In Joyce's short story Ivy Day in the Committee Room, Ireland appears as fallen as the great leader on whose anniversary the committee men gather. Mr Hynes wears an ivy leaf in his lapel, like the mourners at Parnell's funeral. But the other political activists in the room are mercenaries, motivated more by the promise of payment than conviction of their candidate's worth.
"It was the sixth of October, dismal and cold outdoors," writes Joyce. The same autumn weather had put Parnell in an early grave, and O'Connor - "a grey-haired young man" who is supposed to be out canvassing for Tierney in the local elections, is not taking any chances. He sits by the fire, worrying whether Tierney will cough up the promised money, or at least a few drinks, and having his doubts on this score encouraged by the others.
The bad-mouthing of Tierney ends when a delivery boy arrives with a dozen bottles of stout, temporarily restoring confidence in politics. When the boy goes off with the corkscrew, the drinkers are briefly stumped. But this is the early 20th century, long before extra-cold Guinness, or even medium-cold Guinness, and they solve their problem by putting the bottles in the fireplace, where after several minutes the first cork flies out with "an apologetic 'Pok!'".
The conversation has already reached consensus about corruption in City Hall. Now it moves on to the threatened visit of King Edward VII. Hynes is fiercely opposed but Henchy takes the pragmatic view that it would stimulate the economy. "Look at all the factories down by the quays there, idle!" he lectures. "It's capital we want."
Lyons objects that the king's reputation for womanising puts him in the same category as Parnell, who in the end had been deemed unfit to lead his people. O'Connor quickly stems this line of thought, fearful of reopening the old split on the chief's anniversary: "We all respect him now that he's dead and gone - even the conservatives."
The last remark is for the benefit of Crofton, a tory who, following his candidate's withdrawal, has backed Tierney. He considers the nationalists beneath him, but Tierney is the lesser of two evils. After all, the canvassers are stressing that their man is "respectable" and won't do anything mad like put up the rates.
The mood of apathy is lifted briefly when Hynes is asked to recite his tribute to Parnell. It's a sentimental poem, lamenting the martyrdom of Ireland's uncrowned king and yearning for a time when his spirit will rise again and lead his people to freedom. But the men in the room are moved for a moment, until Joyce gives the last word to Crofton, whose praise for "a very fine piece of writing" is like an apologetic "Pok!"
Up at the Joyce Centre last night for an eve-of-Ivy-Day lecture on the story, I was struck again by the extraordinary commercial dynamism of early 21st-century Parnell Street, which is just around the corner. It wouldn't win any awards for urban design. But it's an apathy-free zone, and there doesn't seem to be any shortage of inward capital. Whatever about Ireland taking its place among the nations of the world, the world has certainly taken its place here.
The dominant groups in the street are Korean and Polish, but there's a strong Chinese element - and frequent anti-communist protests - as well, and there are several African shops. I think "Charlie's Megastore", predominantly a grocery shop but with a small shoe franchise in the front window, belongs to the last category. Either way, it's hard to disagree with Charlie's slogan: "Changing your world".
Across the street there's a Korean restaurant called (or perhaps just promising) "Charming Noodles". One of the many Internet/call centre businesses encourages people to "talk and laugh". Another shop calls itself "Charity Hair Studio", although I suspect its customers have
to pay.
Even the Irish businesses seem to have caught the mood of cheerful eclecticism, with "Paddy's Exotic Birds" trading across the street from a shop promising "quality plaster work" (no mention of Paddy), whose window display features representations in plaster, side-by-side, of Elvis Presley, Michael Collins, and a half-naked woman.
One of the call centres has a board out front showing the cost per minute to various countries. It's like an inverted display of stock prices, where the more a country has embraced globalism, the cheaper it is to phone. Albania is currently languishing at 20 cent a minute, one of the few places still in double digits. Romania costs 17 cent. By contrast, you can call Mongolia for a mere 10 cent, while China is a fiercely competitive 6 cents.
And there, surveying it all on his pedestal, is Parnell, now 115 years dead. It may or may not be significant that he has his right arm outstretched, as if directing people to the other end of Parnell Street, the one with Conway's Pub. But the famous quotation on the plaque alongside him has never sounded more apt: "No man has the right to fix the boundary to the march of a nation," it says. "No man has the right to say to his country: thus far shalt thou go and no further."