ring imd, though Fleming
had'said that for so rriany Hallow Eves, Maria had to laugh and say she
didn't want any ring or man either.
AUFGABE
Daß die älter werdende. katholische Maria noch immer erotische
Wünsche hegt, zeigt sich schon am Ende des ersten Teils der Erzäh,
lung: Beim prüfenden Blick in den Spiegel bemerkt sie mit Genug­
tuung, daß sie noch immer "a nice tidy Iittle body" besitzt. Wenn
Maria in den Spiegel schaut, folgt sie dabei vielleicht auch einem
alten abergläubischen Brauch, demzufolge junge Frauen - wenn
sie an Halloween bei Mondaufgang in den Spiegel blicken darin
ihren zukünftigen Ehemann sehen (vgl. Dubliners, ed. Jackson and
McGinley, 90).
9. Ermitteln Sie andere Stellen in der Erzählung. in denen auf die
Vergangenheit,Sezuggenommen wird.
•
Deutlich wird, das Hineinwirken der Vergangenheit in die Gegen­
wart vor allem an Maria selbst, deren Wahrnehmungs- und Erleb­
nisweise weitgehend die Erzählung bestimmt. Erinnerungen an dn:
Vergangenhe'itiauchen auf, Gegenwart und Vergangenheit wer­
den verglichen, z.B. nach der Begegnung Marias mit dem leicht
alkoholisierten Herrn in der Tram, der ihr als Reminiszenz der 'gu­
ten alten Zeit' erscheint.
•
Eine geradezu verklärende Sicht der Vergangenheit zeigt sich. als
~aria im Anschluß an das zweite Wahrsage spiel errötend dnen
populären Song aus William Balfes (1808-1870) Oper The Bohemian.
Girl (1843) singt, in dem sentimental eine mittelalterliche Welt
beschworen wird, frei von materiellen Sorgen und trivialer Alltäg­
lichkeit, eine Welt, in'der die Frau strahlender Mittelpunkt und
Hoffnungsträger der höfischen Gesellschaft ist und in der die
unverbrüchliche, große, roma'ntische Liebe' nicht Traum, sondern
Wirklichkeit ist.
Indem Maria die erste Strophe des damals weithin bekannte!!.
Song noch einmal wiederholt, gewährt sie unfreiwillig Einblick in
ihr Inne!es. Es ist unwahrscheinliCh,' daß sie die zweite Strophe
nicht kennt. Offenbar vermeidet sie diese Strophe aus Verlegenheit
und Scheu heraus und weil sieJürciitet, etwas von ihren innersTen
- nicht ZUletzt erotischen - Sehnsüchten preiszugeben oder ihren
Wunsch zu verraten,doch noch ein~..Mann zufinden. Die zweite
Strophe - die Marias Zuhörern und Joyces zeitgenössischen Lesern
zweifellos vertraut ist...; lautet:
I dreamt that suitors besought my hand.
That knights upon bended kn~e.
And with vows no maiden heart could withstand,
That they pledged their faith to me.
And I dreamt thaI one of this noble host
86
AUFGABE
10. Erörtern Sie. ob der Hinweis auf diesen Brauch für die Deutung
der Szene relevant ist.
Beim Blick in den Spiegel erinnert sich Maria, wie sie sich als junges
Mädchen zur Sonntagsmesse festlich 'kleidete. Indirekt erscheint
damit die katholische Kirche als eine Kraft. die Marias Leben von
f(indheit an geprägt hat und ihre GrundeinsteIlungen auch in der
Gegenwart bestimmt. Joyce selbst katholisch erzogen - war da­
von überzeugt. daß der Autoritätsanspruch der Kirche erheblich
zur Entmündigung des Individuums und zur Lähmung des geisti­
gen Lebens in Irland beitrug. Die Kirche war körperfeindlich. re­
striktiv im Bereich der SexualmoraL und sie predigte nachdrück­
lich das Ideal des ehelosen Menschen: Insbesondere Priester und
Nonnen wurden so zu Leitfiguren der katholischen irischen ~~y.9L:.
kerung. Die Ehelosigkeit vieler Iren hatte aber auch wirtschaftliche
und soziale Ursachen: Nicht zuletzt aufgrund der Bevölkerungsex­
plosion war das Land im 19. Jahrhundert zunehmend verarmt, es
fehlte an Arbeitsplätzen und an Nahrung, so daß sich viele Iren die
Ehe bzw. eine Familie schon aus materiellen Gründen nicht leisten
konnten.
Nach diesen Vorinformationen stellt sich die Frage, was der
eigentliche thematische Kern der Erzählung ist und worin die Mo­
dernität von "Clay" besteht. In seinem autobiographisch gefärb­
ten Romanfragment Stephen F{ero hatte Joyce den Begriff 'epiphtlny'
87
eingeführt und damit ein Konzept markiert, das l'ichJn ähnlicher
Wefse";mchbei anderen Vertretern der frühei1M~derne - etwa bei
Kath~rine "~ansfield (1888-1923) oder Virg!:nia Woolf (1882­
1941 t::- findet. Eine Epiphanie ist [Ür Joyce ~a sudden spiritual
rhanife!itation, whether in the vulgarity of speech of gest ure or a
memo-;able phase of the mind its'eW (216). Joyce war überzeugt
daß es triviale, alltägliche Ereignisse und Situationen gibt, in denen
plötzlich etwas Wesentliches aufleuchten kann, und er hat immer
wieder solche scheinbar belanglosen, symbolischen Augenblicke
dargestellt, in denen eine spirituelle Wahrheit in Erscheinung tritt.
•
AUFGABE
11. Ermitteln Sie die ursprüngliche Bedeutung des Begriffs 'epiphany'.
Geht man davon aus, daß das Moment der Plötzlichkeit in diesem
Zusammenhang zentral ist, dann wird man kaum die Auffassung
vertreten können, daß die gesamte Erzählung "Clay" als eine Epi­
phanie aufzufassen ist, selbst wenn sie nur einen kurzen, wenige
Stunden währenden Ausschnitt aus Marias Leben zeigt..
•
AUFGABE
12. Diskutieren Sie, ob diese Auffassung überzeugend ist oder nicht.
Überlegen Sie auch, ob sich innerhalb der Erzählung ein besonderes
Ereignis findet, das epiphaniehafte Züge hat? Begründen Sie Ihre
Auffassung.
James Joyce hat die Titel seiner Dubliners-Erzählungen sorgfältig
formuliert, verschiedentlich so, daß sie direkt auf den themati­
schen Kern der Erzählung weisen. Für den Titel ·Clay· entschied er
sich, nachdem er bereits zwei andere Titel - HChristmas Eve" und
"Hallow Eve - verworfen hatte. Der Titel "Clay" ist vielleicht inso­
fern zunächst irritierend, als das Wort clay nirgendwo in der Erzäh­
Jung vorkommt. Der analytisch vorgehende Leser bemerkt aller­
dings, daß im Zusammenhang des zweiten Wahrsagespiels Maria
mit verbundenen Augen auf einem der Teller "a soft wet substance"
ertastet, und er wird diese Substanz als Erde bzw. Ton identifizie­
ren. Gleichzeitig wird er vermuten, daß Joyce mit Hilfe des Titels
gerade auf diese Stelle verweist, um ihre zentrale Bedeutung zu
markieren.
•
AUFGABEN
13. Informieren Sie sich im Materialien-Band über die symbolische
Bedeutung der Erde in dem Wahrsagespiel.
14. Informieren Sie sich über die etymologische Herkunft des Na­
mens 'Adam'.
Auf der realistischen Erzählebene handelt es sich in der Tat Um ein
triviales Geschehen: Während des von den halbwüchsigen Nach­
barsmädchen inszenierten Wahrsagespiels greift die 'liebe Tante
Maria' zu dem Teller, auf dem die Erde liegt. Da der Gedanke an den
bevorstehenden Tod die Heiterkeit des Abends erheblich stören
würde, läßt man Maria ein zweites Mal in einen Teller greifen:
Diesmal ertastet sie das Gebetbuch: Mit der Aussicht, daß Maria ins •
Kloster gehen wird, hat sich eine akzeptable Alternative aufgetan,
alle sind es zufrieden, der weitere harmonische Verlauf des Abends
ist sichergestellt.
Vjele Symbole haben eine Kehrseite, sie sind ambivalent. Und
das Symbol der Erde bzw. des Tons ist es auch. Erde ist ein Symbol
für Vergänglichkeit und Tod: Das Memento "von der Erde bist du
genommen, und zur Erde kehrst du zurück" ist auch heute noch
fester Bestandteil des offiziellen christlichen Begräbnisritus. Erde
ist aber auch ein Symbol des Lebens: Sie ist der "Werkstoff bei der
E'fschaffung der Welt oder Iler Menschen. Sie bri~gt alles- Leben
hervor" (Lurker 173). Erde bedeutet auch Fruchtbarkeit, Mütter­
lichkeit, Überfluß.
Versteht man die Symbolik von clay in letzterem Sinne, dann
erhält die epiphaniehafte Szene eine zusätzliche Bedeutung: Maria
greift unwillkürlich nach dem 'Leben', sie artikuliert - ohne dies
selbst zu realisieren ihren Wunsch nach Liebe, Ehe, Mutterschaft.
So gesehen, kommt den Familienmitgliedern, die darauf bestehen,
daß Maria ein zweites Mal einen Gegenstand ertastet, ebenfalls
eine andere Funktion zu. Man muß sie dann als Repräsentanten
der katholischen irischen Gesellschaft deuten. die Marias natürn-­
che Sehnsüchte übersieht oder vereitelt und auf sie einen geradezu
paralysierenden Einfluß ausübt.
•
AUFGABE
15. Diskutieren Sie, ob eine solche symbolische Deutung der Szene
durch den Text legitimiert ist. Berücksichtigen Sie dabei auch, daß
89
88
j
;.
Maria die zweite Strophe des Liedes "I dreamt ..... nicht·singt und
stattdessen die erste wiederholt.
Es ist auffällig, daß Mariaselbst gar nicht zu verstehen scheint, was
-bei dem Spiel schiefgelaufen ist. Willig und zugleich teilnahmslos
folgt sie der Aufforderung, noch einmal einen Gegenstand zu erta­
sten, Für sie selbst, auch für die anderen Familienmitglieder, wird
die Szene gewiß nicht zu Ha sudden spiritual manifestation". Als
Epiphanie erscheint die Szene also nicht den beteiligten Figuren,
sondern dem Leser. Dies ist kennzeichnend im Hinblick auf epi­
phaniehafte Ereignisse auch in den meisten anderen Erzählungen
in Dubliners.
In dem Maße wie moderne Autoren sich nicht mehr als Ver­
mittler oder Kritiker weltanschaulicher, moralischer und gesell­
schaftlicher Positionen sehen konnten, verlor auch die auktoriale
Erzählweise (siehe dazu Kap. III, S. 64f.) zu Beginn des 20. Jahr­
hunderts an Bedeutung. In einer: Zeit, in der die alten Werte und
Normen zunehmend in Frage gestellt wurden, verlagerte sich die
Aufmerksamkeit immer mehr auf die Darstellung subjektiver
Wahrnehmungs-'und Erlebnisweisen, psychischer Prozesse, indi­
vidueller Reaktionen etwa auf gesellschaftliche oder religiöse Be­
dingungen. Mit dem zunehmenden'Interesse an der HInnenper­
spektive" trat das personale Erzählverhalten in den Vorder­
grund, wie es in Kapitel IlI, S. 65 beschrieben wird.
Joyces Erzählung hat nichts Moralisierendes, und sie enthält
sich jeder unmittelbaren Sozialkritik. Dem Leser wird eine aktivere
Rolle zugemutet als in vielen Romanen und Erzählungen des 19.
Jahrhunderts, in denen das Geschehen häufig von einem auktoria­
len Erzähler vermittelt, erläutert und kommentiert worden war. In
der Erzählung nelay· fungiert Maria weithin als Reflektorfigur,
etwa im ersten Abschnitt: Der Leser wirft aus ihrer Perspektive
einen Blick auf die blankgeputzte Küche, für die sie verantwortlich
ist. Bereits der erste Satz - "The matron had given her leave" - ist
für die personale Erzählsituation charakteristisch. Ein auktorialer
Erzähler würcle so unvermittelt eine Erzählung nicht eröffnen: Er
würde zunächst wohl erläutern, um welche Vorsteherin es sich
handelt, welche Institution sie leitet, überdies, von welcher ande­
ren weiblichen Person hier die Rede ist. Der bestimmte Artikd a.m
90
Anfang von "Clay"'ist ein Indiz dafür, daß in Marias Bewußtsein
eingeblendet wird. Während sie selbstverständlich mit der Vorste­
herin vertraut ist, ist es der Leser nicht. Der bestimmte Artikel sug­
geriert somit dem Leser, sich an der Sehweise Marias zu ·orientie­
ren" und sich auf sie einzulassen. Man bezeichnet ihn in dieser
Funktion als familiarizing article (siehe dazu Stanzel 214f.). Ähnlich
verhält es sich mit dem Personalpronomen her, dessen Bezug für
den Leser zunächst nicht erkennbar ist, Auch dieses 'bezuglose Pro­
nomen' (reference/ess pronoun) trägt dazu beL den Leser auf die Per­
spektive Marias festzulegen (siehe ebd.). Ähnliche Techniken des
Erzählbeginns sind lauch in anderen modernen Kurzgeschichten
nicht selten, etwa bei Katherine Mansfield oder Elizabeth Bowen.
•
AUFGABE
16. Analysieren Sie die Sprache (Wortwahl, Satzbau) des ersten Ab­
schnitts der Erzählung und erörtern Sie, wieweit sie Maria zugeord­
net werden kann. Diskutieren Sie, wieweit die Mentalität Marias
auch durch die Gegenstände markiert wird, auf die sich ihre Aufmerk­
samkeit beim Blick auf die Küche richtet.
Bei genauerem Hinsehen zeigt sich freilich, daß das personale
Erzählverhalten keineswegs durchgehend festzustellen ist, daß
sich vielmehr immer wieder ein kritisch beobachtender Erzäh­
ler einblendet, etwa an der Stelle, an der beschrieben wird, wie sich
Maria im Spiegel betrachtet: "And she looked with quaint affection
at the diminutive body which she had so often adorned." Später, als
Maria den p/umcake nicht finden kann und vermuten muß, daß sie
ihn in der Tram liegengelassen hat. heißt es: "Maria, remembering
how confused the gentleman with the greyish moustache had
, made her, coloured with shame and vexation and disappoint­
ment." Nicht nur vom Sprachregister her unterscheiden sich die­
se beiden Stellen vom ersten Abschnitt der Erzähhmg, es läßt sich
auch erkennen, aus welchem Blickwinkel der Sprecher Marias
Verhalten beurteilt.
•
AUFGABE
17. Welche stilistischen Merkmale sind für die beiden Stellen
kennzeichnend. Erörtern Sie, worauf sich das Erkenntnisinteresse des
Erzählers richtet.
91
Schon bei der erste~..~e~~~:~ fällt auf, daß eine Reihe von B~riffen
und Wendungen wienerholtim Text vorkommt, Wenn es gleich
dreimal in identischem Wonlaut über Marias Lachen heißt. Hthe tip
of her nose nearly met the Hp of her chin", dann ist dies gewiß nicht
als Ausdruck sprachlicher Eiafallslosigkeit oder kompositorischer
Unachtsamkeit Joyces zu bewenen, sondern als eine bewußt ge­
wählte erzähl~rischeMaßnahme und als eine planvolle Form der
Leserlenkung. Der Erzähler karikiert aufdiese Weise die Physio­
gnomie Marias als die einer Halloween-Hexe und deutet mokant
an, wie wenig äußere Attraktivität diese kleine ältliche Frau besitzt,
wohl auch wie wenig Chancen sie hat, einen Mann zu finden, Be­
zeichnenderweise findet sich auch das Motiv des Errötens mehr­
fach.
•
AUFGABEN
18, Ermitteln Sie die Stellen, an denen die Motive des Lachens und
des Errötens vorkommen, Gibt es einen thematischen Bezug zwi­
schen den beiden Motiven? Versuchen Sie, das Lachen und das Errö­
ten psychologisch zu deuten.
19. Es fällt auf, daß das Adjektiv nice in der Erzählung besonders oft
verwendet wird. Manifestiert sich in diesem Wort etwas von Marias
Mentalität?
Joyce, James. Stephen Hero. Ed. Theodore Spencer. Revised by J.J. Slocum
andH. Cahoon. London: Cape, 1956.
Joyce, James. Dubliners. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 2000.
Joyce, James. Dubliners. An Illustrated Edition with Annotations. Ed. John
Wyse Jackson and Bernard McGinley. London: Sinclair-Stevenson,
1995.
Lubbers, Klaus. Typologie der Short Story. 2. AufL Darmstadt: Wiss. Buchge­
seIlschaft, 1989.
Lubbers, Klaus, Hg. Die englische und amerikanische Kurzgeschichte. Darm­
stadt: Wiss. Buchgesellschaft. 1990.
Lurker, Manfred, Hg. Wörterbuch der Symbolik. 5. AufL Stuttgart: Kröne!,
1991.
Reichert. Klaus, Fritz Senn,und Dieter E. Zimmer. Hg. Materialien zu James
Joyces "Dubliners". 2. Auflage. Prankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1977.
Schneider. Ulrich. "James Joyces Kurzgeschichte 'Clay'''. James Joyce: Stu·
dien zu "Dubliners" und "Ulysses". Hg. Eberhard Kreutzer, Arno Löffler
und Dieter Petzold. Erlangen: Universitätsbund Erlangen. 1997. 81-97.
Stanzet Franz K. Theorie des ETzählens. 5., verbesserte Auflage. Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck, 199 L
Weber, Alfred, und Walter F. Greiner, Hg. ShOTt Story Theorien (1573-1973):
Eine Sammlung und Bibliographie englischer und amerikanischer Quellen.
Kronberg L Ts.: Atheniium, 1977.
Werner, Craig H. Dubliners.' A Pluralistic World. Boston: Twayne, 1988.
Wolpers, Theodor. "Kürze im Erzählen". Die amerikanische Short Story. Hg.
Hans Bungen. Darmstadt: Wiss. Buchgesellschaft, 1972.388-426.
Literaturverzeichnis
Allen, Walter. The Short Story in English. Oxford: Clarendon, 1981,
Baldwin, Dean. "The Tardy Evolution of the British Short Story." Studies in
Short Fietion 30 (1993): 23-33,
Borgmeier, Raimund, Hg. Englische Short Stories von Thomas Hardy bis
Graham Swift. Stuttgart: Reclam, 1999.
Ganzmann, Jochen. Vorbereitung der Moderne: Aspekte erzählerischer Gestal.
tung in den Kurzgeschichten von JamesJoyce und Katherine Mansfield.
Frankfurt a.M.: Lang, 1986,
Gifford, Don. Joyce Annotated: Notes for "Dubliners" and "A Portrait of the
Artist as a Young Man". 2nd ed., revised and enlarged. Berkeley: U of
California p, 1982.
Joyce, James, Letters ofJames Joyce. Ed. Stuart Gilbert. VoL I. London: Faber
and Faber, 1957.
Joyce, James. Letters of James Joyce. Ed. Richard Ellmann. Vol. 2. London:
Faber and Faber, 1966.
92
93
Survey of t:ritical appreaebes to literature
1. Text-oriented approaelles (cf. objedive eoocept ofliterature)
Philology (modern Times), Literary Positivism (nineteenth century), Textual Criticism
(since 1980s)
Rhetoric (Antiquity and Middle Ages) and Stylistics (N'meteenth Century)
(Russian) Formalism (c. 1920 - 30) and Structuralism (first half ofthe 20th century)
Myth Criticism (first half oftwentieth century)
Archetypal Criticism
New Criticism (c. 1940 - 1960)
Post-Structuralism
Semiotics and Deconstruction (c. 1970 - )
2. Autbor-orieoted approat:hes (d. expressive t:oot:ept of literature)
Biographical Criticism (Nineteenth Century) PsychoanaJytic Criticism (first half oftwentieth century) Phenomenology 3. Reader-orieoted approat:hes (cf. prapuatit: t:oot:ept ofLiterature)
Reception Theory (c. 1970 - 1980) Reception History Reader-Response Criticism 4. Cootext-orieoted approat:hes (d••i.etit: t:oot:ept ofliterature)
Literary History Geistesgeschichte Historical Criticism Marxist Literary Theory Feminist Literary Theory and Gender Theory (c. 1970 - ) New Historicism and CulturaJ Studies (c. 1980 - ) Ethnic Studies, Post-Colonialism hf­
DeseriptioDs or major tritieal approaehes
litt!I'tII'Y PositivislII (Litert.rrltistorisclle PositivislfUls)
,
.
application ofmodels ofthinking and methods (e.g. causal relationship) from the natural sciences to
the historicaJ disciplines of scholarship
relating to literary texts: gathering together of all facts that were involved in its genesis
a literary text was/is linked up closely to the personality of its author
results: e.g. large collections of texts, substantial collections of sources, detailed studies on the
influences on texts, biographies ofauthors (basis of historicaJ-philologicaJ research)
a literary text would often be seen as just one document beside other kinds of self-evidence
Mtll'Xism (Mtll'Xis,,",s, Literatursoziologie)
literary text seen as the product of the ruting economic and social conditions of a society
assumption that the totality ofthe productive conditions (baselBasis) also determines the mental
life processes (superstructurelÜberbau) of a society
the author is regarded as a representativelmember ofa certain social group whose economic and
social situation is shaping and influencing him because his sodal conscience is determined
through his social being
i.e. his writing reflects the structures ofthe ruting social and economic conditions
a text is thus understood to be a document of the particular social conditions or a means through
which to promote the self-image of a sodal group
the social position of an author and his interests are regarded as significant for understanding a text
problematicaJ: assumption that an author is bound to represent the ideas ofthe social group he grew
up in for a life time
major strands ofMarxist critidsm: e.g. reflection theory, cultural materialism, structuralist criticism
Geistesgeschichte (,spiritlmi"tl "istory')
theoreticaJ basis: cf Wilhelm Dilthey Einführung in die Ge;ste~wissenschaften (I883) assumption that a text cannot be understood through biographical or socio-economic facts, but only through an aet of subjective intuition
reorientation of historica1 research on literature
focus not any longer on eluddating biographicaJ, politicaJ, sodal, cultural or economic references
to authors or works, but on the human spirit as manifesting itselfin various cultural domains
in the course ofhistory
text seen as a document ofthe human spirit in a particular phase ofits history
interdisciplinary orientation of Geistesgeschichte (interdependence of the arts and various
cultural activities within certain historical epochs)
problematical: categories for grasping the historical variety and the genesis ofthe
aesthetic forms; relationship of author/work to the manifestations of the human spirit
that transgress the individual expression
conception oftypologies, e.g. epochs (difficult to apply to other cultural regions or art
forms)
conception oftypes ofhuman beings parallel to that ofepochs (e.g. Gothic man, Renaissance man
; etc.)
Historical Criticism (Historis,,",s)
work of literature understood to be a produet of its time
(Pt assumptions and notions of that culture have crept into the making of the text which was created
with the help of the existing artistic means ofexpression for a particular historica1 audience
in order to understand the text it has to be seen against the background of the time of its genesis,
especially the history of ideas of that time
focus on background research
result: e.g. studies on philosophical movements and world pictures ofpast epochs, poetics, social
values and nonns, the constitution of (reading and theatre) audiences
vague character of past epochs filled with many details
insight into interrelationships between diverse eultural activities
problematic: occasional relapse into positivist gathering of facts; relative independence of
background research
meaning ofa text identified with the way it was read and responded to at the time of its genesis
no explanation offered for the phenomenon that one and the same text can be read differently in later
times
Reade,...RespOIlSe Theory/RecepUolf Theory (RezeptiolfSiJsthetik)
foeus less on the production oftexts, but on the reception oftexts, Le. the reader
concentration on the effects a text has on readerslrecipients at different times
concerned with invo)vernent of the reader in the production of a text
the reading process, single works of literature as the starting point of etfects on recipients and the
history of interpretationlreception became objects of research
in contrast to the tradition al aesthetics ofeffects (Wirkungsästhetik), modem reception theory
tumed to the investigation of the historical effects of texts and the reasons for different
constructions of meanings in the history of the reception of a text
insight that the reader has a significant share in the production of a text
author envisages a certain range of future readerslspectatorslrecipients when writing a text
(implied reader/potentieller Leser)
R. Jauss: Erwartungshorizont (homon of expectations) reception depends on to what a degree the text fulfills certain expectations reception of a text also changes the expectations prevailing until then in an audience possible contrast between text and contemporary audience originally not addressed by the author, or between text and later audiences (past significance and present meaning/konkrete
historische Bedeutung und aktuelles Sinnpotential)
dynamic conception ofa work ofliterature based on lacunaelgaps (Leer- oder
Unbestimrntheitsstellen)
instead of searching for a single and definite meaning of a text, exploring ever new
constructions of meaning out of the potential implied in the text
PsychOQlfalytical Criticism (PsychOQlfalyse)
Sigmund Freud (1856 - 1939); assumption that a work ofliterature can be treated like a
psychopathological document
couJd be subjected to the same analytical procedures as dreams
dreams were understood to be messages in the fonn of pictures and processes through which the
unconscious ofthe human psyche expressed itself
seemingly confused and senseJess character of these expressions was explained as encoding
task öf analytical dream interpretation: to decipher or decode the encoding; to analyze and assess
the message for the purposes of diagnosis and successful treatment
meth.od not just applied to fairy-tales and rnyths, but to poetry (1iterature) in general
cf Die Traumdeutung (1900)
~, especially used for interpreting the behaviour of characters
problematical: literary characters analyzed as historical persons; formal aspects ofthe texts were
neglected; arbitrariness in the selection of those text elements to be decoded and interpreted
psychoanalytical approaches after Freud: in the theory of identification, neo-Freudianism, post­
structuralism, feminism, gender studies
Myt"(ologica)1 CriticismlArc"etypal Critic;smlJllngian Criticism (Mythenkritik)
C. G. Jung (1875 - 1961): depth psychology
introduced through M. Bodkin's ArchelypaJ Palterns in Poetry (1934) into literary discussions
Jung did not use the individual psychological approach ofFreud (impulses for poetry hom troubled
unconscious sex life of its writers)
started horn the "collective subconscious": a eertain store of archetypes not bound to time
and place which all people partake of and which determines their thinking and doing
archetype: original picture; result oflong-term inner and outward experienees ofmankind; exists
latently in the "collective subconscious" and constitutes man's readiness for pereeption and
action (e.g. old wise man, great mother, shadow, snake, divine child etc.)
coneeption of the archetype entered literary scholarship; used for the interpretation of myths and
literature
cf Northrop Frye Analomy 0/ Crilicism (1957)
according to Jung, all creative impulses stem from the subconscious
literature, therefore, is a symbol and points to archetypes in the same way as myths, fairy-tales or
ritual actions of primitive cultures
in contrast to Freud's notion ofthe poet, the reputation ofthe poet is raised in lung's conception
(poet: person with prophetie gifts)
function of poetrylliterature: the presentation of archetypes in an appropriate way in order to give
man access onee more to the blocked origin of his nature
task of the interpretation of literature: to strip the characters and events in a literary text offtheir
historica1ly determined couching and reveal the essential archetypal structures
New Criticism
T. S.Eliot(1888 1965)
with his critica1 essays on literature and culture he decisively contributed to pushing
biographica1 and historical criticism into the background
radically turned away from the expressive coneeption of literature
made a claim for a literary theory not related to the personality of the author
work should be dealt with, not the author
rejected any historical c1assification of literature; favoured a systematic approach
1. A. Richards (1893 - 1979
tried to give the autonomous conception ofliterature a scholarly and experimentally solid
basis
Princip/es 0/ Lilerary Crilicism (19124) Praclica/ Crilicism: A Study 0/Lilerary Judgemenl (1929) significance of 'elose textual study' emphasized basis in behaviourism (stimulus-response-theory) in Jiterary texts the emotive functions of language (affecting the recipient) were seen to be dominant
beauty not a quality or distinctive feature of a text, but an experienee of the recipient
theses on the semantic ambiguity of Iinguistic material: words have no objective contents but
create different mental associations in different recipients
'fo '. therefore, interpretations have no claim to objectivity
Sir William Empson (1906 84)
criticized the neglect ofbiographical aspects in New Criticism
ambiguity understood to be the prevailing characteristic of the poetic usage of language
in contrast to ruchards, E. sees the process ofthe creation ofpoetry as based in the impulse
to create as ambiguous and complex texts as only possible
critique of Eliot "lemon-squeezer school of criticism"
approach favoured: 'close reading'(werkimmanente Textbetrachtung)
word-by-word analysis (no paying ofattention to the author, the time ofthe genesis ofthe text,
genre or original functions of the text)
focus on style, structure, form, tension, rrony, paradox. ambiguity, images
aim: to avoid biographical fallacy (biographischer Trugschluß), affective fallacy (affektiver
Trugschluß) or intentional fallacy
representatives ofNew Criticism in the US: Cleanth Brooks, William K. Wimsett, lohn Crow
Ransorn, Allen Tate
Formalism (FormalismMs)
Russian Fonnalists: group ofliterary scholars coming int(\ existence at about 1915 and 1916 in
Moscow and St Petersburg
e.g. Victor Shklovsky, Jurij Tynjanov, Boris Eichenbaum, Boris Tomashevsky, Roman lakobson
focus on fonnal and stylistic devices (foregrounding) that gave the texts therr poetic or literary
quality and made their language differ from the general usage oflanguage
Roman Jakobson helped to establish the Prague School in 1926
c10seness to and inspiration for New Criticism
Strllcturalism
linguist Ferdinand de Saussure (1857 1913): belonged to the founders ofstructuralism
Cours de linguistique generale (1915)
linguistics was diachronically oriented until that time
S. created the concept of a synchronous linguistics investigating Janguage as a system
for S. language was a system of arbitrarily chosen signs (signifiantslsignijier) that pointed to
things/facts (signijieslsignijied)
Jinguistic signs acquired their meaning out of their relations with other signs and their position
within the system
S. differentiated between langue and parole
langue: linguistic system that man disposes ofunconsciously
parole: individual utterance ofa person
structuralism was recognized to be applicable to the investigation ofalt human systems of
infonnation
structuralist Iiterary studies: are concemed with research on literary systems as weil as on single
texts
application of the tenns langue and parole to literary texts and literary studies:
langue: system of signs, rules and nonns ofliterary communication that is to be explored
parole: single literary text
a text is constructed through two basic operations, selection and combination
rum of textual analysis: reconstruction of the two basic operations that created the text (reversal
imitation ofthe text production)
+1 Post-Slnlcturalism and Deconstrudion (Post-SlnlkturaJis"."s "nd Dekonstnllction)
partly developed within the French Structuralism in the 1960s (responding to structuralist claims to
scientific objectivity)
incIudes the philosophical deconstruction of Jacques Derrida and representatives of his school,
the late works of the critic Roland Barthes, the psychoanalytical theories of Jacques Lacan
and Julia Kristeva, the historical critique of Michel FoucauJt and the cultural-political
writings of Jean-Francois Lyotard and Gilles Deleuze
differance: concept developed by the French philosopher Jacques Derrida in contrast to the
structuralist principle of difference
refers to the written language and its elements, the words
is based on a French word play relating to two different meanings ofthe noun differer (to differ/to
defer, postpone, delay)
differance iIIustrates the fact that (cf structuralist linguistics) the respective meaning of a word
derives from its difference from other words
differance (the neologism that differs from the normal French spelling) also points to a
delay in literary communication which is the result of the confrontation in the
written text with graphemes instead ofwith the things or facts themselves
(endless postponement or deferral of meaning)
a word therefore always has referential character that has to be decoded by the reader
the meaning of a word Can thus only be deduced from a whole set of differences
it can never be fulJy grasped
one only meets traces
language becomes an endless play of difference
emphasis on the instability of meanings and intelJectual categories
questioning of all theoretical systems that make claims to general validity
attempt to dissolve set dichotomies (e.g. language and meta-Ianguage; literature and criticism)
preference of a non-hierarchical plurality or 'free play' of meanings
disseminations: endless sequences of meaning
indeterminacy of texts
meaning is inherently unstable
deconstruction: practice in reading, method of criticism, mode of analytical inquiry
representatives of American deconstruction: Paul de Man, Geoffrey Hartman, Harold Bloom,
Barbara Johnson
Post-Modernism
general and sometimes controversial term used to refer to changes, developments and tendencies
which have taken (and are taking) place in literature, the arts, philosophy etc. since
the 1940s or 1950s
application to literary studies: study ofliterature that is non-traditional, against authority and
signification, uses experimental techniques and eclectic approaches
includes e.g. Marxist, feminist, psychoanalytic criticism since the 1970s
position of complete relativism
NeHi HistoricismlC"ltIlral Materialism
branches within post-structuralism
interpretation of texts incIudes taking into account the political, economic and social context
12. but New Historicism does not believe any more in a relatively unproblematic reconstructionability
ofhistory or in the value ofmaster narratives (übergreifende Erklärungsmuster oder
Ideologien)
positive attitude towards the dialogue-oriented methods of post -structuralism
application to historical texts
historical texts interpreted as texts that other texts (historical or literary texts) relate to
(intertextuality)
closeness ofthe analytical methods ofNew Historicism to those ofDeconstruction
e.g. Stephen Greenblatt: term 'cultural poetics'
Great Britain: more Marxist oriented cultural materialism
Femillism (FemillisltU4s)
kind of sOCiO-Clitical and politicalliterary criticism that approaches literature from feminist
perspectives
e.g. gender studies, Marxist feminism, psychoanalytic feminism, post-structuralism, ethnic studies,
minority feminist criticism, post-colonial criticism, lesbian and gay studies
fi.rst-wave criticism (before 1960s)
aimed at abandoning the inequality ofthe sexes as to social rights
cf Virginia Woolf A Room ofOne 's Own (1929)
cf Simone de Beauvoir Le deuxieme sexe (1949)
second-wave feminism (1960s and early 1970s)
tuming away from the point of view of a likeness of the sexes and self-confident
assertion ofthe position ofwoman in society
Iinked up with emergence of women' s and civil rights movements since the 1960s
studies on women's experiences under patriarchy
critique of misogynist stereotypes in male literature
recovery of a lost tradition of female writing, historical reconstruction
differentiation between socially detennined gender and biologically detennined sex
differences between Anglo-American feminist criticism and French ferninist criticism
cf Kate Millett Sexual Politics (1970)
cf Susan Gubar/Sandra Gilbert The Madwoman in the Attic (1979)
cf Elaine Showalter Towards a Feminist Poetics (1979): differentiation between ferninist
critique and gynocriticism/ecriture feminine cf Adrienne Rich, ('.rermaine Greer, Judith Fetterley mid-1980s: great change in feminist criticism
influence ofFrench feminism
French feminist criticism: more theoretically oriented
e.g. Julia Kristeva, Helene Cixous, Luce lrigaray: use concepts ofpost-structuralism and
psychoanalytical criticism ofLacan
phallogocentrism: term that unites radical post-structuralist and ferninist approaches of
criticism ofthe prevailing social discourse
essentialist and constructionist positions
essential ist position: gender reflects a natural difference between men and women
(psychological, linguistic, biological)
constructionist position: gender is a construct of culture, i.e. sth. written into the psyche by
language
Gellder Studies
studies not limited to exploring female role behaviour but human behaviour in general (not just in
}J linguistic or literary tenns) as to social definitions ofgender roles
emergence of a Gay and Lesbian Liberation Movement in the late 1960s and early 1970s
intersected with the work of feminists
areas of work in literary and cultural theory: examination of the history ofthe oppression ofgays,
lesbians and practitioners of sexualities other than those deemed nonnal by the dominant
heterosexual group~ exploration of the counter-cultures of gay and lesbian writing; analysis
ofthe instability and indetenninacy of al1 gender identity
Ethllk Studies, Post-(,olollialism
perspectives shaped by structuralism, feminism, post-structuralism
isomorphism ofracist and racialist ideologies
no unproblematic existence of ethnic identities
alt supposedly stable equations of place, ethnos, national political institution are imaginary
constructs
Oitta,al Studies
new definition ofculture in the 1960s and 1970s prior: culture associated with arts, literature, c1assical music etc. afterwards: application of a broader anthropological definition: fonns of life and social expression
(language, arts, rituals of human life in comrnunities etc.)
foundation of a new discipline called "Culrural Studies" based on a different concept of culture
Britain: Richard Hoggart, Raymond WilIicUllS, E P. Thompson, Stuart Hall
culture seen as a means of resistance to capitaJism
weaving together of sociology, Marxist politicaJ theory, structuralist serniotics
different perspectives: culture as instrument of economic, ethic, and gender domination~ culture
seen from the bottom up (the pennanent possibility of eruption, dissonance, an alternative
imagination of reality)
'l-y {;v e d /
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op. G..: /
She has promised her dying mother to keep the home together, but the thought of
her mother's life, which had ended in insanity, fills her with sudden terror. Leaving
two letters behind, one for her father and one for her eIder brot her, she goes to meet
Frank. At the barrier to the quay where their ship is Iying in the darkness of the
night she is overcome by apprehensions and prays to God to direct her. In a frenzy
of fear she dings tQ, the iron railing and refuses to follow Frank.
"Eveline" is one of Joyce's earliest stories and "may have set the theme and
tone" of Dubliners (Tindall), in which it was to be incorporated. It was written
i, in Paris in 1903 shortly after Joyce's elopement with Nora Barnade, and was \ first published in an agricultural newspaper, The Irish Homestead, in 1904. lJn the final edition of Dubliners (1914) it appeared with some slight alterations, the fourth of fifteen stories. In a letter of May 5, 1906, J oyce said that in these stories it had been his intention "to write a chapter of the moral hi,s!Q!)' o(rnY country~nc!l~~~e Dublin_ for_~~~ene b~~~_u~~__thClt~i!y_se~rrted,to me the Ic (11<-<,.-,< centr_~()Lp~ralysis, I j:lav~J!:i~<!_~EE~,S_~nLiU() Jh~indifferent public under
,;J four of its as ects: childhood, adolescence, maturi
and public life. The stories
äre arrange in t is or er. I have written it for the most part in a~ of
1/; , j ' /{ /"~" .-scrupulous meanness~nd with the conviction that he is a very bold man who
/",t~<~v dares to alter in the presentment,/ still more to deform, whatever he has seen
( and heard."
While the first three stories in Dubliners, which deal with an adolescent boy,
are told in the first person, thus indicating an autobiographical element, the
following twelve are told by an objective narrator. But the point of view
throughout this story is Eveline's, and the style of the pro se, in describing
her thought process, is strictly in keeping with the shifts in her emotions and
the simplicity of her mind. For example, in the beginning the pro se style
embodies as weil as expresses fatigue: "5he was tired. / Few people passed."
Lat-er, "in a sudden impulse of terror", she flees the house in such a panic that
the next thing she knows she is at the dock-and that is also the next thing the
reader knows. 5ince her mind is a blank during her flight and since the story
is a presentation of her stream-of-consciousness, there is nothing the narrator
can say. And at the very end, when she is so frozen with a paralysis of the will
while Frank is calling to her to follow hirn aboard ship, the author says, "He
was shouted at to go on .. ."-the only use of the passive voice in the entire
story!-before revealing her condition explicitly: "5he set her white face to hirn,
I, passive, like a helpless anima!."
,------- As Eveline never thinks of her outward appearance, the narrator does not
pay any attention to it, but ~oncentrates____~n d~v~l0l'}ngJlersta!e ofmind within
the last ho ur at horne and the following crucial minutes at the dock. The
t~_o.~ght process is simple: first, impressic)TIs from otltsi~te the __\'{in,4ow, such
as the view of the avenue and the sound of the street organ, evoke assoc~!ions,
with the p~ti then, 10_okil1 g w!!.~!'l.?er.r.<:>()m~?~_~e~~gs_her presentsituatio~:
finally she examines_yer~n jtl~$I!l~!1t. Everything seems settled, she nas
consented to go away with Frank and marry hirn, and has written two letters
of farewel!. But the nearer the moment of departure comes the more her strength
I
I"
"E,
194
",
fails her. The d~~~~ez:tt_()r~~rcrisis and faill:l~~_~~,~~,g~~Bcen!ly rendered
inJ'l_~_f'l~sical m~!!~l1~~ "5he sat at the window ... she looked round the
room ... she continued to sit by the window ... she stood up ... she stood
among the swaying crowd ... she gripped with both hands at the iron railing ...
she sent a cry of anguish ... she set her white face to him, passive ..."-this is
the helplessness of a paralytic.
,Furtherrnore,t~~" ITIo.yeJTt~nL<:>LtheSlQr:yJQ the clima2u~Lb~L,C;Qll,<!Fse is
sY-IEE~li~~ly_c_~nne<:!~,cLwi!!:_.!he_EssiE1E (Jf ,tiI!l_~J after an excellent initial
foreshadowing in the first sentence: "5he sat at the window watching the
evening invade the avenue", darkness increases outside the house and inside
her heart: "The evening deepened in the avenue ... Her time was running
out ... A bell danged upon her heart."
As so often with Joyce, particularly in Dubliners 1, escape is thetl1,~,ID.~ of
this story. It must have occupied his mind a great deal, and it is indeed a
problem that has long been of central importance to the Irish nation. Eveline
is faced with the question whether or not to escape by emigration from a life
that has been full of hardship and bitterness, with a tyrannical father
indined to violence and meanness, and nagging superiors in her job. It is a
kind of life that drove her mother crazy, and when "the pitiful vision of her
mother's life laid its speil on the very quick of her being" she tries to break
out in a sudden impulse of terror: "5he must escape! ... she wanted to live ...
she had a right to happiness." Frank has successfully ventured to the new
world. Even the priest whose photograph has been hanging on the wall as
long as she can remember is in Melbourne. I:mi&r:.a!i()l1, it_ appea..~s, offers the
Q}!Iy, ~~y_tQ ~CllY.~ti.Q..n.
Eveline~s experienced the excitement of having a "fellow" courting her
and has come to like hirn. He offers her ahorne of her own, happiness, love and
respect. "He would save her." So she has consented to go 'with hirn, and he
has booked their passage. 5he has written the letters of farewell to her father
and her brother. In an impulse of terror she flees to join hirn at the North
Wall where their ship is lying ready to depart. ~1..lL wQ~n_ßhe_fjnd5,_h~r?elf
"am()~g the swaying crowd", she feels lost in "a ,maze,of distress", and at the
la,s~_b_~rrier she breaks down", unable to throw off the chains tying her to
Dublin.
"
The-Cliagram on E:,1_~ may help to visualize th~,confliftil!ßlof(:§,aff~c;t!l1gFye:­
line'~,~~nd. The left half represents the life to which she is accustomed, to which
she dings in the end, and which, in its sterility, decay and horror is really
DEATH. The right half contrasts the chances that lie be fore her, freedom, and
happiness in a married LIFE. Given such a choice, the _~~,c:i~iorls~ems simple,
and it wa_s_de~r to Eveline as long as her es cape was only imaginative. But
the nearershe comes to its realization, the more the prospect beginst_oJrighten
her. All her likes and dislikes become painfully conflicting and ambiguous.
1 In "A Little Cloud", e. g., Little Chandler realizes, "if you wanted to succeed
had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin."
YOIl
193
L
Buenos Aires
ESCAPE to "good air"
Dublin
ENTRAPMENT in fatigue
dust
DEATH habit
-------- --------------- ---------a mare
of distress
DUTY in sterile family ties
father
water LIFE
change
HAPPINESS in fertile fulfilment
husband
This is first foreshadowed when she feels that however monotonous and
joyless her Dublin life, however bitter and depressing her sacrifice for her
family may be, "now that she was about to leave it SJ:l~__<:ii.~_!Lot findjtJL~ony
undesirable life". Change is already beyond her capacity and fills her with
a crazy fear which mi stakes salvation for destruction.
Joyce employs various symbolic details which underline his I!loratx~lu.aJion.
Most promiiient is tne ~ wFliCFl pervades the room where she is sitting as
weIl as all her life: "she had dusted [the fumiture] once a week for so many
years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from." The first paragraph
explicitly states the effect on her: "in her nostrils was the odour of ~
cretonne. She was tired." Dust suffocates, it is a roduct of deca and stagna­
tion.~veline has been poison~(1
it, her powers of motion seem araiE.~ "
as~by a drug~~~r '~er time was runn~.9ut,_~ut she ~ontinu~~s.!.t.PL!he ,
y!i!ldo'IVLlt:~l'l,~$ n~.!i<:aa_against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of
dusty cretonne". She is so w()m out Withlierttard w..9.!~ ~Fl~t she laCks t~e~_
strengt~_~::..~.!::~,:~~he courge ~to explore_~ther-rE~~nI~Y:· ", .','
Contrasted to tlle austö Du in is, orcourse:tFie good air l'romised by
Buenos Air~s, and, in a deeper sense, the water that is the way of escape and
symbolizes the life that lies beyond it. At the North Wall, which is an
appropriate name for a place that proves a barder to freedom a!l~ love, she
feels that "the seas of the world land of life] tumbled about her heart", and
her timid anatTreanearFlsxlOt able to stand the stressoITreedom, she "fears
w~~!.jt~n,e~~oujd-sav~::ner" (Tindall) and is afraid of bi{i{g 'drow~ed iIli'the
se~s. or the, world'~=:o sne-.C!~ss..!o.. t~e-~ai~~g f~~s:t.ipi)_~!t;-!l.~t realizlngtnal
she dings to th(barsotller:.yrlson.:.1VIagäIaner (p.126) sees "an unnecessary
waste of a carefully built-up symbol" in Eveline's fear of death by drowning
(which is echoed in Madame Sosostris' advice "Fear death by water" in T. S.
Eliot's The Waste Land) after the dust imagery. But he does not get the
irony-she is not afraid of death by water but of life. The dust=death,
water = life eguation holds consistently.
Another recurrent symboHc element is music, which seems to embody all
the beauty and sexuality that Eveline is missing in her life. There is still a
harmonium in her horne, but it is broken now. Frank is "awfullY}0!ld of
b
'\-Y
~
196
music", <;Ind she {eels the lure of a new life and distant, unknown countries
wFlen he takes her to see The Bo!!!:!!!:~a1! Girl (a long popular opera, written in
1843 by the lrish composer Michael William BaUe) and when he sings "about
the lass that loved a sailor". An orga!!:-&l::i11.~er had played "a melancholy air of
Italy" the night before her mother was finally released from Dublin by death,
but her father significantly had ordered the player to go away. When she hears
the same tune again, the recollection of her mother's pitiful end drives her out
of the horne, hut ironically it also seI"yes,,~'!(),!_~gtind her .?Lt.he. pr()mise,to
her moth~r,1:,<:!:. promise to k~ the horne together as lang as she could",
and thus increases the"conflict inher.\i\I1\en-snenfiaIfy-apprö<icnesthe-"s1Iip,
there is~J:1~nd~ng in the suns~J..r:~,_~ut instead "theYoatQ~.!Y_~J2!lK
mournful whistle into the mist", and in vain she prays to God "to show her
whaTwasl;er'düty".Butno heavenly Father answers her prayer, only her
real father is brutally present in Dublin.
Revi'ewing all the familiar objects in the room, Eveline also notices_t}:Vi',
religious pictures above the broken harmonium. One is a yellowing photograph
üra-'prlesr-wno had been a school friend of her father and later went off to
Melbourne, possibly in renunciation of his calling; this would explain why
her father does not like to talk about hirn. Australia, in the late 1.9th century,
was a haven for disreputable exiles from the British Isles. ~9 it ap'p-ea~hi'l_~
he had succee~,ed~her~E:v,=-llr:.~,}a.il~. The other picture is a coloured print of
the promises made to Blessed MaJ.g.gr~LMiuy_.Ala.cQque\ The latter was a
French nun (:1647-:1690) who became paralyzed because of the tortures which
she inflicted upon herseIE, but was miraculously cured when she vowed to
consecrate herself to a holy life. l!l.~Cl.!!l~_';V'!Y_.j::~~li!le's Jilt~L!t:?emJ:1les_1:ers
as she is paralyzed by her suffering, renounces her happiness and puts up
with a "life of commonplace sacrifices" and with a celibacy which is implicitly
condemned by Joyce.
Eveline cannot throw off the chains of convention and habit as she cannot
bear freedom, she i5 "too moribund to abandon the dust of her native
for the good air of exile ... The end is not a coming to awareness but an
anim~l.~xperience of inabilliY." (Tindall) "Dublin has won. Given a chance
of life, Eveline has chosen symbolic death. Se has refused to set forth over
the water." (Magalaner)
Dublin not only provided Joyce with an inexhaustible source of material
for a life-Iong writing, it also stirred up deep emotions in hirn, "the fury of
a lover at the hideous f1aws in his sweetheart", as Gorman says. In his letters
he called Dublin a moral and spiritual Ndunghill" or even saw it as "the fat
sow that eats its young". But while his mind was occupied with Dubliners,
Joyce also wrote, in a letter to his brother in 1.906: "Sometimes thinking of
Ireland, it seems to me that 1 have been unnecessarily harsh. I have reproduced
(in Dubliners, at least) none of the attraction of the city... I have not
The name also appears in Ulysses, where Mulligan prays to "Blessed Margaret
Mary Anycock", and makes the bawdy blasphemy c1ear with the word-play.
I
1:97
reproduced its ingenuous insularlty and its hospitality ... I have not been
just to its beauty ... And yet I know how useless these reflections are. For
was I to rewrlte the book ... I am sure 1 should find again what you call the
Holy Ghost sitting in the ink-bottle and the perverse devil of my literary
consdence sitting on the hump of my pen." It was not his intention to give
a just portrait, iri selecting his material he was guided by a moral purpose.
With regard to his countrymen he saw his book as a chapter of the "moral
history" of his country and a first step toward its "spiritual liberation"; in a
personal way Dubliners also gave Joyce an opportunity to state his reasons
for exile and to justify it before himself and before the world.
'1.
How much time elapses from the beginning to the end of the story?
Hardly more than one or two hours. At the beginning Eveline sits "watching the
evening invade"; while she is still musing "the evening deepened" and she knows
"her time was running out" as "she was to go away with [Frank] by the night­
boat". It is dark by the time she arrives at the North Wall, the embarkation
place for all sea passengers from Dublin; she sees "the black mass of the boat ...
with illumined portholes". This concentration in time is a fa miliar feature of
the modern short story, but here it serves to project the process in Eveline's
mind: from day to night, from the white letters in her lap to the black mass of
the boat at the North Wall.
2.
How
is Eveline able to carry the revolt against her father?
She met her lover secretly even after her father had forbidden her to see hirn.
She has consented to go with hirn to Buenos Aires and to the booking of their
passage. She has written two letters of farewell to her father and brother. She
hurdes to the dock.
3. What do Eveline's changes of posture indicate?
She sits at the window while meditating on her life at home. She stands up in
a sudden impulse of terror (and goes to the docks). There she stands among the
swaying crowd with Frank holding her hand. But she il> afraid of falling, feels
sick and finally collapses, clinging to the railing. These Httle changes indicate
her situation: she enjoys a comparative safety at home, but feels lost and threat­
ened in a new life.
4. What did she want to escape from?
The drab, joyless misery of her home life in one of those "little brown houses"
that "seem the very incarnation of Irish paralysis", as Stephen Dedalus says in
Stephen Hero; the weekly squabble for money with her father and the fear of
his violence "that had given her the palpitations"; Miss Gavan's sneers at the
Stores; the hopelessness of her situation, the example of her mother's fatel.
5. Wlwt was she attracted by?
By any chance of changing her present condition; in particular by a) the dream
of freedom in a foreign world touching hers in the photo of the priest, Frank's
face of bronze, The Bohemian Girl, Frank's tales of distan! countries and the air
of Italy; b) the love, happiness, marriage and respect offered by Frank, who used
to callher by a pet name and in many ways promised to make another person
of her. But it is only the dream of escape that is attractive; she shrinks from its
realization.
~
6. Why does she faiI to fo/low Frank?
a) She is tired, intimidated, neurotic, accustomed to her daily routine;
b) she is afraid of making amistake
"Was that wise? She tried to weigh each
side of the question ... [people might] Say she was a fool, perhaps." (Cf. Stephen
Dedalus at the end of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, before leaving
Dublin: "I do not fear ... to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid
to make amistake, even a great mistake, a lifclong mistake, and
as eternity too.") c) she is sickened by her attempt to move
7· What are the dominant symbols in the story?
a) dust: with its associative overtones of death, decay and drabness it character­
izes her liEe in Dublin and the condition of her mind which is paralyzed from
years of "inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne" b) ~: it is the means and
the symbol of es cape to distant countries, specifically to Buenos Aires and a
married life with Frank, but ironically she experiences it as one unable to swim
- "he would drown her"; so she rejects her salvation; c) music: it represents
emotion and happiness; the harmonium at horne is broken, lJüDrank's songs,
The Bohemian Girl and the Italian organ-grinder are full of promise. The street
organ, however, also has an ambivalent function in the story: apart from its
foreign charm, the "melancholy air of Italy" connects the two decisive nights in
Eveline's life, it reminds her of her promise, and at the same time of her mother's
fate that is threatening her, too. - lt is significant that the father had ordered
the organ-grinder away: "Damned ltalians! coming over here!" (Cf.Shakespeare,
Thoe Merchant oi Venice, V, i, BJ-BB)
8. What symbolic names occur?
Buenos Aires offers "good air"; the North Wall proves a barrier without a gate
tothe south and chilis her passionate impulse: "She feit her cheek
and
cold ... She set her white face to hirn"; The Bohemian Girl connects the charm
of distant countries with the lure of the restlessness and freedom of gipsy life;
Frank' s name recalls the meaning of medieval Latin francus "free"; Eveline is a
deminutive form of Eva, which is derived from Hebrew havvah "life"; she is
called Poppens by Frank, which evokes associations with puppet "doll, ma­
rionette".
9. How does Joyce employ colours?
1 The
puzzling "Derevaun Seraun" is perhaps corrupt Gaelic for "the end of pleasure
i5 pain", cf. Tindall p. 22. But whatever it me ans, it shows the mother's insanity.
~
;J
1.98
Eveline lives in an old brown house full of dust, while the new houses buHt bv
the man from Belfast are red, bright brick houses with shinlng roofs; the old
'199
.....
photograph on the wall is yelloroing: brown and yellow are Joyce's colours of
paralysis and decay (Tindall p. 2.0). Note that Frank's skin is not brown but
bronze.
10.1s
Eveline a stupid girl?
From the monotonous form of her thoughts one might get the impression that she
is rather simple, slow-witted, naive. But although she is outwardly passive and
obviously incapable of either a lasting effort of will or a strong emotion (her
only impulse we learn about is one of terror), the trail of her thoughts is prima­
rily a reflection of her distress at feeling lost in a maze of conflicting views. In her
helplessness she opens herself up to an associative chain of recollections and
visions in her mind. We can only say that her hard life has left her tired, frus­
trated, resigned, frightened, without confidence.
11. What
is Eveline's duty?
She prays to God to show her what her duty is: a) she had promised her mothet
to keep the horne together and look after the younger children (cf. A Portrait of
th.e Artist as CI Young Man, where Stephen Dedalus discusses the obligations of
a child towards his mother and refuses to obey his mother; making up his mind
to "Let the dead bury the dead", he escapes to freedom); b) her father would
miss her, he was becoming old Iately and would depend on her care; c) she had
promised Frank to go with hirn and marry hirn. In the end none of these duties
prevails over the others; they onIy help to increase her conflict, which is finally
decided by her weakness.
12.Does the author condemn Eveline, or does he pity her?
He makes it dear that she could not heip behaving as she did, but considering
his feelings for Dublin (see analysis), he certainly condemned her final decision
and feIt pity for her. In the story, however, he merely gives a quiet, accurate
recording of his observations without moralizing overtly. In none of the " es_
cape" stories is the main charader able to realize his dreams of escape. They
are common people who act as most Dubliners do.
TEXT: James Joyce, Dubliners, pp. 11-:15. Velhagen
British Short Stories of To-day, pp. 7-:10. Hirschgraben.
Reeent British Short Stories, pp. 5--<}. Diesterweg.
CRITICISM: Becker, Hans-Wolf, "James Joyce, 'Eveline"', Interpretationen moderner
Kurzgeschichten, Frankfurt :1956, pp. 58-6:1 - Ghiselin, Brewster, "The Unity of Joyce's
'Dubliners''', Accent XVI, Summer :1956, pp. :199-2.00 - Givens, Seon (ed.), lames
loyce: Troo Deeades of Criticism, New York :1948, pp. 6:1-63
Magalaner, Marvin,
Time of Apprenticeship: The Fietion of Young lames loyce, London/New York/To­
ronto 1959, pp. 118-128, 152-153
Tindall, William York, A Reader's Guide to
lames loyee, London :1959, pp. 2.1-22.
200
~g
CRITICISM: Ghiselin, Brewster, "The Unity of Joyce's Dubliners", Accent XVI, Spring!
Summer 19.56, pp. 2.02.-3 - Levin, R. and Shattuck, c., "First Flight to Ithaca",
Accent IV, Winter 1944, pp. 89-90; reprinted in Givens, ed., lames loyce: Two
Decades of Criticism, New York 1948, pp. 73--76.
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less the "objective correlative" to the "internai" level. The former includes
plot elements like M.i!ria: S!!.cJ!vltje~"Jte.Ltn1!n~ridj:!"<i.rtfL~lillp-ping/.JM~~_Y!'!IliDg
.with Joe, game3arld.ITI~r:.rY~}~lakirl&A~~_crip-ti.~n 9f J"TliJ!~.t!.~rI(tP-llY~~!1ue. The
latter contains such elements asM~!"la~~._b.lu~hes~~~ben her hjdd~ll desires ~
~!!1:l:-!~c2~,.,~~r s,!;lf-cOmEi\~jJ~-!!!:s~,,-~hlil/;_~bame at her gii'..tia.~12..n
1'/-)
-
Maria had on ce been a nurse to loe and Alphy Donnelly and areal mother as weil.
After the break-up of the family, the boys, who are grown up now, had procured her
a place in alaundry, where she aets as peacemaker and mother to all the women.
One Hallow Eve, she has tea with them. The women as usual tease her by saying
that "Maria was sure to get the ring"
to agame of divination popular in
Ireland on Hallow Eve. Maria laughs and says "she didn't want any ring or man
either". Then she buys cakes for 10e and the children with whom she 15 going to
spend the evening. To her shame and distress she finds that she has lost one of the
cakes because of a "colonel-Iooking gentleman" who had been "niee with her" in the
tramfAt loe's horne she is welcorned with "0, here's Maria!", and everybody tries
to be kind to her, though 10e has, as usual, drunk too rnuch which renders hi~
irascible. She plays with the children and, blindfold, lays her hand on what is
probably garden-earth, then on the prayer-book and not on the ring, which her
hostess interprets as an indication that "Maria would .enter a convent before the
year was out". When the chi/dren grow tired, Maria sings "I Dreamt that I Dweil"
omitting two verses. Yet nobody tries to point out to her the rnistake. Toe is rnoved
to tears "that he could not find what he was looking for and in the end he had to ask
his wife to tell hirn where the corkscrew was".
.The,st~clmin;t~s)towards the end in the two successive episodes of the
div~n ame and Maria's somehow disturbing ..pl!.fformance of the §.~
I; from Ba 'p.era. The girls, Maria with them, are made to choose blindfoldi
. through a freak of the children she makes a "wrong" choice, put~her".finger
~ Sl<iY, After this failo/e she chooses "rightly", i. e. the prayer-book, and with
it, the prospect of a convent. In terms of the interpretation proposed, her first
choice is "right", too. She instinctively moves toward clay, the substance out
of which God has made man. Her natural functions appear hereby to be those
"of a mother and a tutelary spirit to hornes and families, though she is-!:..~
~ Her second choice, the prayer-book, which seems to pre­
destinate her to seclusion and sterility, is also appropriate. It might be noted
that children, who are nearer to nature, have caused her to choose in the
i! direction of her vital functions, whereas e substitute ch ice, urged upon her .
.I. by the adults, p()}nt!>J:0wards frustratioxyand permanent ce i
{L..."e#-.....>tf ~L.":"
;/ These two choices are symbolic, they define Maria's double nature: 'her
earthly functions in the sense of the Roman Lares, and her derivative aspira­
tions towards spirituality traditionally connected with the notions of religious
fervour. The ambiguity is parallelIed in the structure, which is marked by the
continuously maintained tension between two opposing lines of force, which
correspond to the dualism of objective and subjective levels of reality, both
modifying each other, whereby the "external" level tends to represent more or
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Obviously both spheres ougnftobe treated separately for the sake of änaIysk
though they constantly merge, condition, and elucidate each other.
Apart from the dualistic groundwork there are some other structural devices
referring to the arrangement of plot elements, their coordination and gradation
which together provide a satisfactory working basis for the step-by-step
anal~l.s.towhidl~e Sllall now pr(lceed. The story begins in medias res with
information as iQ_ihLm.?!rL9)i1r:.i1<:~e(s_ function"in..life~ ..p}.!I_~~~~_d tiE,:t~!"._~.:,-_~
nouncing what scope the action will presumably take in the course oTt11e story.
The following ~entens~~pJa~~ ..!ls in .!h~J<.itsh~n;J.t~_E.~atness is a..Ji.rs1..h!!!La.!..
Mari_a'~ own~J:~9.in~s~~~. Spurious yet relevant information on her popularity
permits to set the story within.lhL?o~i~Lmml:?.!!..of a Q!;l!>.li!!..1:l;1~~ry,-J:,.rit~
9tl<lr~e}liIlg "".()~!en, a board of supe:,:,i~~:s~ an~ the matron. The exposition
goes on witn a Uoüble skip: one into tl1e tuture-l\IIaria planning her _~~g
Qllt{notice how tight the grip of the central figure on the reader has already
become at this pOint)-,Jhe second, a flashb~lCk2~to her past connecting Maria's
existence at the laundry with her former occupations, explaining th-iläTferln
terms of the present situation, hut only as rar as ihIs is essential to an under­
standing of the story as it iso
The end of the first part, tea i!l_th~ laun,~ry, deepens the psychological
aspects hitherto merely suggested by tl1!:! incursionsjntQJ:tatia~ons<:i2E~ness:
~~~e.E~}.s..J~,P.J~i,~"t.her troubles with Lizzie/s ...un.t.imely.rema. rks as w.ell as
inhibited S'se~mYth-en"5he-äamiE~~~er
···iraiTittlebOd{rlJeIOie
out. So the first part serves as an exposition, but it is more than a mere
polation of relevant background material into the narrative present. The
flashback already introduces and prepares the second and main part. The
parallelism of the two parts._appears through the repeated celebration of
Hallow Eve and the allusions to the ring in the laundry.
The ride through Dublin reinforces the expectations of something crucial to
happen, carFying with it an increasing assertion of Maria' s yearnings, which
reach their apogee in the double choke and the subsequent epiphany of the
song ~her_e. Ma!.ii1:~!l_~~bin$.c!.o.II( is .d~~~losed. E~r:ry~..~if.\K r:~~:,~~ towards this
instanJ_ oJrt:vela!iQn,. Its suggestion of ~e;.ssed ~IiQl!al.grives is revealed by
the "mistake" Maria makes when she omits the two cent~al verses ofher song.
This scene with its paroxysm of emotion is skilfully rounded off by the relapse
into Joe's maudlin sentimentality, which furnishes a counterpoint to Maria's
beautiful vision of a shining "GraU" and reestablishes the balance between the
two levels of reality.
The working out of the structural groundwork of conflicting external and
internal tension with the subsidiary devices of ordering and gradation shows
2°7
~
Joyce's skill in blending objective and subjective levels, which is part of his
technique of symbolic illumination of consdousness. Several examples of de­
dudng internal data from outside observation are found in the opening para­
graphs, so the bIen ding of the description of Maria's voice and language with
its psychic connotations, such as peacefulness, friendliness, affection, and calm.
Symbolic texture-,is also noticeable where Maria dresses for lier evenmg·öüt
(p. 38, 1. 6-17); there is again..!he association of present-day reality to related
me~~~. with .a.!ubsequent plun~e.....!!!!2,.!Plr.e:>.f~ctIo!.'.:)E..~.!.~!!'ins skill of
. TmEng ca~ stüa':iea on 'f1le"'flrst two a es:'"fiom Maria's pianning her
evenmg ou
e narra ve s 1 es 0 ac ground information serving as ex­
position to Joe and his sphere, intermingled with details on Maria's past in
flashback technique. From there it moves towards the present, merging into it
characteristic facts about her education, phobias, and hobbies. The following
passage (p. 37, 1. 20-;8) shows how the narrator combines this system of
linking with repetitions in order to create patterns of mounting tension: the
motiYe.....o.f "the old maid" is introduced when Maria blushes the first time at
~l
I 1~:~e~~~:i§#~;~Jr~~bg:~~~ ~1a~~lyj~~r~··!~~}~i.:lrf~i~f~~~;·~i:ni~
i dramatized and receiveJ'Hs finaLc:onsecration in the
son~. Throughout a
constant drive from the outside wodd of perception across the realm of children
to the revelation shapes the symbolic texture of the story.
The symbolic pattern of interplay between inner and outer levels should also
include an explanation of title and setting. It had been assumed that Maria
lays her hand on ~arden-earth (probably in a flower-pot), before the " m istake"
can be corrected. xcept for brief allusions~-fue t~xt
s to"garden" (p. 41,1. 25),
this assumption is mainly grounded on
an'Ii ?rs of the title which seems to
refer. to .somethin g vital in the heroine's moral persona ity, her attachment to
~J,~'l:I}4.na,t.w:e.. "Gay" suggests the Bible and ancient myths, notions of plt-"
- creation,an~fe:~!li!Y,v.~_<:!,_p::~_:,:te.Ql: t.:J(t an~he!pto create a prospect of
i!f~h~ouna vitality wniCh is opposeato tne idealizing, extramundane fanciful­
ness 01 Maria's inner life.
Maria (the "Virgin" of the Gospel to whom mysteriously a great promise is
made) is resented at first in the s ick-and-span neatness of the laundry
kikhg}1J.el()ing her domest!c .:w()r wH .. e. mency, aisCfefii5il:;""ai'ii:t'aaeve)fiön
.typical of womanhood (p. 36, 1. ;-9). 5he gradiially appearsinhei fwo aspects
of virgin and mother: as a mother to the quarrelling women, she i~U~_e-zood
s~ri!~f the house, loved...b)' all,ffi!ldly teased on unfreguent occasions, and
indispensable. She sees that th~ caI<es areegually distributed, that' the dummy
is ~eJltreate~; ~h~!!g()od-~~tured and generous. When she lived with Joe and
Alphy, Joe used to call her "my proper mother''{p. 37, 1. 9); she piously keeps
a purse "with silver clasps", a present made'-1)y the two brothers; afterwards
she vainly endeavours to reconcile them. She does not want to be "in Joe's
way", she gladly adapts herself to the life in the laundry; she joyfully anti­
cipates "all the children singing" (p. 37. 1. 1). She plans her presents, chooses
them slowly and carefully to the annoyance of the shop-assistant. Like a good
~
'2""-.;
,
fr.,l!:l<:::....
,I
~ 208
house-wife, she counts her money, meticulously prearranges and tim es her evening: in all this she is a true mother to all those who are placed under her tutelage. Q!l_ the_.9.!h~ hand, the profusion of love and devotion to others is a substi­
,
tute for unfulfilled motherhood. tIIreanord maid she llIushes at tllemere l1iUt -" '"
at a husband:5eeI<ing to hide her confusion.She reacts like this wheneverner .." j ,7 .
hlaaendesiresrISk'tö bii dF"iiIgeer(p. :,8;L i;p. 41, l. 17; p. 42, 1. 8). Her
"
shyness and sensitivity border on sentimentality and simplidty of mind (cf.
p. 39, 1. 19). 5he feels slighted by the young men "none of whom seems to notice her", and she welcomes the elderly gentleman's courtesy, his dvil talk and bowing to which she responds by "demure nods and hems", Bodily she is a.spinster, dry and shrunk from long sterility, thin, smalI, with a long nose and a long chin, yet agile and unobtrusive Iike a mouse (p. ;8,1. 29). She likes to be independent "and to have [her] own money in [her] pocket" (p. ;8, 1. 23), ;,; ~r:_i,s. ~.9lt!!'.~~.&?~..aE_~?_har.es the prejudices of her religion, though she must . ,:1/
)"
admit that Protestants are "very'ruce' pe"öl'teu:...--.....__..._... ~----_...._.".. , .
ü: q,
,Themottt€ y ::vrrtn aualfsm also accounts'for the two outlets of her longings
for motherhood: er dreams and her devotion to strangers. In the formeT, her
status of maidenhood is preserved with its collateral notions of purity and
perfection;. yet it is divorced from real life. On the other hand, she tries to
live up to her ideals in her care for others. But here, the truth is that she has
no children, nö-!1usba'i1d, and no norne of her own: her active life is just a
compensation for her failure. Dreams are beautiful, but reality is ugly, instead
of harmony discord reigns in it, as Shöwn in the hagglings of the laundry­
women or in the disputes of the brothers. 1s there then no link between dream
and reality, imagination and life?
The atmosphere at the laundry and at Joe's horne is im re nated with the
ir~aQiätr6nd·orMäTlä'5 ..s9~dness and Iove;-ner- mner wea t 0 simpre'äffec­
tions and motherly care mingled with a curious kind of lofty idealism give
weight and purpose to her thoroughly commonplace Me. On the private
there is some sort of mutual conditioning of the two spheres: both provide
possibilities of realization for each other, they cannot exist separately.
Secondly, employing her motherly virtues to the benefit of other people, Maria
asserts her place in sodety as a valuable member. 50 on the social level, too,
there is a solution. And thirdly, on the aesthetic level, the balance between the
two spheres which had been alluded to during the discussion of plot-structure
points in the same direction; a particularly rewarding example of it is the
skilful "tuning-down" ofthe high-pitched key in which the song is set. The
brightness of Maria's visionary realm of fancy is degraded by the parodistic
character of the song and by the ensuing senten ce in which Joe reacts with
outbursts of drunken sentimentality to Maria's singing. If thus, on various
levels, an eguiHbrium of tensions seems to settle the guestion of structuraI
irresolution, another point remains open: how does the story advance, or how
is its progress structured?
The narrative seems to move in concentric lines from the external plane of
2°9
individual-sodety conflict to the exploration of the depths of Maria's psyche
and her neuroses: untiI the shoddy rnyinesoFtne-Vlctörlan opera reveal the
emohonal nudeus, her dream of everlasting courts hip in marble halls, with
splendid knights sitting at King Arthur's table, vowing her eternal homage,
vows which she rejects, faithful to her true love (suggesting perhaps her self­
denial). Through the parody of the song her shrine of hidden treasures is
opened, but partly only, for she leaves out the more revealing middle verses:
I dreamt that suitors sough~ my hand /D IX,e !:
That knights on bended knee,
~
And with vows no maiden heart could withstahd, •.
They pledged}heir faith/to me. --;;~ /c"oc ".,,~ ,1':."0';"
i'(' <;;1:,. "'''; '" ~ /'//
CZ<l a
-! '!-"~.
j ', .. ".,
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And I dreamt that one of the noble band
I
Came forth my heart to claim, '" 4:, dc<-~<,... cl / cv.:.1r
But I also dreamt, which charmed me most,
That you loved me still the same.
I
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would you explai71 terms like "genteel", "ever so nice" in Maria's
language?
They belray a curious affedation and, mixed with it, a slight condescension (cL
Maria looks down on "the notions of a common woman"). She seems to have
picked up these words from her social "betters". The use she makes of them be­
comes unintentionally ironical for the reader only, as it teils hirn much about her
character.
-
3. What is loe's
),
t'
~
2. How
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It is worth mentionin that the move horn outward to inward reali foreshad­
ows the Joycean concept 0 progressive reve ation rom concreteness t rough
harmony to "clarity" as described in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
The story leads towards an epiphany of this sort, and this, together with the
principle of balancing opposing elements, is the major artistic achievement of
"Clay". Very significantly, art alone is capable of producing the final illumina­
tion. The song strongly suggests and, at the same time, parodies the Art-for­
Art aestheticism of late Victorianism connected with names like Tennyson,
Rossetti, Pater, and 5winburne. Though Joyce seems to ridicule this tradition­
the song 1s a pa stiche-, it would be wrong, too, to see in the whole story only
a tour-de-force. Maria is not a travesty of Flaubert's Felicite. She 1s real, and so
are her dreams.
1. Explain
the syntax of sentences like "Then she thought what else she would
buy" (p. 38, 1. 34). Find similar examples.
It is an example of the use of third person stream-of-consciousness technique. The
narrative moves from the omniscient author's point of view to the subjective one
of the chief charader. There is a plunge from outward presentation to revelation
of mind process. The two levels are not kept apart, but they communicate. Other
examples for this: p. 40, I. 6, 16, 26, 29: p. 42, I. 4.
p. 38, 1. 6 shows a slightly different treatment of the same problem: the author
tries to cut down distance between reader and heroine by making hirn participate
in her feeling of relief. Here the proeedure is more traditional in the fashion of
author's comment.
It should be noted how truthfully Maria records speech (p. 39, I. :l0i p. 40, I. 1
and elsewhere). Maria's attachment to objective reality shows the importance of
the "objedive correlative" in the symbolic structure of the story.
in the
He is directly opposed to Maria: his quarre150me, marse vulgarity (cf. p. 40,
I. 17, how he tries to appear smart to Maria) jars with Maria's delicacy, just as
do the laundry women. The world in which Maria has Iived aII her life is a world
of diseord, where brothers quartel, families break up. TQ jt belong all thosp,.:wIm
live outsideJv1aria's_~e~!gLQ! virgjll!!lp~9~~'
4· What is the significance of Maria's breeding ferns and wax-plants?
They provide again a substitute for her mothering instints. The fact that they do
not grow outdoors but in a hothouse and that they do not blossom suggests the
artifieiality and seclusion of Maria's existence.
5· Wlwt is exactly Maria' s mistake?
She makes two mistakes: firstly she allows herself to be confused by the polite­
ness of the elderly gentleman; during a moment of distraction, for wh ich she pays
.Y with the loss of the cake, she loses control of herself destroying the careful divi­
sion between practical duties and dreams which is a condition of her balance of
mind. The second errar is subconscious or ~s; she omits the two inner
verses of the song, which w;'uld have-revealed the extent of her secret longingl';.
In terms of structure, the withholding makes the ideaHty of Maria's inner king­
dom appear even more remote; being kept outside the text, it falls outside the
range of the ordinary reader's miml.
6.1s
realistic or
?
It is realistic in the sense that there is nothing in it which transcends the scop~
of human experience. It is symbolical, as it is mainly concerned with spiritual
truth underlying common experience. It contains a large number of symbolic
elements: the end, e. g., is symbolical. Yet allegory and symbolism are merely
functional in the sense of establishing relationships between Maria's inner voice
and the praetical world.
It is psychological in as far as the characters are seen more from within, yet it is
not exclusively psychological in the conventiona! sense, though the chief revelation
involves the subconscious. Social implications are present, too, yet they do not
dominate in the general strueture and balance. In the last analysis, it is a self.
contained unit to be explained only in its own terms.
7· What features point towards future worb like Ulysses?
The stress on the final revelation of Maria's consciousness as a "showing-forth"
of truth, together with the fact that this truth is interior; the limitation of per­
00
~
210
211.
..
~
spective to a single mind as centre of perception, the fragmentary adoption of
the interior monologue, the skill of shifting planes, the relative brevity of time
elapsing during the course of action, and the direct transcription of mind process.
8.
!
What is the symbolic meaning of Hallow Eve?
AUhallow Eve, the spooky night of the thirty-flrst of October, is celebrated espe­
cially in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales with traditional merry-making, compris­
ing games of augury, among which the divination of the bridegroom; the latter
evidently contributes to the shaping of the central character. This day, of all, is
the day of lonely maids.-The story was originally entitled "Hallow Eve". Note
also how Maria's "very Iong nose and ..• very Iong chinI' (referred to four times)
give her a witch-like appearance, and that ~alIowe'en is "her evening out".
TEXT: James Joyce, Dubliners, pp. 36-42. Velhagen.
CRITICISM: Brooks, Cieanth, John Purser, and Robert P. Warren, An Approach to
Uterature, New York 19523 , pp. 137-4° Carpenter, Richard, and Daniel Leary, "Thc
Witch Maria", lames loyce Review III, :1959, pp. 3-7 - Davies, Philip George,
"Maria's Song in Joyce's 'CIay"', Studies in Short Fiction, I, :1964, pp. :153-:154 Magalaner, Marvin, and Richard M. Kain, loyce: the Man, the Work, the Reputation,
New York :1962 (paperb. ed.), pp, 84--90 - Noon, William T., "Joyce's 'Clay"', Col­
lege English XVII, :1955, pp. 93-95 - Pearson, Norman H., "Joyce's 'Clay''', Expli­
cator VII, :1948, item 9 - Tindall, William Y., A Reader's Guide to Tames loyce, New
York 1959, pp. 2.9-31 - Walzl, Florence L., "Joyce's 'Clay' ", Explicator XX, :19 62 ,
item 46.
82
Rainer Werner
Unterrichtsideen
Kurzgesch ichten
in den Klassen 7-10
27 handlungs- und produktionsorientierte Vorschläge
,
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Ernst Klett Verlag Stuttgart Düsseldorf
Leipzig Sequenz 111: Liebe, Ehe
Übersicht über die Unterrichtssequenz
Dieses Kapitel setzt das vorige Thema "Erwachsenwerden; Pubertät, erste Liebe"
fort. Die hier versammelten Texte zeigen ein buntes Spektrum dessen, was sich auf
dem Felde von Liebe und Ehe ereignen kann. Geschildert wird der Versuch eines jun­
gen Mädchens, im Gefühlswirrwarr, dem Heranwachsende oft ausgesetzt sind, den
richtigen Weg in der Liebe zu finden, eine erfüllte Liebesbeziehung zu begründen.
Dann finden sich Texte, in denen gezeigt wird, was aus Liebesbeziehungen wird,
wenn die Liebe erkaltet ist, wenn das ehemals grandiose Gefühl, das man für ewig
hielt, sich in Gleichgültigkeit, Langeweile oder gar Hass verwandelt.
'-­
Bei';"Eveline" von James Joyce geht es um ein junges Mädchen, das die Gelegen­
heit zur Heirat mit einem jungen Mann verpasst, weil die Bindungen an das eigene
. Z~ause; und an den Vai<t,~ s~chals Z\!.$ta!k erweisen. :mer,:erleb~, di~ §chül~~ M~
i Veirhaltensmuster aus vergarigerier Zei(als sieh die "Ab:ilabelung" det Kinder dQht . .
so früh wie heute und unter sehr viel mehr Spannungen vollzog.
.' ; :
Die beiden nächsten Geschichten "San Salvador" von Peter Bichsel und "Happy
end" von Kurt Marti passen nicht nur thematisch, sondern auch sprachlich gut zu­
sammen. In sparsamer Diktion - mehr Andeutung als Ausführung umreißen sie er­
kaltete Ehebeziehungen. Auch wenn die Schüler ähnliche Erfahrungen noch nicht
gemacht haben, werden sie die hier geschilderten Gefühle nachempfinden können.
Die Häufigkeit von Ehescheidungen in der Gesellschaft macht es wahrscheinlich,
dass man in der eigenen Familie oder in der Verwandtschaft schon Ehekrisen oder
Scheidungen hat erleben müssen.
Die Kurzgeschichte "Känsterle" von Rainer Brambach schildert den eruptiven Aus­
bruch von Gewalt, durch die ein in einer ungleichen Ehebeziehung gedemütigter
Ehemann sich Luft verschafft.
;
Für die Besprechung der Sequenz erscheinen die Jahrgangsstufen 9 undJO als beso~ders ,geeignet.
.
Erzähltechnisch bietet die Textzusammenstellung in diesem Kapitel eine variations­
reiche Vielfalt. Der klassische Erzählduktus eines James Joyce steht in einem deut­
lichen Kontrast zur verdichteten, lapidaren Schreibweise der beiden Schweizer Au­
toren Bichsel und Marti, die in ihren Texten viele Leerstellen für das eigene
.
Nacbempfinden lassen.
..
~ r~t V'?1l Brambach s\cizziertln einem, in ~ltäglicher~pl{ache vffi3.§step. ])i~pg .
,i::"
\.-
d~~ B~ych9gr~~~ineriq*~~n,B!~gr.:h.:t9.~ ®~rt4!.€fi\l.e9 Pil4~~~~f..«1~,
~wa~JI:~verseheQ~~erbencht.:,
"
.' . . j 'J"
'::,.", ~ ".:'
Die Verfahren, die zur Ers~hließung der Texte im Unterricht vorgestellt werden,
chen vom Weiterschreiben der Texte bis zum Verfassen eines inneren Monologs.
Wichtig ist bei all diesen methodischen Varianten, dass sich die Schüler in die Per­
sonen der Handlung einfühlen und in ihrem Sinne "agieren".
.
rei­
55
.•
... James Joyce: EvelineEine Geschichte zu Ende' schreiben
Interpretationsskizze
Diese Erzählung aus dem berühmten Prosa-Erstlingswerk "Dubliners" (erschienen
1914) von James Joyce schildert den gescheiterten Ausbruchsversuch eines 19-jähri­
gen Mädchens aus einer bedrückenden häuslichen Umgebung, Eveline hat die Mög­
lichkeit, durch die Heirat mit einem jungen Mann, deIJl Matrosen Frank, in einer
neuen Umgebung in Buenos Aires ein befreites,~eachtetes Leben Zl!fiih,reI;l. ;I.p.Jl~r '. "
Stunde der Abreise auf dem Bahnhof schreckt sie jedoch vor diesem neuen Le:ben ;, ,,'
zurück, reißt sich von der Hand des Geliebten los und bleibt ihren alten Verhält- .
nissen zurück,
Eveline hätte viele Gründe, dem tristen Leben an der Seite des Vaters zu entfliehen: ,
Sie nennt es selber ein "banales Opferleben", in dem sie nicht nur vom yater.
handelt ("Gewalttätigkeiten"), sondem auch unnl~ndig gebillten
.
in
Sj~,ihr.!~~.~!,.an~n ~~.").~\!:ch oo,~~~R~;~~~I"'~.·ifr~~~d .',
.
b~~1sstd1elstfür·Eyel:ine ebehf~lsxntht'. .edige~d: ~ll
fui schlecbt behandelt und herumkommandiert: ' h'
'neuen
an
Franks verbindet Eveline nicht nur gesellschaftliche Anerkennung ("Die Leute wür­
den ihr dann voller Achtung begegnen;"), sondern vor allem die Erfüllung des Rechts
auf Glück, Sie bezeichnet den gemeinsamen Weggang und die Heirat mit Frank
sogar als Rettung, als die Möglichkeit, ihr die Erfüllung im Leben zu geben.
Diese beiden Seiten, die Evelines Entscheidung beeinflussen,. werden im Lauf der
Erzählung in ihrer Gedankenwelt mit immer neuen Gefühlsregungen und Vorstel­
lungen angereichert: Mit der Heimat, dem Hierbleiben, verbindet sie "Schutz und
Nahrung", also Geborgenheit, mit der neuen Heimat in der Fremde hingegen Unge­
wissheit, ja die Angst vor dem Untergang ("Er würde sie auf den Grund rej.ßen."),
Auch der Vater gewinnt im Fortgang der Erzäbl~ng Ilositivere Züge;;.JvI~c1Mn!ll
konnte er sehr nett sein." Auf; der al}de~~ Seite Ylfrkö~Frank' al1 di,e ~g~:psc,q*
ten, die sie selber nicht besitzt: Er istleI;>ensfroh up.d ~bc:~teuerlustig. ein~~kFrr 1'YE~,
der ihr Sc~utzgeben kann ("sie in seine, Arme hüllen").
..... n . ,I '; I.ei
Dass für Eveline letztlich die Angst vor dem Neuen und die Macht der Gewohnheit '
den Ausschlag geben, kann einerseits als Charaktermerkmal gedeutet werden, Sie er­
scheint als passives, wenig selbstbewusstes Mädchen ("saß am Fenster" / "sie war
müde"), das sehr von der Anerkennung der Menschen um sie heruin abhängig ist.
Andererseits ist die Anhänglichkeit an die Familie auch Produkt ihrer.ßr+i~h~ng'l ~i~
.I
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dem
V\"prP~~Imi,*terfüllung,~ OIlf({:rberl:liy;chafteU:lj)glf!n.~o!hal-si~.!~{,~~, ". ...
,
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~..uttef~~,V,CfF.~Br~9iHin$eg~!lent"~,~l\~,
tel:m~W1~~lfff~~~~~
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...... ~M*( .. ·1Jlllltlp
.. riffp~~ ;~. ,~Wif~ ~1!1ii;: ./1 ~~; ,t .
vermlssen," DIe negativen Erlebrusse Dllt,dem Vatet (Bevonn1llld~g;.~(t)~·~"
nen also die elementare Vaterbindung nicht außer Kraft setzten.
Eine letzte Begründung für das Hierbleiben liefert ein Blick auf die. Liebe, die Eve­
line für Frank zu emIlfmden vorgibt. Das Gefühl der Liebe wird von ihr eigenartig
IWIIII"'II!
56
~J-
passiv formuliert: "und dann hatte sie ihn auch bald geliebt." Das klingt nicht nach .
heißer Liebe und Leidenschaft. Von Frank erwartet sie in erster Linie "Schutz", dann. '
"vielleicht (1) auch Liebe." Dieses zaghafte Liebesgeftihl ist am Ende der Erzählung; ~',
als Frank der Zurückbleibenden "Komm!" zuruft, sogar ganz erloschen und einer pa-'
nischen Angst gewichen: "in ihren Augen war nichts, keine Liebe, kein Abschied,
kein Erkennen."
Methodische Hinweise
L' "
In der Erzählung bleibt relativ lange offen, wie Eveline sich entscheiden wird. Immer wieder wird das Verlockende des neuen Lebens mit den Fesseln des alten kontras­
tiert, ohne dass eine Seite ein entscheidendes Übergewicht erhält. Diese Spailnungs­
technik, die Joyce hier benutzt hat, kann für den Unterricht genutzt werden. Die , ,Schl1ler erhalten den !ext~vollst~dig - die entscheidende, Schi\lsspass~~ wp-d I • ::iunl~~st ausgespart. IDen Schülern> wird das Fehlen des Schlusses nicht aUffallen.
,Allliu oft haben sie schon Texte ken,nen gelernt,' die ein offenes Ende aufwiesen. Oie'
;Erzählbng wird imUritemcht gemeinsam bis zum vorläufigen Schluss gelesen. '!.
Die Besprechung des Textes beginntrnit der Klärung unbekannter oder altertümli­
cher Wörter. Dann wird der Gehalt der Erzählung über die Hauptfigur Eveline er­
schlossen. In einem Tafelbild werden alle äußeren Merkmale und alle charakterli­
chen Eigenschaften gesammelt.
I
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11
.Tafelbild
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Charaktereigenschaften
- stammt aus kleinbürgerlichen
Verhältnissen
- Mutter gestorben, versorgt Vater
und kleinere Geschwister
arbeitet in einem Geschäft,
muss Lohn zu Hause abgeben
- h~t ein hartes Leben
:: (~i.l1&rt einen MatrOßen ~up;l.Fre\l,O.!i1,
;~,i·jim~ank)II,,!, !
" -, will ihn heiraten,~ mit ihm
I,
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Eveline
äußere Merkmale
~,
. ' (,
; .jl"
liebt ihr Zuhause, die Geborgenheit
macht einen passiven Eindruck
("sie war müde")
- wenig selbstbewusst, macht sich
viele Gedanken, achtet auf ihren
Ruf bei anderen
- pflichtbewUsst, möchJ:e,den Va,ter
nicpt imStich lass~nl.' ',::U!
- sql}.eint fnp.lk,ni~M ri:<;p~g rru ,lj~ben , 1
'!:: ~
j,'
I
j ~swandern
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i;
it"
Als weiteren Schritt der Besprechung klären wir, was Eveline von ihrer Flucht aus
der Heimat und der Heirat mit Frank erwartet. Dies sind zum einen "Schutz" und
,.Nahrung", also etwas, was in erster Linie ihr Schutzbedürfnis befriedigt. Dann redet
.i
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'511', ' I
80
....
sie noch davon, dass Frank ihr "Leben ... geben"., "sie retten" würde, Von Liebe ist nur mit einem einschränkenden "vielleicht" die Rede. An dieser Stelle wird die Deutung der Erzählung abgebro«hen und den Schülern ver· raten, dass der besprochene Text unvollständig sei. Das Ende,"31so die Frage, ob Eve­ line mit Frank tatsächlich flieht oder nicht, müssten sie selbet schreiben. Durch den' bisherigen Gang der Geschichte ist noch keine eindeutige Lösung präjudiziert. Je nachdem, welchen inneren Beweggründen und Gefühlsregungen der Hauptperson die Schüler den Vorrang einräumen, werden sie dann die Flucht des Mädchens ge­
oder misslingen lassen. Als Schreibzeit sind zwischen 20 und 30 Minuten zu veran­
schlagen, Danach werden die Lösungen der Schüler' vorgelesen und iJ:ri Unterrichtsgespräch auf ihre Plausibilität hin untersucht. Dabei sollte der Lehrer irnrner wieder auf die' wichtigsten TextsteIlen verweisen, die das vom Schüler Geschriebene stützen oden,' widerlegen"
' . ., I , ,:',..
Etfahrungen im Unterricht haben gezeigt, dass hmgenund Mädchen die Gc;schiÄl\'te,1i :'
. mit
.: unt~r~c~.·edliche~ Augen .lese~ .~d verar~te.n: Wäbr~nd .rue.Jun.:~.'.• lN.:.~..~•.': :!I;:\ ,
,I ~se bel ihrem ~eltersc,hrelbe~'mels~e~ dazU:ne~~e~, die Fl~chrI9i~~~~~~-~i(i lingen z1,11as~~n, grbt es beI den Mädchen lmmer ·t).vel h~iß umstrittene Vanant:C:!n:.c;e';I',.i .,Flucht mit Frank ins volle Glück (oft pathetisch und letchtkitschig verfdstfuhd'~
wehmütige, opfervolle Zurückbleiben beim Vater. Die Diskussionen über dies~Lö~ , > '
sungswege kreisen dann meistens um die Frage, inwieweit ein junges Mädchen das
Recht hat, ihr eigenes Glück notfalls auch gegen den Vater zu verwirklichen, oder ob
es nicht.auch so etwas wie soziale Verpflichtungen gibt. Während die lungen *ltip.
der Regel recht unkompliziert mit dem Vater ideWifizieren,unq dem Mädchen den
Opfergapg auferlegen, pochen die Mä~~n vi~l häufi,ger. ~nd :viel f'!~~~t t~f.
'lliJ' dAA ~~H;;e~~~l!fPt:IJ.~Weges1 Alitf, <l\!qpJti~r ~j:>tie~,;,;'j~.na~p. ~1iffirt'c~~8 '
- den l\flder~n, den altruistischen Lös~gsweg.,
,,::'
i :::n. Dt: reh de.ll·
Der Höhepunkt der Besprechung besteht darin, dass der Lehrer den Originalschlus'S
von Joyce vorliest und mit den Schülern bespricht. Hier wird im Wortlaut dann für
alle Schüler deutlich, dass das Pflichtbewusstsein die ausschlaggebende Kraft ist, die
Eveline zurückhält ("Gott .. , ihr zeigen, was ihre Pflicht war"). Die ganze Anspan­
nung Evelines und ihre Angst vor dem Ungewissen in der Fremde entladen sich in
einem "Angstschrei" und in der Geste der Erstarrung ("passiv, wie ein hilfloses
Tier"). Gedankenwelt und Körpersprache Evelines verraten hier mit aller Deutlich"
keit, dass ihr das erbärmliche Opferleben zu Hause allemal verlockender vo~ko~
als das neue Leben am Rande des Untergangs ('.Er zog sie hinein: er würde sie auf
den Gruqd reißen.").
.
"
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SpraGhij@- sPlisti.~<;he B!ltr!lchtungen:~nd ;Qb~gung~n zur: ErzäPl1W'~~~ti'l~~ib ..
d,IJ., auc.Q);rierI4ep~b~ohl'ijslitper Be~~W1g!di4\Ser:Et;~~W1g.·Pen$~~
m
a~fg~aI,l,M !)eW, ~s., die, wh:Jlic~ ij~qng in dje;s~r~schicht~ijW;~.h~mbti,
dass ~velineihren Standort vom Fenster im eigenfil Zirti:aler{zweimal.~t'.e~,',sil', .:
saß am Fenster") zum Bahnhof verändert. Aber auch dort wirdsie nicht als aktive >' '
Person, sondern statisch und passiv beschrieben: "Sie stand .. : in der Menge" und
"wie wahnsinnig packten ihre Hände das Eisen" (des Gitters). Sie bleibt zurück,
"passiv, wie ein hilfloses Tier." All das, was wir in der Geschichte über :Syelin~, ijl;>er,
\'L;]
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ihre Familie und ihren Heiratswunsch erfahren, erleben wir als Teil ihrer Gedanken­
welt. Es geht dem Verfasser um die inneren Vorgänge, um die Enthüllung einer cha­
rakterlichen Disposition. Der Erzählerstandpunkt wird ins Bewusstsein der Haupt­
person verlegt, eigene Kommentierungen unterbleiben völlig. Auch die Schilderung
von Gestus und Körpersprache, also von Äußerlichkeiten. werden in den Dienst die­
ses psychologischen Erzählens gestellt. Die Erzähltechnik ist die der Erlebten Rede
("Sie würde dem Geschäft keine Träne nachweinen" / "Sie musste fliehen!"), die
sich durch die ganze Erzählung zieht. Sie ist die Vorstufe zu der noch direkteren Mit­
teilung innerer Befindlichkeit, dem inneren Monolog. Diese Stilform hat Joyce dann
in seinem Hauptwerk, dem Roman "Ulysses", zur Meisterschaft entwickelt.
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