BITfERSWEET BLEND: A STUDY OF FAMILY STRIFE AND COMIC RELIEF

IN SEIECI'ED STORIES OF FRANK 0 'CDNNOR

by

John Sheridan .Biays, Jr.

A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of ti1e

College of Humanities

in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirem=nts for the Degree of

Master of Arts

Florida Atlantic University

Boca Raton, Florida

December, 1984

~Copyright by John Sheridan Biays, Jr. 1984

ii

BITIERSWEET BLEND: A STUDY OF FAMILY STRIFE AND CO.UC RELIEF

IN SELECTED STORIES OF FRANK O'CONNOR

by

John Sheridan Biays, Jr.

This thesis was prepared under the direction of the candidate's advisor, Dr. Ann Peyton, Department of English. It was submitted to the faculty of the College of Humanities and was accepted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts.

SUPERVISORY CClvMITIEE

Thesis Advisor

\

111

Author:

Title:

Institution:

Degree:

Year:

ABSTRACT

John Sheridan Biays, Jr.

Bittersweet Blend: A Study of Family Strife and Comic Relief in Selected Stories of Frank O'Connor

Florida Atlantic University

Master of Arts

1984

Frank O'Connor's stories of family strife effectively incorpor­

ate comic relief to underscore the essential tragedy and frus-

tration in his protagonists' lives. Through a myriad of Irish

idiosyncracies and traditions, O'Connor examines the conflicts

that emerge when attempts are made to reconcile impulsive in-

stincts with the bittersweet bonds of family heritage. The first

chapter, "The Marriage Trap," explores the dilemma facing couples

who seek to escape stagnation; the second chapter, "Role Confu-

sian," deals with the tragicomic aspects of assumin g different

identities; the final chapter, "The Substitute Family," depicts

lonely characters' desperate search for warmth in a family of

their own invention. For O'Connor's families, seeking fulfill­

ment becomes an anguished search. The author's use of comic

relief temporarily offsets, occasionally balances, and ultimate -

ly underscores their strife.

iv

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

CHAPTER I: THE MARRIAGE TRAP ..................... 3

CHAPTER II: ROLE CONFUSION ....................... 20

CHAPTER III: THE SUBSTITUTE FAMILY ............... 48

BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81

v

INrRODUCTION

A recurring pattern in Irish literature is the comedic

treatment of identity crisis and family tradition. The intrinsic

humor, though, in no way diminishes the character's immediate anguish.

Successfully blending humor and pathos is an accomplishment few writers

achieve, but one Irish writer did more than succeed in this endeavor-­

he excelled. His name is Frank O'Connor.

O'Connor's themes reflect a keen understanding of the

conflicts that erupt when attempts are made to reconcile impulsive

instincts with the bittersweet bonds of family heritage and tradition.

By utilizing comic relief, O'Connor underscores the essential tragedy

and frustration in his protagonists' lives, and he judiciously incorpd­

rates a myriad of Irish idiosyncracies, dreams, bickerings, and mis­

understandings.

This study will examine three motifs found in 0' Connor 's

stories. The first chapter, '"The Marriage Trap," explores the dilennna

of married couples whose quiet desperation conflicts with impulsive

attempts to escape stagnation. These couples are joined by sheer con­

venience rather than by love and commitment, and such "unholy" matrimonies

lead to bitterness and lapses in tact and civility. O'Connor's humorous

scenes contrast with, and thus heighten, the tragic undercurrents of Irish

married life. In this section, the well-known ''Mad Lomasneys" is analyzed,

along with "Fish for Friday," "Expectation of Life," and "The Pariah."

1

2

The second chapter deals with the role confusion experienced

by various characters. O'Connor indicates that the adult's childlike

behavior parallels the child's desperate, premature attempts to assume

adult responsibilities. The parent-child rivalries in some stories take

tragicomic twists, and the desire for instant gratification only intensi­

fies the general frustration within the household. The attempts to assume

different roles are alternately painful and endearing, especially for

O'Connor's young protagonists whose positive, determined outlooks collec­

tively reflect an untarnished innocence. Representative stories include

''The Drunkard," ''My Oedipus Complex," ''Masculine Protest," ''Man of the

House,'' and ''Frying Pan.''

The final segment examines the function of the substitute

family. Throughout such stories, O'Connor juxtaposes humor and heartache.

In "Guests of A Nation," for example, the young soldiers take pleasure in

teasing each other, and the camaraderie provides an emotionally protective,

wartime substitute for the warmth of a real family. The good-natured

banter, however, is soon superseded by the grim realities of war. Adult­

hood becomes synonomous with despair as adolescence becomes the enviable

state. Other supporting stories include "Judas," ''The Study of History,"

"Legal Aid," and "The Pretender."

For O'Connor's characters, seeking fulfillment becomes an

anguished search. Although they question tradition and take some risks,

the victories are short-lived. O'Connor's skillful use of comic relief

temporarily offsets, occasionally balances, and ultimately underscores

their strife.

·CHAPTER I

THE MARRIAGE TRAP

In The Lonely Voice, Frank O'Connor's study of the

short story, the author states that the genre has at "its most charac-

teristic something we do not often find in the novel -- an intense

awareness of human loneliness. 1 Ironically, his protagonists are rarely

alone; their sense of isolation stems from their reluctance, or refusal,

to succumb to societal expectations. O'Connor believes that these figures

are "outlaws wandering about the fringes of society,"2 and that the

romantic tradition of acting on impulse is thwarted by those who display

blind allegiance to the orderly, the expected, and the mundane.

Northrup Frye describes the typical comedic progression as a

movement "from a society controlled by habit, ritual bondage, arbitrary

law and the older characters to one controlled by youth and pragmatic 3

freedom." O'Connor's most memorable characters fit this definition well;

in their attempt to alleviate a sense of entrapment, they behave against

type and challenge social standards, often with youthful abandon.

O'Connor's "outlaws" are inevitably bruised by the horns of an

emotional dilemma; the urge to act impulsively is consistently pitted

against the pattern of "respectable" behavior. His stories present a

variety of intriguing couples whose attempts to resolve this dilemma can

be momentarily comic but ultimately tragic. Marital views run the gamut

from hypocritical and traditional to unorthodox and idealistic. The

inherent humor serves as an effective tool which temporarily masks the tragic

3

4 consequences of social conditioning. Although many of O'Connor's stories

are known for their humor, Maurice Wohlgelernter believes that the

author's depiction of couples' strife reflects disdain for social

institutions' disregard for the intrinsic beauty and dignity of marriage. 4

While wedding vows are intended to bring couples closer, the fear of being

trapped (or resigned) within the more of the Irish "church, schools,

teachers, and other shapers of public opinion"5 perpetuates dismal expec-

tations and promotes mutual misunderstandings between the sexes.

The search for emotional fulfillment within a marriage, then,

can be a disheartening one (especially in Ireland where provincialism

and convention are the norm). But while some of O'Connor's characters

may suffer despair and dejection in not realizing their individual dreams,

protagonists behave spontaneously and yearn to escape from familial strife.

In ''The Mad Lomasneys," O'Connor depicts the negative conse­

quences of impulsive behavior through the character of Rita Lomasney. 6

Throughout the story, she maintains her independent spirit and tests

conventional norms. While Rita is not striking in looks, her feisty nature

nonetheless attracts various marriage proposals, and therein lies a paradox.

The rebellious trait of Rita is the very trait so appealing to the opposite

sex, but the restraints of a conventional marriage would destroy her unique

appeal.

Rita's first true love is a young seminarian, and her involve-

ment typifies O'Connor's knack for juxtaposing natural inclination (i.e.

young love) against improbable, impractical, circumstances. The conse­

quence of Rita's impulsiveness is dismissal from a teaching position. The

young man is the one who ends the affair; he does not want to disappoint

his mother, for she has spent substantial funds to provide her son's

religious training. Rita is hurt, of course, but both share the guilt

5 that society inflicts. (She was not "supposed" to fall in love with a

seminarian, and his devotion to his mother, rather than to the ''mother"

church, is a feeble excuse.) The seminarian's immaturity creates sympathy

for Rita, and his adolescent need for his mother is more farcical than

representative of an intense, forbidden love. Yet on another level,

according to William Tomory, the young man is typical of numerous O'Connor

characters, ones for whom "love, religion, and Irish motl;l:erhood comprise

the triad which makes for frustrated, stunted lives."7

Rita has lost both lover and position to the suffocating

demands of convention, and the experience is only the first in a pattern

of defianoe, momentary triumph, and inevitable, embittered compromise.

When Rita returns home, emotionally shell-shocked, her rebellious nature

is underscored by her drinking, her profanity, and her explicit desire

to find sexual fulfillment. Her diatribes against the status quo provide

a striking contrast to the expected behavior of a young woman, and her

acerbic statements have the added sting of unmasked truth. In one

particularly caustic passage, Rita pinpoints the hypocrisy evident in her

sisters' behavior, and her liberal philosophy is evident. She is speaking

to Ned, a friend since childhood, and one who is enamored of her unconven-

tional ways. Lashing out against her sisters, she states,

''They're bitches, Ned; proper bitches. And all because I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. If one of them got a knock from a fellow, she'd take two aspirins and go to bed with the other one. They'd have a lovely talk--can't you imagine? 'And was it then he said he loved you?' I can't do that sort of stuff. And it's all because they aren't sincere, Ned. They coul dn' t be sincere . " (p . 109)

Attracted by her honesty, Ned soon proposes to Rita. She declines the

offer, but her spirits are bolstered because of his interest, and she

takes delight in imagining her sister's reactions. O'Connor mixes the

6 pain of a broken connection with a lighter description of Rita's

vengeful, theatrical fantasy. He writes that

Ned's proposal ... bolstered up her self-esteem which was always in danger of collapse. She might be ugly and uneducated and a bit of a chancer, but the best man in Cork--the best in Ireland she some­times thought- -wanted to marry her, even after she had been let down by another man. That was a queer one for the enemies! So while her sisters made fun of her, Rita considered the situation, waiting for the best possible moment to let them know she had been propositioned to and could marry before either of them if it suited her. Since her childhood, Rita had never given anything away without extracting the last ounce of theatrical effect from it. She would tell her sisters, but not before she could make them sick with the news. (p. 111)

Other proposals are in the offing. There is Justin, the

lawyer, "a tall, burly man with a broad face, a brow that was rising

from baldness as well as brains, and a slow, watchful, ironic air "

(p. lll). His condescending comment that Rita is "probably too young

to know what the real thing (love) is" (p. ll4) justifies her rejection

of this rational, meticulous barrister. At this point in the story,

Rita lets her heart dictate her behavior; an instinctive attempt to

preserve her individuality is underscored by O'Connor's description of

his protagonist's sturdy demeanor in the wake of an emotional wound.

After calling Jus tin the "thickest man [she] had ever met . . . Rita

stood gazing after him with folded arms. At the age of eighteen to be

told that there is anything you don't know about love is like a knife in

your heart" (p. 114).

Rita's refusals thus far have been based on her fidelity to

her own standards; she does not want to settle for less than genuine

emotion. But O'Connor injects a new reversal, one with sad overtones.

Before journeying to England to begin a new teaching job, Rita suddenly

7 decides to marry either Ned or Justin, her only criteria being who

arrives first at her farewell party. The lawyer "wins" this irrational

contest, and Rita and Justin join hands in holy, but sorely mismatched

rna tr:imorry .

Shortly before her first child is born, Rita confesses to Ned

and her sisters that her choice of a husband was one of whim, not reason.

The bittersweet aspects of her hasty decision are reflected by differ-

ing critical opinions. William Tomory feels that Rita is "shorn of her

romantic illusions, left embittered and scornful. "8 Gerry Brenner,

however, writes that "even though her choice is the sort of conduct that

'educated' people are taught to disapprove of, it is simultaneously a

limited assertion of individuality and consequently conunendable. "9 Rita,

on the one hand, has attempted to conform to society's norm by marrying

and having children. Yet her honesty in acknowledging the irrationality

of her choice indicates an incomplete surrender to the social hypocrisies

that dominate her world. She has accepted the consequences of her impulsive

act, but despite her acquiescence to tradition, she does try to preserve

her integrity as an individual.

The syndrome of marital ennui is just as potentially lethal

for 0 'Connor Is male characters in "Fish for Friday. n 10 Marriage Is imprison­

ing qualities are depicted in this tragicomic tale. According to

Anthony McCrann, the men here regard marriage as "a trap, a civil war in

which they are on the losing side. "11 The dialogue reflects, on face

value, dissatisfaction with the inherent monotony of married life. The

protagonist, forty-two year old Ned McCarthy, feels he has been beaten by

the mandatory ritual; after a "few short words in front of the altar, it's

fish for Friday the rest of our lives" (p. 464).

8

Rather than being excited at the prospect of a newborn

child, Ned cannot muster any enthusiasm at all. On the way into town

to locate the doctor, he allows his cronies to buy him numerous rOlmds

of drinks. Soon, Ned forgets the reason for his little journey, and

the image of a wife left alone in childbirth is blurred by the ambiance

at the bar as the men drink themselves into cheery forgetfulness. Ned

wants to know why a man would be sent into town on a Friday, and the

answer seems a most logical one. After much inebriated discussion,

he concludes that fish, "or something like it" (p. 469) is the reason

for his visit.

When Ned returns home that afternoon with his friend Martin,

the subconscious reason for the fish obsession surfaces:

Two hours later (after their extended pub stay) the two friends, more loquacious than ever, drove up to Ned's house for hmch. ''Mustn't forget the fish," Ned said as he reached back in the car for it. At that moment he heard the wail of a newborn infant and went very white.

''What the hell is that, Ned?" Martin asked in alarm.

"That, Martin," said Ned, "is the fish, I'm afraid."

"I won't disturb you now, Ned," Martin said hastily, getting out of the car. I'll get a snack from Tom Hurley."

"Courage, man!" said Ned frowningly. "Here you are and here you'll stop. But why fish, Martin? That's what I can't l.Dlderstand. Why did I think it was fish?" (p. 469)

Like fish, Ned, too, is caught. But the deeper irony of O'Connor's tale

is that Ned makes no attempt to change the status quo. The family net

from which he escapes, regularly and briefly, is also his safety net.

Ned's fantasy of leaving can only anruse him if he stays in captivity; he

chooses to swallow the bait of sour family life rather than endure the

bitter bill of loneliness. Ned has fallen victim of the marriage trap,

9 but he has learned to depend on that trap to lend savor to his brief

moments of freedom.

Reconciling romantic ideals with the staid but stable

aspects of a traditional marriage is an ongoing challenge for O'Connor's

more adventurous protagonists. In "Expectation of Life," Shiela Hennessey

learns too late that neither one's fantasies nor one's spouse can

b 1 . 11 guarantee a so ute secur1ty.

Before she surprises everyone by marrying Jim Gaffney, a

man twenty years her senior, Shiela went with Matt Sheridan for ten

years. A quiet, reserved man, Matt had shown more of an interest in

Shiela's inheritance than in her spousal potential. Although he does

love Shiela, he never expresses it. Periodically, Shiela would "scare

off the prospect of a long life with a pleasant, quiet man like Matt, and

for six months or so would run a tearing line with some young fellow from

the College" (p. 431) . Matt's initial resentment of her affairs, however,

turns into resignation, and he believes that Shiela will eventually see

the foolishness of her ways. O'Connor pits Matt's logical, methodical

approach to life against Shiela's romantic fantasies and her sudden

marriage to Jim, "a widower with a little business, a queer old house,

and no religious beliefs worth mentioning," is unexpected by all parties

(p. 432) .

For a while after their honeymoon in France, Shiela felt

content. In fact, she "came to understand how good a marriage could be,

with the inhibitions of a lifetime breaking down and new and more compli-

cated ones taking their place " (p. 434). Their life, however, becomes

"exceedingly quiet." Although Shiela views Jim as a stable element in

her life, the twenty year age difference between them is cause for

sustained interest in Matt; also,it indicates her inability to value what

she does have.

10 The generation gap provides a vehicle for some lighter

moments in the story. Shiela's restlessness is conveyed through her

mischievous attempts to engage in "meaningful" dis cuss ions with her

lackluster husband. They are fruitless attempts, and O'Connor sharply

contrasts Shiela's mockery, born of frustration, with her husband's

aloof demeanor. ''When she set out deliberately to madden him by

sneering at his conventionality, he lost his temper and snapped: 'Super-:

ficiality is a damn good way to know people,'" a response which, in

turn, mocks Shiela 's need for marital drama. 0 'Connor also incorporates

a metaphor involving plumbing to underscore the couple';s clashing

personalities:

She suspected that, whereas her plumbing of the depths meant that she was continually changing planes in her relations with people, moving rapidly from aloofness to intimacy and back, enthusing and suspecting, he considered only the characteristics that could be handled consistently on one plane. And though his approach was by its nature inaccurate, she had to admit that it worked, because in the plumbing business you never really knew where you were with anyone. (p. 435)

O'Connor's story serves as an allegory for the marriages which revolve

around one partner's demand for depth and the other's inclination toward

(or escape in) shallowness. How deep Jim's commitment runs is measured,

in Shiela's terms, only by his willingness to communicate fully.

Longing to live life intensely, Shiela soon settles for a

new and vicarious excitement. She is able to divert her despair when

Matt appears on the scene unexpectedly. After more than a year's absence,

Matt calls on Shiela for friendship and companionship, two elements

O'Connor's characters so often seek. Ever the romantic, Shiela introduces

Matt to Kitty O'Malley, "an old friend of Jim's whose chequered career

Shiela had tried to analyze." (p. 437) O'Connor delineates the motley

11 array of affairs which Kitty has experienced, adventures which fascinate

Shiela. Kitty has already been involved with "a married man who had not

liked to let her know he was married for fear of hurting her feelings;

a mental patient; and a pathological liar who had got himself engaged

to two other girls because he could not stop inventing personalities

for himself" (p. 437-8)· Pairing her ex-lover with this melodramatic

heroine, Shiela believes she can manipulate events to suit her fantasies.

When Shiela's plans produce unexpected results, another,

deeper fantasy surfaces. Her attention to Matt during her matchmaking

scheme arouses Jim's jealousy, and it is clear that her scheming was

more than a vicarious attempt to live life through Matt and Kitty, whose

decision to marry catches Shiela off guard; she had never suspected that

a marriage commitment would be appealing to Matt. Instead, Shiela had

dreamed about Jim's walking out in a fit of disgust, thus leaving her

free to marry Matt herself.

In yet another reversal of her expectations, Shiela is soon

provided with the deeply aware, emotional lover she once desired--in the

person of her husband. When Jim survives a severe illness, he decides

he now wants to live life to the fullest, much to Shiela's chagrin. He

actually looks forward to painting the house, overextending his finances,

and disregarding any benefits of life insurance. Jim, with his ne,..rly

found cavalier spirit, is reckless enough to poke fun of the penuriousness

of the Irish:

"Now, mind what I'm telling you, girl," he said, lecturing her as he had done on the first night of their marriage, "there's some maggot of meanness in all Irish people. They could halve their work and double their pleasure, but they'd sooner have it in the bank. Olrist, they'd put themselves in a safe deposit if only they'd keep ... Look at that bloody city down there, full of perishing old misers~" (p. 440)

12 Now committed to living for the moment, Jim refuses to pay

for life insurance and intends to borrow money instead for an expensive

bathroom. In convoluted logic, he tells Shiela, 'We can't afford to

get pnetm1onia in that damned old outhouse . Look at the walls ! They're

dripping wet. Anyway, we now have security to borrow on " (p. 441).

Confronted by this new and vital husband, Shiela again seeks satisfaction

elsewhere. As is her nature, Shiela cannot be happy living in the present,

accepting what she has; she still envies Kitty and Matt. In contrast to

Shiela, Kitty cherishes her marriage and finds it remarkable to be

"married to someone as normal as Matt, especially for a girl with such a

spotty career " (p. 441). The reader is caught by surprise, and Shiela

is shocked, by Kitty's tragic death shortly after giving birth to a second

child. Utilizing a minimlml of foreshadowing in these reversals, O'Connor

interweaves the comedic with the sudden tragic occurence, thus skillfully

mirrowing the unpredictability of true family life.

Emotionally torn after Kitty's tragic death, Shiela cares for

Jim but yearns for Matt. Her fantasies prevent her from appreciating what

she does have--a close friend in Matt, and a husband who loves life. Her

despair and fluctuation between fantasy and reality is described with a

delicate balance of detail:

Even if Jim believed in nothing, she did, and she prayed that she might be enlightened about the cause of her anger and discontent. For, however she tried, she could find in herself no real hostility to Jim. She felt that if she were called upon to do it, she could suffer anything on his behalf. Yet at the same time she was tormented by the spectacle of Matt, patient and uncomplaining, the way he looked and the way he spoke, and his terrible need of her, and had hysterical fits of patience with Jim, older and rougher but still smiling affectionately at her as if he really understood the torment she was enduring. (p. 442)

13 Shiela's substantial stress results in a critical illness.

O'Connor writes that "it is the present she was living in, and it was

the present that she hated." With sufficient time for honest reflection,

Shiela begins to take pleasure in the simple aspects of life. "She

realized with her clear penetrating intelligence that her new sense of

happiness was one she had rejected, and which now she would never be

pennitted to know. All that experience could teach her was its value "

(p. 443).

Unfortunately, Shiela's death traps another in self-centered

misery. Jim is determined to remain "cheerful and thriving" the rest of

his days. But Matt, unable to let go of painful memories, cannot easily

forget Jim'.s cavalier demeanor. (Ironically, Matt suffers from the same

affliction that once beset Shiela.) While Jim finally learned to appre-

ciate each moment to its fullest, Shiela learned the lesson too late.

In this portrait of two marriages, then, O'Connor reveals that dwelling

in the past--whether the memories be pleasant or sad ones-- or to

romanticize the future, diminishes the urge to sustain commitment. Un-

realistic, and ultimately impossible, expectations of married life can

only tighten the marital restraints.

Yearning for the romantic days of the past is a favorite

pastime for those dissatisfied with their present, unfulfilling lives.

Fonner suitors, for example, are often placed atop an idealized pedestal,

but such elevated status only reinforces the despair of those who feel

trapped by limited options. For the unmarried, the gap between marital

fantasies and responsible, sensible matrimony is a considerable one, and

O'Connor depicts its tragicomic implications through the brother-sister

relationship in "The Pariah."13

Critically judging the merits of his sister's suitors, the

stereotypical attitude of the concerned brother is voiced through Jack,

14 the narrator. He tells us that he "disliked every single one of his

sister's boyfriends," and despite his protests, she continued to go out

with these "juvenile delinquents," with the full blessings of her mother,

"a vicarious romantic of an old-fashioned sort " (p. 109).

To Jack's surprise, Sue finally starts seeing a respectful

young man named Terry Connelly. He was polite, logical, and honest, all

the qualities which Jack admired. Referring to Terry, Jack states,

He made no secret of the fact that he wanted a home of his own or that he hoped Sue would marry him. He made this plain to me the first evening we went for a walk together, and I was deeply impressed. I liked his honesty and his ability to make up his mind about what he wanted. (p. 110)

Ironically, Jack finds himself in the position of 'wishing

to tell one of Sue's boys that I wondered if she was really good enough

for him" (p. 110) • Jack need not worry; after a few months, Sue would

have nothing to do with Terry. Instead, she takes up with Nick Ryan,

maliciously described in the typical O'Connor vein:

He was fat, he was smooth, he was knowing, with a sort of clerical obesity, unction, and in­fallibility; though mainly I remember that he achnired Proust and soured me on one of my favorite authors for a whole year. Like Proust, he had a mother, and like Proust, he never let you hear the end of it. (p. 111)

Sue's character flaws then, are minimized by their juxtaposition with

such an "unsuitable" suitor.

Jack's astute assessments of character, however, are un-

reliable predictors of romantic success. Terry starts to court Sue's

friend, Clare. Jack himself is fond of Clare, and he fully expects her

to respond favorably to his marriage proposal. But, as Jack states,

15 "I was wrong there too ... After a few months, for all her quietness

and sweetness, Clare turned Terry down flat" (p. ll3). Here, Jack's

ability to admit his own analytical shortcoming is subtly conveyed by

O'Connor,and his flaw is typical of those who forsake romance for the

more methodical approach to marital arrangements. Exactly why both Sue

and Clare would shun such a generous proposition, especially in a small

town like Cork, escapes the narrator:

They were nice girls, pretty girls, good girls, but neither was brilliant or a beauty, and in a town like Cork, where marriageable men are scarce and exacting, they stood a remarkably good chance of not marrying at all. I studied him (Ted) closely, particularly in their company, but damn the thing could I see wrong with him, and I ended by deciding that what Mother called "the bad old days," when the choice of a husband was made for them by responsible relatives, were the best days that brainless girls had ever known. (p.ll3)

The girls feel that while Terry is courteous and intelligent, he is--sin

of all sins--dull. Terry has no luck either with a couple of other girls,

becoming "a pariah" of sorts.

As it turns out, Clare marries Nick, while Sue, in her mercurial

nature, takes up with another suitor after recovering from the pangs of

second thoughts. In a bitter tone, she warns Jack that '~e'll never know

how treacherous women can be " (p. ll4) .

Terry, finally, becomes engaged to Martha, a stunning woman

whom he has met at a conference in Dublin. Immediately after news of the

engagement reaches Sue, Terry is "elevated into the realm of the super­

natural " {p. ll8). The former pariah, in his newly acquired state of in­

eligibility, becomes the ideal, and the engaged couple is invited to dinner

by Jack and Sue.

After the couple leaves, it becomes evident that $ue is as much

devoted to Terry as he once was to the goal of being married. Jack cannot

16

tm.derstand his sister's belated devotion, but "seeing that women of

Sue's kind must wear a broken heart for someone, I dare say it may as

well be for one of the men they have given such a very bad time to"

(p. 123). O'Connor ends the story without Jack's passing judgment

against his sister. The inherent sibling bond remains a strong one.

Sue has become a victim of her impulses much like Rita Lomasney in

"Expectation of Life," and Jack hopes that her true love will appear

someday.

The final irony, of course, is that "Sue, not Terry, has

become the pariah, the innocent romantic looking backward to an irre­

trievable lost cause."14 In her loneliness, Sue regrets her impulsive

rejection, but O'Connor's treatment of her is neither harsh not con-

descending. James Matthews is correct in his assertion that O'Connor's

tone is never "arrogant or patronizing;"15 her isolation creates sympathy

for her nastiness.

Ultimately, O'Connor presents marriage as a natural extension

of aversion to loneliness. Social pressure may hasten so-called '~ad

marriages," but Deborah Averill believes that O'Connor's stories

celebrate marriage as the institution in which natural bonds can be maintained . . . [his characters] may be remote from society, but they are not divorced from it; [they] can always feel a need for companionship, a pull towards contact and reintegration and a desire to work out a reconciliation within the span of the individual life. 16

Drawn to the altar by their loneliness, O'Connor's spouses

must then struggle, within the marriage, to maintain their separateness.

Seeking security and yet fearing stagnation, they rebel through brief

escape and fantasy. O'Connor's couples are by turns impulsive, un-

realistic, resigned, lonely, desperate, indiscreet, naive, and endearing.

17

Juxtaposing the predictable with the unpredictable, O'Connor's

depiction of a bittersweet marriage becomes a microcosm of

an unpredictable, and inevitably, tragicomic existence.

18 Notes: Chapter I

1 Frank O'Connor, The Lonely Voice (New York: World Publishing, 1963),

p. 19.

2 O'Connor, The Lonely Voice, p. 19.

3 Northrup Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton

University Press, 1971), p. 1~.

4 Maurice Wohlgelernter, Frank O'Connor: An Introduction (New York:

Columbia University Press, 1976), p. 169.

5 Wohlgelernter, p. 81.

6 In Collected Stories (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1981) pp. 99-120.

(Subsequent page references are to this edition).

7 William Tomory, Frank O'Connor (New York: Twayne Publishing, 1980),

p. 103.

8 Tomory, p. 104.

9 Gerry Brenner, "A Study of Frank O'Connor's Short Stories," Diss.

University of Washington, 1965, p. 61.

10 In Collected Stories, pp. 458-468.

11 Anthony McCrann, "A Critical Study of Frank O'Connor's Short Stories,"

Diss. University of Oregon, p. 221.

12 In Collected Stories, pp. 431-444.

13 O'Connor, in Domestic Relations (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1957),

pp. 109-123. (Subsequent references are to this edition).

14 Brenner, p. 208.

19 15

James Matthews, Frank O'Cmmor (Cranbury, N.J. : Associated University Press, 1976), p. 74.

16 Deborah Averill, ''Hl..IDia11 Contact in the Short Stories," in

Michael/Frank: Studies on Frank O'Connor, ed. Maurice Sheehy (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1969), p. 30.

CHAPTER II

ROLE CONFUSION

Frank O'Connor believed that "for the short story

writer, there is no such thing as essential form. Because

his frame of reference can never be the totality of a human

life, he must be forever selecting the point at which he can

approach it."l In some of O'Connor's most poignant stories,

the narrator reminisces about childhood fears, infatuations,

jealousies, and fantasies. Invariably, while the child wishes I

he were older in order to reap the supposed benefits o~ in-. creased responsibility, the adult often succumbs to impulsive,

childish urges. The unexpected twists of events occur primarily

because the mature bonds of restraint must occasionally yield

to the sudden, overwhelming impulses associated with youthful

abandon. However, the freedom from responsibility which so

typically accompanies youth is short-lived when family turmoil--

real or imagined--dictates instant maturity and a new sense of

identity. Although role confusion provides the impetus for

humorous moments in O'Connor's works, the comedic elements are

often conveyed through the narrator's retrospective point of

view.

In "The Drunkard," a shift in roles occurs between

the narrator, Larry Delaney, and his father, a hearty drinker

d . 1" 2 an soc1a 1zer. Larry vividly recalls a boyhood experience

20

21

of accompanying his father to the funeral of a successful

family acquaintance. The somber occasion leads to a sur-

prising turn of events. For Larry's father, the funeral serves

as a temptation to indulge; for Larry, it provides an oppor-

tunity to act as a moral influence through a childlike check

on his father's excesses. Even as a young boy, Larry is well

aware of the pattern of restraint and recklessness his father

repeats.

Although the elder Delaney loves to drink, "he

could keep steady for months" and often prided himself on how

much money he could save by not drinking for months or even

years at a time. In characteristic understatement, Larry

reveals that his father "sometimes calculated exactly how much

he saved each week through being a teetotaler. Being a natural

optimist, he sometimes continued the calculation through the

whole span of perspective existence and the total was breath-

taking. He would die worth hundreds" (p. 192). Eventually,

however, this "spiritual pride" led to celebration rounds that

started with "just a glass of some harmless drink like lager

beer ... eventually it was 'The Drunkard's Progress,' as in

the moral prints" (p. 192). This recollection is followed by

a more serious depiction of the inevitable result of such a

progression:

Next day he stayed in from work with a sick head while mother went off to make his excuses at the works, and inside a fortnight he was poor and savage and despondent again. Once he began he drank steadily through everything down to the kitchen clock. Mother and I knew all the phases and dreaded all the dangers. (p. 193)

22 The narrator's initially wry description of his father par-

tially undercuts the sobering implications of the alcoholic's

distress. In O'Connor's stories, the light prose allows the

reader to view the erring characters in a sympathetic manner.

Regarding this inclination, Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren

believe that

If Larry's father were a more calculating man, or even a more self-conscious man, the special quality of the humor would be lost, for we would have to take a differ­ent attitude toward him. If it is his simplicity and his naivete that cause his troubles, they go far toward relieving him of adult responsibility for them.3

As the story develops, a light touch again softens a hard

lesson. Larry's mother, the embodiment of the strong, arche-

typal Irish matriarch, knows all too well that her husband

is much more interested in drinking with his friends than in

prolonged payment of last respects to the dearly departed.

Larry relates that he was sent to "serve as a brake" on his

father's behavior, "although as a brake I had never achieved

anything, but mother still had great faith in me" (p. 19 3) .

Ironically, it is the father rather than the young

son who displays a wide-eyed sense of awe at the funeral

procession; the excitement shown by the elder Delaney is

genuine in its ,wonderment:

It was an excellent funeral from Father's point of view. He had it all well studied before we set off after the hearse in the afternoon sunlight.

23

"Five carriages!" he exclaimed. "Five carriages and sixteen covered cars! There's one alderman, two councillors and 'tis unknown how many priests. I didn't see a funeral like this from the road since Willie Mack, the publican, died." (p. 193)

After the funeral, Larry's father eagerly antic­

ipates breaking his long draught, and his eagerness to drink

with his cronies at the local pub reflects more than a mere

appreciation of social interaction. By successive (and ex­

cessive) rounds of toasting the successful life of the deceased,

the responsibility of attaining any level of achievement him­

self is thus shunned by Delaney. Joyful excess conceals the

sadness of the perpetually adolescent life.

As the child in Father is about to emerge, the

small boy himself becomes a parody of the adult father. Larry,

of course, is apprehensive about his father's pub behavior,

but he cannot intrude on the supposedly adult ritual. Larry

is given a lemonade as a bribe to end his pleadings ("Daddy,

can't we go home now?"), and, "being a child of weak character"

(p. 194), he took it. O'Connor's analogy of "like father,

like son" is a poignant but disturbing one here. Out of sheer

boredom and a lingering thirst, Larry surreptitiously starts

to drink his father's porter. The initiation into the grown-

up world is casual and offhand. In Larry's words:

I was still thirsty. I found if I stood on tiptoe I could just reach father's glass, -and the idea occurred to me that it would be interesting to know what the contents were like. He had his back to it and wouldn't notice. I took down the glass and sipped cautiously. It was a

24

terrible disappointment. I was astonished that he could even drink such stuff. It looked as if he had never tried lemonade . (p. 195)

Larry first feels the euphoria of floating "aloft like a

cherub rolling on a cloud ... and thinking deep, serious,

grown- up thoughts about life and death" (p. 19 5) . But the

"adult" viewpoint inevitably turns into childlike sickness.

The scene, then, is ultimately a bittersweet memory for the

narrator. O'Connor conveys how "grown-up" Larry wants to

remain; after running from the pub upon command, lest he

spoil his father's good suit, Larry lurches into a wall,

"hurting it badly." He states that "being always polite, I

said 'Pardon, ' before the second bout of nausea came on me"

(p. 196). The actions of a child and the manners of an adult

(even to the extent of being polite to a wall) are smoothly

interwoven; Larry's desire to sample his father's liquor,

however, cannot be as lightly dismissed.

The ongoing attention and nurturing so vital for

a child's emotional stability can be diminished when parental

energies are redirected toward the needs of a new child. In

another story, O'Connor shows that vying for a mother's

attention can not only arouse the competitive spirit of a

sibling, but it may also unleash the jealous demons of a

husband. When a father behaves as immaturely as his young son,

~nd the youngster assumes the role of consoler, the amusing

implications can overshadow the more somber sociological

ramifications. The consequences of such shifting alliances

are conveyed in "My Oedipus Complex." 4 Like "The Drunkard,"

25

this widely anthologized story has Larry Delaney as its

protagonist, and the special quality of this tale, according

t o Arthur Mizener, "depends on its objective quality which

does not violate the limits of its first person narrator .

His character is a mixture of ignorance and insight, naivete

and cunning, egotism and need for affection." 5

Until age five, young Larry Delaney did not see

much of his father. Army obligations precluded extended home

visits; "the slamming of the front door and the clatter of

nailed boots down the cobbles of the lane" were Larry's

memories of "Father's entrances and .exits. Like Santa Claus

he came and went mysteriously" (p. 283).

While his father was away, Larry became accustomed

to running into his mother's bedroom each morning in order to

plan the day's events. When Father returns home permanently,

Larry's exclusive access to his mother is abruptly terminated,

and he has difficulty adjusting from his role as confidant

to the new one of obedient son. He now must vie for attention,

and he intensely dislikes the idea of his mother's spending

so much time "talking to Daddy," a phrase that his mother uses

to justify silencing her son so often. Larry is persistent,

however, as indicated by this exchange:

"Just a moment, Larry!" she said gently. This was only what she said when we had boring visitors, so I attached no importance to it and went on talking.

"Do be quiet, Larry!" she said impatiently. "Don't you hear me talking to Daddy?"

This was the first time I had heard those ominous words, "talking to Daddy," and I couldn't help feeling that if this was how God answered prayers, he couldn't

26

listen to them very attentively. [Larry had asked God to send his father back home from the war safely.] (p. 284)

It is clear to Larry that divine intervention will not be

the solution, for God was not about to send Daddy back to

the war, not only because war was over, but also, according

to his mother, because "It's not God who makes wars, but

bad people." Larry "began to think that God wasn't quite

what he was cracked up to be" (p. 285). '

Like a courageous adult, Larry is ready to compete

"man for man" for his mother's attention. But when his father

starts to discuss the latest newspaper stories, Larry feels

that "bringing other people's opinions" into the competition

is foul play indeed. Even worse, he is no longer able to

climb onto his mother's bed in the morning, ready to discuss

their plans for the day. In fact, Larry is adamant in his

belief that "life without my early morning conferences is

unthinkable" (p. 286).

In the son's view, his resentment toward his

mother's new bed partner is justified, and Larry rationally

explains that

Every time I had pointed out to her the waste of making two beds when we both could sleep in one, she had told me that it was healthier like that, and now here was this man, this stranger, sleeping with her without the least regard for her health. (p. 287)

Such reasoning,sound from a child's perspective, also reflects

the "pathos that can result from essential ignorance.' (6 When

27

Larry's father becomes angered at being awakened, for

example, Larry is startled by the extent of his father's

wrath:

"Shut up, you little puppy! "he [Father] said in a choking voice. I was so astonished that I stopped screeching. Never, never had anyone spoken to me in that tone before. I looked at him incredulously and saw his face convulsed with rage. It was only then that I fully realized how God had codded me, listening to my prayers for the safe return of this monster."

"Shut up, you! "I bawled, beside myself. (p. 289)

Father was soon pushed to the limits of his patience;

fortunately, Larry received "a mere tap" (p. 289) instead

of the whopping smack he expected.

In one sense, the loss of control by both the

father and son underscores their essential equality. Each

character is as childish (or as adult, for that matter) as

the other. Although "the sheer indignity of being struck at

all by a stranger, a total stranger who had cajoled his way

back from the war into our big bed as a result of my innocent

intercession" made Larry as irate as ever, he surmised that

his father was equally as jealous, and declared that they were

total enemies of one another, "open and avowed" (p. 289) .

• Larry is forced to fight an adult battle with a

child's weapons. In the true fashion of fighting for the ~oman

he loves, Larry decides to take a courageous, and supposedly,

adult stand. Here, O'Connor's dialogue between mother and son

serves as both comic relief and as a reminder of how painful

it can be to act like a grown-up, especially when one's ego

28 and pride are at stake:

"Mummy," I said, "do you know what I'm going to do when I grow up?"

"No dear," she replied, "what?" "I'm going to marry you," I said

quietly. Father gave a• great guffaw out of him, but he didn't take me in. I knew it must only be pretense. And Mother, in spite of everything was pleased. I felt she was probably re­lieved to know that one day Father's hold on her would be broken.

"Won't that he nice?" she said with a smile.

"It'll be very nice." I said confidently. "Because we're going to have lots and lots of babies."

"That's right dear, she said placidly. "I think we' 11 have one soon, and then you'll have plenty of company." (p. 290-91)

A second child creates a new alliance of adult

and child. Sonny, the new baby, presents an opportunity for

Larry to side with his father for the first time. The reader

learns that Sonny was "a difficult child . . and demanded

far too much attention. Mother was simply silly about him,

and couldn't see when he was only showing off. As company,

he was worse than useless" (p. 291). Both Larry and his

father had to abide by the same set of rules regarding the

baby. Father, in fact, started to be "quite nice" to his

son, but mother was "quite sickening" about the new family

member:

Even at mealtimes she would get up and gawk at him in the cradle with an idiotic smile, and tell Father to do the same. He was always polite about it, but he looked so puzzled you could see he didn't know what she was talking about. It was pain­ful to see how simpleminded she was .

29

Father saw through Sonny, and now he knew that I saw through him as well. (p. 29 2)

Ironically, Larry soon has to be "aelult" enough

to console his childish father who is suffering the pangs of

neglect. The son is the wise one now, stating that "after

turning me out of the big bed, he had been turned out himself"

(p. 292). Larry has to console his father, and the temporary

reversal of roles brings the two closer than ever before:

Mother had no consideration now for anyone but that poisonous pup, Sonny. I couldn't help feeling sorry for Father. I had been through it all myself, and even at that age I was magnanimous. I began to stroke him down and say: "There!" He wasn't exactly responsive. (p. 292)

Ultimately, the role shifts in "My Oedipus Complex"

are productive rather than destructive. The initial adjustment

pains are supplanted by the instinctive need to protect and

provide for a wounded family member. The comic relief succeeds

because it emerges unexpectedly; rather than masking the pain,

it enables the reader to laugh with the protagonist's plight,

and the dilemma, resolved in a blurring of roles, leads to a

new connection based on a child's compassionate understanding

of his father's needs. Seeking, but ultimately denied, the

motherly affection of his wife, the elder Delaney turns to

his own child for consolation and support.

Maurice Wohlgelernter believes that in "My Oedipus

Complex," O'Connor is "aimiJilg his satiric humor not only at

the oedipal relations which make every chap, falling in love

with an attractive mother, want to murder his father, but also

30

at the whole tragic condition of Irish life which finds

boys, from their early adolescence, severly tied to their

mother's love."7 In "Masculine Protest," however, the adult

roles do not mirror the traditional Irish parental roles

(e.g. strong, compassionate mother; hard - drinking, demanding

father), despite the strong affinity the young protagonist

has for his mother.8

Typical of O'Connor's stories of boyhood,

"Masculine Protest" is told through a retrospective narrator.

In this tale, twelve year old Denis Halligan never receives

the motherly love he so desperately desires; he engages in

an unexpected alliance with his father, giving him the freedom

and confidence to break the one-sided bond with his mother.

The plot revolves around Denis' decision to leave home, and

the events leading up to his decision reflect more about the

true nature of love than about childish impulses.

Young Denis feels the first twinges of rebellion

when his family withholds the love and attention he feels he

deserves. The relationship between his parents is a strained

one, and unlike the mother in "Oedipus Complex," Denis' mother

leaves home on a continual basis rather than endure unpleasant­

ness with her spouse. Naturally, Denis feels that his mother

should spend more time attending to her son's emotional needs

instead of socializing with friends.

Denis' father is also away from home for extended

periods, and the boy is usually "thrown" to his mother. Rather

than establish any kind of rapport with her son, Mrs. Halligan

gives Denis money "to go to the pictures, which she knew Father

31 didn't like ibecause I wasn't very bright at school and he

thought the pictures were bad for me" (p. 337). Denis cannot

even find an ally in his sister, Martha, for whom he has no

respect. She speaks condescendingly of her brother, and

Denis comments that "Martha was never really disappointed in

Mother, because she expected less of her. Martha was born

sly" (p. 339). O'Connor's depiction of a lonely adolescent

shunned by even his younger sister is a sad one, but the

sardonic tone of the narrator offsets the anguish.

In order to preserve his self-esteem, Denis becomes

an upper-class gang leader of sorts, providing "fatherly"

commands to keep the slum children from encroaching on his

playing area. While the gang provides temporary satisfaction,

Denis must rely on his vivid imagination to compensate for the

love his mother never gives him. He admits that

I had managed to kid myself into the belief that one day Mother would understand; one day she would wake up and see that the affection of Dad and Martha was insincere; that the two of them had long ago ganged up against her, and that I, the black sheep, was the one who really loved her. (p. 338)

The mother's strong desire to avoid her home paral­

lels the longing of O'Connor's male characters in other stories.

(This role is atypical, for in O'Connor's stories, it is rare to

find a mother who deserts her children. Brief, hometown affairs

or momentary fantasies usually relieve the urge to escape).

In response to his m?ther's frequent trips, Denis must resort

to his own strategies; he himself even considers running away

in order to fill the emotional void in his young life.

32 •

When Mrs. Halligan tells Denis that she will not

be home for his birthday, the final blow is struck. In a

fit of bravado, Denis convinces himself that a trip to Dublin,

far away from an uncaring mother and a bratty sister, is in

order. In a fantasy both comedically poignant and boyishly

brave, he imagines how his Dublin-based aunt will greet him:

Cycling all the way through Ireland in the dark, through sleeping towns and villages; seeing the dawn break over Dublin as I cycled down the slopes of the Dublin mountains; arriving at Auntie May's door in Shelbourne Road when she was lighting the fire--that would be smashing! I could imagine how she would greet me--"Child of grace, where did you come from?" "Ah just cycled." My natural modesty always came out in those daydreams of mine, for I never under any cir­cumstances made a fuss. Absolutely smashing! (p. 340)

Desperate for a warm and loving acceptance, Denis must still

hide his need under the adult's disguise of modesty and under-

statement. Denis' constant role shifting, from impulsive child

to self-sufficient adult, provides alternating scenes of humor

and pathos, and it is through such scenes that Denis finally

acknowledges his love for his father, a secondary character

for the first half of the story.

Unable to withdraw any money from the savings bank

counter at the General Post Office located some twelve miles

away, the "adult" Denis is thwarted by the more childlike,

and inevitable, bouts of hunger and fatigue. The bleak out-

look is conveyed through an honest assessment of the situation,

33

along with a new affinity for his father:

Without a meal and a rest, I could not even set out for Dublin, if I had the heart, which I hadn't. Nor could I even return home, for it was already late and I was dropping with weariness. One side of main street was in shadow; the shadow seemed to spread with extra­ordinary rapidity, and you felt that the city was being quenched as with snuffers ... it was only then that I thought of Father ... It wasn't only the hunger and panic. It was almost love. (p. 34 2)

A kindly barman at a public house helps Denis out

of a desperate situation. A call is placed to the Halligan

home, and for the first time, Denis elicits a laugh from his

father, and their true affection for each other is evident:

"And what are you going to do now?" "I don't know, Dad. I thought you

might tell me." "Well, what about coming ·home?" he

said, beginning to laugh. "I don't mind, Dad." Whatever you

say." "Hold on now till I see what the

buses are like ... Hullo! You can get one in forty minutes tome--seven ten. Tell the conductor I'll be meeting you and I'll pay your fare. Will that be all right?"

"That's grand, Dad," I said, feel­ing that the world was almost right again. (p. 344)

At the bus stop to pick up his son, Mr. Halligan

can only laugh at the situation. A camaraderie develops as

Denis wonders whether his mother and sister are aware of his

foi£ed plans. Denis states that his father

34 seemed to know what I was thinking, for he added with a sort of casual carefulness that he had sent Martha to the pictures. I guessed that that was to get her out of the way so that she couldn't bring the story to Mother, and when we had supper together and washed up afterwards, I knew I was right. (p. 345)

It is ironic that through Denis' attempt to flee

from his family, a new bond emerges between father and son.

Through his urge to leap into an adult role, Denis finds

that his father can identify closely with his son's yearning.

It gradually dawns on the boy that

Dad too had once run away from home, and for some reason--perhaps because the bank was shut or because he was hungry, tired, and lonely--he had come back. People mostly come back, but their protest remained to dis­tinguish them from all the others who had never run away. It was the real sign of their manhood. (p. 34 5)

While Mr. Halligan momentarily identifies with the

child's fantasy of running away from an unhappy home, Denis

is one step closer to adulthood by realizing his experience

is not unique. As in "My Oedipus Complex," the denial of

maternal love ultimately leads to a new alliance of love. The

temporary role exchange between Denis and his father, however

brief, is a positive one, for in Denis' own words, "I never

ran away after that. I never felt I needed to" (p. 34 5) .

~ The challenge facing ten year old Gus Sullivan in

---

"Man of the House" is whether or not he can overcome a lack of

concentration and behave responsibly when his mother becomes

35

ill. 9 He is proud that he must assume a mature (i.e.

parental) role, but the lure of distractions common for

any ten year old soon makes him feel "the strain of his

responsibility" (p. 71). The conflict between boyish impulse

and familial responsibility provides alternating feelings of

guilt, pride, alienation and joy for the young protagonist.

To be sure, Gus's role playing is amusing because of the un­

expected twists of events, but more importantly, as

James Matthews contends, O'Connor "gently reminds us that

kids are people above all else, and like most people, they

are lonely, misunderstood, and trapped by their own mis­

conceptions."10

When Gus realizes that he must become the man of

the house (there is no father in this story) and provide

leadership while his mother is incapacitated, he assumes a

pontifical, even chauvinistic air, as he states, "It's funny

about women, the way they'll take orders from anything in

trousers, even if 'tis only ten'' (p. 71) : He dutifully prepares

to go into town to obtain some cough medicine for his ailing

mother, and to guard against his lack of concentration, he

asks his mother to write out the request for strong medicine.

This mature recognition of his shortcoming is a testament to

his new sense of pride, and he leaves the house "feeling very

elevated. He had always known that a fellow could have his

troubles, but if he faced them manfully, he could get advan­

tages out of them as well" (p. 72).

Gus's sense of adulthood is short-lived, however.

36

His new role is endangered by his childish need for instant

gratification. When a neighbor, Mrs. Ryan, visits, Gus has

an approving audience. His mother considers him "the best

anyone ever reared," while Mrs. Ryan states that "there aren't

many like him; most of the children now are more like savages

than Christians" (p. 73). Quite naturally, Gus is strongly

tempted to forget about his mother's illness, the cause of

all this approval, when basking in the glory of such lavish

praise.

The boy's concentration is further tested when he

must enter a public-house to purchase whiskey for his mother,

a remedy that Mrs. Ryan had suggested when the store-bought

cough syrup proved ineffective. Gus's adult act of ordering

a bottle is undermined by his young age and appearance. Fear

of this new environment, he knows, could unsettle his sense of

purpose, and the juxtaposition of mature intent and physical

immaturity reflects the youngster's fear and anxiety:

I had never been in a public-house before and the crowd inside frightened me.

"Hullo, my old flower," said one tall man, grinning at me diabolically.

"It must be ten years since I saw you last. One minute now-- wasn't it in South Africa?"

"It was not," I said. "I want a half lass of whiskey for my mother."

"Oh, the thundering ruffian!" said the man, clapping his hands.

"Pretending 'tis for his mother, and he the most notorious boozer in Capetown."

"I am not," I said on the verge of tears. "And 'tis for my mother. She's sick." (p. 74)

37

The barman's false sincerity is far from

humorous to Gus, the object of the misdirected wit. The

contradictory attitudes in the exchange--one ridiculing

and one desperate--are characteristic of O'Connor's stories.

Pitting Gus's mature intention against the barman's immature

personality reflects an ironic twist in the story; the adult

is truly childish for seeking a laugh at the child's expense.

Even when the child defeats his enemy by fulfilling

the mission, Gus is forced to confront more of the pain of

adult experience. The precious whiskey, he finds, does not

help Mrs. Sullivan relieve her coughing, and Gus realizes that

the situation is crucial. When he is awakened in the night by

his mother's constant coughing, he enters her room to check on

her. He becomes extremely frightened, for she does not rec-

ognize him and is "rambling in her speech" (p. 74).

u The image of a ten year old boy's witnessing, for

the first time, a mother's serious illness is a sad one, and

Gus must worry about finding a doctor. Sympathy for Gus is

intensified primarily because the comedic s-cenes of youthful

pride, which develop the boy's character, appea~ only two pages

earlier. According to Anthony McCrann, "Gus is moving towards

his first defeat and disillusionment in life, and his mother's

not recognizing him is not only symptomatic of her feverish

state, but a foreshadowing of the change soon to overtake him. ~11

The doctor does not arrive until after dinner, and

Gus describes him as "a fat, slow- moving, loud- voiced man with

a grey mustache and, like all the drunks of the medical pro-

38

fession, supposed to be 'the cleverest man in Cork if

only he'd mind himself. From the way he looked, he hadn't

been minding himself that morning" (p. 75). Adults in the

story, then, are consistently a disappointment to Gus. At

least his frustration is somewhat alleviated by his mother's

belief that her son "is the best doctor in the world .

A daughter couldn't be better" (p. 75).

Typically, O'Connor counters brief triumphs with

disheartening challenges. The pain and pressure of adult

life prove more demanding than any amount of praise can make

bearable. Again forced into an adult role, Gus utilizes his

imaginative skills in order to cope with his increased respon­

sibilities. He is told that he must go to a dispensary on

the far outskirts of town in order to obtain some stronger

medicine for his mother. When he finally reaches the dis­

pensary, he feels "exalted; a voyager, a heroic figure."

His devotion to his mother and the mother church is evident

as he vows to "spend a penny on a candle to the Blessed Virgin

in the cathedral on the hilltop for [his] mother's speedy

recovery. He felt sure he'd get more value in a great church

like that so close to heaven"(p. 76).

) At the dispensary, he meets a girl named Nora Dooley,

and Gus's "fall from grace" begins (p. 74). He is tested,

just as any adult would be, by this girl with green eyes who

obviously knows her way around the dispensary. She questions

him intensely and tells him that he'll have to wait. Ironically,

Gus must now take orders from her when, just one day earlier,

he imagined that women would follow "any order from anything

39

in trousers." The shift from man of the house to child in

the dispensary is a sudden, and unexpected, one for him.

On a secondary level, even Nora's identity shifts from that

of a little girl outside the dispensary to one of an "older

woman" inside it. According to Anthony McCrann,

Having her sister die the previous year, Nora has seen the worst that the loss of innocence, the expulsion from Eden, had to offer. 'Tis queer old world' is her response to human existence In the dispensary she becomes a mini­ature version of grown-up Irish drinkers at the public house. She tells Gus which bottle of medicine is better, and though she believes the black bottle better, she admits, "Still, I wouldn't mind a red one now."l2 ~

l

Gus's innocence is rapidly diminishing as Nora

replaces the Blessed Virgin as his source of worship. He

allows Nora to drink from the bottle of medicine reserved

for his mother, and he even sips some himself. When he

rationalizes this impulsive act, he retreats from adult

responsibility into a self-defeating, childish lack of ·

concentration. In his words, "I had decided that, after

all, it wouldn't be necessary for me to light a candle. In

a queer way, the little girl restored my confidence. I knew

I was exaggerating things and that Mother would be all right

in a day or two" (p. 77). Instead of spending the money on

a candle, he decides to purchase sweets for the alluring

Nora. "His devotion to his mother has been supplanted by

his surrender to Nora, and, as he puts away the empty bottle,

his heart sinks."13 Eventually, the bitter lesson for Gus ·

40

is that he sacrificed both the bottle and his heart to

a girl that cared very little for him.

O'Connor alleviates Gus's emotional burden and

guilt in the final pages, and the lighter scenes provide a

release from earlier accounts of the boy's plight. At the

end of the story, the patient-nurse relationship between

Gus and his mother is reversed; it is time for Mrs. Sullivan

and her son to revert to the more natural roles of nurturing

adul t and dependent child, especially since the mother's

health has returned. Gus's tribulations have been emotionally

debilitating, and his sense of self-esteem and security need

enhancement. Venturing into the adult world has revealed

Gus's need to remain a child for a little longer.

When Gus returns home after confessing to the

Blessed Virgin about his grave sins, he fibs about the medicine,

saying he lost it (Nora had told him to say that the cork had

fallen out), but then admits the truth. Mrs. Sullivan assumes

the role of an understanding saint who must now console her

little "sinner:"

"I : drank the medicine," I bawled, and buried my face again.

"And if you did, what harm?" she murmured soothingly.

"You poor child, going all the way yourself, without a proper dinner or anything, why wouldn't you? Take off your clothes now, and lie down here till you're better." (p. 90)

Gus realizes he has erred "more like the savage

than the Christian" as Mrs. Ryan would say. But he states

that "when my mother came up with the evening paper and sat

41 reading by my bed, I knew that the miracle I had hoped

for had happened, delighted that she had been cured all right"

(p. 79). Gus has been forgiven for his indiscretions, and

both he and his mother have been rewarded for their altruistic

nature. Mrs. Sullivan's health has been restored, while Gus

can enjoy the luxury of resuming his childhood.

O'Connor's stories provide ample opportunity for 1

characters to act against type, and the accompanying joy or

anguish is usually contingent upon society's reactions. If

the- reader accepts Deborah Averill's assertion tha t"O' Connor's

adult characters, like his children, are lonely innocents who

determine their identity through contact," 14 then the role

reversals in "The Frying Pan" take on even greater significance .15

This story involves an ordained priest who tries to relieve his

loneliness by taking an active interest in the private lives

of other people, and the tale reflects O'Connor's contention

that the urge to live vicariously is as strong for the secular

populace as it is for the spiritual leaders.

Father Jerry Fogarty, the good natured protagonist

in this aptly titled story, becomes embroiled in a conflict

between his priestly conscience and his obvious affection,

and love, for a married woman. He is visited one night by

Tom and Una Whitton, and the evening is a cordial one, with

Una admitting that she and Tom "had had the best evening for

years--a piece of flattery so gross and uncalled for that it

made Tom more tongue-tied than ever" (p. 152). A friendly

visit constituting "the best evening for years" is the first

42

indication that both Una and Tom regard Jerry as a diversion

from their own empty lives.

The friendship only leads to discontent for all

concerned. Una is anxious to spend another evening with Jerry,

and she is delighted when her husband, reciprocating, invites

the Father to their house. The priest is a special person

for the Whittons, and O'Connor soon captures the priest's

own envy for the secular life, one which would permit him

to enjoy the warmth of a loving woman and the security of an

active family life. After Tom and Una leave, Jerry

sat by the fire, wondering what his own life might have been with a girl like that, all furs and scent and laughter, and two bawling irrepressible brats upstairs. When he tiptoed up to his bedroom, he remembered that there would never be any children to wake, and it seemed to him that with all the things he bought to fill his home, he was merely trying desperately to stuff the yawning holes in his own big, empty heart. (p. 153)

During their visit a few nights later, a more

subdued mood prevails, and the desire to switch roles is

conveyed through O'Connor's use of dialogue and unexpected

revelations. Father Fogarty learns that Tom has been jealous

of him; Una's husband desires to become a priest so desperately

that his relationship with her "was never anything but adultery

for him, and he goes away and curses himself because he hasn't

the strength to resist it" (p. 157). Ironically, Fogarty

loves the woman Tom resents, and the desire to change places

makes the priest realize'~hat in the simplest way in the world

43

he had been brought to admit to a married woman that he

loved her and she to imply that that she felt the same way

about him, without a word being said on either side"(p. 155).

Una tells Fogarty that he has all the things that

Tom wants. The astonished Father wants to know which of his

possessions are so valuable. "'How do I know?'" Una replies

with a shrug, relegating these to the same position as things

that meant nothing to her. 'Respect and responsibility and

freedom from the worries of a family, I suppose'" (p. 155).

Fogarty's wry humor temporarily offsets the more serious

implications of Una's remark. "He's welcome to them. What's

that the advertisements say?--owner having no further use for

same." A satiric remark, but one laced with bitter truth

nevertheless.

Unfortunately, the desperate search for new roles

cannot dispel the bitterness. Because Una is treated like an

adulteress by her own husband, she turns to Jerry to make her

feel "like a respectable married woman for once in her life"

(p. 157). Father Fogarty, the priest, succumbs to the physical

desires of Jerry Fogarty, the secular humanist with carnal

desires. (Conveniently for the plot, O'Connor arranges to

have Tom attend a sudden meeting.) The priest assumes the

husband-lover role while Una pretends to be the fulfilled

woman she has never known. In an "excess of emotion," Una

throws her arms around Jerry, and as he kisses her, "she

pressed herself close to him till his head swam. There was

a mawkish, girlish grin on her face. 'Darling!' she said in

an agony of passion, and it was as if their loneliness

44 enveloped them like a cloud-" (p. 15 7). Thus, the sexual

tension is finally broken, but the momentary exultation

has its price.

The assumption of new, desired identities only

underscores the essential loneliness felt by O'Connor's

desperate characters. Each character in the "Frying Pan"

burns with the desire to escape from an unfulfilling life.

The tragic aspect for Father Fogarty, despite his ability

to laugh at himself, is that "he realizes that he has never

seen Whitton as he really was, a man at war with his animal

nature, longing for some high, solitary existence of the

intellect and imagination. And he knew that the three of

them would die as they had lived, their desires unsatisfied"

(p. 157). Like other O'Connor protagonists, child or adult,

the characters in "The Frying Pan" remain trapped within their

identities. Momentary, impulsive diversions into fantasy or

into assumed roles provide no lasting relief from the pain

of unsatisfied longing. Brief escape, through the blurring

of roles or even through reversals, is exhilarating but

ultimately empty.

James Matthews believes that in O'Connor's works,

"human dignity and rationality inevitably yield to the sudden . _,. '

impulse, to the unpredictable, and passing mome~t. ". l6 The

stories involving role shifts reflect this assertion. O'Connor

believed that adhering to traditional custom without question-

ing it can be emotionally unfulfilling, but he also knew that

immature attempts to shun one's heritage can be counterproductive.

45

According to Richard Ellmann, O'Connor's stories are "tender

observations of the fabric of Irish customs, pieties, super-

stitions, loves, and hates . His best stories stir those

facial muscles which, we are told, are the same for both -"~ . ' c, •'· \ ll 'I

laughing and weeping." 1 7 O'Connor allows his characters to

change roles and test established norms; by so doing, the

protagonists can weep during the process and, occasionally,

laugh in retrospect.

46

Notes: Chapter II

1 Frank O'Connor, The Lonely Voice (New York: World

Publishing, 1963), p. ~

2 In Collected Stories (New York: Alfred A. Knopf,

1981), pp. 191-199. (Subsequent references are to this text.)

3 Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren, Understanding

Fiction (New York: Meredith Corporation, 1971), p. 201.

4 In Collected Stories, pp. 282-291.

5 Arthur Mizener in his handbook to Modern Short Stories:

The Uses of Imagination (New York: W.W. Norton, 1966), p. 32.

6 Mizener, p. 32.

7 Maurice Wohlgelernter, Frank O'Connor: An Introduction

(New York: Columbia University Press, 1979), p. 70.

8 In Collected Stories, pp. 337-344.

9 In More Stories (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1955),

pp. 70-78:--rsubsequent references are to this text.

10 James Matthews, Frank O'Connor (Cranbury, N. J.:

Associated University Press, 1976), p. 90.

11 Anthony McCrann, "A Critical Study of Frank O'Connor's

Short Stories, "Diss. University of Oregon, 1975, p. 109.

12 . McCrann, pp. 109-10.

13 McCrann, p. 110

47 14

Deborah Averill, "Human Contact in the Short Stories," in Michael/Frank: Studies on Frank O'Connor, ed. Maurice Sheehy (New York: Alfred A. Knopf-,-1969), p.32.

15 In Collected Stories, pp. 147-158.

16 James Matthews, Voices: A Life of Frank O'Connor

(New York: Atheneum, 1983), p. /1-.-----

17 Richard Ellmann, in his introduction to Collected

Stories by Frank O'Connor (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1981), p. Vli.

CHAPTER III

THE SUBSTITUTE FAMILY

~ While emulating adult behavior is natural for

any child, Frank O'Connor's stories illustrate that both

generations have difficulty distinguishing between the real

and the ideal. The desire to escape family duties and pres-

sures is a universal longing; the desire to enjoy the warmth

of family life is equally strong. Some of O'Connor's char­

acters desperately seek the support of a substitute family,

thereby merely replacing one group of pressures with a new

set of obligations.

For O'Connor's lonely characters, alliance with a

substitute family is not a panacea for problems at home. A

young man seeking independence from a restrictive home life

by enlisting in the military, for instance, is a classic

example of confusing the romantic fantasies of manhood with

the stark realities of war. Reconcilin~ these disparate

images can be a tormenting burden, and seeking parental and

sibling surrogates becomes a natural inclination for the young

soldier. Witnessing the death of any extended family member,

however, can be an embittering and traumatic experience,

especially when the cause for which one fights is questionable.

The strain of coping and maturing after the death

of "new" family members is dramatically depicted in "Guests

48

49

of a Nation," 1 the short story that launched O'Connor's

literary career (and contained in a volume of short stories

by the same title) and one that graphically illustrates

that "in war, men lose the meaning of humor, decency, and

fair play" 2 through blind adherence to a j ing,oistli.c senser

of duty. In this tale, the unquestioned allegiance to

country parallels unquestioned obedience to family, and the

tragic implications of remaining an obedient child/soldier,

even when conscience dictates otherwise, is a haunting theme.

Two young Irish soldiers, Bonaparte and Noble,

are ordered to take part in the execution of two genial,

English hostages named Hawkins and Belcher. All four have

grown close to each other, and their brotherly affection

makes the order all the more painful and terrifying. Deborah

Averill notes that "this experience of terror reaffirms the

human values of compassion, tolerance, and courage, and like

several other O'Connor stories, 'Guests of a Nation' has a

metamorphic structure because it begins in the realm of

comedy and ends in the realm of terror. The comedy is an

essential part of the story." 3 The role of the substitute

family in this story helps underscore the sharp contrasts

of joy and pain, camaraderie and isolation, and loneliness

and human contact.

"Guests of a Nation" depicts the impact of war

on a family founded by war. In the beginning of the story,

the four soldiers are living in a small cottage, owned and

run by an irascible elderly woman. Ironically, the English

soldiers feels quite at home in Ireland, although they must

50

be locked in their quarters at night. The atmosphere is

warm and friendly as the soldiers trade humorous quips

between their more philosophical discussions of religion

and the supposed afterlife (an ironic and sad discussion

when juxtaposed against the story's outcome). The story

is told in the first person from Bonaparte's point-of-view,

and the tone, initially, is a lighthearted one; the substitute

mother/son/brother relationships are happy ones indeed.

Typical of this casual, contented tone is a description of

Belcher's affinity for assisting the motherly head of the

household:

Now, it was a treat to see how Belcher got off with the old woman of the house we were staying in. She was a great warrant to scold, and crotchety even with us, but before ever she had a chance of giving our guests, as I may call them, a lick of her tongue, Belcher had made her his friend for life . . As Noble wittily remarked, he (Belcher) got into looking before she leapt, and hot water or any little thing she wanted Belcher would have it ready for her. (p. 4)

Belcher, the "enemy," welcomes the opportunity to assume the

role of obedient son, and his allegiance lies more with his

new "mother" than with his mother country.

The makeshift family, though, cannot hold together

under the assults of war. The new "brothers" seem truly

naive and powerless amidst the adult world of impersonal

hatred. Neither Bonaparte nor Belcher know that their counter-

parts are considered hostages until a liaison with the local

brigade informs them of the prisoners' status. Bonaparte is

51

astonished that his new friends should be considered

hostages in reprisal for the planned execution of some

Irish soldiers. The turning point pf the story unfolds

through a dialogue between Jeremiah Donovan, the liaison,

and Bonaparte:

"Now" said I, "wasn't it very unseen of you not to tell me and Noble that? n ' lHow so?" he asks. "Seeing that we were acting as guards upon them, of course." "And hadn't you reason enough to guess that much?" "We had not, Jeremiah Donovan, we had not. How were we to know when the men were on our hands so long?" "And what difference does it make? The enemy have our prisoners as long or longer, haven't they?" It makes a great differ­ence ·;" said I. "How so?" said he sharply; but I couldn't tell him the difference it made, for I was struck too silly to speak. "And when may we expect to be released from this anyway?" said I. "You may expect it tonight," says he. "Or tomorrow or the next day at latest. So if it's hanging round here worries you, you'll be free soon enough." (p. 6)

Bonaparte and his "brothers" are indeed free,

released from human ties, forced into a "freedom" of isola-

tion, betrayal, and guilt. After telling Noble the dreadful

news, Bonaparte stays awake half the night, "picturing my-

self and young Noble trying to prevent the Brigade from

shooting 'Awkins and Belcher which sent a cold sweat through

one. Because there were men on the Brigade you daren't let

nor hinder without a gun in your hand, and at any rate, in

those days disunion between brothers seemed to me an awful

crime. I knew better afterward" (p. 7) .

The orders for the execution arrive, and the young

52

Irish soldiers are caught in a dilemma; if they refuse

to follow orders, they, too, will be shot. Bonaparte

"wished in his heart that they would run for it," knowing

that if they ran he "would never fire on them" (p. 9).

Hawkins is the first one dragged in front of Bonaparte,

and the narrator agonizingly admits that it was difficult

to make "'Awkins understand that we were in earnest."

Donovan is anxious to proceed with the ordeal, and the

series of questions rapidly uttered by Hawkins reflects

an increasing awareness of his fate and a desperate plea

for mercy and logic:

"Was Noble in this?" 'Awkins wanted to know and we said yes. He laughed. But why should Noble want to shoot him? Why should we want to shoot him? What had he done to us? Weren't we chums (the word lingers painfully in my memory)? Weren't we? Didn't we understand him and didn't he understand us? Did either of us imagine for an instant that he'd shoot us for all the so-and-so brigadiers in the so-and-so British Army? By this time I began to perceive in the dusk the desolate edges of the bog that was to be their last earthly bed, and, so great a sadness overtook my mind, I could not answer him. (p. 9)

Noble and Bonaparte are paralyzed; they can only

stand by helplessly as Donovan prepares to execute their

wartime brothers. Heightening the pathos is Belcher's

confession that he is a man without a true home, which is

why he became so close to his substitute family. After

telling Bonaparte to give 'Awkins another shot to put him

ouf of his misery (his left knee was rising, and Bonaparte

53

was "beyond all feeling" as he shoots), Belcher starts

to ramble:

Then Donovan raises his Webley again and just at that moment Belcher laughs his queer nervous laugh again. "'Scuse me , churns , " s a y s Be 1 ch e r , " I fee 1 I ' m talking the 'ell of a lot ... and so silly ... abaout me being so 'andy abaout the 'ouse ... but this thing come on me so sudden. You'll forgive me I'm sure ... If any of you likes to write to me 'Awkins' mother you'll find a letter from 'er in 'is pocket. But my missus left me eight years ago. Went away with another fellow and took the kid with her. I likes the feelin' of a 'orne (as you may 'have noticed) but I couldn't start again after that. (p. 11)

Just as the Englishmen cannot escape their death,

their execution brings on an inescapable "pain of death" in

Bonaparte's heart. The laughter of a once happy family has

been tragically displaced by the stifled cries of young men

who are supposed to remain stoic and patriotic in order to

prove their manhood. The warmth of the cottage and the

temporary sense of security has ended. Bonaparte confesses

that the emotional shock has permanently changed him, saying

that "anything that ever : happened to me after I never felt

the same about again" (p. 12) . The she 1 ter of a wartime

"family;" created to provide a human refuge from an inhuman

world, is no shelter at all. O'Connor's soldiers must learn,

in a bitter lesson, that brotherhood is a child's dream,

and that adults cannot escape their loneliness so easily.

Occasionally, for O'Connor's protagonists, the

desire to escape is not from loneliness but from the suffo-

54

cation of too much love. And when the only vehicle for

such a release is the imagination, the attempt to find

solace in a fantasy family can be futile. The negative

implications of a mother's stifling love for an only child

produces some amusing and bittersweet episodes for

Michael John, the narrator-protagonist in "Judas," a story

which is both a testament to, and indictment of, the

possessive and jealous instincts of the traditional Irish

mother. 4

Michael John and his mother were "thrown together

a lot" after the death of his father, and the son feels

guilty for not taking his mother to the pictures very often.

Although he knows he has been neglecting his mother,

Michael John admits that he has had his own troubles. Being

an only child, he "never knocked around the way other fellows

did" (p. 128). His fellow office workers

went out with girls, or at any rate they let on they did. They said "Who was the old doll I saw you with last night, Jerry? You'd better mind your­s e 1 f , or you ' 11 b e get t in g in t r o ub 1 e . " To hear them you'd imagine that there was no sport in the world, only girls, and that they'd always be getting you into trouble. (p. 129)

Michael John's longing to establish a relationship

(even a sibling one, perhaps) with the opposite sex is a

deeply-rooted one. His mother has served as his sole

companion for some time, and her possessiveness is evident

when Michael John starts to spend time with Kitty Doherty,

an attractive nurse who was "always in good humor, and when

55

she talked, she hopped from one thing to another like a

robin on a frosty morning" (p. 129). Kitty is unlike

anyone Michael John has ever encountered, and her outgoing

personality and her "posh" residence up the river makes

him feel inferior. Though she finds him a refreshing

diversion from the fellows she has been seeing, Kitty

decides against going out with her new admirer, and her

refusal makes Michael John's desire for her even stronger.

While Michael John's personality differs from

Kitty's, his mother~s rather plain demeanor contrasts

sharply with the civic-minded and socially active Mrs. Doherty,

a woman who "serves on all sorts of councils and committees"

(p. 129). Not surprisingly, Michael John would like to be

a part of Kitty's family, but he can do so only in fantasies.

Regarding his imaginary role as the courageous hero to his

lady Kitty in distress, Michael John states that

My only hope was that if I waited long enough I might be able to save her from drowning or the white slavers or something else dramatic, which would show in a modest and dignified way how I felt about her. At the time I had a bad conscience because I knew I should stay at home more with mother, but the very thought that I might be missing an opportunity of fishing Kitty out of the river would spoil a whole evening on me. (p. 129)

Michael John decides to visit Kitty after she

avoids him for a few weeks. Unfortunately, he discovers

that another young man, Paddy Kinnane, is waiting outside

Kitty's home because he has a date with the experienced nurse.

The narrator's sarcastic tone regarding this situation is

56

characteristic of O'Connor's skill at balancing humor

and heartache; Michael John, in order to save face, says

he is waiting for a "chap who is most unpunctual:"

"I may as well wait with you," said Paddy, leaning against the wall and taking out a pack of cigarettes. "You might find yourself stuck by the end of the evening. There's people in this town that have no consideration for anyone."

That was Paddy all out: a heart of gold; no trouble too much for him if he could do you a good turn--I'd have loved to strangle him. (p. 132)

Merely to talk with Kitty, Michael John decides

to wait for a few hours until she arrives home from her

date. After hearing the last tram come and go, his des-

peration heightens, but he vows not to return home while

"a glimmer of a chance" remains. Michael John finally

hears her footsteps and then spots her as she "suddenly

shuffles past him with that little walk of hers" (p. 132).

Kitty is surprised to see him, and after Michael John asks

why she has been avoiding him, a more realistic picture of

Kitty and her mother dawns on the love-sick young man.

Mrs. Doherty, it seems, had been upset about her daughter's

seeing so much of Michael John, and the following dialogue

reveals that Kitty and her mother are far removed from the

ideal family Michael John had once envisioned:

"But what did I do?" I asked, clutching my head. This was worse than anything I had ever imagined. This was terrible!

"You didn't do anything, but people were talking about us. And you wouldn't come in and be introduced

57

like anyone else. I know she's a bit of a fool, and her head is stuffed with old nonsense about her family. I could never see that they were different to anyone else, and anyway, she married a commercial traveller herself, so she has nothing to talk about. Still, you needn't be so superior . . . Cissy [her sister] and I always had fellows, and we spooned with them all over the shop under her very nose, so I don't see why she thinks I'm trying to conceal anything." (p. 133)

Michael John tells Kitty about all his secret fantasies,

perhaps knowing that Kitty was the type of girl who could

appreciate such stories. Afterwards, he feels as though

"a stone had been lifted off his heart" even though she

didn't want to hear about his prospects. Instead, she wants

Michael John to kiss her, bmt it seemed at that point a

"very sissy sort of occupation" (p. 134). His desire has

been dimished by the stark reality that Kitty does not

deserve canonization. He sings all the way home, for al-

though the realization that Kitty has not lived up to his

fanta$y is a disappointment, it is, more importantly, a

relief. His allegiance to his mother remains intact.

Upon returning home very late, Michael John finds

his mother waiting for him in the dark, and his mixed

feelings of love/guilt/hate for her are depicted in a crucial

scene near the end of the story:

"You frightened me," she said with a little whimper. "I didn't know what happened to you. What kept you at all?"

"Oh, what do you think?" I said, goaded by my own sense of guilt. "Drinking and blackguarding as usual."

58

I could have bitten my tongue off as I said it; it sounded so cruel, as if some stranger had said it instead of me. She turned to me with a fright­ened stare as if she were seeing the stranger too, and somehow I couldn't bear it.

"God Almighty!" I said. "A fellow can have no life in his own h o us e . " ( p . 13 5)

Ironically, Michael John's mother must herself

substitute for the family members Michael has never known.

Through her constant concern, devotion, and love for her

son, she has become the sibling, lover, and consoler of

her "little man," as she calls him. Rather than risk

betraying his mother by becoming a "little Judas" instead

of remaining a faithful son, Michael John remains trapped;

his mother instills a sense of guilt in her son, and not

even his imagination can dismiss her sovereignty. As

Michael John tries to remember how Kitty's face looked in

the moonlight as she waited to be kissed, his "mother's

face came up instead, with that look like a child's when

you strike him for the first time--as if he suddenly saw

the stranger in you" (p. 136). Divided by his guilt and

yearning,Michael John finds no release, even in a fantasy

of love and belonging. Such fantasy only creates an im­

possible ideal, one inevitably supplanted by the reality of

mother and duty.

The imaginative process is more productive, but

by no means more fulfilling, for Larry Delaney, the familiar

protagonist in "The Study of History." 5 In this story from

O'Connor's Domestic Relations, Larry learns that an urge to

59

escape can be hurtful, especially to his mother who tries

her best to offer comfort and security to her offspring.

Through this tale, O'Connor explores "the power of the

imagination to carry one too far out of ~imself .. he

believes that the only security and peace possible for man

results from close emotional and physical contact with

other people." 6 Fantasizing can never fill an emotional

void when used solely for escaping from positive family

life, and Larry Delaney learns this lesson as he endures

the seriocomic growing pains associated with the maturing

process.

Larry is curious about his parents' background,

and he loves to speculate about how his life would have been

changed if his parents had married different people. He

interrogates his parents and concludes that his mother's

"past was the richer subject for study. It was extraordinary

the variety of people and settings that woman had had in her

background" (pp. 20- 21). He learns that Mr. Riordan, a

deceased shopkeeper and former admirer of Mrs. Delaney

reportedly left a small fortune after his death. Larry is

not prepared to dismiss the matter as readily as his mother

who was far from enamored of Mr. Riordan, and O'Connor's

comic relief surfaces through the young narrator:

"And weren't you ever sorry for Mr. Riordan?" I asked severely.

"Ah, why would I be sorry, child?" she asked with a shrug. "Sure, what use would money be where there was no liking?"

60

That, of course, was not what I meant at all. My heart was full of pity for poor Mr. Riordan who had tried to be my father; but, even on the low level at which Mother discussed it, money would have been of great use to me. (p. 21)

Larry also delights in finding out about his

father's past loves. Usually cold to his son, Mr. Delaney

takes pleasure in reminiscing about the women he almost

married, no doubt exaggerating the truth and "looking

young and extraordinarily mischievous while mother, on the

other hand, would grow black" (p. 22). Larry's father is

as anxious to fantasize about another spouse as his son

is to find a diversionary lifestyle. (The implication, of

course, is that the Irish male is reluctant to ever grow

up, as has been seen in other stories.) Larry remarks that

he would laugh with his father but then "grow wretched

because he hated Mother's sitting alone in the front room"

(p. 24). Larry's sympathetic side is reflected by his ref-

erence to a role reversal:

I would go in and find her in her wicker chair by the window in the dusk, the book open on her knee, looking out at the Square. She would always have regained her composure when she spoke to me, but I would have an uncanny feeling of unrest in her and stroke her and talk to her soothingly as if we had changed places and I were the adult and she the child. (p. 24)

Larry continues to be intrigued and, as he says,

"fascinated by the problem of who I would have been if I

hadn't been me, and, even more, by the problem of whether

61

or not I would have known that there was anything wrong

with the arrangement" (pp. 24-25). He decides to track

down Mrs. O'Brien, a former love whom Mr. Delaney describes

as "remarkable" and "beautiful."

Ironically, when Larry meets Mrs. O'Brien and

her son, Gussie, it is Mrs. O'Brien who feels a need to

play along with Larry's initial fantasy. In reality, Gussie

is rude and Larry finds his mother to be "a small, untidy

looking woman who rocks a pram in an absent-minded way"

(p. 27). She is delighted to meet a reminder of her past,

and Larry enjoys the idea of not being an only child:

"Ah look at that now! How well the old devil didn't forget me! You can tell him I didn't forget him either. And if I married him, I'd be your mother now. Wouldn't that be a queer old three and fourpence? How would you like me for a mother, Larry?"

"Very much, thank you," I said complacently.

"Ah, go on with you, you would not," she exclaimed, but she was pleased all the same. She struck me as the sort of woman it would be easy enough to please. (p. 2 8)

Larry is most fascinated by Gussie, his counter-

part who, though lacking imagination, is interested more in

an air rifle and model aeroplanes than in books. Larry

describes Gus as "clever, spoiled, casual; good-looking,

· with his mother's small clean features; gay and calculating"

(p. 30). Upon returning home, ·Larry indulges in the fantasy

of being a member of the O'Brien family by imagining that he

were Gussie:

62

At last I had the material to work with. I saw myself as Gussie O'Brien, standing in the bedroom, looking down at my tent in the garden, and Aideen as my sister, and Mrs. O'Brien as my mother, and, like Pascal, I re-created history. I remem­bered Mrs. O'Brien's laughter, her scolding, and the way she stroked my head. I knew she was kind--casually kind--and hot-tempered, and recognized that in dealing with her I must somehow be a different sort of person. (p. 33)

Mrs. Delaney is hurt by her son's fascination

with another family, and he is aware of the impact. In

Larry's words, "I knew for the first time I had managed

to produce in Mother the unrest that Father could produce,

and I felt wretched and guilty and didn't know why. This

was an aspect of history I only studied later" (p. 33).

In bed that night, Larry becomes uncomfortable assuming the

identity of another family's son, stating that "it was as

though my own identity was a sort of sack I had to live in,

and I had deliberately worked my way out of it, and now I

couldn't get back again because I had grown too big for

it" (p. 34). According to Anthony McCrann, "Larry has

suffered that affliction common to O'Connor's protagonists.

He has lived too much in his own imagination. To survive

as he grows older, he will have to shed some innocence." 7

Larry's devotion is truly to his own mother, and

the instinctive bond between mother and son is as strong as

ever. Larry may have temporarily lost his identity through

a substitute family, but he has not lost his sense of family

loyalty. As he sobs in a state of childlike confusion,

Mother Delaney comes to the rescue. He takes his mother's

93

hand, and as his terror of the unfamiliar subsides, his

real identity comes into focus again. Larry states, "I

became myself again, shrank into my skin of identity, and

left infinity and all its anguish behind" (p. 34). Larry

has come home again, for he has found that devotion to a

loving parent is a special feeling (especially before being

tucked into bed after a troubling dream). Mrs. Delaney's

enduring love is rewarded not by her husband's immature

fantasies, but by the maturing Larry's honest commitment:

"Mummy, I promise you I never wanted anyone but you!" (p. 34) .

For O'Connor's female protagonists, the surrogate

family can temporarily fill the longing for elevated social

status. In "Legal Aid," O'Connor satirizes the more mate-

rialistic aspects of marriage through Delia Carty, a nineteen­

year-old maid and day laborer's daughter who adopts the

liberal lifestyle of her eccentric employers, the O'Gradys. 8

As Delia's idealized family, the O'Gradys are

hardly the ideal role models. Their influence "isn't good

for any young girl. Like mistress like maid; inside six

months she was smoking, and within a year, she was carrying

on with Tom Flynn, a farmer's son" (p. 215). O'Connor is

quick to point out that Tom is "no great catch ... for he

is an uncouth galoot who was certain that love-making was one

of the simple pleasures his father tried to deprive him of,

out of spite" (p. 34) .

Tom calls on Delia whenever the O'Gradys are away

from home, and in a scene where Tom and Delia act against

type (a recurring comedic device that O'Connor employs),

64

the young maid's desire to become a society lady is

depicted by her role playing. Tom

used to call at the house while the O'Grady's were away, and there would be Delia in one of Eileen O'Grady's frocks and with Eileen O'Grady's lipstick and powder on, doing the lady over the tea things in the parlor. Throwing a glance over his shoulder in case anyone might spot him, Tom would heave himself onto the sofa with his boots over the end. (p. 215)

While Tom, the son of a proud farmer, behaves

slovenly, Delia, the daughter of a day laborer, loves "making

the tea and handing it out like a real lady, but you couldn't

catch Tom out like that" (p. 215). In her desire to be like

one of the 0 'Grady daughters, "it was only natural for Delia

to show Tom the bedrooms and the dressing tables with the

three mirrors, the way you could see yourself from all three

sides" (p. 216) . Not surprisingly, Tom eventually impre g-

nates Delia on one of his visits, but in characteristic

O'Connor fashion, the author undercuts the dilemma and notes

that "the only surprising thing was that it [the relationship]

lasted two years without Delia showing any signs of it. It

probably took Tom that time to find the right way" (p. 216) .

The humor, however, momentarily masks the bleak

implications. By assuming the role of a sexually liberated

O'Grady, Delia indicates that her actions with Tom are jus-

tified. But the bitter reaction of Ned Flynn, Tom's father,

and the cowardly behavior of his son, contribute to the more

cynical tone of subsequent scenes. Tom is convinced that

65

"his father will first beat hell out of him and then throw

him out and leave the farm to his nephews" (p. 216). He

stops seeing Delia after learning about her pregnancy, and

he decides that this action will help

to persuade God that he was reforming and to show that anyway it wasn't his fault. Left alone, he could be a decent, good-living young fellow, but the Car~y girl was a forward, deceitful hussy who had led him on instead of putting him off as any well-bred girl would do. Between lipstick, sofas, and tey in the parlor, Torn put it to God that it was a great wonder she hadn't got him into w or s e t r o ub 1 e . ( p . 216 )

Delia turns to her mother for advice, but there

is no mention of either emotional support or sympathetic

understanding. Mrs. Carty consults with Father Corcoran,

who "couldn't make out for the life of him what young

fellows saw in girls, but if he didn't know much about

lovers he knew a lot about farmers" (p. 216). Again, no

sympathy is shown toward Delia; only a pragmatic, clinical

approach to the problem is offered by the priest. He doubts

that he can get a farmer's son to marry a day laborer's

daughter, but he has hope for "some little financial ar-

rangernent so that she could leave the parish and not be a

cause of scandal" (p. 216).

Father Corcoran has a talk with Ned Flynn who

remains adamant in his refusal to allow the marriage. Even

worse, Delia's father adds to the turmoil when he "knew

exactly what became a devoted father, and he beat Delia

until he had to be carried off by her neighbors" (p. 21 7) .

66

Dick Carty decides to sue Ned Flynn for defamation of family

character, and although neither parent has any concrete

evidence to refute the other's contentions, both fathers

insist that the issue be settled in court.

Delia is able to garner sympathy from "Roarer"

Cooper, Flynn's lawyer who believes that Ned and Dick should

learn a lesson for not exercising proper restraint by

resolving the matter themselves. Tom's father is persuaded

to pay Delia's father 250 pounds, but the final twist is

an ironic one. Dick suggests that if he were Tom's father,

he would recover the money by allowing the marriage. By

doing so, the money and marriage issues will be solved for

all parties.

With no available option, Delia agrees to the

marriage, but the disheartening denouement (including a

"tarnished" reputation for Cooper, who acted humanely rather

than clinically) unfolds through a brief exchange by the

saddened girl and the lawyer:

Leaving Ned gasping, he went on to where Dick Carty, aglow with pride and malice, was receiving congratulations. There were no congratulations for Delia who was standing near him. She felt a big paw on her arm and looked up to see the "Roarer."

"Are you still fond of that boy?" he whispered.

"I have reason to be, haven't I?" she retorted bitterly.

"You have," he replied with no great sympathy. "The best. I got you money so that you could marry him if you wanted to. "Do you want to?"

Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of the poor broken china of an idol that was being offered her now.

"Once a fool, always a fool," she said sullenly.

67

The marriage of Tom and Delia, then, is born

out of pragmatism, not romance. If O'Connor had not

interspersed such comedic devices as irony, satire, and

atypical reactions, Delia's plight would not have seemed

as severe. Her strife is only emphasized when lighter

scenes and caustic remarks contrast with the portrait of

her bleak future. For a while, Delia enjoyed her life as

an O'Grady family member, and ironically, her marriage to

a Flynn elevated her social status. Sadly, however, she

must bitterly pay for her indiscretion the rest of her

life, and her vision of social success has been reduced

to the image of a girl "in the family way."

6 While several O'Connor characters seek a new,

improved family, largely through imagination, the child of

"The Pretender" does more than pretend. 9 The story not only

illustrates the desperation of an emotionally needy child,

but also the malice of a brother and sister toward an out-

sider who vies for motherly attention. Michael Murphy, the

young narrato~ establishes his negative attitude in the

first few lines of the story:

Susie and I should have known well that Denis Corby's coming to play with us would mean nothing, only trouble. We didn't want anyone new to play with; we had plenty, and they were good class. Mother was like that; giddy, open-handed and ready to listen to any tall tale. That wouldn't have been so bad if she only confined her charity to her own things, but she gave away ours as well. (p. 29 2)

68

Territorial rights, it seems, are equally important to

children and adults, and when Michael's mother brings

seven-year-old Denis Corby to the Murphy home for some

family attention, the guest is far from welcomed. In

Michael's words,

Cripes, you never in all your life got such a suck-in! Eleven o'clock one Saturday morning this fellow comes to the door, about the one age with my­self, only bigger, with a round red face and big green goggle eyes. I saw at first glance that he was no class. In fact I took him at first for a messenger boy. (p. 293)

Susie and Michael Murphy interrogate the new

addition to their environment. Denis' shy, lisping responses

reveal that he is an only child, his father is dead, and

his mother's day laboring keeps them separated for long

periods. He lives in an area called "The Buildings,"

described by Michael as a "low-class sort of place where

the kids went barefoot and the women sat all day on the door­

steps, talking" (p. 295). While the reader can sympathize

with Denis and admire Mrs. Murphy's hospitality, Susie Murphy

is as selfish and condescending as her brother. Susie's

bitterness surfaces through a description of her mother:

"Ah, that woman would sicken you," Susie said when we were in bed that night. "Bringing in old beggars and tramps and giving them their dinner in our kitchen, the way you couldn't have a soul in to play, and then giving away our best clothes. You couldn't have a blooming thing in this house." (p. 29 5)

69

After Denis' initial visit, every Saturday

thereafter he "carne and tiptoed in the hall in his

hobnailed boots and spooned at his dinner. As he said,

the only thing he liked was jelly. He stayed on till

our bedtime and listened to Mother reading us a story"

(p. 29 5) . Denis has indeed "adopted" a farni ly, and

Michael is, of course, envious of the attention his mother

fosters on the new family rnernb er. In his words, "a

fellow who couldn't read at the age of seven, I didn't

see how he could be smart. She never said I was smart"

(p. 295).

Michael and Susie start to compete with the

unassuming guest. Although they refuse to acknowledge

Denis as "family," their resentment of him is as intense

as any sibling rivalry; to maintain an air of superiority,

they refrain from giving any outward indication of their

jealousy, at least for a while. In Michael's estimation,

Apparently, a low-class boy and a complete outsider could do things I wouldn't let do, like playing round the parlor, and if you asked any questions or passed any remarks, you only got into trouble. The old game of wardrobe-raiding had begun again, and I was supposed to admire the way Denis looked in my winter coat, though in secret I shed bitter tears over that coat, which was the only thing that I had that went with rny 1 yellow tie. And the longer it went on, the deeper the mystery became. (p. 295)

Because Denis spends so - much time with the Murphys,

it soon becomes apparent to Michael that Denis wants to be

Mother's "pet" more than he wants to play with Susie and him.

70

It was Mother, not us, he was interested in. He even arranged things so that he didn't have to come with us and could stay behind with her. Even when she didn't want him in the house, he was content to sit on the wall outside just to have her to himself if she came to the door or wanted someone to run a message for her. It was only then that my suspicions turned to panic. (p. 298)

In Michael's eyes, Denis has supplanted him as the new pet;

in desperation one day, with fists clenched, Denis calls

Michael an "Indian witch," the most deadly insult he could

think of, and bottled-up hostilities are released with a

vengeance. Even Susie gets into the act:

"I'm not an Indian witch," he said with smoldering anger.

"You are an Indian witch, you are an Indian witch," I sailld and gave him the coward's blow, straight in the face. He didn't try to hit back though he was twice my size, a proper little sissy.

"God help us!" one of the little girls bawled. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, hitting the boy like that, Michael Murphy."

"Then he ought to let our mummy alone," Susie screeched.

"I never said she was my mJJmmy," he said, sulky and frightened.

"You did say it," I said, and hit him again, in the chest this time. "You're trying to make out that I'm your brother and I'm not.

"And I'm not your sister either," Susie screeched defiantly. (-pp. 300, 301)

Mrs. Murphy soon comes to the rescue and breaks up the fight.

In an interesting analysis, Maurice Wohlgelernter notes

that "Of course, the mother could have been the real

'pretender;' for, despite her assertions to the contrary,

71 she might have been hiding something from her legitimate

children." 10

On the Saturday after the fight, Denis fails to

appear, and Michael and Susie are sent to "The Buildings"

for him. Mrs. Murphy explains to her children why she

has been so kind to Denis, and a new sense of compassion

begins to stir in her son:

Mother explained to us that she wasn't really his mother, and that, in fact, he hadn't any proper mother. This was what she had told him when she brought him in, and it seems it was a nasty shock to him. You could understand that, of course ... I was full of compassion for him really. The whole week I'd been angelic--even Mummy admitted that. (p. 30 1)

Despite Michael and Susie's urgings, Denis refuses

to leave "The Buildings," even after his guardian prods him

to "Go on back with them now, Dinny boy. Sure you haven't

a soul to play with in this old hole." Michael knows that

Denis regards him as the enemy now, and the compassion he

once felt succumbs to familiar condescention as he describes

Denis' mother/guardian as a "wrinkled old woman" who lives

in a "no class cottage without even an upstairs room." When

Michael leaves the complex, he tells Susie that Denis "had

a cool cheek to imagine we were his brother and sister"

(p. 302); Denis is left to ponder which family should be

his "real" one.

The search for the "real" family, the "better"

one, or for any family at all, is a disheartening one.

72

O'Connor's substitute family stories reflect the importance

of humor in offsetting the bleak existence of his charac­

ters as well as the negative implications of the plots

themselves. The author interweaves a consistent, youthful

point-of-view through his narrators, along with undercurrents

of family tension and social injustice. ~ As Gerry Brenner

states, "Even though one overhears the adult behind the

juvenile narrators, the plain style, idiomatic casualness,

unsophisticated tone, and restricted and ordinary perception

of the stories make for their fresh, natural realism." 11

The characters who seek fulfillment and warmth

in a family of their own invention underscore O'Connor's

belief that the most effective short stories reflect "an

intense awareness of human loneliness." 12 Indeed, the

reader who feels a kinship with O'Connor's searching pro­

tagonists may also mirror man's universal longing.

73

Notes: Chapter III

1 In Collected Stories (New York: Alfred A. Knopf,

19 81) , pp. 3-12. (Subsequent references are to this text.)

2 Maurice Wohlgelernter, Frank O'Connor: An Introduction

(New York: Columbia University Press, 1979), p. 35.

3 Deborah Averill, The Irish Short Story from George

Moore to Frank 0' Connor --rwashington, D.C.:' Columbia University Press, 1979,) p. 253.

4 In Collected Stories, pp. 121-127. (Subsequent

references are to this text.)

5 In Domestic Relations (New York: Alfred A. Knopf,

1957), pp. zo-34. (Subsequent references are to this text.)

6 Averill, p. 296.

7 Anthony McCrann, "A Critical Study of Frank O'Connor's

Short Stories," Diss. University of Oregon, 1975, p. 181.

8 In Collected Stories, pp. 223-239. (Subsequent

references are to this text.)

9 In Collected Stories, pp. 292-301. (Subsequent

references are to this text.)

10 Wohlgelernter, pp. 95-96.

11 Gerry Brenner, "A Study of Frank O'Connor's Short

Stories, "Diss. University of Washington, 1965, p. 122.

12 Frank O'Connor, The Lonely Voice (Cleveland: World

Publishing, 1963), p. 19.

CONCLUSION

Although the majority of stories selected for this

study were taken from Collected Stories, each tale originally

appeared in other collections. The titles of two volumes,

Bones of Contention and Crab Apple Jelly, reflect the sar­

donic and perceptive wit of Frank O'Connor. His tales about

family strife indicate that he indeed had a number of "bones"

to contend concerning the hypocrisy, humor, and pathos in­

herent in Irish marital, parental, and religious traditions.

Moreover, he knew that the discovery and maturation process

could be alternately bitter and sweet, much like the taste

of fresh crab apples. Literature and life outside the home

became escapes for O'Connor, while his sense of humor became

both a diversion and a source for his stories' comic relief.

O'Connor's sense of irony and compassion remained strong,

despite his bleak childhood and his impassioned political

activities.

In An Only Child, 1 O'Connor stated that "When his

father brandished the razor at Mother, I went into hysterics

too, because she knew at times like that he would as soon

have slashed me as her" (p. 34). Concerning his mother,

O'Connor found it strange that she decided to stay with an

unappreciative, egocentric brute, but her own background

included growing up in an orphanage, and she felt that nothing

74

75

was more lonely than having no home at all.

O'Connor admitted in his autobiography that early

on, he was shocked that "so many innocent lives had been

blasted by an introverted religion" (p. 53). Anthony McCrann

writes that

Not only did revulsion toward his father drive young O'Connor to find something he could believe in, something on behalf of which he could act; he was also dis­satisfied with that peculiar blend of piety and repression descendent on most Irish sons; that patrimony of Irish­Catholicism administered at home by his father, and in the world by those surrogate fathers, the priests.2

While it is tempting to compare the father in "The Drunkard"

to O'Connor's own father, the fictional character remains

by far the more compassionate and sympathetic figure.

O'Connor grew up in a slum neighborhood where boys

had no aspirations for higher education, but he imagined

himself as an upper-class boy and sought an escape through

reading and writing tales about school. A vivid imagination

soon had O'Connor imitating the young heroes be read about.

With the encouragement and guidance provided by Daniel Corkery,

a young school teacher, O'Connor developed an interest in

subjects that were uniquely Irish. His readings bolstered

his sense of patriotic fervor, and he was eager at age 16

to participate in the political struggles of Ireland.

Young O'Connor joined the Irish Republican Army to

fight in the civil war; paradoxically, the "unreal" world

of fiction and its heroes encouraged O'Connor's participation

76 in the grim, "real" world of revolutionary frenzy. He

believed that rebels who fought against British oppression

had for a time the imaginative and impractical dreams to

overcome the'~actual superiority of the British ...

[The rebels] somehow felt they were victorious despite

defeat. The country had to content itself with a make­

believe revolution, and I had to content myself with a make-

believe education, and the curious thing is that it was the

make-believe that succeeded" (p. 18 4). 0 'Connor gradually

came to the realization that the rebels might succumb to

the condition described in Yeats "Easter 1916" where "Too

long a sacrifice I Can make a stone of the heart." The

endearing young soldiers in "Guests of A Nation" are far

removed from this state; their sense of humor and yearning

to establish human contact makes the execution of the young

Britishers all the more tragic.

O'Connor's love of literature increased over the

years. During his prison term (1921-1923) for his involve-

ment with the IRA, O'Connor continued his self-education and

became a librarian shortly after his release. While actively

involved in the Irish Literary Revival, he made lasting

friendships with A. E. Russell, Yeats, and Synge. In 1935,

he served with Yeats as director of the Abbey Theatre Company

in Dublin. His feisty nature and rebellious spirit provided

an. impetus for alternately humorous, vindictive, and pro­

ductive arguments with Yeats. According to biographer

James Matthews:

77 o· ~ Go.nrror came to the task with more than the usual dose of enthusiasm and idealism, but his childlike innocence was matched by a childish impatience. Assuming that what he considered the right thing to do was an opinion shared by anyone in his right mind, he recoiled in spontaneous indignation when that person did not act accordingly. 3

O'Connor relished the idea of playing the spoiled

boy role, never having had the opportunity to behave that

way in his own childhood. His independence clashed with,

and usually balanced, the entrenched, staid bureaucracy of

the Abbey.

O'Connor resigned from the Abbey when conflicts

with censorship developed. By the 1940s, the Irish govern-

ment even banned some of the more "objectionable" books

containing O'Connor's so-called "explia:it" stories; "The

Mad Lomasneys" was one such victim. The author often

dismissed the ridiculous bannings with cryptic remarks:

Even if there were two men left in the world and both of them to be saints, they wouldn't be happy even then. One of them would be bound to try and improve the other. That is the nature of things ... An Irish writer without contention is a freak of nature. All the literature that matters to me was written by people who had to dodge the censor.4

When O'Connor poked fun at the clergy in stories

like ''The Frying Pan," or indicated that carnal desires can

have alternately tragic and comic implications, he inevita-

bly received opposition from those who professed to know

which works were not so-called "corrupting influences" upon

78 a repressed nation. O'Connor knew that self-serving critics

could never be appeased. His sense of humor served him well,

not only because it offset the more serious implications

of criticism and censorship, but also because his carefully

crafted, amusing statements seemingly dismissed, and thus

deflated, those egocentric individuals whose demise was

imminent in O'Connor's grand view.

Fortunately, a wealth of experience only enhanced

a wealth of talent. Despite O'Connor's personal setbacks

(poverty; prison; censorship fights; strained relationships),

his integrity and dedication to his craft remained unimpaired.

James Matthews admires O'Connor for his "conscious discipline

and superb control--it's hard to be easy ... his stories

will stand as his most enduring contribution to modern

literature and to Irish life." 5 In O'Connor's works, the air

of spontaneity is the result of painstaking attention to

detail and meticulous revision.

With the publication of Collect.ed Stories in 1981

and the definitive biography issued in 1983, the interest in

O'Connor will, I believe, increase. Aside from "Guests of a

Nation," "The Drunkard," and "First Confession," more of

his stories are beginning to appear in textbook anthologies,

for his tales strike a harmonic chord in the collective

unconscious. O'Connor once admitted ~hat "he couldn't imagine

anything better in the world than people," 6 a~d throughout

his stories, the humor "consists essentially of his rare

ability to see simultaneously the dual aspects of life--

good and evil, love and hate, peace and war, the beautiful

79

and the ugly. In other words, his humor is the shine

and shadow of his countrymen." 7 Lc- c:l1

• 'Jlr''!'-''

O'Connor's characters are either amusingly

thwarted or tragically suppressed. His judicious use of

comic relief temporarily masks a protagonist's plight,

sustains a reader's interest, and underscores a crucial

theme. Ultimately, if we cheer for Frank O'Connor's

families, we are rooting for ourselves.

80 Notes: Conclusion

1 Frank O'Connor, An On€y Child

Alfred A. Knopf, 1961)-.- Su sequent this edition.

2

(New York: references are to

Anthony McCrann, "A Critical Study of Frank O'Connor's Short Stories," Diss. University of Oregon, 1975, p. 7.

3 James Matthews, Voices: A Life of Frank O'Connor

(New York: Atheneum, 1983), p.-1~

4 Matthews, Voices, p. 204.

5 Matthews, Frank O'Connor (Cranbury, N.J.:' Associated

University Press, 1976), p. 90.

- 6 ~~-~

Anthony Whittier, interviewer, "Frank O'Connor," in Writers at Work: The "Paris Review" Interviews, ed. Malcolm Cowley (New York: Penguin Books, 1979), p. 172.

- 7 --- ~

Maurice Wohlgelernter, Frank O'Connor: An Introduction (New York: Columbia University Press, 1977), p. 38.

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Averill, Deborah. "Human Contact in the Short Stories." In Michael/Frank. Ed. Maurice Sheehy, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1969, pp. 28-27.

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Bowen, Zack, ed. Irish Renaissance Annual I. Cranbury, N.J.: Associated University Presses, 1980~ ------ ----- - -

/

Bordewk, Gordon, "Quest for Meaning: The Stories of I Frank O'Connor." Illinois Quarterly, 41, No. 2

(1978)' 37-47.

Brenner, Gerry, "A Study of Frank O'Connor's Short Stories." Diss. University of Washington 1967.

----------. "Frank O'Connor's Impudent Hero." Texas Studies in Literature and Language, 10:3 (Fall 1968), 457-469. -

Brooks, Cleanth, and Robert Penn Warren. Understanding Fiction. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.~ Prentice Hall, 19 79.

----------, and John Purser, et. al. An Approach to Literature. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1975.

Brown, Malcolm. The Politics of Irish Literature. Seattle: University-at Washington-Press, 1972.

Cahill, Susan and Thomas. A Literary Guide to Ireland. New York: Scribners,-1973.

Cassill, R. V. Instructor's Handbook to the Norton Anthology of Short Fiction. New York: ~~Norton, 1981.

Connery, DonaldS. The Irish. London: Arrow Books, 1972.

Connolly, Peter, ed. Literature and the Changing Ireland. Totowa, N.J.: Barnes and Nobl~l982.

Donoghue, Denis. "I've Another Story for You." Rev. of Collected Stories, by Frank O'Connor. New York Times Book Review, 20 Sept. 1981, pp. 3, 28. -------

81

82 Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of Ctiticism. Princeton, N.J.:

Princeton University Press, 1971.

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