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Justin Chen Smiling Before Death: The Fictional World of Joyce’s The Sisters James Joyce begins and ends his collection of short stories, Dubliners, with tales of death—an understandable if morbid choice for an author interested in exploring the theme of paralysis as it relates to his native Ireland. The first story, The Sisters, revolves around the passing away of an old priest who actually suffers from paralysis during his final days on earth, while The Dead, which concludes the collection, is more concerned with the dual possibility of death in life, as the protagonist Gabriel realizes is his lot, or life in spite of death, as in the case of the shade of Michael Furey. The grim theme of mortality that ultimately, shroud-like, enfolds Dubliners through its dominance in the first and last stories is carefully laid out by Joyce. The fictional world constructed in this opening story by Joyce carefully draws the reader into the mood necessary for understanding the full implications of death in the Dubliners collection. Unlike others of Joyce’s stories, including The Dead and Eveline, The Sisters is narrated in the first-person—there is no free indirect discourse that allows a shifting of perspectives within a third-person omniscient framework. The first-person narration causes the reader to view the fictional world developed by Joyce almost exclusively through the eyes and ears of our young anonymous protagonist. In this way, we identify with a youthful perspective from the outset. The narrator begins the story with the rather grim statement, “There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke” (Joyce 7). (i) This description of the third recurrence of a serious medical problem immediately invokes the concept of mortality, as does the boy’s feeling that there is “no hope for him this time.” Beyond immediately bringing up the topic of death, Joyce also sets up an opposition that will remain important throughout the story—that between youth and old age. At first this dichotomy is left implicit. We suspect that the narrator is young because in the second sentence we learn that “it was vacation time” (Joyce 7), a statement that only applies to those still in school—and the priest’s advanced age is strongly suggested by his susceptibility to strokes. There is even a possibility that Father Flynn has already passed, a situation that the narrator decides to be untrue because “if he was dead…I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind, for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse” (Joyce 7). Nor is Joyce finished weaving the first strands of his narrative web. Before the conclusion of the first paragraph, he also manages to introduced the concept of paralysis that proves so central to both the collection in general and this story in particular. In fact, Joyce refers to Dublin as the “centre of paralysis” in Ireland, as quoted by Florence Walzl in her essay Gabriel and Michael: The Conclusion of ‘The Dead’ (Walzl 425). (ii) The subject is introduced by the narrator, who says, “Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis” (Joyce 7). “It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism” (Joyce 7). Interestingly, the narrator’s rather naïve interest in the word causes himself to be paralyzed in a way—one can almost picture him as he stands outside the house, fixedly staring up to his friend’s window and wondering what ravages the disease is producing on him. And indeed, the narrator admits, “[paralysis] sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look up on its deadly work” (Joyce 7). The very concept of paralysis has a paralyzing effect on him, drawing him nearer in fascination but also repelling him with its horrible crippling consequences. The narrator’s observation about the jarring effect of words like paralysis, gnomon, and simony explicitly fleshes out a concept that is only hinted at in Gogol’s short story The Overcoat. Gogol describes Akaky Akakievich in a curious way: “He was short, somewhat pock-marked, with rather reddish hair and rather dim, bleary eyes, with a small bald patch on the top of his head, with wrinkles on both sides of his cheeks and the sort of complexion which is usually described as hemorrhoidal” (Gogol 305). (iii) The abrupt appearance of the Greco-Latinate “hemorrhoidal” at the end of an otherwise unremarkable list of adjectives peppered with diminutive modifying words like “somewhat,” “rather,” and “sort of” produces a disorienting effect for the reader. This disorientation is a characteristic of the grotesque that the Russian literary critic Boris Eichenbaum has suggested “makes it possible to play with reality, to break up its elements and displace them freely, so that normal correlations and associations (psychological and logical) will prove inoperative in this newly constructed world” (Eichenbaum 288). (iv) Joyce’s technique here is similar—the word paralysis is so striking compared to the otherwise mundane words that comprise the narrator’s discourse that we, much like the boy, find our attention unavoidably drawn to it. If Joyce’s intention really was to discuss Dublin’s paralysis, then this Gogolian method of startling the reader with a word like “paralysis” may be calculated to make us step back and realize that we, like the boy, are fascinated and simultaneously paralyzed by it. As the previous discussion regarding unusual word choices suggests, Joyce’s invocation of “gnomon” and “simonist” is also significant in a larger sense. A gnomon is an object, such as the style of a sundial, that projects a shadow used as an indicator. As such, it serves as a symbol both of the passage of time—i.e. mortality—and of mediation. A simonist is one who engages in the buying or selling of ecclesiastical pardons or offices. As we are shortly to discover, both of these concepts prove important for a fuller understanding of Father Flynn. The opposition between young and old that was established so early in the story is strongly reintroduced in the conversation with Mr. Cotter in the narrator’s home. The narrator repeatedly refers to this man as “Old Cotter” and a “tiresome old fool” (Joyce 7), and he describes how he “soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery” (Joyce 7). Cotter, then, seems on some deeper level to represent stagnation and old age. Interestingly, the narrator’s uncle also refers to Father Flynn as “your old friend” (Joyce 8), placing the late priest roughly within the same generation as Cotter. Meanwhile, Cotter observes, “I wouldn’t like children of mine… to have too much to say to a man like that” (Joyce 8). When the aunt asks what he means by such a statement, Cotter continues, “It’s bad for children. My idea is: let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age” (Joyce 8). He continues later, “It’s bad for children…because their minds are so impressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it has an effect…” (Joyce 9). The patronizing tone with which Cotter makes these statements infuriates the “young lad” to whom they are obliquely directed, who says, “I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to my anger,” and later admits, “I was angry with old Cotter for alluding to me as a child” (Joyce 9). Yet during the night he is haunted by a vision of the “heavy grey face of the paralytic” (Joyce 9), and his own childishness is confirmed by his decision to “think of Christmas” (Joyce 9) as a means of dispelling his fears. This continued emphasis on old versus young is not merely accidental. Quite the contrary, it sets up a strong opposition that dominates the story. Father Flynn’s generation is dying out, and the narrator’s is just being molded. In this sense, the old priest should serve as a sort of father figure for the young narrator, who we gradually realize does not really have parents, just an aunt and an uncle. Yet we immediately see that these expected roles are reversed, at least in the narrator’s head—“[the grey face] murmured; and I understood that it desired to confess something…It began to confess to me in a murmuring voice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were so moist with spittle” (Joyce 9). The roles are clearly upended in this dream, with the older priest figure actually seeking out his younger friend as a confessor. Also interesting to observe is the sound pattern Joyce develops here with “smiled,” “lips,” “so,” “moist,” and “spittle”—all words containing a sibilant “S” sound that almost makes the reader’s lips themselves moist with spittle just to read it. The awkwardness of this clumsy consonance deftly enhances the feeling of paralysis that has already been developed by strengthening the ghost’s inarticulacy. The smile itself is also an important image to note, since it seems oddly out of place in this macabre confessional scene. In fact, the narrator soon reveals, “I too was smiling feebly, as if to absolve the simoniac of his sin” (Joyce 10). Feebleness, like paralysis, is portrayed as a sort of gripping and unavoidable affliction. There seems to be something false in a feeble smile, as though some other emotion were being disguised behind the dissembling façade, and one is forced into the smile by some hidden reason. The apparition’s smile covers up a shameful need to confess, while the narrator’s smile seems to slip out unintentionally as the result of an equally inadvertent absolution of the priest’s sin—which absolution, incidentally, again ties into the reversal of roles developed by the entire dream sequence. Furthermore, the second appearance of “simoniac” strikes the reader’s attention, both because it stands out from the otherwise pedestrian prose and because it has already been singled out earlier in the story as a particularly arresting word. Thus, Joyce demonstrates here a conscious weaving of internal themes that the reader must track for a fuller understanding of the story. The word takes on special significance here because it is so religiously charged, and especially because it is applied to a Catholic priest. Just as the feeble smiles that are passed back and forth between the narrator and the apparition appear to conceal some hidden emotion on the part of each character, so too does the word “simoniac” suggest that something illicit has occurred regarding Father Flynn’s priestly office, and specifically, that perhaps a pardon has been granted that should never have occurred. Joyce continues to develop the theme of paralysis in the ensuing pages. The narrator describes Father Flynn’s traditional post “in his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his great-coat” (Joyce 10)—a description whose idiomatic use of the word “smothered” suddenly takes on a much more morbid cast in light of his imminent demise. The Father’s priestly garments are described as “ancient” (Joyce 11), further emphasizing the age contrast between the two figures, as well as the sense of stagnation surrounding the old priest. Furthermore, the narrator expresses annoyance “at discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if I had been freed from something by his death” (Joyce 11). As in the dream sequence the evening before, some indefinable feeling lurks under the surface here, for we do not yet know of what the narrator has been freed—and nor, apparently, does he. Like paralysis, or the various smiles throughout the story, freedom comes unwillingly and inexplicably. The narrator next describes a typical interaction between himself and the former priest, in which he becomes overwhelmed by the complexity and mysteriousness of “certain institutions of the Church which I had always regarded as the simplest acts” (Joyce 11). He goes on to single out two of those institutions: “The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist and towards the secrecy of the confessional” (Joyce 11), which he views as so grave as to demand great courage. Once more, Joyce brings in the concept of the confessional, an office that it seems the apparition was asking the narrator to assume during the dream sequence, but which we now understand is almost terrifying to the narrator in its seriousness. The other priestly duty that the narrator finds daunting, the Eucharist, seems irrelevant at the moment, but it becomes important later in the story with the introduction of the image of the chalice, as will be discussed below. Again, through a number of seemingly casual mentions of certain motifs, Joyce is able to establish a profound connection that remains important to the end of the story. Nor is the same theme explored exhaustively in any one particular passage. Rather, the various threads with which Joyce binds together his fictional world overlap and intertwine, the staggered layers always complementing one another with increasing complexity. The next important motif that is reintroduced is that of the smile, which we first encountered in the macabre dream sequence of the night before. Now, the narrator reminisces about Father Flynn’s actual smile, which appears to be provoked by the narrator’s “very foolish and halting” (Joyce 12) answers to the old priest’s difficult questions about the finer points of Catholic doctrine and ritual. The sense of dissemblance is once again present here, as the narrator himself does not seem to feel that his “foolish and halting” answers warrant a smile. Furthermore, the narrator notes, “As I pattered, he used to smile pensively and nod his head” (Joyce 12), a description which clearly indicates that the old priest is not actually listening to what is being said. Again, the smile forms a sort of mask that partially obscures true feeling—the pensiveness is what gives away the deeper emotion underneath. Finally, the narrator describes Father Flynn’s rather repulsive method of smiling itself: “When he smiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let his tongue lie upon his lower lip—a habit which had made me feel uneasy in the beginning of our acquaintance before I knew him well” (Joyce 12). Once again, the feeling of discomfort that seems to surround smiling in this story is invoked—only this time, the uneasiness is present in the figure of the narrator rather than the priest. Something unsettling remains a part of the interaction, but the reader as yet does not know the cause. However, sufficient instances of this theme have emerged that further instances of smiling should immediately provide grounds for alertness in the reader. The final scene in the novel takes place at “the house of mourning” (Joyce 12), which the narrator and his aunt visit after sunset. The close juxtaposition of the words “mourning” and “sunset” cues the reader to consider the theme of mortality because of the clever pun on “mourning” and because of the strong life/death symbolism associated with the rising and setting of the sun.. Furthermore, we learn that despite the late hour, “the window-panes of the houses that looked to the west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of clouds” (Joyce 12). The traditional association of west with death because of the sun’s daily trajectory is emphasized here because of the mourning/sunset imagery previously discussed. It is interesting to consider the meaning of the gold color on the windows despite the fact that the sun has already set. One possible implication of this imagery is that death—i.e. the sinking of the sun beneath the horizon—is not necessarily final, a conclusion that seems borne out by the unnerving appearance of Father Flynn within the young narrator’s dreams, and which is physically manifested by the golden sheen on the windowpanes even after dusk. Incidentally, the theme of windows is also interesting to trace throughout the story, since they often seem to reflect the mood of the narration. After the young protagonist hears that the priest has passed away, and he feels an almost annoying sense of freedom, he walks “along the sunny side of the street, reading all the theatrical advertisements in the shop-windows as I went” (Joyce 11). The sense of optimism is reflected in the sunny aspect of the street, while the sense of annoyance at the seemingly inappropriate feelings the narrator feels is reflected in the mundane advertisements present in the windows. Even in the first paragraph of the story, the narrator fixates on the windows of the priest’s room as an indication of the ailing patient’s welfare. When it is lit “faintly and evenly” (Joyce 7), he knows that all is well. It is only if he sees the reflection of the two candles placed at the head of the deceased’s bed that he knows his friend will have been lost to him forever. This emphasis on the evenness of the lighting seems to parallel the description of the windows of the westward-looking houses, which reflect the golden hue of the cloudbanks. Such a parallel serves to strengthen the argument that there is some sort of residual hopefulness in the story—that despite death, a golden and even light can shine on. This is an image that we know is symbolic of life, as we know from the narrator’s earlier discussion of the importance of seeing an even glow in the priest’s window from the street. In a collection of stories that begins and ends in death, perhaps this is Joyce’s way of providing a glimmer of hope, at least at the story cycle’s opening chapter. A “dusky golden light” (Joyce 13) similar to the one that is reflected in the windows of the houses also suffuses the room in which the priest’s coffin lies—seemingly another optimistic sign. Yet we also learn that the narrator’s feeling that “the old priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin” (Joyce 13) is mistaken. Instead, the corpse’s expression is “solemn and copious” (Joyce 13). Because smiling has been established so far in the story to indicate some discomfort or falsity, this seems to be the first instance in which the priest’s true feelings are revealed. The most important detail about the corpse of Father Flynn, however, is that “his large hands loosely retain a chalice” (Joyce 13). Bearing in mind that one of the rituals of the Catholic church that so terrified the narrator was the Eucharist, this detail of the chalice suddenly takes on a much greater significance. In death, Father Flynn has reclaimed his priestly duties, and it appears that the narrator no longer must worry about needing to act the part of the confessor. Perhaps this reversion of roles to their rightful characters is what allows Father Flynn to rest so peacefully—without smiling—within his coffin. The women marvel at the priest’s peaceful demeanor, but do not reflect on this subject for long, for Eliza inserts, “Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over him latterly. Whenever I’d bring in his soup to him there, I’d find him with his breviary fallen to he floor, lying back in the chair and his mouth open” (Joyce 16). The word “queer” has been mentioned once before in relation to the priest by Old Cotter, who said near the story’s beginning that “there was something queer…there was something uncanny about him” (Joyce 7). Once again, it is clear that near the end of the priest’s life things were not as they should be—a situation that is also reflected in the priest’s feeble and pensive smiles, as discussed above. The telltale presence of the breviary on the old man’s lap is one more symbol of the demanding office of the priesthood. It is almost as if Father Flynn is overwhelmed by the tasks that are set before him by the Church. Such a conclusion is borne out by Eliza’s observation that “the duties of the priesthood was too much for him” (Joyce 16). The narrator’s aunt agrees: “He was a disappointed man” (Joyce 16). For the moment, however, it is still unclear what the cause of the priest’s suffering might be. Finally, the key to the story is seemingly revealed by Eliza: “It was that chalice he broke…That was the beginning of it” (Joyce 16), she says. If, as has already been suggested, the chalice represents the sacrament of the Eucharist, which was mentioned by the narrator as one of the two priestly offices of which he was most terrified, then the breaking of the chalice seems to represent some sort of repudiation—intentional or not—of the priesthood. But it is not Father Flynn who has done the fatal deed. As Eliza informs us, “They say it was the boy’s fault. But poor James was so nervous, God be merciful to him!” (Joyce 17) The narrator himself is therefore directly implicated in the destruction of the sacred and symbolic object. By taking the blame for the narrator’s actions, it seems that Father Flynn has, in an altruistic manner, martyred himself for the sake of his young protégé. “After that he began to mope by himself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself” (Joyce 17), Eliza continues. The physical paralysis that is later to afflict the priest seems to have begun its deadly work on his mind. Eliza goes on to describe the circumstances under which the priest is later discovered in the chapel: “There he was, sitting up by himself in the dark in his confession-box, wide-awake and laughing-like softly to himself” (Joyce 17). In this final dramatic scene of the story, Joyce weaves together the various threads that he has been developing up until this point—darkness, laughing or smiling, and the confessional. The emergence of a true laugh, rather than the awkward smiles from earlier in the story, indicates that some threshold has been surpassed, and that the priest is probably expressing a true emotion—even if it is motivated by insanity. Also, the fact that he is in the confessional suggests that he, like his apparition in the narrator’s dream, has the need to reveal some shameful secret. Additionally, the sibilant “S” sound that was last seen in the description of the grey-faced apparition’s lips, which were “so moist with spittle” (Joyce 9), is evident again here with “sitting,” “softly,” and the repetition of “himself,” as well as in the narrator’s next line of description: “She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was no sound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still in his coffin as we had seen him, solemn, and truculent in death, an idle chalice on his breast” (Joyce 17; my emphases). The hissing of the “S” sound almost fills the silent house, at least in the reader’s mind. The confluence of these various themes that Joyce has developed throughout the story at this critical juncture suggests that an understanding of them is important in order for the reader to gain a deeper understanding of the priest’s demise. One possible interpretation is that in order to atone for the boy’s fear of Catholic ritual, as symbolized by the destruction of the chalice, Father Flynn accepts the blame for the sacrilegious act, thereby driving himself to madness. This conclusion seems to be borne out by the haunting scene just described, in which he is found madly laughing by himself in the confessional. Perhaps, then, the glowing light that suffuses the death room and also glances off of the westward-facing windows is symbolic of the good that the priest has done by this final act of martyrdom. By taking the blame on himself, he has doomed himself to an ultimately fatal paralysis—but he has also saved the boy from his own disbelief. Thus, we see that The Sisters is not ultimately about Father Flynn’s death, but about the rescuing of young life, in the form of our narrator. The last story in the collection, The Dead, contains a similar inversion of death and life imagery in the character of Michael Furey, who seems to come back from the world of shadows through Greta’s memory and Gabriel’s imagination. Here, the priest gains peaceful rest only after sacrificing himself for the sake of another. And only now does the full implication of the word “simoniac” from earlier in the story become clear—Father Flynn seems to have abused his function as a priest by taking the blame for himself and thereby requiring another to act as his confessor. Interestingly, in a story entitled The Sisters, the subject of the narration is not at all focused on the two sisters. In fact, it is difficult to discover to whom the title refers, for there is only one explicit mention that Eliza and Nannie are actually related: “Then, at her sister’s [Eliza’s] bidding, she [Nannie] filled out the sherry into the glasses and passed them to us” (Joyce 13). Much of the actual action of the story has been dictated by male characters—the narrator, Father Flynn, and Old Cotter—with the women providing the sort of gossipy backdrop through which the reader gradually understands the events that have truly transpired. Yet we cannot simply dismiss the naming of the story. Clearly, Joyce intends for the reader to consider how Eliza and Nannie somehow relate to the themes discussed above, despite their apparently supporting roles. Perhaps we are meant to see them as just as paralyzed as the old priest himself in their inaction. Support for this interpretation comes during the scene in which Eliza describes a particular dream of Father Flynn’s: “But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer was over he’d go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old house again where we were all born down in Irishtown, and take me and Nannie with him” (Joyce 16). This desire to return to one’s place of birth seems eminently symbolic of rejuvenation and the purity of childhood—an idyllic journey that was, unfortunately, never realized. While Eliza blames this missed opportunity on the fact that they never managed to “get one of them new-fangled carriages that makes no noise that Father O’Rourke told him about” (Joyce 16), the unfulfilled dream seems to reflect a deeper level the paralysis that has invaded all of their lives, lack of a horseless carriage notwithstanding. One gets the sense that these three can never make it back to their childhood home, for they belong to an old and fading generation. Nannie is almost deaf, and both she and Eliza have spent most of their time caring for Father Flynn in his last days. Only Flynn himself has done something noble in attempting to sacrifice himself for the sake of the narrator, and it has resulted in his death. And thus, the word “gnomon” finally works its way back into the narrative. The priest and the two sisters are symbols of the passage of time, just like the stylus of a sundial. Their paralysis, as reflected by an inability to return to the way things once were, is represented symbolically by the gnomon’s static nature. Thus, we have explored the way in which Joyce constructs a fictional world through various repeated words, images, and sound patterns. While both the first and last stories in Dubliners revolve around the inescapable presence of mortality, much of The Sisters seems concerned with providing an optimistic interpretation of this theme. While The Dead ends with the haunting phrase, “He heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead” (Joyce 255), The Sisters concludes with Eliza trailing off into an ellipsis, furnishing very much an unfinished feeling that hints at the possibility of more to come. The sacrifice of Father Flynn, as explored through the imagery of confessions, smiling, simonizing, and light, helps the reader understand how such an optimism is possible within the context of a tragic and paralyzing death.
i) Joyce, James. “The Sisters.” Dubliners. Hamburg: The Albatross Verlag. 1932. ii) Walzl, Florence L. “Gabriel and Michael: The Conclusion of ‘The Dead.’” James Joyce Quarterly. Tulsa: University of Tulsa. 1966. iii) Gogol, Nikolai. Tr. Constance Garnett. “The Overcoat” (Ed. Leonard J. Kent). The Complete Tales of Nikolai Gogol. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. iv) Eichenbaum, Boris. “How Gogol’s ‘Overcoat’ is Made." See Tyco pg. 90. |