"The Dead" is the final and most celebrated story in Dubliners. Set during a Twelfth-Night (Epiphany) party in Dublin, the story moves from lively social realism to profound emotional and philosophical reflection. Through the character of Gabriel Conroy, Joyce explores themes of identity, paralysis, love, memory, and mortality.
In almost every work of fiction, readers have to get their feet under them at the beginning of the story by figuring out what the setting of that story is. Setting is a fictional sense of time and place. And even when a work of fiction is set in a real-world time and place, like late 19th-century Dublin on the feast of the Epiphany, it presents an interpretive rendering of that time and place, a particular “take” of representation.
We can call this the "Given World" of the piece, and we can usually figure it out within the first couple of pages of a novel or the first couple of paragraphs in a short story. The given world sets a horizon of the possible: a matrix of what can happen within that narrative world physically, socially, technologically, even legally. In a story that appears to be true-to-life, like "The Dead," we certainly wouldn't expect an alien to show up with a lasgun and slice Gabriel in half in the middle of his after-dinner speech.
But Joyce makes it harder to figure out what this given world is, because he likes to switch how his narrators speak. One of his innovative techniques was to write a paragraph or other unit of text in the manner that the character who dominates that passage would write it. In this opening scene, it looks like Lily is actually the narrator of the first paragraph. The first paragraph here focuses on Lily, and we could say that the narrator takes on her persona in that paragraph. (for some reasons why this might be so, see below)
But by the second paragraph we're back into a more neutral narrator, until eventually the paragraphs appear to be written by Gabriel Conroy. This ambiguity about the narrator means that we can't be sure they're telling the objective truth, or even know it. In fact, we can't be sure there's any objective truth at all.
This phenomenon of a shifting narrator reflects the general loss of trust in authority (government, the church, the military, the media, and the like) in the industrial world of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. We can't assume that the words on the page constitute absolute truth and possess utter authority.
The word "eyes" occurs 39 times in this story. As with "Araby," Joyce focuses on them. At almost every turn, they remind the reader of what they are really seeing in the text.
They're peppered throughout this story. Here are just a few:
| quadrille | recruits | Lancers | rival ends |
| sentries | squads | uniforms | orders and counter-orders |
| officer | military review | manoeuvres | sally |
| Even the music is about the military or has a military origin: | |||
| "Let me like a Soldier Fall" | "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" | ||
This is the most ambiguous image, especially in the final two paragraphs. People arrive shaking the snow from their clothing and shoes. They talk about the snow frequently, and they return home in it. People like the look of it, and Christmas isn't Christmas without it. On the other hand, it caused Gretta to catch cold coming home from this party last year, and is now making Bartell D'Arcy hoarse.
Every mention of the snow sets us up for the final two paragraphs, where Mary Jane's
“we haven’t had snow like it for thirty years; and I read this morning in the newspapers that the snow is general all over Ireland.”
becomes part of the most lyrical paragraph in prose that I know of:
Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves.
There are four major sequences that the story walks us through. In each of them, we find Gabriel being confronted by people and events that shake his confidence. This evening will force him to reconsider how well he knows the world he lives in, the people around him, and even himself.
Joyce focuses primarily on the arrival of Gabriel and Gretta. Gabriel is the favorite nephew of Julia and Kate Morkam, the hosts of the party. But the first part of the story focuses on his interactions with Lily. He's left a bit flustered, because it seems like he can't get his foot out of his mouth.
“The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.”
When Gabriel speaks with his aunts, Gretta makes him look a bit foolish, telling them of his insistence that their son wear a green eyeshade (this relieved eye strain caused by the harshness of early incandescent lights), their daughter eat oatmeal, and Gretta wear galoshes. (Notice the verbs she uses: "making" and "forcing" — these imply a bit of violence.) Those galoshes are a bit of foreshadowing, because, as Gretta informs the group, "Gabriel says everyone wears them on the Continent."
All of this is just good-natured kidding, but it makes Gabriel nervous, so he tries to reassure himself.
Kate reinforces the idea that Lily has been changed somehow by her recent experiences. She notes that, "She’s not the girl she was at all."
The group assembles to listen to Mary Jane play a difficult piano piece, but Gabriel can't enjoy it, because it's just too showy. His mind wanders to his mother and her death. She had opposed his marriage and described Gretta as "country cute." And yet Gretta was the one to nurse her through her long and ultimately fatal illness.
The group begins dancing, and Gabriel is paired with Molly Ivors, who gets a little snippy with him because he writes reviews for a pro-British newspaper, The Daily Express. She's an Irish Nationalist, and asks him if he is a "West Briton," or someone who's sympathies lie more with London than with Dublin. When they speak about their summer breaks (they're both teachers), Gabriel shows his lack of interest in all things Irish. Molly urges him to spend his summer holiday on the Aran Islands in order to regain a sense of his Irish culture.
Shaken by Molly's attack, and worried that she'll be critiquing his after-dinner speech, Gabriel retreats to a quiet spot to rehearse it:
He ran over the headings of his speech: Irish hospitality, sad memories, the Three Graces, Paris, the quotation from Browning. He repeated to himself a phrase he had written in his review: “One feels that one is listening to a thought-tormented music.”
And then there's a glimpse of the man behind the rhetoric:
Very good: that was one for Miss Ivors. What did he care that his aunts were only two ignorant old women?
He's using this speech as a vehicle to get back at Molly Ivors for her criticism of him (she won't be there to hear it, so this is a hollow victory). And his view of his aunts as "ignorant old women" says that he recognizes his overblown praise of them, but presenting them and his cousin as Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite—and himself as Paris—advances his own cause.
During dinner, Gabriel doesn't engage with any of the lively conversation going on at the table. Joyce reports it to us, and it's on a topic that Gabriel should enjoy, but he remains focused on his food.
He is set apart again, and a bit more of his nature is revealed when the pudding (dessert) comes out:
All the gentlemen, except Gabriel, ate some of the pudding out of compliment to Aunt Julia. As Gabriel never ate sweets the celery had been left for him.
As he stands to deliver his after-dinner speech, his mind focuses on two more military images: the Wellington Monument and the Field of Fifteen Acres, the site of military parades.
Notice how backwards-looking Gabriel's speech is. Although he says he won't linger on the past, he's all about tradition and nostalgia. He compliments the "spacious days" of the past, and compares the current generation unfavorably to those who have gone before him. Hs calls to mind sad memories, alluding to death multiple times. Even his praise for his aunts and cousin is couched in terms from classical mythology.
Gabriel stands alone, away from the rest of the company, as he waits in the hall and sees Gretta at the top of the stairs listening intently to a song being played in the other room:
There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter.
Soooooo . . . . where's the woman here? Where's his wife? Where's the mother of his children? He's not seeing her as a person; he's not wondering why she's listening so closely to this song. He's already turned her into a symbol and imagined himself a painter. He's interested far more in the interplay of colors than he is in the woman who is standing in front of him.
At first glance, Gabriel's story about his grandfather seems pointless. But the story itself, and his acting it out by pacing in a circle in the hall, serve a symbolic purpose.
In his story, this Irish horse and rider, circling round and round the statue of of an English king, cannot break the vicious circle of Irish subjugation to English rule. His closing line, "Can't understand the horse!" is particularly apt. Gabriel himself is bound upon the same wheel. He thinks he has an independent spirit; he does not. He thinks he's very cosmopolitan, but his world is actually pretty small, The tragic conclusion of this story stems from Gabriel’s incomplete knowledge, his lack of understanding, of himself, his wife, and his country.
Gabriel practically works himself into a frenzy of lust as he and Gretta proceed to the Gresham Hotel. His feelings begin in "tender joy," and by the end of their journey turn to something else:
But now, after the kindling again of so many memories, the first touch of her body, musical and strange and perfumed, sent through him a keen pang of lust.
Joyce describes Gabriel's desire in pretty violent terms:
his arms were trembling with desire to seize her and only the stress of his nails against the palms of his hands held the wild impulse of his body in check.
At the Gresham, Gabriel's struggles to control himself continue, as does the violent language:
He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so abstracted? He did not know how he could begin. Was she annoyed, too, about something? If she would only turn to him or come to him of her own accord! To take her as she was would be brutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyes first. He longed to be master of her strange mood.
“When did you lend him the pound?” she asked, after a pause.
Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking out into brutal language about the sottish Malins and his pound. He longed to cry to her from his soul, to crush her body against his, to overmaster her. But he said:
“O, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas-card shop in Henry Street.”
He was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear her come from the window.
When she compliments him and kisses his forehead, he thinks that they are in sync, that she's thinking what he's thinking. This is the crux of the matter in this scene: Gabriel mistakes his wife’s deep feelings about a romantic past, thinking only that she is feeling the lust for him that he feels for her. They are worlds apart in their sensibilities, and they always have been. This is the truth that Gabriel comes to realize.
Gretta's tale about Michael Furey forces Gabriel into some profound realizations, a coming to awareness that is both humbling and universal at the same time.
While he had been full of memories of their secret life together, full of tenderness and joy and desire, she had been comparing him in her mind with another. A shameful consciousness of his own person assailed him. He saw himself as a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy for his aunts, a nervous, well-meaning sentimentalist, orating to vulgarians and idealising his own clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpse of in the mirror. Instinctively he turned his back more to the light lest she might see the shame that burned upon his forehead.
He is seized by "a vague terror" as Gretta tells her story, which concludes with her sobbing on the bed and crying herself to sleep. Gabriel realizes that he now must reconsider their whole life together.
Gretta has forced him—perhaps for the first time—to consider his life, and the lives of those around him, from their perspectives. He's been thinking of others only insofar as they affect his life, as if they didn't exist when they were not with him. But he's been called to see them as people with lives, and histories, and futures all of their own. This is a harrowing recognition, and paints Gabriel in a horrible light. But as he stares at this suddenly-unfamiliar woman who is sleeping beside him, he is filled with pity. And this is what gives me hope for him.
This leads him to a vision of the future, sitting at Aunt Julia's funeral, where his attempts to console Aunt Kate would be "lame and useless," just as all attempts are whe we intrude on deep grief. He then moves from this particular death to an awareness that death is the common plight of all humans. He recognizes the universality of death, and considers how all the living will eventually join the ranks of the dead. But he is also, for the first time, critical of his own engagement with the possibilities that were open to him throughout his life:
One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
He recognizes that Gretta has kept her secret passion alive for all their years together. Michael Fury burned out; Gabriel Conroy will fade away.
This shock of self-awareness, this brutal and agonizing reappraisal, leads us into the final two paragraphs.
When you have ambiguous passages like these final two paragraphs, you can consider a number of interpretations.
The way we determine the efficacy and validity of an interpretation is its alignment with the text we are trying to interpret. If one interpretation of, say, Star Wars notes that the film sides with the rebels, while another states that the film really promotes the order and forced compliance necessary to run a smoothly-functioning empire, well, obviously the former is supported by the film while the latter just misreads the film entirely.
The genius of Joyce's ambiguity is that we can read these last two paragraphs in two diametrically opposed ways, and both are supported by the text. Before we consider our options, though, let's spell out the revelations and realizations that Gabriel has been buffeted by this night, or what he carries with him into those final paragraphs. Then let's see how he might respond to such a cataclysmic removal of the solid ground he has built his life on.
| What he's learned about Gretta: | |
| She had a great passionate romance in her life before she met him, and he was unaware of it. | |
| What Gretta and Michael had was real love. Michael loved her so much he died for her. | |
| He has played a much smaller part in her life than he thought he did. | |
| He is filled with pity for her. | |
| What he's learned about himself: | |
| He's seen just how short life is, and how he is no better than the vast mass of humanity around him. | |
| He is an absurd and laughable figure. | |
| He is nothing more than an errand-boy for his aunts. | |
| Although he means well, he lets his emotions and personal reactions guide his actions rather than careful thought and judgment based on facts. | |
| He has tried to spin his vices as virtues. | |
| He is, indeed, pathetic, a smug and self-satisfied fool. | |
| He had never felt a passion like Gretta and Michael Furey felt | |
| What they had was love; he's never really loved anyone like that. | |
His life is ruined
Gabriel's sudden moment of clarity is too much; his relationship with Gretta will never recover from this revelation. He's seen everything he thought about himself, and everything he thought about her, come crashing down around him, and there's no coming back from this. Of course, he and Gretta will stay married, but they will grow further and further apart as he nurses his hurt and remorse. He cannot forgive her or overcome his shame, which cripples him so much that he can't even broach this subject with Gretta. She will watch him withdraw into himself, but she doesn't understand his changed presence. Eventually they will become just two individuals who share a living space, and not a life together.
He has a chance to begin again
Yes, this is a lot to take in. Gabriel has had his world rocked, and isn't sure of his footing any more. But he tries to assimilate all that he's learned this evening. It takes a while, and he doesn't do it perfectly, but he works to rectify his ignorance about himself and his wife. He has the strength to admit that he doesn't know where to begin, but develops a "firm purpose of amendment" about his life. He makes a conscious effort to be curious about her life, and practices a level of self-scrutiny that allows him to rectify his own shortcomings. So he's a bit more tolerant, a bit more understanding, and is trying to be a more attentive husband and father.
When I was younger, my understanding of these paragraphs, this epiphany, and the futures of Gabriel and Gretta was far different than it is now. I saw how the rug was pulled out from under Gabriel's feet, how almost everything he knew about himself and his wife was wrong, and thought, there's no way he could psychologically survive this onslaught. The snow in the last two paragraphs is a blanket, making the world indistinguishable. It is cold, and he has to bundle himself up against it. He's seeing the heat death of the universe, the inevitable victory of entropy, where all motion will cease and nothing will matter. His journey westward sends him past the grave of a rival he can never hope to beat, because Michael Furey is just a memory, just a shade, who grows more and more perfect in Gretta's eyes every year. While he sees himself as he appears to the rest of the world, who can stand to be seen that way? The only way to protect himself to yet more ridicule as a pompous middle-aged blowhard is to retreat into himself, to make sure no one again has the opportunity to see him in that light.
There's plenty of evidence in the text to suggest that this night is just too much for him to bear, and that this Epiphany may break him. Does this fretful nervous man really have the stamina and courage to get beyond this?
Now, however, I think the opposite. There's just as much evidence in the text to suggest that Gabriel is a sensitive man who could possibly learn from all of this and save both himself and his marriage. He wants so much to do the right thing; just look at him with Lily. Yes, he's ham-fisted throughout that encounter, but he means well. He's an idiot just like the rest of us when we can't seem to get out of our own way. And his thoughts about Gretta on the stairs show that he's sensitive, even if that sensitivity is a bit misguided. So maybe he's able to expose himself, to be vulnerable with his wife, and together they can work through all of this.
My changing view on this isn't because I discovered something new in the text or because I read more criticism on it. It's really very personal: I want to be hopeful for Gabriel. I'm tired of cynical readings that end up with pessimistic or dismissive views of characters, and therefore of other humans. So as the interpretive scale lies perfectly balanced, I choose to read this in a way that gives Gabriel a chance. Maybe I do it because, as I get older, I need to think like I too have a shot at reclaiming my life, of righting the wrongs I have done, of seeing others as subjects and not objects. But no matter the real reason for my choice, the fact that I make it for myself, that I interpret ambiguous evidence in one way and not another, is what reading Modernist texts is all about.
Ambiguity
Here are some reasons why scholars think the first pragraph is told from Lily's perspective: