Jack Wilson (4:09)

Oh, Mr. Poe, that sounds. Everything okay?

Narrator (4:15)

Bricks. Bricks.

Edgar Allan Poe (4:20)

Bricks being placed one by one in a wall not six inches from my person. Bricks set by my enemy, Fortunato. I am to be entombed. It seems a pity, really.

Jack Wilson (4:37)

That is a pity.

Edgar Allan Poe (4:38)

I have so much more to give. If only my savior, that noble whelp Jack Wilson, would come to my rescue. He's outside of Fortunato's castle attempting to bribe the footman. But I fear he lacks sufficient funds. Oh, won't you help him, you hard hearted book lover? Won't you help him? And me.

Jack Wilson (5:10)

And me. Oh, dear Edgar. That noble whelp. Poor Edgar. He knocked on the door just to tell us he's being entombed. That's quite a feat if you can reach out to open the door. Maybe the entombing is not exactly foolproof. Well, Jack Wilson, suspend your disbelief. Okay, you know how this works. You've heard it from Oliver, exclamation mark. You've heard it from Elizabeth Bennet, star of the novel Pride and Prejudice. And now from poor Edgar, with a set of bricks not six inches from his person, looking for a bit of help to bribe the footman. And I would like a bit of help, frankly, to bribe my podcast host who is charging me an arm and a leg to make this thing available. So you can help me keep the lights on here at the Jack Wilson studios by signing up@patreon.com literature there you can give a monthly donation at a buck a month or five bucks a month or more. It's entirely up to you and I'm grateful for whatever you can spare. Or if you'd like to make a one time donation or buy some history of literature gear, you can head on over to historyofliterature.com shop. A virtual coffee option lets you throw some jingle in my jangle. And there are mugs and tote bags too, which are sure to make you the envy of your next mug and tote bag. House party, church social, or out of town business convention. They're big in Vegas. Let's hear an email. I get a lot of emails. This one has a surprise ending. I never expected to get this email. Not in a million years. Thanks for reconnecting me with literature, Jack. I took an English and psychology double major in college. Despite warnings that these were two worthless degrees, I never saw it that way. Rather, I always believed we humans should reflect on what it means to be human as a primary vocation and take jobs as avocations. I still believe that, despite the fact that I went on to get a PhD in industrial organizational psychology and have been university professor for almost 30 years. I discovered your podcast a year or so ago, and it has helped me stay in touch with that primary vocation as I drive the 55 miles to and from the university where I teach. When I heard you say during the last episode that Raymond Carver was upcoming, I said to myself out loud in the car, that's it. You have to become a Patreon now. It's meant to be. I have especially loved Austin Dickinson, Salinger, Joyce, and nearly everyone's favorite, Madame Bovary. Also, Mike Palindrome sounds like the nicest person in the world. Even nicer than yourself, if that's possible. Another loyal listener, Mike M. Thank you, Mike. I did have a thought that maybe Mike M. Was Mike Palindrome himself, weighing in to let me know that he's the nicest person in the world or comes across that way. I think Mike Palindrome. I'm a little surprised to hear that Mike Palindrome is. Well, in any case, Mike M. Who I think is actually a real listener. I don't mean to cast aspersions here. I'm so glad to hear that you're back on the literature train and that you liked especially the Austin Dickinson, Salager, Joyce and Madame Bovary episodes and that you're looking forward to Raymond Carver, which is coming up soon. We've had some. We had a technical snag with that one. And now Mike. Mike Palindrome has been very busy, so we're trying to rerecord that one as soon as we can. Mike Palindrome is the nicest person in the world. Wow. I will pass that along and see what he thinks. I feel like he's pulled off kind of a con job. He's nicer than me. I'm staggered he's hornswoggled you. I'm just kidding. Mike is very nice. He just treated me to a beer and a half a plate of mozzarella sticks at one of Manhattan's finest Irish pubs. And by finest, I mean convenient for Mike's workplace. They actually know him there. They waved at him when he came in, and then when we were finished, he put on his little crash helmet, which is covered with stickers, and he got on his bicycle and he rode home through the canyon of skyscrapers. That is Manhattan. That's a true story. So I'm just kidding. Thank you very much Mike Amp for signing up to be a Patreon. And also thank you to Ronnie H. And Shelly F. Who recently joined as well. I'm definitely going to try to get some special bonus content up in 2018 to reward my Patreons for being so generous. It truly is unbelievable to me and I am grateful and humble that so many people have chosen to give. I'm a little behind on my email responses, but I am going to do everything I can to catch up before the New Year. Okay, enough palavering. As Lily, the caretaker's daughter might say in a slightly different context, you'll know what I mean if you've listened to the last episode. Speaking of which, you might want to listen to that one first. The Dead Part 1, though it isn't absolutely necessary. What is necessary is that you understand that the rest of this show will contain some spoilers. I mean, this isn't exactly the new Star wars movie we're talking about. You've had 100 years to read the Dead. Seems fair to talk about the ending, but in case you would like to wait, this would be a good time to pause the episode, read the story, and come back to hear our discussion of it. But do come back. We will miss you. Otherwise, The Dead Part 2 coming up.

Narrator (11:12)

After this Merry Christmas baby you sure did treat me nice. Merry Christmas baby you sure did treat me nice. You gave me a diamond ring for.

Edgar Allan Poe (11:55)

Christmas.

Narrator (11:58)

Now I'm living in paradise.

Jack Wilson (12:05)

Well, I'm feeling mighty fine so good. So where were we with the dead? I told you about my own traditions, my trips to the grandparents, which I did for 20 straight years until I went to Italy for a junior year abroad and wound up visiting my sister in Oxford, England, which is its own story. It's a separate story, enough to say for now that it was a little shocking not to be part of the usual customary grandparent Christmas. But I did return for several more and I had that 20 year stretch. Kind of like the Mrs. Morkin have their 30 years of a holiday dancing party in the upstairs of the house that they rented. The three of them, Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia, who have gotten older through the years, and their niece Mary Jane. And they're visited by Freddy Maylands, who tends to drink a little too much, making things awkward. And they're visited by Gabriel Conroy, cautious Gabriel, who's kind of the hero of the story in a sense. It's not a story with heroes Exactly. He's not slaying dragons. But within this small, circumscribed world of the evening dancing party, which, hey, it's not like I was out there slaying dragons either. I told you what I was doing. I was going to a Christmas celebration year after year, a quiet family visit, a tradition, lots of opening presents, which we did in a circle. We told stories where I listened to stories the grownups told. It stitched together my life, this tradition, and it was central to me, central to my year. It was critically important. And I suspect that among you, there are more people with annual family traditions than there are dragonslayers. So among this circumscribed world of the house and the annual festival, Gabriel plays a heroic role. He's assigned to give the dinner speech, which he frets over. He carves the goose. And he and his wife Greta, play another kind of role, more or less by virtue of their age and the generation that they're in. I talked about this last time, too, how people in their mid-20s and 30s and, well, maybe all the way up to their 60s, they play a role of being the stability at parties like this. They can do things. They provide the small talk. They have a little money. They can give the tip to the caretaker's daughter, as Gabriel does. They bring food. They travel through the snow to arrive. They give the speech. They laugh at the jokes. They step up where needed. Oh, a baby's crying. Oh, here you go. Here's an experienced mom right at hand. Or, oh, someone needs a ride. Well, my car is outside. That's what people in their 30s and 40s do, right? Hopefully. Oh, I see. This is broken. Well, I can fix it. And if not, I can call someone. I know just the person to call. Or, oh, the turkey's ready to come out of the oven. I'll check to make sure that it's done. We grow into this role. It can be a little limiting, a little scary, a little stifling, a little suffocating. But at its best, it's part of being in a community. It's the feeling of being needed, of helping those who helped you and those helping those you know will be helping you someday. It's a very different feeling from going to a movie or visiting with friends. And here's our Gabriel, a veteran of the party, taking on this leading role. But aside from the speech, which is central, it's just his being there. It's being there with his wife and passing along their inside jokes, they have a recurring joke with the aunts Julia and Kate, which is that Gabriel is overly cautious and he's protective of Greta. And you get the sense that this is soothing for the aging sisters to have these young people arrive and to have this kind of familiar socializing thing to hold on to this banter. It keeps you young, sharing a little teasing, having a little fun at Gabriel's expense. And for us, the listeners, it sets us up. It tells us enough about Gabriel's character to set us up for what's going to happen. So Gabriel dances with a woman who tweaks him about his politics. We see here the conflicts that run through Gabriel's mind as they do for so many in the Dubliners stories. He isn't a political firebrand, but then he doesn't like to be accused of being on one side or the other too much. It bothers him. It probably bothered Joyce as well and people he knew. When Joyce left Ireland for Europe. Did that make him disloyal to Ireland or the Irish cause? Could you be critical of Ireland without allying yourself totally with England? Those were concerns for Joyce and their concerns for Gabriel. And Gabriel handles this woman as he handles Freddy. And we see that although on the surface Gabriel is steady and full of good humor, he's a very thoughtful person underneath. And seemingly small things can bother him sometimes. He's not a great athlete or a soldier living in a purely physical realm, or a scientist or a politician, or even a doctor who sometimes have a kind of single minded purpose. Gabriel doesn't have anything like that to latch upon where he can ignore everything around him. He's a literary type. He pays attention and he looks at things deeply and notices their complications because he's thoughtful and because he cares. So Gabriel carves the goose. This is a spectacular scene. Very little happens in this scene. You could say that we're seeing some character. We're seeing Gabriel in action being gently humorous and being thoughtful. We'll see the kind of small talk, the good natured banter that you want from the person who's carving the Christmas goose. He's an expert carver. We hear that Gabriel's very hard not to like. And we'll see here. I'm going to read this passage where he's carving the goose. It's the kind of loving attention to detail that we want from our fiction writers. This is the kind of detail that in lesser hands can be very boring. Sometimes you say to lesser authors, we don't need an inventory. We don't need you to list details. That's what you might say but in this case, coming in the middle of a story that's this riveting and told with such vividness and such beautiful language, it all works for me. I could read more of it. I don't want it to end. But more to the point, it puts me right in the middle of this house. I know exactly what it's like to be there. I feel like I'm in the room with Joyce and he and I are watching this party unfold. Look, if French is your first language, you can enjoy Flaubert. That's available to you. But if English is your first language, it's hard to find a better describer than James Joyce.

Narrator (19:20)

Here we go.

Jack Wilson (19:21)

This is from the dead.

Narrator (19:25)

At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out of.

Jack Wilson (19:28)

The supper room, almost wringing her hands in despair.

Narrator (19:32)

Where's Gabriel? She cried.

Jack Wilson (19:34)

Where on earth is Gabriel? There's everyone waiting in there stage to let and nobody to carve the goose. Here I am, Aunt Kate. Cried Gabriel with sudden animation, ready to carve a flock of geese if necessary. A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table, and at the other end, on a bed of creased paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a great ham, stripped of its outer skin and peppered over with crust crumbs, a neat paper frill round its shin, and beside this was a round of spiced beef. Between these rival ends ran parallel lines of side dishes, two little minsters of jelly, red and yellow, a shallow dish full of blocks of blanc mange and red jam, a large green leaf shaped dish with a stalk shaped handle on which lay bunches of purple raisins and peeled almonds, a companion dish on which lay a solid rectangle of Smyrna figs, a dish of custard topped with grated nutmeg, a small bowl full of chocolates and sweets wrapped in gold and silver papers, and a glass vase in which stood some tall celery stalks. In the center of the table there stood as sentries to a fruit stand which upheld a pyramid of oranges and American apples, two squat old fashioned decanters of cut glass, one containing port and the other dark sherry. On the closed square piano a pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waiting, and behind it were three squads of bottles of stout and ale and minerals drawn up according to the colors of their uniforms, the first two black with brown and red labels, the third and smallest squad white with transverse green sashes. Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of the table, and having looked to the edge of the of the carver plunged his fork firmly into the goose. He felt quite at ease now, for he was an expert carver and liked nothing better than to find himself at the head of a well laden table. Miss Furlong, what shall I send you? He asked. A wing or a slice of the breast? Just a small slice of the breast, Ms. Higgins. What for you? Oh, anything at all, Mr. Conroy. While Gabriel and Ms. Daly exchanged plates of goose and plates of ham and spiced beef, Lily went from guest to guest with a dish of hot, flowery potatoes wrapped in a white napkin. This was Mary Jane's idea, and she had also suggested applesauce for the goose. But Aunt Kate had said that plain roast goose without any applesauce had always been good enough for her, and she hoped she might never eat worse. Mary Jane waited on her pupils and saw that they got the best slices, and Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia opened and carried across from the piano bottles of stout and ale for the gentlemen and bottles of minerals for the ladies. There was a great deal of confusion and laughter and noise. The noise of orders and counter orders, of knives and forks, of corks and glass stoppers. Gabriel began to carve second helpings. As soon as he had finished the first round without serving himself, everyone protested loudly, so that he compromised by taking a long draught of stout, for he had found the carving hot work. Mary Jane settled down quietly to her supper, but Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia were still toddling round the table, walking on each other's heels, getting in each other's way and giving each other unheeded orders. Mr. Brown begged of them to sit down and eat their suppers, and so did Gabriel. But they said that there was time enough so that at last Freddy Mayland stood up and, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped her down on her chair amid general laughter. When everyone had been well served, Gabriel said, smiling, now, if anyone wants a little more of what vulgar people call stuffing, let him or her speak. A chorus of voices invited him to begin his own supper, and Lilly came forward with three potatoes which she had reserved for him. Very well, said Gabriel amiably, as he took another preparatory draught. Kindly forget my existence, ladies and gentlemen, for a few minutes. I love this party, and you know what is astonishing about it? It seems fresh to me, as if it's not even out of date. I feel like I could stumble across this today and be right inside. Just join in. Usually prose doesn't work like that. It ages. Things get a little foggy, a little stale, just like film or photographs or recordings or memories. But in this case I feel as if this party is happening as we speak, and you and I could walk right in and sit down and enjoy our meal and join in with the fun. Now that he's finished with the carving, Gabriel needs to give his speech and think about the Gabriel that we're seeing here. He's the perfect grown nephew, an adult to admire. Don't you want him carving the turkey at your next Thanksgiving? So amiable, so eager to make things right, to send people the right cut of the food, so good at what he's doing. Wouldn't you like having him as a neighbor? And wouldn't you like having him give an after dinner speech? Here, I'll read it for you. After some small talk at the table, it's Gabriel's turn.

Narrator (25:21)

The raisins and almonds and figs and apples and oranges and chocolates and sweets.

Jack Wilson (25:27)

Were now passed about the table, and Aunt Julia invited all the guests to.

Narrator (25:32)

Have either port or sherry.

Jack Wilson (25:34)

At first Mr. Bartel D'Arcy refused to take either, but one of his neighbors nudged him and whispered something to him.

Narrator (25:41)

Upon which he allowed his glass to be filled.

Jack Wilson (25:44)

Gradually, as the last glasses were being filled, the conversation ceased. A pause followed, broken only by the noise of the wine and by unsettlings of chairs. The Mrs. Morkin, all three, looked down at the tablecloth. Someone coughed once or twice, and then a few gentlemen patted the table gently as a signal for silence. The silence came, and Gabriel pushed back his chair. The patting at once grew louder in encouragement and then ceased altogether. Gabriel leaned his ten trembling fingers on the tablecloth and smiled nervously at the company meeting a row of upturned faces. He raised his eyes to the chandelier. The piano was playing a waltz tune, and he could hear the skirts sweeping against the drawing room door. People, perhaps, were standing in the snow on the quay outside, gazing up at the lighted windows and listening to the waltz music. The air was pure. There in the distance lay the park where the trees were weighted with snow. The Wellington Monument wore a gleaming cap.

Narrator (26:52)

Of snow that flashed westward over the.

Jack Wilson (26:54)

White field of 15 acres. He began, ladies and gentlemen, it has fallen to my lot this evening, as in years past, to perform a very pleasing task, but a task for which I am afraid my poor powers as a speaker are all too inadequate. No, no, said Mr. Brown. But however that may be, I can only ask you tonight to take the will for the deed and to lend me your attention for a few moments while I endeavor to express to you in words what my feelings are on this occasion, ladies and gentlemen, it is not the first time that we have gathered together under this hospitable roof around this hospitable board. It is not the first time that we have been the recipients, or perhaps I had better say, the victims of the hospitality of certain good ladies. He made a circle in the air with his arm and paused. Everyone laughed or smiled at Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia and Mary Jane, who all turned crimson with pleasure. Gabriel went on more. I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country has no tradition which does it so much honor and which it should guard so jealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is unique as far as my experience goes, and I have visited not a few places abroad among the modern nations. Some would say perhaps, that with us it is rather a failing than anything to be boasted of. But granted even that, it is to my mind a princely failing, and one that I trust will long be cultivated among us. Of one thing at least, I am sure, as long as this one roof shelters the good ladies aforesaid, and I wish from my heart it may do so for many and many a long year to come, the tradition of genuine, warm hearted, courteous Irish hospitality, which our forefathers have handed down to us and which we in turn must hand down to our descendants, is still alive among us. A hearty murmur of assent ran round the table. It shot through Gabriel's mind that Miss.

Narrator (29:07)

Ivors was not there and that she had gone away discourteously.

Jack Wilson (29:12)

And he said with confidence in himself, ladies and gentlemen, a new generation is growing up in our midst, a generation actuated by new ideas and new principles. It is serious and enthusiastic for these new ideas. And its enthusiasm, even when it is misdirected, is, I believe, in the main, sincere. But we are living in a skeptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thought tormented age. And sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated or hyper educated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humor, which belonged to an older day. Listening to night, to the names of all those great singers of the past, it seemed to me, I must confess, that we were living in a less spacious age. Those days might, without exaggeration be called spacious days. And if they are gone beyond recall, let us hope at least that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of them with pride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of those dead and gone great ones whose fame the world will not willingly let die. Hear, hear, said Mr. Brown loudly. But yet, continued Gabriel, his voice falling into a softer inflection. There are always in gatherings such as this, sadder thoughts that will recur to our minds.

Narrator (30:41)

Thoughts of the past, of youth, of.

Jack Wilson (30:44)

Changes, of absent faces that we miss here to night. Our path through life is strewn with many such sad memories, and were we to brood upon them always, we could not find the heart to go on bravely with our work among the living. We have, all of us, living duties and living affections which claim, and rightly.

Narrator (31:06)

Claim our strenuous endeavors.

Jack Wilson (31:10)

Therefore, I will not linger on the past. I will not let any gloomy moralizing intrude upon us here tonight. Here we are gathered together for a brief moment from the bustle and rush of our everyday routine. We are met here as friends in the spirit of good fellowship, as colleagues also, to a certain extent, in the true spirit of camaraderie and as the guests of what shall I call them? The Three Graces of the Dublin musical world. The table burst into applause and laughter at this allusion. Aunt Julia vainly asked each of her neighbors in turn to tell her what Gabriel had said. He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt Julia, said Mary Jane. Aunt Julia did not understand, but she looked up, smiling at Gabriel, who continued in the same vein. Ladies and gentlemen, I will not attempt to play tonight the part that Paris played on another occasion. I will not attempt to choose between them. The task would be an invidious one and one beyond my poor powers. For when I view them in turn, whether it be our chief hostess herself, whose good heart, whose too good heart has become a byword with all who know her, or her sister, who seems to be gifted with perennial youth and whose singing must have been a surprise and a revelation to us all tonight, or last but not least, when I consider our youngest hostess talented, cheerful, hard working, and the best of nieces. I confess, ladies and gentlemen, that I do not know to which of them.

Narrator (32:46)

I should award the prize.

Jack Wilson (32:49)

Gabriel glanced down at his aunt's and seeing the large smile on Aunt Julia's face and the tears which had risen to Aunt Kate's eyes, hastened to his close. He raised his glass of port gallantly, while every member of the company fingered a glass expectantly and said loudly, let us toast them all three together. Let us drink to their health, wealth, long life, happiness and prosperity. And may they long continue to hold the proud and self won position which they hold in their profession and the position of honor and affection which they hold in our hearts. And everyone cheers, toasts, the three women, sings them in Cheers, hosts. And it's a beautiful moment to see how they blush, and they're modest and thrilled, even though one suspects Gabriel says something similarly flattering every year. Now, here's what's interesting. Gabriel says let's not focus on the past. That's sort of the theme of his speech. But in some ways, that's all he can do. He can't help himself. He can't help thinking about the past and the present and the future. That's what happens when you have a tradition that goes on for 30 years. You're there, and you can't help thinking about all the times you've been there before, how you were there when you were younger, and Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia were younger, too. And you think about how they've gotten older and how you probably won't have another 30 of these. You might not even have five. And it saddens you to think of these beautiful people, so young and vigorous, the heroes of your youth, now dealing with health issues and starting to slow down a bit, maybe not quite hearing as well as they once did, not understanding the things they might have in the past and in some cases at.

Narrator (34:37)

Some points, starting to fade. We all go through this.

Jack Wilson (34:42)

It's why this is so riveting and so accessible. It captures this sentiment so beautifully. It almost makes me want to cry, just as those final few years of my tradition, my Wisconsin tradition of holidays with my grandparents made me want to cry, too. I have photos where I'm a baby and my grandfather's holding me and he looks like a movie star, like he could be Cary Grant in North by Northwest or George Clooney today, and guess what? He could have been. I mean, he was probably George Clooney's age now, or younger. And I spoke earlier about how lucky I was not to have any traditions disrupted for so many years and not to have that sharp pain of unexpected loss or grief. But the thing about not having an interruption to the tradition is, you know, it's just an interruption, delayed. We are human beings, after all. We know that the aging process will occur inevitably, as will death inevitably. And the people around us and the generations ahead of ours are like ticking bombs. Everyone's getting older. The inevitable will occur.

Narrator (35:57)

Seeing Gabriel, with his cheery nature in.

Jack Wilson (36:00)

Spite of this tells me that it's.

Narrator (36:02)

Okay, that it's part of life.

Jack Wilson (36:05)

Even though I had never been to a funeral, when I read the story, I knew that I shouldn't fear them, that I would be okay, that I could face that eventuality the way I might expect Gabriel to.

Narrator (36:17)

I could stand up and be there for the people who would need me the most, the living. And I realized why I love melancholy the best.

Jack Wilson (36:27)

Of all the emotions, I think it feels the most real to me. I had a happy childhood, which has meant that I'm prone to nostalgia, which has meant that I'm sorry to see things end, which has meant that I ask that question when I see great.

Narrator (36:41)

Joy or great sorrow or great anger or passion, for that matter. I want to know what it feels.

Jack Wilson (36:48)

Like, and I want to know what it will feel like when it's over.

Narrator (36:53)

Will it feel as empty as I sometimes feel?

Jack Wilson (36:57)

How will the individuals handle that?

Narrator (37:00)

Will they embrace it, ignore it, overcome it? How do we handle endings?

Jack Wilson (37:09)

So we're coming to two of the most marvelous passages in the history of English language fiction. The party ends, and Gabriel heads down to put on his galoshes, those galoshes that careful Gabriel wears and that he's.

Narrator (37:27)

Urged upon his wife.

Jack Wilson (37:29)

And as he's getting ready, he's in the same position that he was when he was vigorously scraping the snow from his galoshes at the beginning of the.

Narrator (37:41)

Party, when he sent his wife Greta.

Jack Wilson (37:44)

On ahead up to see Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia. He's in the same position now, getting.

Narrator (37:48)

Ready to go, and he sees a.

Jack Wilson (37:52)

Figure of a woman.

Narrator (37:53)

He realizes it's his wife, Greta, standing on the stairs. Something has transfixed her.

Jack Wilson (38:01)

She's listening to the opera singer Mr. Bartell Darcy, who has, frankly, kind of fallen down on the job tonight. He hasn't performed the way they expected, but now he's singing a song, and the song has captivated Greta.

Narrator (38:14)

And seeing Greta captivated captivates Gabriel.

Jack Wilson (38:19)

In the movie the Dead, the John Huston classic film, his final film, maybe his masterpiece, or maybe, we can say, his hidden gem. Houston gets this moment perfect.

Narrator (38:31)

He lets this moment breathe, as Joyce does. He doesn't fog it up with narrative or too much camera movement or any external activity, no distractions. It is a woman listening to a.

Jack Wilson (38:48)

Song, and in the movie, it's played by Houston's daughter, Angelica Houston, who's sublime. It's a woman listening to a song.

Narrator (38:59)

And a husband watching her listen with curiosity and affection. And then a deep, abiding sense of mystery playing out over his face.

Jack Wilson (39:11)

Here's the story and the moment in the story. In Joyce's wonderful prosecution, everyone has been leaving, finding cabs, deciding to walk. There's a general commotion as the party ends, and Gabriel has been charming and pleasant and making people laugh gently with his dad jokes. Greta has been expected for some time. She still hasn't joined him at the bottom of the stairs in the entryway to the house.

Narrator (39:39)

Gabriel had not gone to the door with the others.

Jack Wilson (39:43)

He was in a dark part of.

Narrator (39:44)

The hall, gazing up at the staircase. A woman was standing near the top of the first flight, in the shadow also.

Jack Wilson (39:52)

He could not see her face, but he could see the terracotta and salmon.

Narrator (39:56)

Pink panels of her skirt, which the shadow made appear black and white. It was his wife.

Jack Wilson (40:03)

She was leaning on the banisters, listening to something.

Narrator (40:07)

Gabriel was surprised at her stillness and.

Jack Wilson (40:10)

Strained his ear to listen also.

Narrator (40:13)

But he could hear little save the noise of laughter and dispute on the front steps.

Jack Wilson (40:18)

A few chords struck on the piano and a few notes of a man's voice singing. He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air that the voice was singing and gazing.

Narrator (40:31)

Up at his wife.

Jack Wilson (40:32)

There was grace and mystery in her attitude, as if she were a symbol of something. He asked himself, what is a woman.

Narrator (40:40)

Standing on the stairs in the shadow.

Jack Wilson (40:42)

Listening to distant music a symbol of?

Narrator (40:45)

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.

Jack Wilson (41:04)

The hall door was closed, and Aunt.

Narrator (41:07)

Kate, Aunt Julia, and Mary Jane came.

Jack Wilson (41:09)

Down the hall, still laughing. Well, isn't Freddy terrible? Said Mary Jane. He's really terrible. Gabriel said nothing, but pointed up the.

Narrator (41:21)

Stairs towards where his wife was standing.

Jack Wilson (41:24)

Now that the hall door was closed.

Narrator (41:26)

The voice and the piano could be heard more clearly.

Jack Wilson (41:30)

Gabriel held up his hand for them to be silent.

Narrator (41:34)

The song seemed to be in the.

Jack Wilson (41:36)

Old Irish tonality, and the singer seemed.

Narrator (41:39)

Uncertain both of his words and of his voice. The voice, made plaintive by distance and.

Jack Wilson (41:45)

By the singer's hoarseness, faintly illuminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief.

Narrator (41:52)

Oh, the rain falls on my heavy locks and the dew wets my skin. My babe lies cold. Oh.

Jack Wilson (42:02)

Exclaimed Mary Jane. It's Bartell D'Arcy singing, and he wouldn't sing all the night. Oh, I'll get him to sing a song before he goes. Oh, do, Mary Jane. Said Aunt Kate. Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, but before she reached it, the singing stopped and the.

Narrator (42:21)

Piano was closed abruptly.

Jack Wilson (42:23)

Oh, what a pity.

Narrator (42:24)

She cried.

Jack Wilson (42:25)

Is he coming down, Greta? Gabriel heard his wife answer, yes, and.

Narrator (42:30)

Saw her come down towards them.

Jack Wilson (42:32)

A few steps behind her were Mr. Bartell Darcy and Ms. O'Callaghan. Oh, Mr. Darcy. Cried Mary Jane. It's downright mean of you to break off like that when we were all in raptures listening to you. I have been at him all the evening, said Ms. O'Callaghan, and Mrs. Conroy, too, and he told us he had a dreadful cold and couldn't sing. Oh, Mr. Darcy, said Aunt Kate. Now that was a great fib to tell. Can't you see that I'm as hoarse as a crow? Said Mr. Darcy roughly. He went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others, taken aback by his rude speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt Kate wrinkled her brows and made signs to the others to drop the subject.

Narrator (43:23)

Mr. Darcy stood, swathing his neck carefully and frowning. It's the weather, said Aunt Julia after a pause.

Jack Wilson (43:33)

Yes, everybody has colds, said Aunt Kate readily. Everybody, they say, said Mary Jane. We haven't had snow like it for 30 years, and I read this morning in the newspapers that the snow is general all over Ireland. I love the look of snow, said Aunt Julia sadly. So do I, said Ms. O'Callaghan. I think Christmas is never really Christmas unless we have the snow on the ground. But poor Mr. Darcy doesn't like the snow, said Aunt Kate, smiling. Mr. Darcy came from the pantry, fully swathed and buttoned, and in a repentant tone told them the history of his cold. Everyone gave him advice and said it was a great pity, and urged him to be very careful of his throat.

Narrator (44:20)

In the night air, Gabriel watched his wife, who did not join in the conversation.

Jack Wilson (44:27)

She was standing right under the dusty.

Narrator (44:29)

Fanlight, and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair, which he had seen her drying at the fire a few days before.

Jack Wilson (44:38)

She was in the same attitude and.

Narrator (44:39)

Seemed unaware of the talk about her. At last she turned towards them, and.

Jack Wilson (44:45)

Gabriel saw that there was color on.

Narrator (44:47)

Her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart. Mr. Darcy, she said, what is the name of that song you were singing?

Jack Wilson (45:01)

It's called the Lass of all gream, said Mr. Darcy, but I couldn't remember it properly. Why, do you know it?

Narrator (45:09)

The Lass of All Gream, she repeated. I couldn't think of the name now.

Jack Wilson (45:17)

I didn't want to distract from the prose, but I'll play the song now as I continue.

Narrator (45:23)

This is the Last of All Grimm song that Greta was listening to.

Jack Wilson (45:50)

Greta's attitude is a mystery for Gabriel.

Narrator (45:53)

But It's a mystery for us, too.

Jack Wilson (45:55)

Why is Greta pausing like that on the staircase? Why this song? We're almost driven to understanding that it's not because of the beautiful rendition. It's not the opera singer's beautiful voice or anything like that. It's not a artistic appreciation that Greta has. He's as hoarse as a crow. Mr. Darcy tells us something else has.

Narrator (46:19)

Captured Greta, and Gabriel has seen it.

Jack Wilson (46:24)

We're deep enough into the story now to know that this is the kind of drama we can expect. This kind of mystery is what we have. This isn't going to be the night that Gabriel got drunk and insulted his aunts, or the night that Freddy Maylands started the house on fire and they all had to jump into the river to save themselves. This is a night where a tradition weighs on a thoughtful man who reflects.

Narrator (46:48)

On everything important to him.

Jack Wilson (46:51)

And when he's caught up in a.

Narrator (46:53)

Mystery, so are we.

Jack Wilson (46:55)

He's the most sensitive character in the whole house, it seems, or at least his consciousness is the one available to ours. And it's as perceptive as our own. So if he's puzzled, then so are we. And we want to know, because the human calling, the human endeavor, is to.

Narrator (47:16)

Want to take mysteries and figure them.

Edgar Allan Poe (47:26)

My baby Death lies cold within my arms, but not.

Narrator (47:42)

Me. The story has a few pages left, and I think I just need to read them to let you hear them.

Jack Wilson (47:55)

In Joyce's words, as this plays out in a fictional narrative where we're inside Gabriel's head. On the trip back to the hotel, Gabriel starts thinking about his wife and.

Narrator (48:06)

Their relationship, their years together.

Jack Wilson (48:09)

He starts thinking about their moments together, all the moments like those at the.

Narrator (48:13)

Party, but also their private moments, what they've shared together in their moments of intimacy.

Jack Wilson (48:21)

They've been a couple in every sense of the word.

Narrator (48:23)

They've known physical passion.

Jack Wilson (48:26)

They have that as a kind of.

Narrator (48:28)

Secret, like any marriage does.

Jack Wilson (48:30)

They're familiar with one another, as any couple is. So he's thinking through the rest of their night, how it's going to play out in the hotel room. And as usual in a couple, as usual in a marriage, you don't get to predict your future exactly because your partner may have other ideas. And he's not sure exactly where Greta is tonight, where her mind is. As we just saw, there's something about.

Narrator (48:53)

Her that's a little mysterious. At the end of this party, so.

Jack Wilson (48:58)

Cautious, kind Gabriel, dutiful Gabriel starts to think and rethink what he should expect as they return to the hotel I won't interrupt too much from this point on. Actually, I won't interrupt at all until we have our mystery solved. We will learn why Greta was so arrested by that song, and we'll see what it means for Gabriel, who's in love with his wife. Madly in love, but madly in love within a marriage, a domesticated way. That's a certain type of love. We'll think about what it means for Gabriel to learn what it is that.

Narrator (49:36)

Put that kind of look on his.

Jack Wilson (49:37)

Wife'S face, enjoy the descriptive power of their trip home, and the subtle shifts.

Narrator (49:44)

In understanding that play through Gabriel's mind. The morning was still dark. A dull yellow light brooded over the houses and the river, and the sky seemed to be descending. It was slushy underfoot, and only streaks and patches of snow lay on the roofs, on the parapets of the quay, and on the area railings.

Jack Wilson (50:10)

The lamps were still burning redly in.

Narrator (50:12)

The murky air, and across the river the palace of the Four Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky. She was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell Darcy, her shoes in a.

Jack Wilson (50:25)

Brown parcel tucked under one arm and her hands holding her skirt up from the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude, but Gabriel's eyes were still bright with happiness. The blood went bounding along his veins, and the thoughts went rioting through his.

Narrator (50:41)

Brain, proud, joyful, tender, valorous.

Jack Wilson (50:48)

She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he longed.

Narrator (50:52)

To run after her noiselessly, catch her.

Jack Wilson (50:54)

By the shoulders, and say something foolish.

Narrator (50:56)

And affectionate into her ear.

Jack Wilson (50:58)

She seemed to him so frail that.

Narrator (51:00)

He longed to defend her against something, and then to be alone with her.

Jack Wilson (51:05)

Moments of their secret life together burst.

Narrator (51:07)

Like stars upon his memory.

Jack Wilson (51:10)

A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his.

Narrator (51:13)

Breakfast cup, and he was caressing it with his hand.

Jack Wilson (51:16)

Birds were twittering in the ivy, and the sunny web of the curtain was.

Narrator (51:20)

Shimmering along the floor. He could not eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform.

Jack Wilson (51:27)

And he was placing a ticket inside.

Narrator (51:29)

The warm palm of her glove. He was standing with her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in the cold air.

Jack Wilson (51:43)

Was quite close to his, and suddenly.

Narrator (51:45)

He called out to the man at.

Jack Wilson (51:46)

The furnace, is the fire hot, sir?

Narrator (51:50)

But the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It was just as well, he might have answered rudely. A wave of yet more tender joy.

Jack Wilson (52:00)

Escaped from his heart, and he went and went coursing in warm flood along his arteries like the tender fire of stars.

Narrator (52:08)

Moments of their life together that no one knew of or would ever know of broke upon and illumined his memory.

Jack Wilson (52:15)

He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember.

Narrator (52:23)

Only their moments of ecstasy. For the years he felt had not.

Jack Wilson (52:27)

Quenched his soul or hers, their children, his writing, her household cares, had not.

Narrator (52:34)

Quenched all their soul's tender fire. In one letter that he had written to her then, he had said, why.

Jack Wilson (52:41)

Is it that words like these seem.

Narrator (52:42)

To me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name? Like distant music, these words that he had written years before were born towards him from the past. He longed to be alone with her when the others had gone away, when he and she were in the room in the hotel, then they would be alone together. He would call her softly, Greta. Perhaps she would not hear at once she would be undressing. Then something in his voice would strike her. She would turn and look at him. At the corner of Wine Tavern street they met a cab. He was glad of its rattling noise as it saved him from conversation. She was looking out of the window and seemed tired.

Jack Wilson (53:35)

The others spoke only a few words.

Narrator (53:38)

Pointing out some building or street.

Jack Wilson (53:40)

The horse galloped along wearily under the.

Narrator (53:43)

Murky morning sky, dragging his old rattling box after his heels. And Gabriel was again in a cab with her, galloping to catch the boat, galloping to their honeymoon. As the Cab drove across O'Connell Bridge.

Jack Wilson (53:58)

Ms. O'Callaghan said, they say you never cross O'Connell Bridge without seeing a white horse. I see a white man this time, said Gabriel. Where?

Narrator (54:10)

Asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy.

Jack Wilson (54:12)

Gabriel pointed to the statue on which.

Narrator (54:15)

Lay patches of snow. Then he nodded familiarly to it and waved his hand.

Jack Wilson (54:21)

Good night, Dan, he said gaily.

Narrator (54:25)

When the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel jumped out and, in spite.

Jack Wilson (54:30)

Of Mr. Bartell Darcy's protest, paid the driver.

Narrator (54:34)

He gave the man a shilling over his fare. The man saluted and said, a prosperous.

Jack Wilson (54:40)

New Year to you, sir.

Narrator (54:42)

The same to you, said Gabriel cordially. She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting out of the cab, and while standing at the curbstone bidding the others good night, she leaned lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced with him a few hours before. He had felt proud and happy then, happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage. 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.

Jack Wilson (55:20)

Under cover of her silence, he pressed.

Narrator (55:22)

Her arm closely to his side. And as they stood at the hotel.

Jack Wilson (55:26)

Door, he felt that they had escaped.

Narrator (55:28)

From their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends, and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure. An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall.

Jack Wilson (55:42)

He lit a candle in the office.

Narrator (55:43)

And went before them to the stairs. They followed him in silence, their feet falling in soft thuds on the thickly carpeted stairs. She mounted the stairs behind the porter, her head bowed in the ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with a burden, her skirt girt tightly about her.

Jack Wilson (56:03)

He could have flung his arms about.

Narrator (56:05)

Her hips and held her still, for.

Jack Wilson (56:07)

His arms were trembling with desire to seize her, and only the stress of.

Narrator (56:11)

His nails against the palms of his hands held the wild impulse of his body in check. The porter halted on the stairs to settle his guttering candle.

Jack Wilson (56:21)

They halted too, on the steps below him. In the silence, Gabriel could hear the falling of the molten wax into the.

Narrator (56:29)

Tray and the thumping of his own heart against his ribs. The porter led them along a corridor and opened a door. Then he set his unstable candle down on a toilet table and asked at what hour they were to be called in the morning. Eight, said Gabriel.

Jack Wilson (56:48)

The porter pointed to the tap of the electric light and began a muttered apology. But Gabriel cut him short. We don't want any light. We have light enough from the street. And I say, he added, pointing to the candle, you might remove that handsome.

Narrator (57:03)

Article like a good man.

Jack Wilson (57:05)

The porter took up his candle again.

Narrator (57:07)

But slowly, for he was surprised by such a novel idea. Then he mumbled, good night and went out. Gabriel shot the lock, too. A ghastly light from the street lamp.

Jack Wilson (57:19)

Lay in a long shaft from one.

Narrator (57:21)

Window to the door. Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couch and crossed the room towards the window. He looked down into the street in order that his emotion might calm a little. Then he turned and leaned against the chest of drawers with his back to the light. She had taken off her hat and cloak and was standing before a large swinging mirror, unhooking her waist. Gabriel paused for a few moments watching her, and then said, greta. She turned away from the mirror slowly and walked along the shaft of light towards him. Her face looked so serious and weary that the words would not pass Gabriel's lips. No, it was not the moment yet. You looked tired, he said. I Am a little, she answered. You don't feel ill or weak? No. Tired, that's all.

Jack Wilson (58:24)

She went on to the window and.

Narrator (58:26)

Stood there looking out. Gabriel waited again, and then, fearing that diffidence was about to conquer him, he said abruptly, by the way, Greta, what is it?

Jack Wilson (58:39)

You know that poor fellow Maylands?

Narrator (58:41)

He said quickly. Yes, what about him?

Jack Wilson (58:46)

Well, poor fellow. He's a decent sort of chap after all, continued Gabriel in a false voice. He gave me back that sovereign I lent him, and I didn't expect it, really. It's a pity he wouldn't keep away from that Brown, because he's not a bad fellow, really.

Narrator (59:00)

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?

Jack Wilson (59:11)

If she would only turn to him.

Narrator (59:13)

Or come to him of her own accord, to take her as she was would be brutal. No, he must see some ardor 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.

Jack Wilson (59:33)

Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking.

Narrator (59:36)

Out into brutal language about the sottish melons and his pound. He longed to cry to her from his soul, to crush her body against his, to overmaster her. But he said, oh, at Christmas, when.

Jack Wilson (59:51)

He opened that little Christmas card shop.

Narrator (59:52)

In Henry street, he was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear her come from the window. She stood before him for an instant, looking at him strangely. Then suddenly raising herself on tiptoe and resting her hands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him. You are a very generous person, Gabriel, she said. Gabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden kiss and at the quaintness of her phrase, put his hands on her hair and began smoothing it back, scarcely touching it with his fingers. The washing had made it fine and brilliant. His heart was brimming over with happiness. Just when he was wishing for it. She had come to him of her own accord. Perhaps her thoughts had been running with his. Perhaps she had felt the impetuous desire that was in him, and then the yielding mood had come upon her. Now that she had fallen to him so easily, he wondered why he had been so diffident. He stood holding her head between his hands. Then slipping one arm swiftly about her body and drawing her towards him, he said softly, greta, dear, what are you thinking about? She did not answer nor yield wholly to his arm. He said again softly, tell me what it is, Greta. I think I know what is the matter. Do I know? She did not answer at once. Then she said in an outburst of tears, oh, I am thinking about that song, the Lass of All Green. She broke loose from him and ran to the bed and, throwing her arms across the bed rail, hid her face. Gabriel stood stock still for a moment in astonishment and then followed her. As he passed in the way of the cheval glass, he caught sight of himself in full length, his broad, well filled shirt front, the face whose expression always puzzled him when he saw it in a mirror, and his glimmering gilt rimmed eyeglasses. He halted a few paces from her and said, what about the song? Why does that make you cry? She raised her head from her arms and dried her eyes with the back of her hand like a child. A kinder note than he had intended went into his voice. Why, Greta? He asked. I am thinking about a person long ago who used to sing that song. And who was the person long ago? Asked Gabriel, smiling. It was a person I used to know in Galway when I was living with my grandmother, she said. The smile passed away from Gabriel's face. A dull anger began to gather again at the back of his mind. Then the dull fires of his lust began to glow angrily in his veins. Someone you were in love with? He asked ironically. It was a young boy I used to know, she answered. Named Michael Fury. He used to sing that song, the Lass of All Green. He was very delicate. Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think that he was interested in this delicate boy. I can see him so plainly, she said after a moment. Such eyes as he had. Big dark eyes and such an expression in them. An expression? Oh, then you are in love with him, said Gabriel. I used to go out walking with him, she said, when I was in Galway. A thought flew across Gabriel's mind.

Jack Wilson (64:17)

Perhaps that was why you wanted to.

Narrator (64:18)

Go to Galway with that Ivar's girl, he said coldly. She looked at him and asked in surprise, what for? Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged his shoulders and said, how.

Jack Wilson (64:36)

Do I know to see him perhaps?

Narrator (64:40)

She looked away from him along the shaft of light towards the window in silence. He is dead, she said at length. He died when he was only 17. Isn't it a terrible thing to die so young as that? What was he? Asked Gabriel still ironically. He was in the gasworks, she said. Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony and by the evocation of this figure from the dead. A boy in the gasworks 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 penny boy for his aunts, a nervous, well meaning sentimentalist orating to vulgarians and idealizing his own clownish.

Jack Wilson (65:48)

Lust, the pitiable, fatuous fellow he had.

Narrator (65:51)

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 tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation, but his voice when he spoke was humble and indifferent. I suppose you were in love with this Michael Fury, Greta, he said. I was great with him at that time, she said. Her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling now how vain it would be to try to lead her whither he had purposed, caressed one of her hands and said also sadly, and what did he die of so young, Greta? Consumption, was it? I think he died for me, she answered. A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer, as if at that hour when he had hoped to triumph, some impalpable and vindictive being was coming against him, gathering forces against him in its vague world. But he shook himself free of it with an effort of reason and continued to caress her hand. He did not question her again, for he felt that she would tell him of herself. Her hand was warm and moist. It did not respond to his touch, but he continued to caress it just as he had caressed her first letter to him that spring morning. It was in the winter, she said, about the beginning of the winter when I was going to leave my grandmother's and come up here to the convent and he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galway and wouldn't be let out, and his people in Utterard were written to. He was in decline, they said, or something like that. I never knew rightly. She paused for a moment and sighed. Poor fellow, she said. He was very fond of me and he was such a gentle boy. We used to go out walking together. Walking, you know. Gabriel liked the way they do in the country. He was going to study singing only for his health. He had a very good voice, poor Michael Furey. Well, and then asked Gabriel. And then when it came to the time for me to leave Galway and come up to the convent, he was much worse and I wouldn't be let see him. So I wrote him a letter saying I was going up to Dublin and would be back in the summer and hoping he would be better then. She paused for a moment to get her voice under control, and then went on. Then the night before I left, I was in my grandmother's house in Nun's island, packing up, and I heard gravel thrown up against the window. The window was so wet I couldn't see. So I ran downstairs as I was and slipped out the back into the garden. And there was the poor fellow at the end of the garden, shivering. And did you not tell him to go back? Asked Gabriel. I implored of him to go home at once and told him he would get his death in the rain. But he said he did not want to live. I can see his eyes as well. He was standing at the end of the wall where there was a tree. And did he go home? Asked Gabriel. Yes, he went home. And when I was only a week in the convent, he died. And he was buried in Utterard, where his people came from. Oh, the day I heard that. That he was dead. She stopped choking with sobs and overcome by emotion, flung herself face downward on the bed, sobbing in the quilt. Gabriel held her hand for a moment longer, irresolutely, and then, shy of intruding on her grief, let it fall gently and walked quietly to the window. She was fast asleep. It's a beautiful scene. Heartbreaking, but not overly sentimental. It feels so real.

Jack Wilson (70:39)

Gabriel had never known this about his wife. Maybe the strongest she had ever felt, the most passion her at her brightest and boldest. She maybe never had emotions as strong as these ever in her life, as.

Narrator (70:56)

Strong as the emotions she felt when she learned that Michael Fury had died and Gabriel had known nothing about them. And now he's left to think, did I really know Greta, my wife? And how do I, Gabriel, compare with Michael Fury? And everything we know about Gabriel is wrapped up in this question, too.

Jack Wilson (71:19)

We know that he's wonderful and amiable and cautious. Greta calls him generous.

Narrator (71:27)

That seems to be her comparison, that Gabriel is the generous one. But generous might not be the same as passionate, might not be the same.

Jack Wilson (71:39)

As being head over heels in love. Gabriel has not let himself be Michael.

Narrator (71:44)

Fury in his life. And what does that mean?

Jack Wilson (71:47)

We know that Gabriel is thoughtful enough.

Narrator (71:49)

To want to need to wrestle with this very question. And it's a question for all of us.

Jack Wilson (71:57)

I remember reading a description of the story that said something like, it's a great story because we ask the question.

Narrator (72:03)

Do we ever really know someone? And that's there, I guess. But I think the answer is clear.

Jack Wilson (72:10)

We don't. But it's also, yes, we do. It's somewhere in the middle.

Narrator (72:14)

I think there's another question, too, which.

Jack Wilson (72:17)

Is the one that hit me and still does.

Narrator (72:23)

It's the question of who are we?

Jack Wilson (72:28)

Are we, Michael Fury, living for the.

Narrator (72:30)

Moment, living our passions, living recklessly, ignoring the consequences? Do we want to live in a blaze, even if it means we might flame out? Or do we want the steady candle of a Gabriel or an Aunt Kate or an Aunt Julia, which will flicker and fade? Candles last a long time. Is that better?

Jack Wilson (72:59)

Is that the way to live?

Narrator (73:00)

Or should we live like Michael Fury, a lit match, throwing everything on the.

Jack Wilson (73:06)

Line, killing ourselves, literally killing ourselves with.

Narrator (73:10)

Our own passion, unleashing the life within.

Jack Wilson (73:13)

Us at its strongest and most forceful, living a life without limits, or as if it didn't have limits and seeing.

Narrator (73:22)

Where that gets us.

Jack Wilson (73:24)

That is what I asked myself when.

Narrator (73:26)

I read the story on my way to Italy.

Jack Wilson (73:29)

And I lived. I tried to live. I tried to live hard, as hard as I could. And I did. For years I did. I ran around the world, seizing the day, falling in love, reading everything, meeting people, taking risks, absorbing life, stretching myself as far as I possibly could.

Narrator (73:51)

It turns out I had a lot of Michael Fury in me, waiting to get out. But. But. But it was also in me not to do that, to play things a little safe.

Jack Wilson (74:06)

At age 20, I was already starting to be a Gabriel, even as I was a Michael Fury. And now, 25 years later, I wonder if I can still be a Michael Fury. Maybe not all the time, but enough. Is there a balance? Is that possible? Is it desirable?

Narrator (74:28)

And then we come to the final scene in the story where Gabriel, who's.

Jack Wilson (74:34)

Been our guide to all of this.

Narrator (74:36)

Reflects on what it all means in this devastatingly beautiful passage. Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfully on her tangled hair and half open mouth, listening to her deep drawn breath. So she had had that romance in her life. A man had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. He watched her while she slept, as though he and she had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes rested long upon her face and on her hair. And as he thought of what she must have been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange, friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say, even to himself, that her face was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it was no longer the face for which Michael Fury had braved death. Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen down. The fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt's supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the merry making when saying good night in the hall, the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia. She too would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing Arrayed for the bridal. Soon perhaps he would be sitting in that same drawing room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down, and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might console her and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes, that would happen very soon. The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. 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 thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live. Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes, and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of but could not apprehend their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a gray, impalpable world. The solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling. A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily, the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. 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 on the Bog of Allen, and farther Westward, softly falling into the dark, mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as 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. Simply gorgeous. The sound, the melody of it, and the themes of this long short story all coming together. The way the final words, the final sentence, even the final two words of.

Jack Wilson (80:09)

The story, which are the title of.

Narrator (80:11)

The story and capture absolutely everything we've been looking at and bring them all to their natural resting point, their conclusion. We have the snow. We have the husband and wife, the marriage, the not knowing. The caution versus the passion.

Jack Wilson (80:30)

A man who feels himself a fool.

Narrator (80:33)

A fatuous, silly person. The way that passion gets folded into a marriage and the way the past folds into the present and future. And the way the snow falling on everyone and everything ties everything together. Just as a neighborhood unites us all, or a nation or a language or a holiday or an element of the.

Jack Wilson (80:57)

Human condition, something we can all recognize, whether it's in literature or life, because.

Narrator (81:03)

We are, after all, above all, human. We can unite around passion or mystery or regret or grief. We can unite around all of those. And we can unite around love in all its many forms and all its many quirks and all its many facets, those strange, eccentric facets which we all share and which we don't know enough about even when we think we do.

Edgar Allan Poe (81:50)

And the dew wet my skin My babe lies cold within my arms but none will let me My bab lies cold within my arms but none will last.

Narrator (82:55)

Okay, there we go.

Jack Wilson (82:57)

This is Jack in 2024 again. We're going to be off until next Monday when we'll bring you some Keats for your listening pleasure. And then it's 2025. I hope you and your loved ones are enjoying some time together as we ring out the old and ring in the new. My thanks to all of you for joining me on this journey. I'm Jack Wilson. Thank you for listening, and we'll see you next Sa Sa.