“An Encounter” features numerous older male characters with whom the narrator interacts. The male figures—the aggressive older boy Joe Dillon; the strict and haughty Father Butler at the narrator’s Jesuit-run school; and the strange old man whom the narrator and his friend Mahony encounter while playing hooky from school—each provide different, and often confusing, models of masculinity and sexuality to the young male narrator of the story. The narrator’s confusion at the visions of masculinity and sexuality that Joyce presents in “An Encounter” reveal how repressive attitudes about sexuality can make navigating coming of age as a young man difficult and even dangerous.
Joe Dillon’s transformation from the leader of violent after-school war games to the priesthood makes him the narrator’s first model for complex masculinity. At first glance, Joe fulfills the tropes of mainstream masculinity: loud, aggressive, a strong leader, and apparently invested in the themes of exploration, violence, and victory in the Wild West stories he likes so much. The narrator states that all the younger boys look up to Joe, so much so that even after Joe leaves, the boys keep playing the games he used to lead to prove that they were as bold and robust as he was. Joe’s decision to go into the priesthood, though, is shocking to the narrator. The narrator’s surprise seems to arise from his assumption that a wild and fierce boy like Joe couldn’t possibly see any appeal in the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, which is notable for its order and discipline—and implicitly because Joe’s “ideal” masculine sexuality would be partially suppressed in the priesthood since priests take a vow of celibacy. Joe’s calling to the Catholic priesthood takes him from a masculine symbol for wildness and individuality that the other boys try to emulate into a cog in the mysterious and powerful machine of the Catholic Church, subverting the narrator’s earliest expectations for masculine power and suggesting, perhaps, that the Irish Catholic Church more broadly represses Irish masculinity.
However, while the narrator is confused by Joe’s decision to go into the priesthood, the way Joyce describes Father Butler provides the reader with some insight into the directions that the priesthood channels masculinity. Textual details draw parallels between Joe and Father Butler: Mahony calls Father Butler “Bunsen Burner” for his quickness to anger, suggesting that within the order of Church, there is plenty of room for the kind of aggression that Joe demonstrated during his war games. But while Joe’s example inspired “unruliness” in all the boys who looked up to him, Father Butler’s rage only compels compliance. He uses his aggression to force the boys to do what he says and to reinforce his own ideas about order and hierarchy: Wild West stories are beneath “educated” boys, lower-class boys are beneath middle- and upper-class boys, and Protestants are beneath Catholics. When Father Butler’s sudden rage towards Leo Dillon makes the Wild West appear comparatively dull to the narrator, Joyce suggests that the narrator sees some of the appeal in the power that comes from strict order, too. But when the narrator once again feels restless from the “restraining influence” of school, Joyce suggests that organized power is not as attractive to the narrator as the wildness that he saw in Joe.
The strange old man takes “wild” masculine sexuality to the extreme—in his case, it manifests as deviant masculine sexuality—and he most thoroughly confuses the narrator. At first, the strange old man seems like a normal, bookish, and slightly boring character. He talks about his schoolboy days, the weather, and books he likes. When the narrator acts like he is more well-read than he is, Joyce gives the reader the impression that the narrator wants to impress the old man and might possibly see him as a model of the kind of “studious” masculinity that the young boys were afraid to let show in front of someone like Joe. But when the strange old man starts hinting at sexual content in some of his favorite books, talking about “sweethearts,” and describing how much he loves to look at young girls, the narrator is torn between his sense of the man’s “reasonable” attitude about sweethearts and his unsettling manner of speaking about girls. As the strange old man works himself up and hypnotizes the narrator with his monotone speech about girls, the narrator seems almost frozen as the man goes off to masturbate. While Joyce does not give the reader much insight into the narrator’s mind, the narrator is torn between walking away from the man and staying put.
Only once the strange old man comes back and his sexual perversions pivot to something more immediately threatening—his desire to “whip” young boys—does the narrator act. Despite the tone in the man’s voice that makes the narrator want to “understand him,” the narrator stands up and walks away calmly but filled with terror, decidedly leaving the old man and his ideas behind. The strange old man’s version of masculine sexuality is certainly wild and violent like Joe’s. But his perversions make him dangerous to the narrator and leaves the narrator more unsettled and confused than ever.
Joyce’s attitudes about Catholicism underlying his representation of masculine sexuality in “An Encounter” reveal how difficult coming of age as a young man is for the narrator. At the end of the story, despite all the different kinds of men he encounters, the narrator still has no positive masculine role models. While Joe is the closest, his violence considered together with Father Butler’s rage leads the reader to believe that the orderly Catholic system only channels masculine aggression in a negative way. Moreover, the narrator’s understated narration style hints that while he might be more knowledgeable about sexuality than Mahony, he is still fairly naïve, and has no one to talk to about his confusing experiences. Meanwhile, the narrator’s first direct conversation about sex is one that scares him and confuses him. Without a person to talk to about his confusion, his final fears hint towards the long road towards maturity he has ahead. The lack of any positive male role models in the story also more broadly implies that Ireland itself lacks any such role models—that the country is suffering a crisis of thwarted, misdirected, and even perverted masculinity.
Masculinity, Sexuality, and Coming of Age ThemeTracker
Masculinity, Sexuality, and Coming of Age Quotes in An Encounter
It was Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us… Every evening after school we met in his back garden and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo, the idler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to carry it by storm; or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well we fought, we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with Joe Dillon’s war dance of victory.
His parents went to eight-o’clock mass every morning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs Dillon was prevalent in the hall of the house.
A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its influence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We banded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost in fear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant Indians who were afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one. The adventures related in the literature of the Wild West were remote from my nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape.
Everyone’s heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the pages, frowning.
“What is this rubbish?” he said. “The Apache Chief! Is this what you read instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find any more of this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote it, I suppose, was some wretched scribbler that writes these things for a drink. I’m surprised at boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I could understand it if you were… National School boys. Now, Dillon, I advise you strongly, get at your work or…”
This rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the glory of the Wild West for me and the confused puffy face of Leo Dillon awakened one of my consciences.
Mahony began to play the Indian as soon as we were out of public sight. He chased a crowd of ragged girls, brandishing his unloaded catapult and, when two ragged boys began, out of chivalry, to fling stones at us, he proposed that we should charge them. I objected that the boys were too small, and so we walked on, the ragged troop screaming after us: “Swaddlers! Swaddlers!” thinking that we were Protestants because Mahony, who was dark-complexioned, wore the silver badge of a cricket club in his cap.
When we landed we watched the discharging of the graceful threemaster which we had observed from the other quay. Some bystander said that she was a Norwegian vessel. I went to the stern and tried to decipher the legend upon it but, failing to do so, I came back and examined the foreign sailors to see had any of them green eyes for I had some confused notion….
While he expressed these sentiments which bored us a little we kept silent. Then he began to talk of school and of books. He asked us whether we had read the poetry of Thomas Moore or the works of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Lytton. I pretended that I had read every book he mentioned so that in the end he said:
“Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself. Now,” he added, pointing to Mahony who was regarding us with open eyes, “he is different; he goes in for games.”
He said he had all Sir Walter Scott’s works and all Lord Lytton’s works at home and never tired of reading them. “Of course,” he said, “there were some of Lord Lytton’s works which boys couldn’t read.”
In my heart I thought that what he said about boys and sweethearts was reasonable. But I disliked the words in his mouth and I wondered why he shivered once or twice as if he feared something or felt a sudden chill. As he proceeded I noticed that his accent was good. He began to speak to us about girls, saying what nice soft hair they had and how soft their hands were and how all girls were not so good as they seemed to be if one only knew. There was nothing he liked, he said, so much as looking at a nice young girl, at her nice white hands and her beautiful soft hair. He gave me the impression that he was repeating something which he had learned by heart or that, magnetised by some words of his own speech, his mind was slowly circling round and round in the same orbit.
He stood up slowly, saying that he had to leave us for a minute or so, a few minutes, and, without changing the direction of my gaze, I saw him walking slowly away from us towards the near end of the field. We remained silent when he had gone. After a silence of a few minutes I heard Mahony exclaim:
“I say! Look what he’s doing!”
As I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed again:
“I say…He’s a queer old josser!”
“In case he asks us for our names,” I said, “let you be Murphy and I’ll be Smith.”
After an interval the man spoke to me. He said that my friend was a very rough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school. I was going to reply indignantly that we were not National School boys to be whipped, as he called it; but I remained silent. He began to speak on the subject of chastising boys. His mind, as if magnetised again by his speech, seemed to circle slowly round and round its new centre. He said that when boys were that kind they ought to be whipped and well whipped…I was surprised at this sentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face. As I did so I met the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at me from under a twitching forehead. I turned my eyes away again.
I waited till his monologue paused again. Then I stood up abruptly. Lest I should betray my agitation I delayed a few moments pretending to fix my shoe properly and then, saying that I was obliged to go, I bade him good-day. I went up the slope calmly but my heart was beating quickly with fear that he would seize me by the ankles. When I reached the top of the slope I turned round and, without looking at him, called loudly across the field:
“Murphy!”
My voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and I was ashamed of my paltry stratagem. I had to call the name again before Mahony saw me and hallooed in answer. How my heart beat as he came running across the field to me! He ran as if to bring me aid. And I was penitent; for in my heart I had always despised him a little.