Forum Fremdsprachen English James Joyce: The Dubliners

English James Joyce: The Dubliners

Angeli44
Angeli44
Mitglied

James Joyce: The Dubliners
geschrieben von Angeli44


„Eveline“

SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired.

Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which they used to play every evening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it - not like their little browne houses, but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field - the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up; her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others, to leave her home.

Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word:

"He is in Melbourne now."

She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life about her. O course she had to work hard, both in the house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were people listening.

"Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?"

"Look lively, Miss Hill, please."

She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.

But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then she would be married - she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her the palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her, like he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl; but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for her dead mother's sake. And now she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages -- seven shillings -- and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that he wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had been left to her charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard work - a hard life - but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly undesirable life.

She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say to him.

"I know these sailor chaps," he said.

One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover secretly.

The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite, but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her.
Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her father putting on her mothers bonnet to make the children laugh.

Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air. Strange that it should come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother's illness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back into the sickroom saying:

"Damned Italians! coming over here!"

As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on the very quick of her being - that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:

"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"

She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her.

She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.

A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:

"Come!"

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.

"Come!"

No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.

"Eveline! Evvy!"

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on, but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.
[size=14][/size]
yoli
yoli
Mitglied

Re: James Joyce: The Dubliners
geschrieben von yoli
als Antwort auf Angeli44 vom 27.09.2014, 16:22:13
I would not have gone to Buenes Aires, would you Angeli?
You know, we still have a great follower Group in Zürich from James Joyce?
Have a look >>
The Irish writer, James Joyce, was very much at home in Zurich – having lived and died in the city. More than 60 years after his death, his work is still celebrated and debated by the city's admiring cognoscenti.
I even lived in the same road as he did at one time
Angeli44
Angeli44
Mitglied

Re: James Joyce: The Dubliners
geschrieben von Angeli44
als Antwort auf yoli vom 29.09.2014, 10:25:38
I had done it, certainly, I had done it!!

Look at the life of Eveline. How poor, how dependent, how depressed! Every, every other life would be better for her than that life in her family in Dublin at the beginning oft he 20th century. Her mother was crazy from this life. It was too hard, too threatend, too depressed. And nowhere an exit, only praying. Most people in Ireland were Catholics, and I think this is going on until now. Women at that time were without own rights. And the father of the familiy could do with the children and with his wife as he would like! (I think this is better nowadays, certainly).

But look at the story:

„…As she …(EVELINE)… mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on the very quick of her being - that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:

"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"

She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her….“

Why she had not gone? This ist the most question in the story!

Dear Yoli ,no, I did’nt know that James Joyce lived in Zürich! It is interesting for me to hear this and to see that people there love him until today. -- I beg you pardon for mistakes in my text possibly! For a long time I did`nt speak and did`nt write English.

Anzeige

Angeli44
Angeli44
Mitglied

Re: James Joyce: The Dubliners
geschrieben von Angeli44
als Antwort auf Angeli44 vom 29.09.2014, 16:55:14
By the way:
20 years ago, on September 30th, 1989, there were many East German refugees in the Prague embassy, which finally found their way to freedom!
The Foreign Minister Genscher had paved this way. As he had done this, is described in great detail today in Berlin's Tagesspiegel.
Maxi41
Maxi41
Mitglied

Re: James Joyce: The Dubliners
geschrieben von Maxi41
als Antwort auf Angeli44 vom 29.09.2014, 16:55:14
Hi Angeli,

it´s a very nice but also an sad story. I like it.
Recently I read the best-selling novel by Frank McCourt "Angela´s Ashes". It described the life in Irelend about 100 years ago. It was very impressed. I read it in German.

BTW: general topics you can find it under "Purpose of this subforum".

Greetings, Bärbel
Angeli44
Angeli44
Mitglied

Re: James Joyce: The Dubliners
geschrieben von Angeli44
als Antwort auf Maxi41 vom 01.10.2014, 20:18:23
Hi Bärbel,
Yes, it is. Nice and sad. But offen life is`nt so glad and lucky as people some times think, especially for us women. Also nowadays, I think.

James Joyce wrote the stories „Dubliners“ at the beginning oft he 20th century. For a long time he found no Publishers for them because the printers there refused to print it! It’s interesting, is’nt it?
“…They centre on Joyce's idea of an epiphany: a moment where a character experiences self-understanding or illumination. Many of the characters in Dubliners later appear in minor roles in Joyce's novel Ulysses….” (Taken from Wikipedia)

Angeli

Anzeige

Angeli44
Angeli44
Mitglied

Re: James Joyce: The Dubliners; Angeli to all users of the tread
geschrieben von Angeli44
als Antwort auf Angeli44 vom 02.10.2014, 08:47:02
In the meantime, many users have clicked on the thread, but only two responded. Without questions!
But what, for exemple, is meant by the Gaelic words which Evelin‘s mother was saying constantly with foolish insistence:

"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"?

I first read about it in German. There I read that the words were not a proper Gaelic and various interpretations are possible: The end of the song is crazy," " The end of pleasure is pain " or "In the end only maggots". (Taken from: James Joyce: Dublin Stories, dtv zweisprachig, 1995, page 152)

I‘d like to discuss also other things about the story. About questions I would be happy.
Angeli44
Angeli44
Mitglied

Re: James Joyce: The Dubliners; Angeli to all users of the tread - A new story
geschrieben von Angeli44
als Antwort auf Angeli44 vom 03.10.2014, 10:31:51
I read the Dublin Stories perhaps 10 years ago. I loved them. I remembered a story from the book, which I especially loved. This I wanted to introduce here - at the ST - first. But then I could not find the story in the book! I know for sure that it was a Dublin-story by James Joyce. How strange. Where is the story go? Can a story from a book just disappear? Certainly not.

Because the story is so beautiful, I want to tell it here.

It was at the beginning of the 20th century. From an Irish family with many children, a daughter was going to America. She manages just to New York, and there she remains then a lifetime. She works as an employee in a small restaurant. (I think in the Bronx, I don’t remember exactly whether it was the Bronx.) From there she send her Irish family money regularly. Over all the decades, as she was working in New York. Only in herself the woman had not thought of. Now she is old and her boss says that she has to go. But where? For herself she had just saved so much money that she could buy a plane ticket to Ireland.

On the plane she drinks a lot of alcohol. She is afraid to meet her family as a poor woman. At Dublin airport she meets her family. All members were come to meet her. They bring her in the house where they live. It is a nice house with a garden around. Here she can stay for a longer time, as she like. And the family members tell her that they had saved all the money that she was sending them over all the decades! And therefore they rented for her a comfortable apartment in a Senior Home!

It is so surprising and nice, isn’t it? The Irish family wasn’t poor anymore and so members of it could save all the money that the sister and sister in law, aunt and grand aunt was sending them a lifetime from New York!

But why can't it be a story by James Joyce, master of stories about poor Irish people?

Certainly! You, dear reader, it already understood. Now, it is more than 50 years later. James Joyce wrote his stories at the beginning of the 20th century. And a lifetime later (!) the woman comes back to Ireland!
The real author of this nice story unfortunately I don`t know.

Angeli44
Maxi41
Maxi41
Mitglied

Re: James Joyce: The Dubliners; Angeli to all users of the tread - A new story
geschrieben von Maxi41
als Antwort auf Angeli44 vom 23.10.2014, 08:19:38
Hello Angeli,
when you also didn´t know the real author of this story, it´s a beautiful and nice story. The daughter was rewarded for her support to her poor family. She was able to afford a comfortable and carefree retirment.
It´s a story with a licky end.
Thanks, Bärbel
Silvan
Silvan
Mitglied

Re: James Joyce: The Dubliners; Angeli to all users of the tread - A new story
geschrieben von Silvan
als Antwort auf Maxi41 vom 24.10.2014, 13:45:17
@ Friends of James Joyce

Do you also celebrate Bloomsday on the 16th of June?

Anzeige